The sun climbs higher into the vaulted stone arches of the Rotunda, transforming the long, shimmering threads of dawn silk into a blinding, unfiltered white glare. The rhythmic scratching of Clerk Yolan's iron quill stops abruptly. The ambient drone of administrative clerks, the shifting of heavy leather ledgers, and the soft, steady murmurs of weary slave-soldiers all freeze instantly as a sharp, metallic sound cuts through the thick air.
Outside the grand iron entrance, a crisp breeze rattles the dry, withered leaves of the nearby frost-bitten willow tree. The birds in the rafters fall utterly silent.
The Herald steps forward into the blinding frame of the doorway. He lifts a gleaming silver trumpet to his lips, his chest expanding beneath a stiff, immaculate tunic. He plays a pristine, ringing fanfare. The high-pitched, piercing notes slice clean through the lingering clatter of the encampment, vibrating against the stone floor and echoing violently off the high ceiling. The sound is an auditory wall, demanding absolute submission from the space.
Without a moment's hesitation, the Herald unrolls a thick, heavy sheet of premium parchment with a sharp snap. He draws a deep breath and projectively bellows the knight's full, labyrinthine titles into the cavernous hall, his voice carrying the practiced, booming resonance of a grand theater actor, concluding with an echoing roar:
"Emissary of the Silver River, Bearer of the Duke Ferris's Voice!"
Every eye in the Rotunda locks onto the threshold. The contrast is immediate, jarring, and deliberately staged.
The knight walks forward at a slow, calculated, and highly deliberate cadence. Each step is perfectly measured, rhythmic and even, a physical manifestation of supreme confidence. Behind him, his slender, jewel-hilted riding rapier tilts perfectly, its polished scabbard catching the bright morning light at a precise, elegant angle. His pages walk slightly behind him, their movements fluid and deferential. They hold a massive, heavy velvet umbrella high over his head, shielding his pale features from the harshness of the sun and any stray elements, meticulously ensuring that his completely unmarred finery remains absolutely immaculate amidst the dusty, grim reality of the outpost.
He wants to look like a pinnacle of ultimate civilization entering the raw, utilitarian belly of the Rotunda. His clothing is a masterclass in wealth and psychological dominance. He wears the Doublet and Houppelande, a heavy silk-velvet ensemble dyed deeply in the Duke's official colors—a rich, bleeding burgundy and a dark, midnight blue that seems to absorb the surrounding shadows. The voluminous sleeves are intricately slashed, a deliberate structural design that reveals a shimmering, brilliant cloth-of-gold underneath with every precise movement of his arms.
Around his neck rests a massive, incredibly heavy gold chain of office—the Duke's legendary livery collar. Each solid link is intricately carved, catching the white light and casting fractured, glittering reflections across the damp stone walls. This collar is his ultimate badge of absolute authority; it signals to every man breathing in the room that he is the literal, legal extension of the Duke's own physical body.
Yet, to honor Aldo's strict military status without offending the sensibilities of a warlike outpost by wearing a full, cumbersome suit of plate armor, the knight wears a single piece of armor: a beautifully engraved, gilded steel gorget. The polished throat collar rests tightly over his luxurious velvet, gleaming with a terrifying, golden luster. It is the classic, time-honored European way of making a silent, lethal declaration: I am a refined courtier, but make no mistake, I am still a trained killer.
Finally, his slender, jewel-hilted riding sword hangs gracefully from an elaborately embroidered leather belt, tilted back at that same unyielding, geometric angle.
Before his boots can even touch the gray, dirt-caked stone of the Rotunda floor, his ceremonial guards step forward in perfect unison. With synchronized, sweeping movements, they unroll a long, incredibly heavy runner of dyed wool fabric over the grime. The deep crimson cloth rolls out like a tongue of blood, covering the tracks of the working class.
Comtois leans his shoulder slightly closer to Aldo, his eyes tracking the extravagant display with a look of profound disbelief. He shifts his weight, his worn leather coat creaking quietly in the tense silence. Standing, Comtois is a full three inches taller than Aldo, and even standing still, his teenage frame looks notably more solid and muscular—though far from overly bulky. He wears a mischievous, characteristically goofy and assertive expression on his young face, entirely unbothered by protocol.
"Look at this," Comtois whispers under his breath, his lips barely moving as he complains directly to Aldo. "These northern nobles are too damn fussy. It's pathetic. Yolan over there spends the exact same amount of time dealing with several pounds of complex paperwork every morning, and he doesn't need a silver trumpet to blow his own horn just to cross a room."
Aldo does not answer. His well-proportioned build—neither skinny nor overly muscular—remains perfectly still. The harsh morning light catches his fair skin and smooth complexion, a striking testament to a careful diet and robust health. His eyes remain fixed, hard as flint, watching the slow, rhythmic advance of the silver-river emissary, though any hint of youthful vitality is utterly canceled out by his dull, or rather, dead-fish eyes.
[An theatrical performance. Every movement is calculated to reduce us to peasants in our own minds. He breathes gold, yet the permafrost outside doesn't care about his silk.]
The knight reaches the end of the heavy wool runner, stopping precisely three paces away from Aldo. He does not bow deeply—to do so would be to compromise the supreme dignity of the sovereign lord he represents—but instead offers a precise, highly elegant nod of his head. The movement is smooth, like oiled clockwork.
To signal his peaceful intentions to the military men, and to display his utter lack of fear in a room filled with hardened killers, the knight reaches down with a casual grace. He detaches his jewel-hilted rapier, still securely housed in its scabbard, and hands it backward to a waiting page without looking. He stands before Aldo wearing nothing but his velvet doublet, the heavy gold livery chain, and his gilded steel gorget. He is completely vulnerable, yet he carries himself as if he is entirely invincible.
Before a single word can be spoken into the heavy silence, another page steps forward with practiced urgency. He carries a gleaming silver basin filled to the brim with scented river water, alongside a pristine, folded towel of pure white silk.
The knight dips his slender fingers into the water, swirling them gently. The faint, sweet scent of lavender and clean current spreads through the damp, musk-laden air of the Rotunda. He dries his hands with the silk towel, his eyes locked onto Aldo's face. It is a subtle, devastatingly aristocratic insult—a silent, public implication that the Professional Central Army is dusty, unclean, and fundamentally unwashed.
The knight finishes drying his hands and gestures toward the basin, his voice smooth and clear. "I invite you to do the same, Commander, in accordance with the sacred hospitality of the River Realm of Thromium."
Aldo steps forward, his movements stiff, his mind processing the immediate request without registering the underlying, aristocratic venom. He dips his heavy, young hands into the scented water, the cool liquid a strange contrast against his smooth skin, his unusually rosy lips pressed into a thin line. Not a single palm between these teenaged boys bears labor callouses, and their young skin remains entirely unblemished by military scars. Comtois follows suit right behind him, copying the motion with a blunt, dumb compliance, entirely missing the implied disrespect. They treat it like a routine military inspection, a practical chore to be completed.
Beside them, Officer Watkins's face darkens. His jaw tightens to the point of pain, a deep, heavy frown carving into his brow as he watches his two subordinates fall directly into the noble's trap. He stiffens his posture, his fists clenching tightly behind his back, but he keeps his tongue behind his teeth.
At a subtle, fluid gesture from the knight's ring-adorned hand, several low-ranking servants carry in three small, exquisitely crafted wooden chests. The wood is dark, polished to a mirror finish, and bound with bright brass fittings.
The High Clerk steps forward, his ink-stained fingers trembling slightly as he opens the lids to catalog the contents aloud for the official record. They do not offer weapons or steel. They offer pure, unadulterated luxury.
"One cask of vintage wine, drawn directly from the Duke's personal, restricted vineyards," the High Clerk reads, his voice trembling. "One small bolt of rare, imperial river-silk. And... one pouch of pristine gold coins, minted exclusively by the elite river trade guilds."
A page standing near the chests shifts his weight, his eyes darting nervously between the two large, imposing soldiers. With a quick, awkward movement, the young page pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, staring intently at Aldo and Comtois, waiting for a grand reaction of gratitude.
Officer Watkins watches the page, his internal monologue twisting with profound irritation.
[What an absolute, ridiculous fuss. All this theater, all this wasted gold and scented water, just to deliver a scrap of ink and paper. They treat statecraft like a performance at a court theater.]
The High Clerk steps forward once more, his boots making no sound against the heavy red wool runner. He holds a soft, plush silk cushion with both hands. Resting precisely in the center of the cushion is the official letter. It is written on incredibly fine, heavy vellum, rolled into a tight cylinder and bound securely with glittering gold thread. The document is sealed with a massive, heavy chunk of deep blue wax bearing the intricate "River and Cornucopia" coat of arms.
The knight does not take the letter and hand it over carelessly like a common merchant delivering a bill. He steps forward, lifting the document from the silk cushion with both hands. He holds the rolled vellum up to his forehead for a brief, reverent second—a solemn, public sign of absolute, religious reverence to his Duke—and then slowly, formally extends it across the space to Aldo.
Aldo takes the heavy parchment. His unrough fingers rip through the gold thread with a dry crackle. He unrolls the vellum, his dead-fish eyes scanning the elegant, flowing script of the invitation.
While Aldo reads the contents, the knight does not sit down. Even though there are carved benches nearby, he remains standing perfectly rigid, completely unmoving. He acts as the literal, physical embodiment of the Duke himself, his eyes boring into Aldo, watching the commander's reaction with absolute focus.
Aldo's face remains a complete blank. No muscle twitches; no emotion breaks through his clinical, frozen shell. His expression is entirely empty, a wall of gray stone.
The High Clerk stands immediately ready at his elbow, holding a freshly dipped quill and a small personal inkwell, fully anticipating Aldo's immediate, submissive signature on the receipt line.
Aldo's eyes reach the bottom of the vellum. His jaw sets hard. He takes a breath, his chest expanding, his hand beginning to rise as he prepares to flatly refuse the summons. Beside him, Comtois catches the shift in Aldo's energy; his own face darkens, his solid shoulder bunching as he prepares to echo the rejection, his mouth opening to spit out a denial.
Before either of them can speak a single word of defiance, Officer Watkins steps forward with immense speed. He places a heavy, solid palm on Aldo's back and another on Comtois's shoulder, patting them both with a forceful, warning pressure that deliberately cuts off their momentum.
"Just say yes," Watkins murmurs in a low, authoritative undertone that carries the absolute weight of a direct command. "Do not argue. Agree to it."
Aldo swallows his pride, the clinical calculator in his mind quickly evaluating the officer's intense tone. He looks at the knight, his voice deadpan. "We agree to join the gala invitation of the Duke."
Comtois nods sharply alongside him, his voice rough. "Yeah. We agree. We'll be there."
Inside his own mind, however, Comtois's thoughts are a tangled mess of confusion.
[What the hell is a gala? Is it a feast? A trial? Some kind of northern execution where they dress you up in velvet before they chop your head off? I hate this place.]
Aldo's mind runs along a remarkably similar, detached track of confusion.
[A Gala. A gathering of the elite. A marketplace of vanity and political deceit. A waste of structural resources, yet a parameter we must navigate.]
Once the official letter is securely received and the formal terms of the invitation are explicitly acknowledged, the knight does not linger for a single second to socialize or exchange empty pleasantries with the military staff. His mission is accomplished.
The knight slowly touches his right hand to his gilded steel gorget—a deliberate, silent reminder to everyone in the hall that beneath the soft velvet doublet and the gold chains, he is still a knight, still a lethal instrument of the state. He looks at Aldo one last time, offering a final, formal wish:
"Pax et Abundantia."
The entire aristocratic retinue exits the Rotunda exactly as they entered, moving with a reverse, flawless precision. The ceremonial guards step backward down the red carpet, their hands resting firmly on the pommels of their weapons, their sharp eyes never once leaving Comtois, treating him like a wild animal that might spring at any moment. The pages quickly and efficiently roll up the long, heavy wool runner directly behind the knight's retreating footsteps, ensuring the fine fabric doesn't collect a single speck of the Rotunda's common dust. The knight walks smoothly back to his waiting horses outside.
Within minutes, the silver trumpet sounds one final, fading note at the far edge of the encampment. The sharp sound dissolves into the whistling wind. The knight and his entire grand retinue vanish completely back toward the bleak, northern horizon, leaving behind nothing but the faint, lingering trail of expensive perfume and the cold glitter of gold in the dark hall.
The heavy oak doors creak shut.
Immediately after the knight leaves the chamber, Comtois turns around on his heel, his young face twisted in a look of deep annoyance. He kicks a small pebble across the stone floor, his arms crossing tightly over his solid chest as he glares at the officer.
"I can't believe I just agreed to that," Comtois spits out, his voice sharp with irritation. "I'm furious with myself. Why did we have to swallow that display? We should have thrown his scented water back in his face."
Officer Watkins turns to face him, his expression grave as he begins to explain the harsh political reality of their situation. "The PCA and the high nobility are currently on incredibly bad terms, Comtois. The tension between the central army and the regional dukes is at an all-time high. Refusing a formal, sealed invitation from a figure like Duke Ferris would have severely worsened the relationship between the two sides. It would have been seen as an open act of military defiance."
Comtois lets out a bitter, cynical laugh, shaking his head as he looks down at his stained, worn uniform. "I'm just an earthly slave serving as a common soldier, Watkins. I don't care about their court games or their delicate feelings."
Watkins steps closer, his voice dropping into a stern, unyielding register as he reminds the southern commander of his place within the machine. "You need to remember something, Comtois: slave-soldiers are still an official part of the Professional Central Army. Therefore, you are a direct part of its public image. When the nobility looks at you, they see the PCA's hand. You don't have the luxury of a personal opinion on this."
Comtois lets out a long, heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as the anger drains out of him, leaving only fatigue. "Gods... it's always complicated with you northern people. Everything is a game inside a game."
Aldo shifts the three heavy books under his arm, his dull, dead-fish eyes narrowing as he looks at Watkins. "Is this Gala simply a noble's festival?"
"Yes," Watkins replies, nodding slowly as he leans back against the wooden counter. "It is exactly that. A grand festival where the high nobles display their immense splendor, their wealth, and their complete extravagance to one another. It's a stage for alliances and betrayals."
Aldo's brow furrows deeper. "Then why the hell were we invited? Why would a man like Duke Ferris send an elite emissary to invite common slaves to his high table?"
The officer looks at both of them, a strange, unreadable expression passing over his weathered face. "Because you two are no longer just common soldiers in their eyes. You two are.... Prodome."
Comtois leans his upper body closer, his interest piqued by the unfamiliar word, his eyes wide. "Prodome? What the hell does that mean? Is it an insult?"
"It's an old, traditional term," Watkins explains, his voice carrying a hint of genuine respect. "It's a word used by the old guard to describe a young man who is clearly showing the raw makings of a great, honorable, and highly capable leader. Your victory over Drakolimne and Teufel has forced the court to notice your existence. They see potential power, and the nobility always wants to either court power or crush it before it grows."
Aldo looks away, his eyes drifting toward the empty stone threshold where the red runner had been just minutes before. A cold knot of anxiety tightens in his stomach.
"Is anyone else from our sector going?" Aldo asks, his voice dropping into a quiet, guarded tone. "I'm... entirely averse to interacting with strangers. Especially nobles. I don't belong in their ballrooms."
Watkins offers a reassuring, calm nod. "You won't be alone, Lead. I have been invited as well, along with many other high-ranking officers from the PCA hierarchy. There is absolutely no need for you to worry about being isolated among the wolves."
The officer straightens his tunic, his demeanor turning practical and efficient once more as he prepares to leave the hall.
"Prepare some nice clothes," Watkins instructs them, his voice crisp. "Bring a beautiful soul, pack your finest, most reliable weapons, and get yourselves ready. I will be personally taking the two of you to Thromium in northern Heilop when the transport arrives."
Without waiting for a reply, Officer Watkins turns on his heel and strides purposefully out of the Rotunda, his boots clicking sharply against the stone until the sound fades into the distance.
He leaves Aldo and Comtois standing entirely bewildered in the center of the vast, quiet hall. The silence returns, heavy and oppressive, the golden sunlight now fully illuminating the empty space where the grand spectacle had just taken place.
Comtois slowly turns his head toward Aldo, his brow furrowed in deep, troubled thought. He rubs the back of his neck, his voice dropping to a tense whisper.
"Hey, Aldo," Comtois asks, his eyes wide with uncharacteristic concern. "Why the hell did Watkins tell us to bring weapons to a noble's festival? If it's just a party for displaying splendor, why do we need steel?"
Aldo looks down at the heavy, leather-bound books under his arm, then places his smooth, uncalloused palm firmly on the cold pommel of his riding sword. He shakes his head slowly, his mind already calculating the structural risks of the journey ahead.
"It's probably for basic self-defense, Comtois," Aldo says quietly, his voice devoid of comfort. "Perhaps the security along the northern routes isn't very good this time of year. Or perhaps... the festival itself is the battlefield. But I don't know the deeper reason yet. We will find out when we reach Thromium."