The morning of July the sixth, in the year 1300, arrives not with a triumphant fanfare, but with a quiet, creeping brilliance that feels entirely inappropriate for a city that has just bled. The sun crests the eastern peaks of the Thromium mountains, spilling a golden, almost liquid light across the jagged, broken rooflines of Carravin Square. A single white dove, its feathers pristine and blindingly bright, flutters down from the high azure sky. It lands delicately on the scorched, soot-blackened shoulder of a headless marble statue in the center of the plaza. The bird's tiny claws scratch against the ruined stone, a sharp, tiny sound in the vast, echoing silence of the morning. The air is crisp, carrying the heavy, metallic scent of cold blood, mixed bizarrely with the sweet, blooming fragrance of crushed jasmine from a trampled merchant's cart.
Aldo stands near the edge of the dried fountain. His posture is rigid, his weight shifted entirely to his left leg, an unconscious habit born from a deeply bruised right knee. His dark eyes narrow to thin slits against the piercing glare of the July sun. He does not blink. He breathes slowly, the air passing through his nose with a faint, almost imperceptible whistle. His right hand rests naturally on the cracked leather scabbard at his hip. His thumb moves in a slow, rhythmic circle over the worn iron pommel of his shortsword.
Beside him, Comtois is a mountain of unrest. The massive conscript shifts his weight constantly, his heavy iron-shod boots grinding against the loose, cracked cobblestones. His broad shoulders roll in their sockets, tight with the residual adrenaline of the previous nights. His jaw is locked in a hard, grinding rhythm, the muscles bulging beneath the dirt and dried sweat coating his cheeks.
Standing opposite them, creating a perfect triangle of tension in the ruined square, is Duke Ferris. The Duke looks as though he has been lifted from a painting and gently placed into the wreckage. His velvet doublet is immaculate, a deep, rich sapphire blue that seems to drink the morning sunlight. Not a speck of ash touches his collar. His silver hair is combed perfectly back, bound with a thin ribbon of black silk. The Duke's pale hands are clasped lightly, elegantly, behind his back.
"The gala ended rather abruptly yesterday," Ferris says.
His voice is a masterclass in aristocratic control. It is smooth, resonant, flowing like a calm river over hidden, sharp rocks. He tilts his head slightly to the left, a practiced gesture of polite regret. A slight, perfectly measured smile touches the corners of his mouth, but the warmth completely fails to reach his eyes. His eyes remain flat, calculating, taking in the state of the two conscripts before him.
"The rebellion on the fourth of July," Ferris continues, his voice dropping half an octave, allowing a hint of feigned sorrow to color his words, "left the nobility quite... unsettled."
Comtois crosses his thick arms across his chest. The movement is aggressive, sharp. His biceps bulge instantly against the tight, torn fabric of his sleeves, threatening to split the remaining seams. He tilts his head back and scoffs. It is a wet, abrasive sound originating deep in the back of his throat, completely lacking in any form of respect. He raises his right boot and kicks a loose, charred piece of cedar wood across the stones. The wood clatters loudly, bouncing off the base of the headless statue.
"Since there's no gala, why bother attending?" Comtois grunts.
His upper lip curls into a deep, ugly sneer. He rolls his eyes upward, staring directly at the clear blue sky, his expression one of profound, unadulterated boredom mixed with contempt.
"Just go home."
Aldo's reaction is instantaneous, though almost invisible to anyone not watching closely. He shoots Comtois a sharp, sideways glance. His eyes flare wide for a fraction of a second before narrowing again. A tiny, taut muscle twitches violently in the hollow of Aldo's jaw. He shifts his weight, taking a half-step forward, inserting himself slightly between Comtois and the Duke.
Aldo looks directly into Ferris's flat eyes. "The PCA has assigned us to cooperate with you, Ferris," Aldo says.
His voice is entirely flat. It is measured, metronomic, entirely devoid of the sharp annoyance he feels toward Comtois. He speaks the words as if reading them from a blank wall.
"So that the PCA and the Duchy of Thromium can strengthen their 'cordial relations'."
Aldo forms the last two words slowly. He lets them hang in the quiet air, a subtle acknowledgment of the absolute absurdity of the phrase given the blood dried on the stones beneath their boots.
Ferris's smile widens by a millimeter. He unclasps his hands from behind his back, bringing them forward to rest on his ornate silver belt buckle. He gestures vaguely with his left hand toward the ruined center of the square. As he moves, a feral, emaciated stray dog slinks out from the deep shadows of an overturned fruit cart. The dog keeps its belly low to the ground, sniffing frantically at the dark, rusted-colored stains pooling in the dips of the cobblestones.
"And your plan for this cooperation?" Ferris asks. His gaze drifts lazily from the stray dog back to Aldo's unreadable face. "How much capital is required to fund this endeavor?"
Aldo does not blink. He does not look at the dog, nor at the ruined buildings. He stares directly at the intricate gold embroidery forming the crest on Ferris's left breast.
"Five thousand gold coins," Aldo says.
His voice does not waver. He raises his right hand, slowly extending his fingers one by one as he lists his demands. "And I need access to the granary. Unrestricted. I also need direct connections to the city's bakeries and the iron smiths."
Ferris's perfectly groomed eyebrows shoot upward, disappearing beneath the fringe of his hair. The smooth, practiced mask of his aristocratic face cracks, revealing genuine, unfiltered surprise. He takes a sudden half-step backward, the iron heel of his boot clicking sharply against a loose stone.
"Only five thousand gold coins?" Ferris asks, the pitch of his voice rising in disbelief. He brings his right hand up to his face, his long, manicured fingers lightly stroking his sharp jawline. His eyes dart back and forth, searching Aldo's face for a sign of a joke. "Our men say we need twenty thousand gold coins."
Aldo shrugs. The movement is fluid, utterly careless, a slight rise and fall of his shoulders that dismisses the Duke's shock entirely. He lets his hand drop back to his side, his fingers returning to the steady tapping on his sword hilt.
"I think that's not necessary," Aldo replies. His tone is completely indifferent, as if discussing the price of a cheap loaf of bread rather than the fate of a city sector. He finally breaks eye contact, turning his head to watch the stray dog trot away into a dark, debris-choked alley. "But if they say so... why not listen to them?"
Ferris's eyes narrow to thin, dangerous slits. The smile vanishes completely from his lips. He studies Aldo's profile, his gaze heavy and piercing, desperately searching for a crack in the young conscript's infuriatingly calm exterior. Finding nothing but cold indifference, the Duke turns his head slightly over his right shoulder.
"Eldric," Ferris calls out. His voice is soft, but it carries the sharp edge of absolute command.
From the deep, ink-black shadow of a nearby ruined archway, a figure steps forward. Eldric, the Duke's butler, moves with an eerie, silent grace. His footsteps make absolutely no sound against the debris-littered stones. His face is a complex topographical map of deep, ancient wrinkles. His eyes are hidden entirely beneath bushy, snow-white brows. Eldric approaches Aldo, his head bowed slightly in a posture of subservience that feels entirely predatory.
The old man leans in close. A wave of scent washes over Aldo—the smell of dry dust, old parchment, and a sharp, biting hint of peppermint.
Eldric's dry, papery lips brush against the outer shell of Aldo's ear. A whisper passes between them. It is so soft, so rapidly delivered, that it is instantly swallowed by the gentle morning breeze before it can travel even an inch further.
Comtois leans forward instantly. His massive brow furrows so deeply his eyes nearly disappear. He squints violently, his head tilting to the side as he tries to read Eldric's lips. His own mouth hangs slightly open in sheer confusion, his breath coming in short, heavy huffs. He takes a heavy, aggressive step closer, his hand dropping toward his belt, but the old butler is already pulling back, his face returning to a blank mask of servitude.
Aldo's dark eyes widen just a fraction of a millimeter. It is a micro-expression, there and gone in a heartbeat. A brief, cold flash of profound understanding passes through his pupils, settling into something resembling dark amusement. He nods once. It is a short, sharp, definitive movement of his chin.
"The plan has changed a bit," Aldo says smoothly. He turns his attention slowly back to Ferris. His face is a perfect, unreadable slate once more, the brief flash of emotion completely buried. "Perhaps we need twelve thousand gold coins."
Ferris blinks rapidly. His lips part, hovering open for a full three seconds before he closes them again. No words come out. He looks sharply at Eldric, trying to read the butler's face, and then snaps his gaze back to Aldo. The number is still significantly lower than the twenty thousand his own surveyors had estimated, but the sudden, arbitrary jump hangs heavy and awkward in the morning air. Ferris's fingers twitch rapidly against his velvet thigh.
[Does he actually have a way to do it? How did he arrive at that number? Or is he just playing with the numbers to mock the Duchy?]
Ferris hesitates for a moment longer, the silence stretching taut between them. Then, with a slow exhale, he extends his right hand, palm facing upward, demanding the proof.
Aldo reaches his left hand inside the breast of his torn tunic. He pulls out a tightly rolled piece of thick, heavy parchment. He hands it over, the movement smooth and unhurried. The paper crinkles loudly, a harsh, dry sound in the quiet square.
Ferris snatches the roll. He unrolls the draft plan with a flick of his wrists. His eyes dart back and forth across the black ink, reading at a frantic pace. He reads it twice. He nods slowly, his erratic breathing evening out as the logic of the document takes hold.
He reaches into the heavy velvet pouch tied at his waist. He retrieves a small, cylindrical stick of red sealing wax and a heavy brass signet seal. He steps over to the stone ledge of the ruined fountain. He presses the wax against the warm stone, grinding it down, and presses the brass seal deep into the center. A sharp, crisp crack echoes as the wax sets instantly. He pulls the seal away and hands the stamped parchment to Eldric without looking at him.
"Inform the Steward," Ferris orders, his voice tight, clipped, wanting the interaction to end.
Eldric bows low, his ancient joints popping faintly, a sound like dry twigs breaking, and vanishes back into the shadows of the archway.
The morning of Tuesday, July 7, 1300, arrives devoid of the previous day's deceptive beauty. A heavy, oppressive humidity settles over Carravin like a wet wool blanket. The sky is a flat, featureless sheet of dull, metallic gray, threatening rain but refusing to release it. The air feels thick, clinging stubbornly to the skin and making every inhalation feel like pulling warm water into the lungs.
In the deeply scarred lower tier of the city, a massive, abandoned watch station sits like a brooding, dead stone beast at the corner of a narrow, debris-choked avenue. Its thick granite walls are completely covered in dark green ivy, the broad leaves drooping heavily under the weight of the morning dew.
Aldo stands dead in the center of the vast, hollow interior of the watch station. The air inside is stagnant. It smells intensely of stale urine, rotting pine wood, and the dry, choking scent of old dust. Thick, slow-moving dust motes dance lazily in the pale, gray shafts of light that manage to pierce through the narrow, iron-barred windows near the ceiling.
Aldo raises his right arm, pointing his index finger sharply toward the center of the cracked stone floor.
"Here," Aldo says. His voice echoes loudly off the high, vaulted stone ceiling, the sound bouncing back slightly distorted. He slashes his hand through the air, drawing a rigid, invisible line straight across the expanse of the room. "Divide it here."
He turns his entire body to his left, his eyes sweeping over a series of dark, empty holding cells and rusted weapon racks. "This side is the Bailiff's Muster," Aldo commands. His tone is sharp, crystalline, leaving absolutely no room for debate or suggestion. "Security."
He pivots, pointing his finger to the right side of the room, where a massive, heavily scarred oak table sits, draped in thick, gray cobwebs. "That side is the Surveyor's Bureau," Aldo states, dropping his arm to his side. "Construction."
He turns his head slowly, locking eyes with Comtois, then Hano, and finally Onaga. His eyes are hard, entirely devoid of fatigue, focused exclusively on the logistical mountain ahead of them. "I want a complete forensic audit," Aldo says, spacing his words out evenly, letting each syllable hang in the damp air. "Every single piece of salvaged military gear from the dock explosion. Every discarded weapon from the alley fights. I want it counted, categorized, and cleaned."
Comtois grins. It is a wide, feral showing of slightly yellowed teeth. His eyes light up with a manic, eager energy. He raises his massive hands and cracks his knuckles, the sound echoing through the empty station like thick, dry branches snapping underfoot in a quiet forest. He turns his massive frame toward the heavy, iron-bound double doors of the station. He lifts his right boot and kicks them fully open, the iron hinges screaming in protest as they slam against the exterior walls.
Outside, standing in the muddy, rutted courtyard, a dozen local townsmen wait nervously. They are the newly conscripted laborers. Their clothes are little more than ragged, dirt-stained smocks. Their faces are pale, drawn tight with residual fear and exhaustion.
Comtois marches out into the humid air, his massive frame towering over the huddled conscripts. He claps his giant hands together. It is a thunderous, explosive crack that makes several of the men physically flinch and step backward in the mud.
"Alright, you lot!" Comtois bellows. His voice shakes the loose, dry mortar from the brick walls of the courtyard. He points a thick, violently scarred finger toward a massive, chaotic pile of wooden crates stacked haphazardly near the street entrance. "Drag them in!"
The townsmen scramble, driven by the sheer intimidating volume of the big man. They rush to the crates, grabbing the thick, frayed hemp ropes attached to the iron handles. They lean forward, their thin boots slipping and sliding in the greasy mud. The veins in their thin necks bulge visibly as they strain to drag the immensely heavy wooden boxes across the courtyard. The sound of rough wood scraping forcefully against the uneven stone cobblestones fills the heavy air, a harsh, continuous, grating screech that sets the teeth on edge.
Comtois does not simply stand and watch. He dives headfirst into the labor. He lunges forward, grabbing the front edge of the heaviest crate in the pile. His enormous biceps swell instantly to the size of cannonballs, the fabric of his shirt tearing slightly at the shoulder. With a massive, primal heave, his face turning a deep, flushed, angry red, he drags the massive crate single-handedly over the stone threshold and directly into the Bailiff's Muster side of the room.
He drops it. The impact creates a deafening crash that shakes the floorboards.
He doesn't reach for a tool. He rips the thick wooden lid off with his bare hands. The rusted iron nails shriek as they are forcefully pulled straight from the dry wood.
Inside the crate lies a tangled, rusty mess of rebel gear. Comtois plunges his thick hands deep into the pile. He pulls out a rusted, iron-tipped pike. He tests the weight immediately, swinging it in a short, violently tight arc through the air, listening to the whistle of the shaft. He grunts, a deep sound of approval, and tosses the pike into the far corner of the room.
He reaches in again. He pulls out a shortsword, the iron blade heavily notched and stained black with layers of dried blood. He runs his thick thumb directly over the edge of the blade, feeling the dullness, feeling the chips in the metal. His brow furrows in disgust. He tosses it into a separate, smaller pile.
"Pikes here! Swords there!" Comtois barks, his massive chest heaving heavily with the exertion, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.
He grabs a heavy, thick leather brigandine jacket from the box. The material is stiff, inflexible, and smells strongly of stale sweat and old fear. He tosses it forcefully onto a standing wooden rack. He moves like a relentless, steam-driven machine. His brow grows slicker with sweat, running down his cheeks and stinging his eyes. His gaze is completely consumed by the categorization. He is evaluating every piece of equipment entirely by its blunt force capability—judging exactly how much kinetic damage a man can inflict with the item.
On the exact opposite side of Aldo's invisible line, in the Surveyor's Bureau, the atmosphere is entirely different, governed by a rigid, silent focus.
Hano sits perched on a small, wobbly wooden stool, hunched deeply over a low, slanted desk. His face is incredibly pale, his eyes wide, unblinking, and locked on the desk in front of him. He holds a short piece of charcoal pinched tightly in his right hand, his knuckles white.
In front of him sits a large, terrifying mound of small, heavy paper cartridges. Black-powder. The smell of raw sulfur hangs heavy and thick around him, a sharp, acrid scent that burns the back of the throat.
Hano reaches out with trembling fingers and picks up a single cartridge. He feels the weight in his palm. He brings it close to his ear, shaking it gently, listening to the fine powder shift inside the paper. He places it carefully into a slotted wooden box. He makes a small, precise, dark mark on a piece of parchment.
He picks up the next one.
His breathing is incredibly shallow, perfectly controlled so as not to disturb the powder. His lips move silently, forming the numbers as he counts. One hundred and four. One hundred and five.
He finishes the powder and moves to a massive pile of iron-tipped crossbow bolts. He picks one up, checking the stiff leather fletching at the back, his fingers trembling slightly as they brush against the razor-sharp iron heads. He stacks them in neat, perfectly aligned, geometric rows. Beside the bolts is a towering stack of white, chalky, rectangular bars. Lye soap. He counts the soap with the exact same intense, unbroken, terrified focus as he counted the explosives.
A few feet away, Onaga stands at the massive oak table, having swept away the cobwebs. He has unrolled a large, blank sheet of heavy, expensive parchment, pinning the corners down with iron spikes. His face is an oasis of serenity in the chaotic room. His jaw is completely relaxed, his breathing deep and even.
He holds three thin, camel-hair brushes intricately woven between the fingers of his left hand. Three small, clay pots of ink sit open before him: a vibrant Crimson Red, a dull Mustard Yellow, and a deep Forest Green.
Onaga closes his eyes for a long, silent moment. Behind his eyelids, he visualizes the ruined streets of Carravin. He sees the collapsed roofs, the standing walls, the blocked alleys. He opens his eyes, his gaze locking onto the parchment.
He dips a brush into a pot of black ink. With fluid, sweeping, confident motions, he begins to draw the master map of the tenement district. The lines flow from the tip of his brush like water over stone, instantly forming the intricate grid of alleys, market squares, and river docks.
He switches seamlessly to the brush loaded with Crimson Red ink. His hand hovers momentarily over the eastern block of the map. He presses the brush down, painting a solid, heavy red square over a dense cluster of buildings. Total collapse. The red ink bleeds slightly into the thick parchment, spreading outward, making the paper look as though it bears a fresh, seeping wound.
He spins the brushes in his hand, bringing the Mustard Yellow to the front. He carefully outlines a long row of houses leaning dangerously along the riverbank. Unstable. Repairable. He paints with total, consuming concentration, the tip of his tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he follows the curve of the river.
He switches to the Forest Green ink. He colors the few standing, undamaged stone structures in the absolute center of the district. Secure. As he works, the master map begins to look less like a drawing and more like a bruised, desperately healing piece of skin. Onaga's eyes never once leave the paper, his entire consciousness absorbed in translating the physical, chaotic destruction of the city into neat, organized pools of colored ink.