"There you are," Priscilla says softly, pulling him effortlessly along the corridor toward a grand, double-paneled door at the end of the hall. "I have been looking for you. I was worried whether you disliked me... I am deeply honored to meet the famous leader of the 204th."
She pushes open the door and pulls Aldo inside a lush, private reception chamber, closing the door behind them.
Aldo stammers slightly, his face flushing red again as he looks down at her slender hand wrapped around his wrist.
At the PCA, Aldo reflects bitterly in his internal monologue,
using tricks to prevent my men from dying prematurely on the battlefield and completing the mission to survive while the propaganda reaches the heavens is known to everyone. They turn our desperate survival tactics into grand legends.
He forces himself to look straight into Priscilla's captivating face. Her brilliant sapphire blue and emerald green eyes lock onto his with intense, unblinking focus. Aldo's throat goes completely dry. He stands speechless, his cheeks burning crimson.
Priscilla smiles softly. She glides over to a massive velvet daybed, resting one graceful porcelain hand against the soft fabric, gesturing for him to join her.
As she moves, her eyes drop to his bare chest, his shoulders, and his hands. A look of sudden, genuine surprise flashes across her striking face.
"You don't have any cuts or wounds like a warrior," Priscilla notes, her voice carrying a tone of quiet wonder.
Aldo clears his throat nervously, adjusting his stance.
"Well... I'm a commander, so I don't fight directly much," Aldo stammered out, scratching the back of his neck. "And even if I did... I'd go to the healers for treatment."
Priscilla sits gracefully on the edge of the velvet daybed. She reaches out, her slender, soft fingers lightly brushing against Aldo's calloused hand. Slowly, delicately, her fingers begin to intertwine with his.
Aldo startles violently, his whole body tensing up as if he had touched a hot iron stove.
Priscilla looks up at him, placing her other smooth porcelain hand gently over the top of his tensed knuckles.
"You should be gentle," Priscilla whispers softly, her voice warm and reassuring.
Aldo takes a slow breath, forcing his rigid shoulder muscles to relax. He lets his hand settle into her grasp.
Priscilla's enigmatic smile widens, a soft, approving warmth filling her heterochromatic eyes.
"That's right," she purrs softly. "That's how a boy holds a girl's hand."
Aldo looks down at their intertwined fingers, then up into her striking face. His military mind takes over, desperately searching for a way to steer this intimate encounter into a formal intelligence extraction.
Keep her talking, Aldo tells himself nervously.
Compliment her first. Establish rapport.
"Priscilla..." Aldo stammers, his voice catching in his throat before he forces the words out. "Y-You... You are gorgeous."
Priscilla lets out a short, amused chuckle. Her lips curve into a confident, practiced smirk.
"Every man tells me that," Priscilla replies smoothly, shaking her head with soft amusement. "I've listened to that far too many times."
Aldo clears his throat again, trying to sound like a casual, inquisitive officer asking about high society.
"So... generals, officers, dukes, even Ferris the Second... and rich merchants... and even the royal court have met you?" Aldo stammers out, trying to keep his tone light while mentally preparing his notepad.
Priscilla nods slowly, her golden waves shifting over her shoulder. "Yes. They all come through these doors eventually."
Aldo notes the confirmation down in his mental ledger. He leaned in a fraction closer, lowering his voice.
"I wonder how the monarch of Palantine of Heilop looks like," Aldo asks, trying to sound casually curious. "Is he a young, tall, muscular man?"
Priscilla rolls her striking sapphire and emerald eyes, letting out a soft, mocking huff.
"You won't believe it," Priscilla says, her voice dropping into a low, serious tone. "Sevan Heilop was a very old man. He is one hundred and twenty years old. He sustains his life through dark blood rituals that drain the life force directly from his own living descendants."
Aldo's eyes widen in absolute horror. His pupils contract sharply as he files the terrifying piece of intelligence away.
A 120-year-old monarch draining his own bloodline to stay alive...
Aldo thinks rapidly, his stomach turning.
That explains the desperate, unstable tyranny of the crown.
"Is he... a vampire?" Aldo asks cautiously.
Priscilla chuckles softly, shaking her head. "No, you silly man. He conducts dark arts."
Suddenly, Priscilla goes entirely silent.
The soft atmosphere in the room shifts. She stops moving, her striking face turning completely still as she looks at Aldo intensely, silently, a small, knowing smile lingering on her plush lips. Her smile widens slowly, her heterochromatic eyes locking onto his soul with terrifying, razor-sharp penetration.
"Perhaps..." Priscilla whispers, her voice dropping into an impossibly soft, seductive cadence, "you are also among those who dissent with the royal court... and want freedom, and pursue your own goals?"
She leans closer. Slowly, purposefully, she raises her second hand, intertwining the fingers of both her hands with both of Aldo's hands.
She moves in until her face is merely inches from his. Aldo can feel the warm, fragrant blossom-scented heat of her breath against his cheeks.
Aldo's face could not possibly be any redder. He feels as if his blood is boiling directly inside his veins.
"Can I listen to that deep... need?" Priscilla whispers, her eyes shining with quiet, dangerous ambition.
Aldo's heart hammers against his ribs like a siege ram. He squeezes his eyes shut for a split second, forcing his mind to maintain its defensive cover.
"I am the man who always finishes his mission with greatest effort," Aldo blurts out, his voice tense and high-pitched. "Those complex intrigues... I am self-proclaimed that I am too dense for that!"
Another heavy, profound silence falls over the room.
Priscilla Lowe remains motionless. Her enigmatic smirk lingers on her face, completely unchanged. She does not say anything. She simply goes silent, her sapphire and emerald eyes watching his every micro-expression, as if expecting him to break and reveal more.
Aldo prepares his mouth to speak further defensive excuses, but the unyielding, silent pressure of her gaze catches in his throat. He goes entirely silent as well.
Seconds bleed together in the quiet room.
To break the suffocating tension, Aldo looks directly into her striking heterochromia, blurting out the first completely honest thought in his head:
"Your eyes... they are really remarkable."
Priscilla lightly brushes the compliment off with a subtle tilt of her head, completely ignoring the comment. She continues to stare at him in total, unyielding silence, her smirk holding its ground like an iron fortress.
No more speech fills the air.
Finally, Priscilla breaks the silence, letting out a soft, dramatic sigh as she relaxes her posture slightly.
"Oh... maybe I pressured you a bit," she says smoothly.
Before Aldo can react, she leans forward and places a soft, warm, lingering kiss directly onto his flushed cheek.
She pulls back with a dazzling, mischievous smile.
"There," Priscilla purrs, holding up a single, delicate porcelain finger. "That would normally be one hundred silver coins... but I grant you my kiss for free."
She leans in an inch closer, her eyes locking onto his with sharp, uncompromising focus.
"Now... can you tell me... are you planning a rebellion? Would it be a very populist rebellion... a very fierce one?"
Aldo stiffens, his jaw setting into an unbreakable iron lock. He looks her straight in the eye, his military discipline completely taking over.
"I won't say a thing," Aldo states flatly.
Priscilla's smile doesn't vanish; instead, her eyes sparkle with playful, dangerous amusements. She cups her hand around her delicate ear, leaning her head forward.
"Sorry, I don't hear it well," Priscilla says in a slow, theatrical tone. "Can you repeat that for me?"
"I said I won't say anything," Aldo repeats firmly.
Priscilla sighs softly, pulling a small, elegant scroll of parchment from a hidden pocket in her crimson silk gown. She taps it against her palm with a quiet thump.
"Then you owe me one hundred silver coins for that kiss," Priscilla says smoothly, pointing a slender finger at the parchment. "And that is listed on the paper. It was not an arbitrary thing I made up."
Aldo's eyes snap to the parchment, then to her face. His mind performs frantic, terrifying arithmetic.
ONE HUNDRED SILVERS?!
Aldo's mind screams in absolute, horrific agony.
I spent forty silvers and nearly had a heart attack! One hundred silvers is a whole month of my lieutenant's salary! That's enough to supply an entire platoon with winter coats!
He weighs his options rapidly, his face pale with financial dread.
"What... what answer do you want?" Aldo asks cautiously, his voice tight.
Priscilla lowers the parchment, her voice dropping into a slow, smooth, commanding tone.
"Just say what your heart says to you."
Aldo takes a deep breath, structuring his response with extreme caution, carefully avoiding any direct admission of treason while satisfying her demand for operational depth.
"I won't," Aldo says generally.
Priscilla tilts her head, her expression unyielding. "Ah... I believe that is not a full answer I want yet."
Aldo sighs, accepting that he must demonstrate strategic competence to satisfy the debt. He clears his throat, adopting the formal, cold tone of an academy instructor lecturing on grand strategy.
"If you mean a spontaneous, foolish rebellion that simply attacks a local garrison," Aldo begins, his voice turning steady and precise, "I won't do it that way."
Priscilla raises an eyebrow, listening intently.
"First," Aldo explains, holding up a calloused finger, "you must focus on Faction Building—securing reliable, disciplined officers and unifying disparate disgruntled groups under a single operational chain of command."
He holds up a second finger.
"Second, Finding a Base. You cannot operate out of thin air. You need an isolated, defensible geographic region with natural barriers."
He holds up a third finger.
"Third, Building Your Own Base—establishing agriculture, forge capacity, and secure supply lines so your forces do not starve during a prolonged siege."
Priscilla's eyes gleam with intense interest as she watches him speak.
"Fourth," Aldo continues, his voice ringing with cold, historical analysis, "you wait. You monitor the central crown continuously until the royal family is weakened by internal rot, economic collapse, or foreign conflict, and begins to crumble on its own. Only then do you act."
He raises his fifth finger.
"Fifth, Expand, Sustain, and claim Legitimacy. You seize key economic hubs, maintain strict discipline among your troops to win the peasantry's favor, and finally, Establish Legitimacy after all—building a functioning, fair administrative state to replace the old tyrant."
Aldo pauses, taking a deep breath, his dark eyes looking directly back into hers.
Priscilla Lowe slowly brings her delicate porcelain hands together.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
She claps her hands together in a slow, deliberate rhythm, her plush lips expanding into a broad, brilliant smirk.
"That was impressive, sir," Priscilla says, her voice rich with genuine admiration. "I am fully anticipated by that."
Her expression suddenly sharpens, her heterochromatic eyes narrowing like razor blades.
"However," Priscilla whispers, stepping an inch closer, "you should tell everything to me. It would be a shame if..."
"No," Aldo cuts her off firmly, his voice hard as iron. "I didn't tell you I will rebel against the crown. I just stated proper steps on how a rebel goes from rogue to legitimate, based on my history reading."
Priscilla stops cold.
Her brilliant smirk fades completely. Her striking face turns completely blank, her sapphire blue and emerald green eyes staring at him with a profound, unreadable intensity.
"So that was your excuse," Priscilla says softly, her tone stripped of its playful warmth. "How detailed... and far too much detailed it was."
Silence settles heavily over the private room.
Aldo turns his head slightly, looking toward the wide arched window at the far end of the chamber.
Outside, the bright sunlight of July 20 has entirely vanished. Deep, dark night has fallen over Flora City. Along the geometric cobblestone avenues below, the city's magical yellow street lamps have already activated, casting long, golden pools of light across the quiet stone thoroughfares.
"I've stayed here from morning until late afternoon," Aldo remarks softly, surprised by the passage of time.
Priscilla glides up behind him. She reaches out her slender, soft arms, wrapping them gently around Aldo's neck, leaning her head against his shoulder.
"Time flies when you are with a beautiful girl," Priscilla whispers softly into his ear, her warm breath tickling his skin.
She leans in closer, her voice dropping into an impossibly low, dangerous whisper that sends a cold shiver straight down Aldo's spine.
"I also have my own scheme," Priscilla whispers softly. "Do you wish to listen?"
Aldo stands completely still in her embrace, his eyes fixed on the yellow magical lamps glowing in the dark city below.
His mind works frantically, weighing the immense risks. Is this a deceptive trap designed to test his loyalty to the crown, or has he just stumbled upon the most valuable, powerful ally in the entire southern province? His tactical instincts hammer against his chest, urging him to tread carefully—yet his deep operational intuition tells him that in the grand game of survival, turning away real power is the ultimate error.
Aldo takes a long, slow breath, letting his shoulders settle.
"Yes," Aldo says clearly.
Behind his shoulder, Priscilla Lowe's plush lips curve back into a slow, brilliant, victorious smirk.