Brushing her lustrous silken hair, now slightly wavy and much messier as a direct result of her neglected self-care due to the fighting around her, Mira took a deep breath then entered the magnificent meeting room she'd been in only days ago. Everything was left exactly as she remembered it; the chiselled walls, intricately crafted table, and paneled windows all retained in regality, while the sombre mood in the air was somewhat diluted from the lack of drab officials.
As she took her place on the table, Blight emerged from another entrance with a set of fine china, its delicate peony-patterned teapot emitting small wisps of steam.
"Would you care for a cup of tea?" he asked politely, setting down the teacups and pouring out intermediate amounts of dark maroon liquid into each one. Mira thanked him and while sipping on her tea, which was pleasantly aromatic with a distinct flowery taste tickling her tongue, gazed at Blight curiously over her cup, wondering what on earth he had planned out in his mind.
"Before we get down to business," he began, "may I ask how your comrades are doing? How are they feeling?"
"Everyone is well, sir; their morale is high and they all have absolute trust in me."
"Good, good.'
A few minutes passed with silence working its magic on them. There were no noises except for the gentle sipping of tea in the yellow glow of the candles across the table, until…
"You must think it odd for me to be so calm when the enemy is right outside our doorstep, Miss Hoffman."
"Urm… Yes, sir," she admitted.
"The truth is, I'm expecting everything to eventually fall into place by itself; the only thing left for you to do is fulfil one of my goals."
"Go ahead, sir."
"At this moment, Grock's army is marching on with momentum and he has a strong supply route to lean upon. He may seem invincible at the moment, but that strength is of little use if the citizens of the country turn against him."
"So you're saying…"
"Exactly what you're thinking. I'm sure you know of my work back in Ecclesia; the charity donations not only acted as a shield for my reputation back then but also functioned as a way to strengthen the weaknesses of the commoners, sharpening them into more effective weapons through education and better lifestyles."
"I understand," said Mira, putting down her cup to discuss the matter free from distractions. Blight interlocked his fingers, returning the gesture.
"This is my plan for our defensive stand against Grock's army: first, you will attack them from within, then assassinate Paulos. No doubt, there will be much security surrounding this target, so backup will be provided when the time arises. I will handle the rest. If all goes well, I predict the outcome will be revealed in a month's time or so…"
—
Rumbles echoed across the snowy city, acting as battle drums to set the momentum for the army's march, with the sound of each one of their footsteps mashing with another, shaking the earth like a herd of elephants. Grey fumes of clouds threatened their march, bellow after bellow, but this inconspicuous sign did not slow them down in the slightest; as long as the clouds held their rain, Grock would never relent on his onslaught.
A wave of smoking oak beams hit Grock while he stomped around the village that had recently come into his possession. Crunch went the chunky snow beneath the thick leather boots he wore; each footstep grew sharper and clearer, but the cause of this phenomenon had a simple explanation.
"How much progress have we made on clearing the roads?" he demanded, a trio of soldiers heaving snow off the path in front of him to reveal a dull grey underneath.
"We are nearly done with the road leading back to the mountain pass, sir," replied one of them, stopping for a moment for a breather. Grock nodded approvingly before resuming his inspection of the village.
Although the destroying flames had been extinguished for some time now, black soot sprinkled itself on every fallen house, which glared at him angrily as if he was the direct cause of their destruction. Among the soot hid a few remnants of the lively village—beams from buildings were reduced to deformed twigs, faded striped clothes from market stalls provided fuel for a few feeble flames, and dirty white slosh spilled all over the cobblestone roads, a parting gift from the fleeing forces to hinder his advance.
The sound of thudding footprints behind him alerted Grock of the presence of another man approaching, so he spun around to face the newcomer, whether benevolent or malicious. Percy Hale stood in front of him, his mouth agape at his superior's startlingly aggressive eyes.
"What are you doing here?" barked Grock. "Didn't I instruct you to watch over Sigerson for me, Hale?"
"Yes sir, but he told me to come and relay a message to you, sir, so I couldn't refuse, since he said the fate of the Ecclesian army would lie in the response you give, sir."
Seeing the initial anger being taken over by an expression of intrigue as a safe sign, Percy recounted Sigerson's message, presented in the form of a letter.
Mr Grock
I have an idea of what Blight's intentions are and where he will potentially attack. In addition to the small detachment of Enforcers you left to assist me, I will also require you to send regular updates from the battlefield in order for me to gather data and form a conclusion. I hope you can understand the necessity of this minor request, for in my beliefs, two minds working together as one will always triumph over a lone man.
Yours faithfully, William Sigerson
After the snappy message was delivered from Percy's own hand, Grock absorbed every word silently, his attention completely undivided. At once, his head jerked up and his finger shot out as he ordered Percy to return with a reply.
"Tell SIgerson I'll comply with this request; for now, there's nothing to report."
Percy saluted stiffly and disappeared in an instant but just as he got out of sight, a soldier, his thick trench coat making him appear bigger than he actually was, plodded through the snow with yet another message in his hand. By this time, letters were so frequent in coming that Grock had learned to expect them at all times, no matter how bizarre the timing was. He snatched it out of the soldier's grasp, his withered hand reduced to a blur, scanned through the contents then let a disgusting scowl shape his thin face.
"W–What is it?" inquired the soldier timidly like a mouse before a lion. Grock did not answer his question; instead, he flipped the letter to its blank side and scribbled furiously on it, handing it back to the giver after finishing his reply.
"Deliver this to Lieutenant Morad."
No further words were needed to convey the urgency of his command; the pair of glaring pupils snapped the soldier into submission. Within minutes, the summoned lieutenant, every tiny coherent detail polished through drills and hardships, marched up to Grock, saluting to him rigidly like a statue.
"You may leave," said Grock, waving off the letter deliverer.
"Is there something urgent, sir?"
His face endued with an ashen pallour, Grock lifted up his head to reply.
"The rebels are on the move again. They've started to stir up trouble in the capital. Why…"
He clenched his jaw, his head nearly in a perfect rectangle shape.
"Why didn't Crowne prevent the Custodians from getting their hands on his factories?" muttered Grock, more to himself than anyone in particular.
"Sir?"
A particularly poisonous feeling shot through the uncertain soldier, every muscle in his body frozen at the impact of a mere glare.
"I need you to take command over this village," spat Grock. "There's some business I must attend to back in Ecclesia."
—
Tick.
Tick.
Gleaming bronze hands stretched across the beige surface; twelve numbers stood around the painfully slow rotating arrows, each one waiting to be overshadowed. Time, it seemed, did not have much of an effect on the yawning man pouring through old documents lazily; there was still plenty of time until his appointment, so rushing wouldn't be necessary—or so it seemed.
In flew Grock, the tiresome tranquility breaking asunder, and to demonstrate exactly how impertinent he could get under the testy influence of a tempestuous mood, he plunged his fist onto the desk, rattling all four legs as an earthquake shakes a forest of mighty trunks.
"I've warned you time and again, Crowne, and now look at how the events have played out!"
His voice, raised barely enough to be considered a shout, held a peculiar tone of condemnation, something that had not existed until that moment. Crowne, though superior in position, fell dead silent, his grey head hung low.
"His so called 'charity acts' were not only a ruse to disguise his true intentions back when he was going to defect to Revalty but also to strengthen the citizens, weaponising them into a threat from within," muttered Grock, audible enough for Crowne to catch on. "The factories… His coal monopoly also served the same purpose; aside from providing wealth, it would hardly be difficult to predict that the rights of his company would be split up among the greedy Custodians."
Here, Grock lashed out at Crowne with one of his frequent scowls.
"The people are enraged," he said gravely. "You should know what follows after a discontent crowd."
A flickering scene of multiple tongues of orange razing down raw metal and stone lit in their minds—the repulsive taste of smoke seemed to be fresh on the tips of their tongues.
"We… We should be able to repel them, shouldn't we?"
"Perhaps," returned the stoic advisor. "I daresay it'll be much harder than our previous successes though."
Seeing that further explanation was required to satisfy Crowne, Grock sat himself on one of the guest chairs, adjusted the plump lilac padding to his preference, then pulled out his pipe to continue.
"In our previous skirmishes with a rebellious populace, we always held one vital advantage: discipline. Although our numbers were fewer, the enemies were always uneducated and ill-trained. If the rebels acquire the help of the citizens and recruit more members to add to their strength, which I'm sure will be their next move, then taking them on in a direct confrontation will prove to be much more difficult. Times have changed, Crowne; the commoners you feared are no longer the same foolish, weak people they once were. I'd suggest you hand over the Custodians to me. You should focus on our relations with Sardis."
At the mention of Sardis, Crowne regained some of his dignity and asked, "I've been wanting to check with you for some time, but have there been any leads on Miss Paulos' murder?"
"I… We are still working on that," replied Grock sourly, the colour of his face slowly draining at the mention of this distasteful topic. "So far, there's nothing tracing the murder back to Blight, since we've apprehended the culprit, but only time can tell if we've fallen into a trap. Presently, Mr Paulos is being escorted by a group of Enforcers selected to ensure his safety with additional security at every location he visits; moreover, I only release the details of his whereabouts to the team handling his current trip in case of an information leak in order to narrow down the faulty link faster. If killing Paulos was intended to break our bond with Sardis, then Blight's so-called genius would certainly be far below my expectations."
"But," stuttered Crowne in a sudden panic. "Where is Mr Paulos going to live now? What about the funeral?"
"That has already been prepared; it will take place in Sardis to reduce the chances of an assassination. As I said before, leave the trouble to me."
He gave Crowne a dismissive wave of his hand, the pipe still fuming like a tank engine train, and excused himself from his presence. Tomorrow, he felt, would bring yet another drastic change to impair his own victorious momentum.
—
Early morning birds twittered their waking calls somewhere in Sardis, arousing the dozing rebels, who were geared for battle, their bronze vests giving off a dull glow in the semi-darkness. Their time of rest was up—the war had driven them out of dormancy at last.