The Rotunda is quiet in a way that feels deliberate.
Not empty—never empty—but sparse. The silence has weight to it, as if arranged, curated. Footsteps echo more than they should beneath the curved ceiling, each step returning a fraction too late, a fraction too sharp. The air is cool, unmoving. Light filters down through the oculus above, pale and almost surgical, illuminating dust suspended midair like particles frozen in judgment. Nothing stirs them. Nothing dares.
Aldo stands alone in the center.
He does not look up. He does not look around. His presence feels placed rather than wandering, as though he has been set there with intention. The circular floor beneath him seems wider than usual.
His boots sound too loud on the stone when he shifts his weight. The scrape of leather against granite travels outward, touches the columns, and returns unchanged. There is no murmur of clerks. No rustle of parchment.
Clerk Yorin approaches from the colonnade, robe neatly pressed, expression unreadable. His pace is measured, neither hurried nor slow. He carries a single folded paper, sealed with a modest wax stamp. The seal is unadorned. Official, but restrained.
He does not greet Aldo.
He does not bow.
He simply extends the paper.
Aldo takes it. Their fingers do not touch.
The wax cracks under his thumb, a small, brittle sound that lingers longer than it should.
His eyes move once, left to right.
They stop.
His jaw tightens.
"Clear a Witch Enclave in Samel."
The words sit there without embellishment.
He reads the location again.
"Samel…?" he repeats quietly.
Clerk Yorin nods once.
"The Rotunda requires resolution," Yorin says, his voice even, neither raised nor hushed, yet it travels cleanly through the chamber. "The Council has delayed long enough."
He pauses, as if allowing the stone itself to record the words.
"Reports indicate increased thaumaturgical disturbance over the past three weeks. Not fluctuations—disturbances. Measurable, patterned, and intensifying. The instruments in the lower archive have begun to register interference."
Aldo does not respond.
"Livestock decay," Yorin continues, unfolding a second slip from within his sleeve but not offering it. "Healthy animals at dusk. Spoiled by dawn. No wounds. No signs of predation. The rot sets inward, as if persuaded."
A faint breath leaves him, almost a sigh, though controlled.
"Unnatural fog density along the eastern riverbank. It does not disperse with wind. It gathers against structures. Witnesses report diminished sound within it—bells muted, voices shortened."
His eyes lift briefly to Aldo's.
"And there are disappearances. Three confirmed. Two laborers, one courier. No struggle. No tracks beyond a certain radius. Personal effects left behind in orderly condition."
The paper remains between them.
"The Rotunda requires resolution," he repeats, softer now. "Not observation. Not containment. Resolution."
His tone remains administrative.
Aldo lowers the paper slightly.
"Why the 204th?"
Yorin's lips thin almost imperceptibly.
"Because you have proven… efficient."
A pause.
"And disposable," Aldo thinks, though he does not say it.
[We are a state asset,] he reminds himself. [And state assets are used where risk is acceptable.]
He folds the paper once and tucks it inside his coat.
The Rotunda's silence feels heavier now.
Back at the farmland, the sun is higher, bright and indifferent. It presses down without preference, gilding the canal's surface until it flashes like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. The filtration barrels hum with quiet gravity-fed flow, steady and obedient, water slipping through sand and charcoal in patient descent. The scent of damp earth and fresh-cut timber lingers in the air. Work has been done here. Order has been imposed.
Aldo stands before Onaga, Hano, and the gathered slave-soldiers of Company 204th. The paper rests in his hand, its broken seal folded back but not discarded.
They all stare at it as if it might ignite.
Hano speaks first.
"Witch Enclave?" His voice cracks between disbelief and something sharper. "Who sends slave-soldiers into that?"
A murmur passes through the ranks—not loud, but present. The middle-aged carpenters nearby—men who have spent days teaching joinery and sealing techniques, who measure twice and cut once—exchange glances. One of them, broad-shouldered and scarred from years of timber work, shakes his head slowly.
"Normally mages handle that," he says carefully. "Academy-trained. Thaumatologists. People who know containment circles. Counter-rites."
The word lingers. Thaumatologists. It sounds expensive. It sounds official. It sounds nothing like Company 204th.
Aldo looks at them all, his expression unchanged.
"My plan is to wait for the twenty men returning from Suguku," he begins, voice steady. "We bring the company back to a full hundred. Then we mobilize entirely."
Silence answers him at first, thick and unmoving.
Then Onaga steps forward sharply. "Mobilize entirely?"
Hano turns to him, equally stunned. "Entirely?"
"And who maintains the farmland?" Hano demands, gesturing toward the canal, the barrels, the half-framed storage barn. "The canals? The filters? The timber production? We just stabilized output."
Aldo's gaze remains calm, almost patient.
"This mission is complex," he says. "An enclave implies numbers. Structure. Possibly ritual coordination. Scale requires scale."
"Scale also requires food and water," Onaga counters, his voice low but intense. "We built this system. It does not maintain itself. Leave it untended for a week and the silt returns. The seals dry. The joints warp."
Another voice joins in. "If the harvest fails, what then?"
"And if the witches spread?" someone else replies.
The debate sparks like dry straw catching flame.
"We cannot send everyone."
"We cannot underestimate witches."
"We cannot let the farm collapse."
"We cannot let Samel rot further."
Voices rise, not in rebellion, but in friction. Men who have learned to work in rhythm now speak over one another. The canal continues to glint, indifferent.
Then, gradually, a realization settles over them like cold rain.
They are slave-soldiers.
They do not possess the authority to refuse. They may argue logistics. They may question efficiency. But they do not decide.
The order stands.
Silence returns, but it is not peaceful.
It is resigned.
Aldo lowers the paper slightly.
Then a chair scrapes against wood.
Lei Delun steps forward.
Leader of Platoon 1-FT. Broad frame. Shoulders squared from years beneath weight and discipline. His eyes are usually calm—measured, observant—but now they burn with something sharper, something close to defiance.
"I will lead the sent team," he says.
The courtyard stills around the declaration.
Aldo turns to him slowly, not startled, not hurried. Simply attentive.
"Thirty men," Lei continues. "No need to mobilize all one hundred. We strike fast. Surgical. In and out before they understand what's happening."
Murmurs ripple through Company 204th. Thirty is a number they can imagine. Thirty leaves hands for canals. Thirty leaves men for timber and guard rotations. Thirty feels survivable.
Aldo studies him in silence. The paper remains in his hand, edges unmoving despite the faint breeze crossing the farmland.
"I appreciate your bravery," Aldo replies evenly. "But understand what you are proposing."
He lifts the paper slightly, not as a threat, but as evidence.
"Magic. Thaumatology—what the Academies call it. Structured arcane discipline. Ritual geometry. Wards layered upon wards. We do not have access to it." His gaze moves briefly across the assembled men. "Neither do peasants. Especially if this is Dark Magic. Or Unorthodox Thaumatology."
The words weigh heavier than steel. Dark Magic. Unorthodox. Terms spoken in classrooms and whispered in tribunals.
Lei's jaw tightens. A muscle shifts near his temple.
He steps closer and slams his palm against the wooden table beside them.
The sound cracks across the courtyard, scattering a pair of perched birds into the air.
"A witch cannot see three hundred and sixty degrees," Lei snaps. "They bleed. They breathe. They fall. We surround. We pressure. We finish it."
Several soldiers nod instinctively. Combat logic. Flank. Advance. Overwhelm.
Onaga steps in immediately, cutting through the rising momentum.
"We are not fighting one witch," he says sharply. "It says enclave. That implies numbers. Layers. Possibly shared wards. Rotational casting. Defensive circles overlapping."
He gestures toward the canal as if it were proof of concept.
"We built redundancy into irrigation because a single failure collapses the system. You think mages build with less caution?"
The tension sharpens further.
Lei's breathing deepens, controlled but forceful. Aldo remains still between them, paper in hand, sunlight reflecting faintly off the broken wax seal.
Thirty men.
One hundred men.
Magic.
The farmland hums behind them, steady and fragile all at once.
Aldo's eyes narrow slightly.
[He's not wrong,] he thinks about Lei's outburst. [Even witches must perceive through direction.]
He exhales slowly.
"Traps," Aldo says.
The word cuts through the air.
"We design traps. Lure. Divide. Separate the enclave into fragments. We do not engage as a mass."
Lei's breathing steadies slightly.
Onaga watches Aldo carefully.
"I will request additional support from my lieutenant," Aldo continues. "More men if possible. But we do not wait idly. We prepare ambush architecture."
The air shifts.
It is subtle.
But hope appears—not loud, not celebratory. Just a thinning of despair.
Then Hano speaks again, quieter this time.
"And the farmland?"
The question lingers.
The carpenters exchange another look.
The broad-shouldered one clears his throat.
"We could maintain operations," he says slowly. "At a fair price."
Part sympathy.
Part calculation.
Aldo's eyes move to him.
"Define fair," Aldo says.
The carpenter hesitates only briefly.
"Two silver coins per day. Three per night. We oversee timber processing. Canal monitoring. Basic maintenance."
Onaga inhales sharply beside Aldo.
Hano's eyebrows shoot up.
Aldo does not flinch.
"Contract," he says simply.
The carpenter blinks.
"Written," Aldo clarifies. "Terms defined. Responsibilities outlined. Payment schedule clear. Penalties for negligence specified."
The carpenter grins slightly.
"Agreed."
They sign.
Ink presses into paper.
A contract between slave-soldiers and free craftsmen.
To protect both sides.
Onaga leans closer to Aldo once the carpenters step back.
"That price is expensive," he murmurs.
Aldo's eyes remain on the signed parchment.
"Then we fight quickly," he replies.
Onaga exhales.
[It's a gamble,] he thinks. [A precise ambush, swift execution, minimal casualties.]
He glances toward the distant tree line in the direction of Samel.
Swamps.
Mist.
Witches.
His mind shifts unexpectedly.
[Mosquitoes,] he thinks suddenly. [Swamps mean mosquitoes.]
He straightens slightly.
He can help.
Filtration knowledge. Repellent mixtures. Nets. Circulation strategies even in hostile terrain.
Even against witches, disease remains an enemy.
Aldo moves briskly now, already reorganizing.
"Platoon 1-FT, prepare scouting layouts."
"2-SH, supply checks."
"3-TB, trap construction prototypes. Weighted nets. Pitfalls."
"4-FT, continue record duplication. We do not leave without archival redundancy."
His voice is calm.
Too calm.
[We are young.] he thinks. [We are an emerging institution pretending at permanence.]
He looks at the canal flowing beside them.
Infrastructure stands solid.
But politics is fluid.
They are still disposable.
And now they test themselves not against peasants or logistics—but against the supernatural.
Lei approaches Aldo again.
"Thirty men," he repeats more quietly.
Aldo studies him.
"We will evaluate terrain first," Aldo says. "If intelligence confirms manageable scale, you lead thirty. If not, we escalate."
Lei nods once.
The carpenters begin discussing timber reinforcement for traps—stakes hardened by fire, angled correctly.
"We'll need tighter joinery if you're fighting in swamp," one says. "Wood swells in wet ground."
Aldo listens, absorbing everything.
Onaga pulls Hano aside.
"Mosquito nets," Onaga says immediately. "Portable frames. Treated cloth."
Hano stares at him.
"We're fighting witches and you're thinking about mosquitoes?"
Onaga's expression is dead serious.
"Yes."
Hano sighs.
"Fine. I'll adjust supply lists."
The sky overhead remains clear, almost offensively bright.
The farmland hums.
Timber stacks rise neatly.
Water flows through layered filtration.
Contracts are signed.
Traps are sketched.
An institution stands at the edge of testing itself against something unnatural.
And somewhere beyond the forest, in Samel's swamps, something waits.
Aldo folds the witch order one more time and slips it back into his coat.
[We are still politically disposable,] he reminds himself. [So we must not be tactically careless.]
He turns toward his company.
"Prepare !" he says simply.
And preparation begins—not with panic, but with diagrams, contracts, mosquito nets, and sharpened stakes.