Isabetta lets out a bitter, hollow laugh, her gaze shifting back to the massive city walls of Carravin.
"Now I am the actual, operational manager of the entire workshop," she says, her jaw tightening.
Onaga leans forward, his brow furrowing with genuine curiosity.
"I mean... why the specific name mismatch on the official guild paper?" Onaga presses further. "Why not just put your own name on the contract?"
Another heavy silence falls over the group. The cool breeze whistles through the wild clover, scattering a few yellow petals across the cloth. Isabetta's face completely falls, her eyes casting downward as a look of deep, systemic shame flushes her cheeks.
"Because this profession is legally and socially reserved exclusively for men," she whispers, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed anger. "The Guild does not allow female masters. I learned the entire trade completely in secret, working by candlelight in the cellar so the inspectors wouldn't burn our shop down."
Comtois suddenly twists his head in Onaga's lap, leaning upward until his lips are mere inches from Aldo's ear. He lets out a loud, conspiratorial whisper that carries clearly across the grass.
"Hey, Aldo," Comtois smirks, his goofy face filled with mischievous amusement. "On both Earth and Terre, exactly seventy-five percent of these inspirational, tear-jerking stories featuring female protagonists always have a mandatory, dramatic scene exactly like this. It's a total cliché."
Onaga slaps Comtois's shoulder to shut him up, his delicate face filled with profound sympathy as he looks up at Isabetta, his voice warm and comforting.
"That is absolutely horrible," Onaga says softly, his eyes shining. "You shouldn't have to hide your brilliant talent from the world just because of some archaic, stupid tradition. I completely understand your struggle."
Aldo turns his head slowly, his dead-fish eyes locking onto Onaga with a look of cold, analytical disapproval.
"Do not waste your emotional variables on sympathy, Onaga," Aldo says, his voice flat. "The local aristocracy enforces these restrictions simply because they completely lack any modern understanding of systemic Inclusivity. If they understood the numbers, they would actively seek to control it through state apparatus."
Onaga blinks, his mouth dropping open as he stares at the commander, his eyes suddenly lighting up with hope.
"Oh!" Onaga exclaims, his voice filled with sudden admiration as he claps his hands. "Are you actually a progressive thinker too, Aldo? So beneath that terrifying, dead-eyed exterior, you actually have a beautiful, compassionate soul—"
"Inclusivity is the ultimate macroeconomic cheat code, Onaga!" Aldo interrupts sharply, his voice cutting through Onaga's praise like an axe.
Aldo brings his hands together, brushing his palms against each other with a sharp, dry smack to clear the dirt, his face tightening as he enters a state of pure logical exposition.
"To actively include a marginalized demographic does not mean you care about their emotional well-being," Aldo explains, his dead-fish eyes widening by a fraction of an inch as the data flows. "It means you are actively expanding your primary demographic variables directly into the national taxpayer pool, the raw consumer market, and the conscriptable citizen base! If a specific demographic is not being properly exploited and taxed by the state apparatus, their economic energy is effectively invisible to the national matrix! It is an absolute waste of raw material! Why on earth would you let potential state revenue sit idly on the sidelines out of mere prejudice, when we can easily include them in the daily structural grind?!"
The entire hillside goes completely silent.
Onaga's face completely freezes, his mouth hanging wide open in absolute horror as the warmth drains from his eyes. Comtois slowly lifts his head from Onaga's lap, his goofy expression completely replaced by a look of profound, terrified bewilderment.
"I... I can't believe you actually see human rights that way," Onaga stutters, his voice trembling with disgust as he steps back. "You are an actual monster."
Comtois lets out a low whistle, shaking his head as he points a finger at the red-suited youth.
"Damn, Aldo," Comtois mutters, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and fear. "You aren't a progressive at all. You are a true, super-greedy super-capitalist. That is terrifying."
Aldo ignores both of their comments completely, his head pivoting back around like a mechanical turret until his dull, dead-fish eyes are locked directly onto Isabetta's frozen face. He looks her up and down, comparing her physical build and posture to the data profiles he had read regarding the old man, Tomasso de' Rossi.
"Your physical proportions and eye movement suggest high focus," Aldo says flatly, reaching down to sign the bottom of the parchment. "I will believe your operational capacity for now."
Isabetta blinks, a sudden wave of immense relief washing over her face as a brilliant, happy smile breaks through her anxiety. She grips the signed contract tightly against her chest, bowing deeply to the young commander.
"Thank you!" she cries out, her voice bright and full of genuine gratitude. "Thank you so much for your trust, Commander Patriot! I swear to you, I will do my absolute best to map this entire river valley flawlessly!"
Aldo simply reaches for his theodolite, his rosy lips tightening.
"Begin the angular measurements of the northern bank immediately," he commands.
The morning wind shifts, turning sharp and biting as it sweeps off the silken river, carrying the pungent scent of low-tide mud, rotting riverweed, and the distant, metallic tang of the Thromium mansion's busy kitchens. The sun, now a brilliant, blinding coin of gold, mounts the sky with an unyielding speed, baking the dew off the wild lavender and yellow daisies. Insects begin their low, vibrating hum within the thick brush, their wings clicking like tiny pieces of clockwork as the heat intensifies.
Isabetta de' Rossi drops her heavy wicker basket onto the grass with a wet, hollow thud. Her jaw remains set, a fierce, protective light burning in her eyes as she unbuckles the worn leather straps of her personal equipment satchel. Her smooth, uncalloused hands move with a practiced, protective familiarity as she reaches inside, her fingers wrapping around the tools of her lineage—the traditional instruments that have defined the de' Rossi workshop for generations.
With a small, defiant flick of her wrist, she pulls out a heavy, dark iron magnetic compass, its housing scratched and tarnished by years of mountain salt. Beside it, she lays down a crude, hand-carved wooden cross-staff, its notched increments burnt into the ash wood with a hot iron needle, slightly warped from the damp river air. She finishes her display by unrolling a long, stained piece of vellum showing a rudimentary plane table assembly, its edges frayed and held together by thick linen thread.
"These are the tools of a true master," Isabetta says, her voice carrying a sharp, defensive edge as she gestures toward the iron and wood spread across the clover. "My father used these exact pieces to map the entire southern coastline of Mikhland. They have never failed our family, and they will not fail your survey, Commander."
Aldo does not answer immediately. His dull, dead-fish eyes remain entirely flat, staring down at her traditional array with a profound, vacant lack of interest. His fair, smooth skin catches the bright sunlight, his rosy lips forming a tight, mechanical line. Without a single word of criticism, his well-proportioned arm moves with deliberate, sweeping precision, unlatching the massive, velvet-lined mahogany crate resting behind his boots.
He reaches inside, his fingers gripping the cold, oil-sheened brass of his own equipment. With a smooth, effortless lift, he places his Theodolite directly beside her iron compass. The silvered vernier scales flash blindingly in the sun; the pristine glass lens reflects the rolling green hills like a perfect, miniature mirror, and the perfectly machined leveling screws sit aligned with mathematical perfection. Beside it, he deposits the heavy Zenith Telescope, its delicate, alcohol-filled spirit level bubbling with a clear, liquid light, and the complex, multi-mirrored Sextant, its arc engraved with microscopic degrees that make her wooden cross-staff look like a child's toy.
Aldo's dead-fish eyes fix directly onto her face, his voice dropping into a flat, mechanical instruction.
"Put your iron and wood back into the container," Aldo says, his tone entirely devoid of emotional cadence. "You will utilize these specific instruments for the duration of the regional survey. Try them now."
Isabetta freezes, her hands hovering over her old iron compass as she stares blankly at the gleaming brass contraptions. Her mouth parts by a fraction of an inch, her eyes darting from the silvered scales to the microscopic gears of the advanced hodometer resting in the crate. A deep, profound confusion twists her features, her brow furrowing until her smooth forehead wrinkles.
"What... what is this?" she questions, her voice dropping into a bewildered, breathless whisper as she reaches out a hesitant, trembling finger toward the theodolite's lens. "I have visited every grand guild from Ofliran to the capital of Heilop, and I have never seen steel or brass worked with such terrifying, unnatural precision. The degrees... they are smaller than a human hair. What manner of sorcery is this, Commander?"
Aldo's expression does not alter. His mind processes her confusion as a standard predictable variable, his rosy lips moving without a hint of hesitation as he delivers a pre-calculated explanation.
"These are experimental instruments developed by an isolated, non-aligned group of natural scholars," Aldo lies smoothly, his voice a steady, droning murmur that sounds like a read transcript. "They require field verification across various terrain profiles to test their mechanical fidelity under atmospheric pressure. I require a professional cartographer with an innate eye to test their limits and record the error margins. You will begin now."
Isabetta looks from the brass to Aldo's vacant face, her ambition warring with her deep suspicion. She lets out a short, sharp breath, her fingers finally closing around the smooth, oiled leveling screw of the theodolite.
The survey begins at the apex of the lush green hill. The wind howls louder now, bending the stems of the wild daisies until they snap, sending showers of yellow petals swirling through the air around Isabetta's boots.
She crouches in the dirt, her delicate, unblemished hands gripping the brass base of the theodolite. Her innate cartographic talent—a rare, genetic gift honed by years of secret midnight study—kicks in with an explosive intensity. Her sharp eyes scan the silvered vernier scales, her mind rapidly calculating the relationship between the horizon line and the tiny, glowing crosshairs within the glass lens.
"The alignment... it doesn't shift when I rotate the base," Isabetta murmurs, her voice rising with a sudden, ecstatic burst of professional clarity. "The internal bearings are completely frictionless! I can measure the exact angle of the river bend down to a single minute of an arc without resetting the plane table!"
Aldo stands directly behind her shoulder, his well-proportioned frame casting a long shadow over her hands. He looks down at her alignment parameters with his dead-fish eyes, his voice flat.
"Adjust the secondary leveling screw by two millimeters to the left," Aldo guides her, his hand pointing toward the base. "The local slope grade carries a negative three-percent deviation. Account for the earth's curvature within your primary notation."
Isabetta's fingers fly across the brass knobs with an astonishing, fluid adaptability. She doesn't hesitate for a single second; her mind absorbs his alien terminology with the speed of a rushing current, her charcoal pencil scratching frantic, beautiful lines across the massive stack of blank grid paper.
"I see it!" she gasps, her eyes wide as she stares through the lens. "The grid lines on this paper... they match the angular breakdown perfectly! It eliminates the need for manual triangulation charts! This is magnificent!"
"Keep moving," Aldo interrupts her compliment coldly. "The daylight variable is diminishing. We must relocate to the river intercept immediately."
Down the steep, rocky slope of the hill, the movement becomes a frantic, logistical exercise.
Hano and Comtois are tasked with moving the heavy gear trunks, and the contrast between the two youths is stark. Hano moves with a hyperactive, almost frightening agility, his sharp eyes scanning the rocky path as he carries two massive leather packs containing the zenith telescope and the logarithm tables. He leaps from boulder to boulder like a mountain goat, his smooth, teenage face flush with pure, unyielding energy, never slipping a single inch.
Behind him, Comtois grunts loudly, his three-inch height advantage and solid, muscular frame hidden beneath a layer of dirt as he hauls the massive wheel-mounted advanced hodometer over his broad shoulder. His goofy, mischievous face is twisted into a grimace of pure laziness, his teeth gritted as he intentionally bumps the wooden crate against a tree trunk just to hear it clatter.
"Why the hell are we running like the king's guard is behind us?" Comtois grumbles, his voice a low, gravelly rumble as he kicks a loose stone into the brush. "The sun is barely past its noon peak, and Aldo is treating this like a forced march through enemy lines. My shoulders are turning to mush."
"Shut up and keep your footing, you lazy ox!" Hano barks back, his sharp voice snapping across the hillside as he glares over his shoulder. "If you drop that gear wheel and break a single precision tooth, Aldo will make you carry the water buffalo meat on your back for the next nine days! Move your legs!"
They reach the river intercept within an hour. Here, where a secondary stream crashes into the silken river, the environment is wild and chaotic. The water churns into a white, frothy foam against the black rocks, the sound a deafening, continuous roar that swallows their voices. A flock of gray river cranes startles from the reeds, their massive wings beating the air with a loud whoosh-whoosh as they take flight in a panicked formation.
Aldo immediately signals for a wooden transport raft moored near the bank. Isabetta stumbles onto the wet logs, her boots slipping on the slime before Onaga catches her elbow. Onaga's small, femboyish frame looks entirely out of place in the spray, his smooth, delicate skin turning pale as the raft jolts violently into the current, the cold river water splashing over their ankles.
Isabetta desperately clamps the marine chronometer down onto a wooden crate, her eyes darting toward the shore as she tries to track their speed using the mechanical pedometer clicking in her pocket.
"Why are we rushing through this section with such insane speed?" Isabetta yells over the roar of the rushing water, her hair flying wildly across her face as she looks at Aldo. "A proper riverine survey requires days of stationary observation to calculate the seasonal flow and the delta silt accumulation! If we move this fast on horses and rafts, the error margins will be too wide to correct! Why are we rushing, Commander?"
Onaga immediately steps between her and Aldo, his soft, pretty features shifting into a smooth, well-rehearsed mask of deception as he offers a reassuring smile.
"It is simply part of the scientific parameters, Isabetta," Onaga lies smoothly, his breathy voice carrying a perfectly calibrated layer of professional authority. "The natural scholars who built these gears specifically requested a high-velocity stress test across changing fluid dynamics. We must move quickly to see if the internal brass gimbals of the chronometer can successfully defy the vibration of the river current. Just focus on recording the numbers; we handle the speed."
Isabetta looks at Onaga's flawless, teenage face, her confusion deepening, but the sheer momentum of the survey leaves her no time to argue. She snaps her gaze back to the grid paper, her charcoal pencil flying across the page as the raft hurtles down the river.
"The gimbals... they are holding!" she shouts, her eyes fixed on the ticking clockwork. "The timing mechanism isn't losing a single second despite the rolling of the logs! This is impossible by any guild standard!"
By mid-afternoon, they hit the big river dock of Carravin. The environment shifts from wild nature to a dense, industrial hive of human activity. Massive timber piers extend like giant combs into the deep blue water, surrounded by hundreds of towering merchant vessels, their white canvas sails flapping loudly against the tall masts as the wind whips through the harbor. The air is thick and choking—smelling of hot tar, salted fish, stale ale, and the sharp, sweaty tang of thousands of rough dockworkers heaving heavy crates onto the stone quays.
The noise is an absolute wall of sound: the shouting of harbor masters, the heavy thud-thud of wooden cranes lifting cargo barrels, and the screeching of thousands of white seagulls circling low over the fish markets.
Isabetta sets up the advanced hodometer directly on the stone pier. She pushes the wheel-mounted contraption forward along the quay, the custom-cut precision gear teeth clicking with a sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack as Aldo counts the revolutions against the stone.
"Look at the infrastructure density!" she says to Aldo, her eyes shining with intense professional focus as she ignores the staring crowd of sailors. "The dock foundations extend thirty feet into the deep channel! If I couple the hodometer readings with the sextant's angular height data from the masts, I can map the exact cargo capacity profile of this entire port in less than twenty minutes!"
Aldo stands beside her, his apple-red suit a sharp, bright wound against the gray stone of the docks. His dead-fish eyes scan the crowded harbor, his mind cataloging the placement of every crane, every warehouse choke point, and every defensive tower.
"Record the slope grade of the primary offloading ramps," Aldo commands her calmly, his voice slicing through the screams of the seagulls. "Calculate the clearance required for heavy transport wagons moving at maximum weight capacity."
Isabetta doesn't even nod; she is entirely consumed by the work now, her mind fully synchronized with the advanced efficiency of the tools. She moves along the piers like a whirlwind, her fingers adjusting knobs, her eyes tracking the spirit levels, her charts filling with an unprecedented level of topographic detail that no king in Terre has ever possessed.
Hano rushes past her, his agile body carrying a fresh stack of blank grid paper from the horse-drawn wagon they had secured near the gates. He drops the paper onto her table with a wide, energetic grin, his sharp eyes dancing with hyperactivity.
"Here's the fresh grid, Betta!" Hano laughs, his movements a blur as he spins on his heel. "Keep drawing! We've got two more sectors to clear before the light dies! Don't slow down now!"
They don't stop. Within another hour, they are back on horses, galloping along the northern ridge toward the final objective—a high, rocky hill that overlooks the entire eastern approach to the Thromium principality.