The iron-shod hooves of three brown horses strike the stone threshold of Flora's outer gateway with a rapid, echoing clatter that sharpens into a muffled, rhythmic thrum as slate gives way to packed earth. Morning light, pale and cool, cuts low across the road, casting three elongated shadows that stretch far ahead across the dirt track.
Aldo rides at the head of the small group, his hands holding the leather reins with a steady, unhurried grip. His shoulders remain level with the rising and falling motion of his mount's spine, his posture sitting easily in the worn leather saddle. The cool morning breeze catches his hair, lifting it from his forehead in soft, erratic wisps as he gazes straight down the open road ahead.
Beside him, the air is filled with constant, loud swooshing sounds. Comtois leans forward in his stirrups, his knees clamped tight against his horse's ribs, waving a thick, crooked oak stick he had snatched from a roadside hedge a mile back. He slashes the branch through the empty air, carving imaginary arcs against the morning sky, his face flushed with loud enthusiasm.
"Yield, dark forces of the realm!" Comtois yells, thrusting the jagged tip of the stick toward a patch of wildflowers. "By the blade of the grand paladin, none shall pass!" He bounces heavily in the saddle, his boots clattering against the stirrup irons, grinning like a broadsheet knight depicted in a cheap tavern woodcut.
Behind them both, trailing by a couple of horse-lengths, Onaga moves at a painstakingly slow, hesitant walk. His brown mare plods along with a heavy, indifferent gait. Onaga's back is curved like a bow, his chin resting almost completely against his chest, his knuckles white and bloodless where his fingers lock around the pommel of his saddle. His eyelids flutter continuously, heavy with exhaustion, his face pale and slack as if a single sudden jolt from his mount's hooves will send him sliding sideways onto the cold dirt.
Onaga lets out a long, dry rasps from his throat, his head tilting up just an inch without his shoulders moving. "Shouldn't we... shouldn't we leave the city soon?" Onaga mutters, his voice weak and slurred by fatigue. "Instead of staying around to..."
Comtois cuts him off instantly, whipping his wooden branch through the air with a sharp whoosh that makes his horse flick its ears back in annoyance. "Infiltrate the rebel stronghold!" Comtois booms, thrusting his chest out until his leather jerkin stretches tight. "Single-handedly attack a whole bunch of them! Capture the mastermind, claim the title of hero, and have women flocking to us from every corner of the kingdom!"
Aldo doesn't turn his head. He keeps his gaze fixed on the winding path ahead, his jaw tightening just enough to pull the corners of his mouth flat. "We are slave soldiers, not adventurers," Aldo says quietly. His voice is level, dropping like a heavy stone into the middle of Comtois's dramatic fantasy.
Comtois snorts, lowering his stick by an inch, though his eyes continue to scan the surrounding landscape with exaggerated vigilance.
A hundred yards off the main road, where the open pasture gives way to the shadowed fringe of a deep, ancient woodland, a movement among the thick oak trunks catches Comtois's attention. He reined in slightly, his shoulders going stiff as he squinted through the morning mist clinging to the underbrush.
Through the crisscrossing branches and dense foliage, several men move in silence. At their center stands Volkov, his broad, heavy-set frame draped in his distinct high-collared velvet robe, his dark cloak catching on the low briars as he walks. Volkov and his comrades are huddled close, their heads turned toward one another in earnest, quiet discussion. They move with steady, deliberate steps, completely oblivious to the three riders passing along the distant dirt road.
Comtois's mouth twitches upward into a mischievous grin. He draws a deep breath, raising his oak stick to point straight at Volkov's back, his lips parting to bellow a loud taunt across the open field.
Then he stops.
His arm lingers mid-air, the wood trembling slightly. He stares at the rigid line of Volkov's jaw visible through the leaves, remembering the explosive, dark-faced fury that had flushed through the Russian man back in the meadow outside Flora. The man's hot temper was not something that could be smoothed over or delayed with polite conversation or lighthearted banter; there would be no stalling him with the song of friendship if he turned around and spotted them now.
Comtois slowly lowers the stick, laying it quietly across his saddlebow, and lets out a tiny, cautious breath, nudging his horse forward without making a sound.
Aldo glares briefly sideways at the forest fringe before glancing back at Onaga, whose head is once again drooping toward his horse's mane. "Do you know where Hano is?" Aldo asks, his voice low.
Onaga blinks his eyes open with a visible effort, his mouth twitching as he tries to focus on Aldo's back. "He said... he said he was in Blumenau," Onaga answers slowly, his words dragging like heavy stones. He blinks again, staring at the clean, easy posture Aldo maintains in his saddle—the fluid way his body absorbs every shift and stride of his horse without a single stumble. Curiosity flickers across Onaga's pale face. "Are you... used to riding horses, Aldo?"
Aldo keeps his hands steady on the leather straps. "No," he replies simply. "This is only my second time."
Onaga's eyebrows shoot up, his drooping posture stiffening for a brief second in genuine astonishment. "You look like a professional," Onaga says, his voice rising slightly in disbelief.
Aldo gives a faint, almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulder. "I was taught quickly by a skilled horseman," Aldo says, staring down the long length of the dirt road. "He has some basic and quick techniques, and they're very easy to understand."
Behind them, the city of Flora settles into the quiet routine of early morning.
Unlike the chaotic hubbub of Carravin, where long, miserable queues of creaking wooden supply wagons back up for half a mile outside the gates, the entrance to Flora remains smooth, open, and serene. The streets inside are broad, paved with carefully laid flagstones that show no cracks or wild weeds.
Municipal workers dressed in clean, heavy linen tunics move rhythmically along the tree-lined boulevards, wielding long-handled brooms made of bundled twigs, sweeping fallen oak and maple leaves into neat, uniform piles against the stone gutters.
Along the central thoroughfares, wide marble fountains gush clear, sparkling water from carved fish heads, the continuous splash creating a cool, relaxing ambient sound that drowns out the distant rumblings of the city. Early morning visitors walk leisurely through the manicured borders of public botanical gardens, their hands folded behind their backs as they admire the neatly trimmed hedges.
Further down the slope, the slate roofs of hot spring bathhouses release thick, white plumes of fragrant steam into the crisp morning air. Strips of vibrant flower beds—blooming in precise, alternating rows of deep indigo, crimson, and gold—serve as natural partitions, separating the wide stone carriage lanes from the pedestrian walkways.
Everything in Flora carries an unmistakable sense of strict, deliberate order. Nothing feels accidental. Even the tall, broad-leafed trees casting soft shadows across the stone paths seem to have been planted according to an exacting, mathematical blueprint laid out decades ago.
As the three horses carry Aldo, Comtois, and Onaga past the outer watchtowers, the landscape of Flora does not suddenly collapse into wild, overgrown untamed wilderness. Instead, it smoothly expands into the wide, sweeping expanse of the Southern Garden Belt.
This is widely considered one of the most pleasant, picturesque landscapes in all of Northern Heilop.
The dirt road widens, its surface packed smooth and firm, guiding the riders through endless terraced vineyards where green vines cling to neatly organized wooden trellises. Orchards of apple, pear, and plum trees stretch out on either side, their branches heavy with ripening fruit that perfumes the air with a subtle, sweet scent.
Massive lavender fields roll over gentle slopes like waves of pale purple silk, buzzing quietly with thousands of honeybees.
Nestled between these agricultural patches are small, ancient forests of pine and ash, their dark floor carpets free of dense brambles. Clear, glassy lakes dot the valleys, reflecting the pale morning sky like polished silver mirrors.
Dotted across the countryside are grand country villas constructed from warm, cream-colored fieldstone, surrounded by private wineries and sprawling botanical estates protected by low stone walls.
Every small village along the path cultivates flowers. Roadside inns feature arched wooden entryways draped heavily in climbing red and white roses, their blooms framing the doorways in rich color. Even the humblest thatched-roof farmhouses maintain small, carefully weeded flower patches beside their front doorsteps. The entire territory feels thoroughly civilized, serene, and deeply cultivated without ever feeling crowded or noisy.
By midday, the scenic variety of the Garden Belt slowly begins to fade.
The clear, sparkling lakes gradually disappear from the landscape, their place taken by long, straight irrigation ditches filled with murky water. The rolling green hills flatten out into a endless, uniform plain. The small, pleasant forests become less frequent, thinning into isolated stands of timber, while the lush vineyards grow fewer and farther between. The road itself loses its gentle curves, locking into a straight, unyielding line that cuts directly toward the horizon.
Now, pure agriculture begins to dominate every square foot of the landscape.
The transition reveals itself first through a dramatic shift in scale. The modest, colorful flower gardens that adorned the outskirts of Flora give way to massive, industrial-scale flower farms where rows of commercial blossoms stretch out for hundreds of yards.
Then, even the flower farms vanish entirely.
In their place, vast, sea-like wheat fields appear. The horizon opens up with startling suddenness; where there were once enclosed green valleys and wooded hills, Aldo, Comtois, and Onaga now look out over endless expanses of golden grain stretching out for kilometers in every direction. The sky above suddenly feels immeasurably larger, a massive, pale blue vault hanging over an unobstructed, flat world.
This is the Great Plain of Thromium.
Here, everything that exists has been constructed for a single, unrelenting purpose: to produce food.
Deep, functional canals cut straight channels through the earth, feeding smaller drainage ditches that crisscross the vast fields like an intricate grid. Towering wooden windmills stand at regular intervals, their massive cloth-draped sails turning with heavy, rhythmic creaks as they pump water or grind grain.
Huge stone granaries and sprawling timber barns loom over small, dense farm villages built entirely from rough clay brick. Sturdy, unornamented stone bridges cross the canals, built wide enough to support the heaviest loaded wagons.
Everywhere the three riders look, someone is working. Peasants bent double in the sun tend to crops, haul tools, or drive teams of oxen through the dust. Unlike the manicured, aesthetic perfection of Flora, beauty here is strictly secondary. Efficiency comes first, last, and always.
As they approach the outer perimeter of Blumenau, the traffic along the main road intensifies rapidly.
However, these travelers are not the wealthy, idle luxury visitors who frequent the bathhouses and gardens of Flora. The road fills to overflowing with heavy, creaking wooden grain wagons drawn by four-horse teams, low-slung flour carts dusted in white powder, massive oak barrels filled with raw mineral pigments, herds of bellowing livestock being driven toward city slaughterhouses, seed merchants hawking their wares from small handcarts, and deep-hulled river barges gliding slowly along the adjacent canal.
The air smells completely different now. Gone are the delicate, sweet scents of pine needles, crushed lavender, and blooming roses that defined the Garden Belt. Now, every breath carries the heavy, dry aroma of fresh wheat, the fine, hanging dust of milled flour, the rich smell of damp tilled earth, the sharp, bitter scent of raw linseed oil, and the pungent, chemical tang of drying pigments resting in open vats along the road.
The city skyline itself makes this contrast absolute.
Flora's skyline was defined by graceful stone towers, ornamental tree canopy ridges, and the rising white steam of bathhouse vents. Blumenau's skyline is a jagged, functional collection of towering stone granaries, massive timber mill towers, wide, endless warehouse roofs, and the spinning, geometric sails of dozens of windmills mounted along the city ramparts.
The tallest structures in Blumenau are not monuments, temples, or royal palaces. They are storage facilities.
Immediately, anyone looking upon the city understands its singular identity: this city exists to harvest, process, and move enormous quantities of food across the realm.
Upon entering through the heavy timber gates of Blumenau, the atmosphere shifts from the quiet, mechanical labor of the fields into a roar of human activity.
Unlike Flora's carefully planned, geometric elegance, Blumenau feels raw, bursting with unrefined energy. The indoor and outdoor markets overflow into the cobblestone streets. Porters with heavy leather pads on their shoulders haul thick sacks of grain off wooden carts, their muscles straining under the weight.
Massive wooden mill wheels, driven by the rushing waters of the canal system, turn constantly with deep, rumblings that vibrate through the stone foundations of nearby shops. Children run through the crowded alleys carrying woven baskets filled with small flower bunches, weaving between artists inspecting trays of freshly ground blue and red pigments, while sharp-eyed merchants plunge their hands deep into burlap sacks to inspect the quality of raw barley.
Everywhere one looks, there is violent, purposeful movement.
Yet, despite the industrial hustle, flowers return to the landscape inside the walls.
The blossoms that had vanished in the utilitarian countryside of the Great Plain reappear inside Blumenau, but in a fundamentally different way than in Flora. In Flora, flowers were an instrument of top-down urban planning—carefully designed by royal architects to create geometric harmony and visual prestige.
In Blumenau, flowers belong entirely to the ordinary people.
Every tiny wooden balcony has a row of overflowing flower boxes filled with colorful, chaotic blooms. Every dark, noisy tavern entrance features hanging baskets dripping with wild ivy and bright red geraniums. Every residential neighborhood, no matter how poor or crowded, has small, stone-walled flower beds planted directly by the citizens who live there, simply because they genuinely love them.
This subtle difference defines the character of both cities. One city was made beautiful because royal planners designed it that way from above. The other was made beautiful because generations of working class people embraced a vibrant local tradition, originally inspired by the beloved mistress of Alan IV, bringing color into their hard working lives with their own hands.
As the three horses slow to a walk through the bustling market street, Onaga sits up slightly in his saddle, his sleepy eyes taking in the sight of colorful flower boxes hanging over messy, grain-dusted storefronts.
Flora felt composed,
Onaga thinks to himself, his mind slowly framing the contrast as he watches a group of young women laugh while placing fresh blossoms into a window sill.
It felt as if every tree and fountain had been placed with deliberate, artificial care. Blumenau is far less orderly, yet somehow it feels so much more alive. Here, beauty grows directly from the people's hands rather than from an architect's blueprint.
Aldo glances back at Onaga, noticing his long, distant stare at the vibrant balconies above. Aldo turns slightly in his saddle, his eyes tracking the contrast of the city streets.
"Flora's greenery is geometric," Aldo says, his voice cutting through the noise of a nearby grain merchant's shouting. "Tree-lined boulevards, symmetrical parks, carefully arranged botanical gardens, and ornamental lakes. It reflects human planning. Blumenau's greenery is productive and personal: wheat fields outside the walls, orchards at the edge of town, flower boxes on homes, market stalls overflowing with blooms, and pigments drying in courtyards. It reflects the lives and work of its citizens."
Onaga blinks, giving a small, weary nod of his head. "Yeah... good saying." Onaga mutters quietly, his chin dipping back toward his collar. "I think so too."
Comtois, who has been fidgeting impatiently with his wooden stick, kicks his boots against his horse's flanks, steering his mount past them both with a sharp snort. "Stop waxing poetic in the middle of the road!" Comtois urges, waving his stick toward a crowded plaza ahead. "Let's go inside and find Hano!"
They dismount near a crowded public hitching post, tying their horses to an iron rail before breaking into a fast sprint through the noisy, grain-dusted side streets. They weave past porters, duck beneath hanging butcher signs, and pop out into a sunlit courtyard surrounded by pigment-drying racks and wooden storage sheds.
There, leaning lazily against a high stack of barley sacks in the cool shade of an overhang, sits Hano. He has an unlit piece of dry straw dangling casually from the corner of his mouth, his arms folded behind his head, looking completely relaxed as he watches the clouds drift past the tall timber roofs.
Hano turns his head slowly as the sound of three pairs of heavy boots comes rushing into the courtyard. His eyes widen in mild astonishment as he recognizes the figures skidding to a halt in front of him.
"Huh?" Hano says, his straw dropping an inch. "Femboy and captain... why are you here?"
Onaga takes a heavy step forward, panting lightly, his face deadly serious despite his lingering exhaustion. "We gotta leave Thromium early."
Hano freezes, his posture straightening slightly against the barley sacks, a look of genuine shock washing over his features. "Why?" Hano exclaims, his arms dropping to his sides. "I'm having fun!"
Aldo steps up beside Onaga, his arms crossing over his chest, his jaw set in a firm, unyielding line. "There are too many rebel cells here," Aldo says coldly. "It is unsafe for slave-soldiers like us."
Hano lets out a long, dramatic sigh, blowing the piece of straw out of his mouth as he rubs his temples with both hands. "But if we go home early, we have to go back to our farmland in Central Heilop where we have to GRIND!" Hano groans, accentuating the last word with a sharp, miserable gesture of his fist.
Aldo tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks around the bustling, grain-filled courtyard of Blumenau. "Isn't this place, Blumenau, also agricultural and farmland vibe?" Aldo asks, his voice sharp and logical. "What makes our farmland in Central Heilop less desirable than Blumenau and the Central Plain of Thromium?"
Hano slumps back against the sacks, throwing his hands into the air in defeat. "Well, I don't have to grind but...Uh... fine!" Hano mutters, rolling his eyes. "So what rebel cell are you pressing? Local peasants complaining? Earthling Slaves revolting in the farmland, forest, and mines? Or the goblins?"
Aldo rubs his chin, recalling the vivid details of the encounters outside Flora—the stocky man in high-collared velvet, the heavy accent, the specific ideological phrases. "Volkov..." Aldo says quietly. "He's Russian. He speaks with a heavy accent, uses specific terms..."
Hano rubs his chin thoughtfully, his brow furrowing into a deep frown as his memory clicks into place. "Our group must have a karmic debt with the Russians," Hano says, shaking his head with a grimace. "Remember our first deployment after we formed the 204th Company? It was fighting the Polar Proletariat Front—a Russian Communist Rebel cell."
Aldo interrupts him immediately, raising a finger to correct him. "Our first deployment was to eliminate the Winter Wolves. The PPF was the second one, in that same Erikas mountain."
Comtois snaps his fingers loudly, pointing his oak stick toward the sky. "Oh yesss! Erikas! Not Erika!" Comtois yells triumphantly.
Hano ignores Comtois, his frown deepening into an intense scowl as he looks back at Aldo. "Now we're dealing with another Russian rebel cell? Are they communist too, by chance?"
Aldo gives a light, firm nod. "They call each other 'comrades', so it is highly suspected they are communist... or socialist."
Hano's whole face contorts into a bitter frown. "Yes! The second time we meet another Russian, Communist, Rebel cell!" Hano throws his hands up again, pacing a tight circle on the dusty cobblestones. "If this isn't a karmic debt, then what is it?"
Onaga steps between them, waving a hand dismissively. "It's just by chance," Onaga refutes calmly. "We are earthling slave soldiers. Of course we would encounter an earthling rebel cell."
"By chance?" Hano counters sharply, stepping right into Onaga's space. "Out of all the millions of square miles on this fantasy continent, we bump into the exact same broad-shouldered, comrade-saying Russians twice in a row?"
"Because Earthlings congregate where there's unrest!" Onaga argues back, his voice rising a octave. "It's basic probability!"
Comtois jumps into the middle, brandishing his stick like a herald's staff. "And don't forget the ideological factor!" Comtois adds loudly. "Socialism has a naturally high spawn rate in oppressed agricultural sectors!"
"That makes no sense!" Hano shouts back, turning his glare on Comtois. "Spawn rate? This isn't a video game, Comtois!"
"It functions like one!" Comtois argues back, puffing out his chest.
"It doesn't!" Onaga refutes firmly, shaking his head at both of them. "You're both overcomplicating simple military geography!"
The argument escalates rapidly, all three of them shouting over one another, their hand gestures growing increasingly wilder in the tight courtyard space.
Aldo stands motionless for a few seconds, watching the three of them yell until his patience snaps. He reaches out, stepping forward, and firmly taps each of them on the shoulder, one by one, with a heavy, unyielding slap of his palm.
"Stop," Aldo says, his voice flat and authoritative.
All three snap their mouths shut, turning to look at him.
"We are going off-topic too much," Aldo says, staring at each of them in turn. "Our issue right now is: leave Thromium, or no?"
A dense, absolute silence suddenly falls over the courtyard.
Hano looks silently at Onaga.
Onaga looks silently at Comtois.
Comtois looks away, his eyes locking onto a small yellow butterfly that drifts lazily through the warm air between two pigment racks.
Down in a crack between the stone flags near their boots, a tiny cricket chirps softly into the quiet.
Around the edges of the courtyard, a small crowd of local Blumenau porters and merchants stand completely still, holding their sacks of barley and pigment jars, gazing at the four soldiers as if they were some group of absurd, silly street philosophers who had lost their minds in the noon heat.
The absolute silence stretches out for almost a full minute, no one daring to speak first.
Finally, Onaga breaks the ice, clearing his dry throat with a small cough. "What if... what if we announce our departure to Ferris the Second first, before we go away?"
Aldo shakes his head immediately. "Then he might tell us to stay," Aldo says firmly. "[If we ask, we lose the choice.] Just go home already..."
Hano shrugs, leaning back against the barley sacks with a lazy grin. "Then you can go home early. Let me have a break for a bit..."
Aldo turns his glare straight onto Hano, refusing instantly. "I won't let you do that alone. You might be exposed to the risk of a rebellion attacking you."
Onaga's eyes suddenly snap wide open, his head jerking up as a sudden realization hits his mind like a bolt of lightning. "Wait!" Onaga exclaims, pointing a finger at Aldo. "Didn't we get here by the horse carriage of Officer Watkins?"
Aldo freezes.
Onaga continues, his voice gaining momentum. "If he is out there to help Thromium, we cannot go home if he does not go home!"
Aldo raises his right hand, bringing his open palm down hard against his own face with a loud SLAP, burying his eyes in his skin. "[Oh yes... now I remember that.]"
Comtois grins brightly, clapping his hands together. "Then it's simple! The four of us go with Officer Watkins! It's more secure, and also we might get something useful to do!"
Day 21, July, 1300 Hours.
Deep within the shaded canopy of the El Gante forest, the air is cool, damp, and thick with the heavy scent of pine needles, wet moss, and woodsmoke. Solar rays cut down through the high leafy canopy in straight, dusty shafts of golden light.
At the center of a well-organized military camp, Officer Watkins stands near a wooden basin of clean river water. His heavy steel plate armor has been meticulously unbuckled, washed, and polished until it gleams spotless under the filtered sunlight. He wipes a damp cloth across his freshly shaved jaw, looking immaculately neat and composed despite the rugged wilderness surrounding him.
He turns his head as the sound of footsteps crunching over dry pine needles approaches his pavilion. He raises his dark eyebrows in clear surprise as four familiar slave soldiers halt in a neat row in front of him—Aldo looking composed, Comtois still clutching his oak stick, Onaga looking bleary-eyed, and Hano looking thoroughly disgruntled.
Officer Watkins tilts his head, sizing them up with a sharp, disciplined gaze. "Aren't you supposed to be in Carravin to watch the rebels...?" Watkins asks, his tone laced with calm suspicion.
Aldo steps forward, standing at rigid attention. "I already set up the City Guard," Aldo reports smoothly, his voice clear and unwavering. "Carravin is secured by the 16th, so we want to go here to help you."
Officer Watkins slowly lowers his wiping cloth. His eyes travel down the line—starting from Aldo's serious face, shifting to Comtois's ridiculous wooden branch, passing over Onaga's swaying form, and landing squarely on Hano's deeply annoyed expression.
Watkins lets out a short, clean breath through his nose.
"Then you four set up supply camps," Officer Watkins commands crisply, pointing a gloved finger toward the heavy timber crates stacked near the forest edge. "Now."
The four slave soldiers snap their boots together on the soft pine needles, dropping their hands to their sides.
"Understood, officer!" they shout in perfect unison, their voices echoing off the tall trees of El Gante.