The heavy, suffocating darkness of unconsciousness begins to fracture, giving way to a muted, golden light that bleeds through the heavy stained-glass windows of the local parish. Dust motes, thick and lethargic, drift through the slanting rays of the morning sun, suspended in the air like tiny, suspended stars. The air inside the sanctuary is thick, almost breathable in its density, laden with the sharp, medicinal scent of crushed aloe, burning white sage, and the sweet, cloying aroma of ancient myrrh melting over hot charcoal.
Aldo lies flat on his back upon a hard wooden pew that has been hastily converted into a medical cot. He does not open his eyes immediately. He lets his other senses map the room. The cold, polished oak beneath his spine. The rhythmic, whispered chanting of Latin hymns echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling. And the sensation—a strange, rippling coolness that feels like mountain spring water washing over hot coals, seeping deep into his torn muscle fibers and bruised ribs.
He cracks his eyes open. Above him, the vaulted ceiling of the parish stretches into the shadows, intricately carved with weeping willows and stone doves.
Beside his makeshift bed stands Onaga. The compact clerk-like slave-soldier leans heavily on his long spear, his armor scraped and dented, his face a mask of silent, unwavering vigilance. He watches the perimeter of the church, his dark eyes scanning the heavy oak doors, ensuring no remnants of the ambush have followed them here.
Kneeling by Aldo's side are two elderly priests. They wear simple, unadorned robes of coarse brown wool, their heads bowed as their gnarled fingers trace glowing, intricate circular patterns in the air. A soft, luminescent blue energy radiates from their palms, sinking directly into Aldo's chest. On his other side, a nun with deeply lined skin and eyes as sharp as a hawk's works with practiced, ruthless efficiency. She does not rely solely on the divine arts; her hands are stained green with herbal poultices, pressing a mixture of crushed herbs and alcohol firmly against a deep laceration on Aldo's shoulder.
The flesh knits, Aldo notes, a quiet internal monologue analyzing the physiological response of his own body. The magic accelerates cellular division, but it drains the body's natural stamina. I will need water. And iron.
A sudden, violent snort shatters the serene chanting.
A few feet away, on an adjacent pew, Comtois violently jerks awake. He thrashes for a split second, his massive, calloused hand instinctively reaching for a broadsword that isn't there, before the sharp, commanding voice of the nun stops him.
"Be still, giant," the nun snaps, not even looking up from her work on Aldo's shoulder, her voice carrying the absolute authority of a battlefield surgeon. "The mana has not fully settled in your veins."
Comtois blinks, his broad, scarred face contorting into a grimace of confusion and lingering pain. He looks down at his chest, where the dark, angry bruises left by the blast are rapidly fading into a dull, sickly yellow under the lingering glow of the priests' healing spells. He lets out a long, heavy exhale, running a massive hand over his short-cropped hair.
"Gods above," Comtois groans, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrates through the wooden pews. "I feel like I was kicked by a draft horse."
Aldo pushes himself up, ignoring the faint protest of his healing muscles. He swings his legs over the side of the pew, his boots hitting the stone floor with a heavy, deliberate thud. The priests step back, their hands lowering, the blue light fading into the ambient golden glow of the parish.
"We do not have the luxury of convalescence," Aldo says, his voice flat, devoid of any lingering fatigue. He rolls his shoulders, testing the newly healed tissue. The pain is gone, replaced only by a phantom ache. He turns to Onaga. "Status."
"The perimeter is secure, Captain," Onaga reports softly, the wooden shaft of his spear tapping once against the stone floor. "The others are waiting outside the Duke's estate. The dawn has broken."
Aldo nods once. He reaches for his leather coat, throwing it over his shoulders with a sharp, crisp rustle of heavy fabric. Comtois, groaning loudly, mirrors the action, buckling his iron plate armor with heavy, metallic clacks. They heal, and they quickly return to the mission. There is no time for gratitude, only the cold, unyielding momentum of duty.
The morning air is biting, carrying the sharp, crisp chill of early dawn. A dense, silver fog rolls off the manicured lawns of Duke Ferris II's sprawling mansion, clinging to the roots of the ancient, towering oak trees that line the grand driveway. The mansion itself is a colossus of white marble and dark slate, its soaring spires piercing the grey morning sky like arrogant stone fingers. Ivy crawls up the pristine pillars, a vibrant, violent green against the cold white stone.
Outside the towering wrought-iron gates, the remainder of the squad waits in tense, oppressive silence. Officer Watkins paces slowly across the damp cobblestones, his boots crunching rhythmically against the loose gravel. His left arm remains in a sling, his face tight with unresolved anxiety. Beside him, Hano sits on a stone bench, meticulously cleaning the mechanism of his flintlock, while the rest of the conscripts huddle together, their breath rising in faint, pale plumes in the cold air.
Suddenly, the massive double doors of the mansion burst open with a resounding, echoing crack.
The squad snaps to attention, weapons raising instinctively.
From the shadows of the grand vestibule, Aldo emerges. His face is a mask of stoic, terrifying exertion. In his left hand, he drags a Warmage by the scruff of his embroidered robes. The magic user stumbles, his eyes half-closed, violently yawning, clearly drained of every ounce of his magical stamina.
But it is the burden in Aldo's right hand that draws the collective gasp of the squad.
Aldo is dragging a man by the collar of his ruined, silk-lined nightgown. It is Duke Ferris II. The Duke is a towering figure, a middle-aged man in his early forties with a heavy, muscular build that speaks of a life of indulgence masked by a facade of martial prowess. His thick, silver-streaked hair is matted with sweat, his eyes rolled back into his skull, exposing the milky whites.
With a final, massive heave, Aldo clears the marble steps and dumps the Duke onto the damp grass of the front lawn. The heavy man hits the ground with a sickening, wet thud.
The yawning Warmage stumbles forward, rubbing his eyes aggressively with the heels of his palms. He looks down at the unconscious Duke, letting out a long, dramatic sigh.
"This old man is too big," the Warmage mutters, his voice thick with exhaustion, shaking his head. "Do you have any idea how much mana it takes to flush the circulatory system of a man who eats roasted boar for breakfast?"
Watkins steps forward, his eyes narrowing sharply as he looks down at the fallen nobleman. He kneels beside the Duke, his uninjured hand hovering over the man's chest. Thick, white foam bubbles at the corners of Ferris's mouth, sliding down his strong jawline to stain the silk collar of his gown. The smell of bitter almonds and spoiled milk radiates from the foam.
"Why is he foaming at the mouth?" Watkins asks, his voice tight, laced with immediate suspicion.
Aldo steps back, wiping a smear of dark sweat from his brow.
"He must have been poisoned. An ingested neurotoxin, likely slipped into his evening wine. The assassin intended to silence him before we could breach the estate." Aldo gestures vaguely toward the exhausted magic user. "But luckily, the Warmage had neutralized it with magic just as his heart began to fibrillate. He will live. Though he will have a severe headache for the next week."
Aldo reaches into the deep pocket of his leather coat and pulls out a heavy, blood-stained leather pouch. The leather is fine, cured with expensive oils, bound with a delicate silver clasp. He tosses it through the air.
Watkins catches it with his right hand. He flips the silver clasp open to examine the contents—several wax-sealed letters, a ring bearing an unknown crest, and a handful of strange, luminescent purple dust. Watkins' jaw tightens. He confiscates it, slipping the pouch into his own coat.
"There were casualties," Aldo adds, his voice dropping an octave, devoid of any emotional inflection. "Ferris's butler, Eldric. I found him in the grand hallway. He had been struck on the back of the head with a blunt, heavy instrument. His skull was fractured. He is dead."
Watkins pauses, his hand lingering on his coat pocket. A shadow passes over his eyes, a brief flicker of genuine sorrow for the collateral damage of their shadow war. He looks down at the grass, the blades wet with morning dew.
"Hold a funeral for him," Watkins replies softly, his voice carrying the solemn weight of a commander who has seen too much death. "Ensure he is given proper rites, so he can rest in peace in Heaven."
The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by the distant cawing of a raven circling the high spires of the mansion.
Aldo looks down at the foaming Duke, his sharp eyes analyzing the scene, piecing together the invisible threads of the conspiracy. He steps closer, his boots crushing the wet grass. He leans down, sniffing the air near the Duke's velvet collar. Beneath the sharp tang of the poison and the metallic scent of sweat, there is a distinct, lingering perfume. A complex blend of crushed rose petals, iron, and a rare, sweet incense from the eastern deserts.
Aldo straightens up, his eyes locking onto Watkins.
"Ferris smells like Priscilla Lowe," Aldo states, his voice ringing with absolute certainty.
Watkins' head snaps up, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated surprise. "Priscilla Lowe?"
"Yes," Aldo replies flatly.
Watkins steps forward, abandoning his military composure for a moment of intense, almost frantic curiosity. He looks at Aldo, his brow furrowing in confusion. "How... how do you know it smells like Priscilla Lowe? Have you been near her?" A sudden thought strikes him, and Watkins' eyes go wide. "Wait. Did you go to The Sanguine Lotus?"
The Sanguine Lotus. The name hangs in the air, synonymous with high-end, aristocratic debauchery, secretive meetings, and the elite underworld of the Thromium duchy.
Aldo's expression does not shift. Not a single muscle in his face twitches. He looks at Watkins with deadpan seriousness. "Yes. I mistook it for a bathhouse."
Watkins stares at Aldo for a long, agonizingly silent second. Then, a slow, understanding smile spreads across Watkins' face. He lets out a short, breathy chuckle, waving his hand dismissively.
"Well," Watkins says, his tone softening into a conspiratorial hum, "many bathhouses offer this... service, so it's entirely understandable that you mistook it. It is a common error for traveling men."
Watkins steps even closer to Aldo, glancing nervously around the squad to ensure no one is eavesdropping too closely, though they all are. He leans in, lowering his voice to a hushed, eager whisper. "You met Priscilla Lowe, then." Watkins leans closer, literally whispering directly into Aldo's ear. "What was she like?"
Aldo's eyes narrow in profound irritation. He raises his hand and physically shoves Watkins backward by the shoulder, putting a solid two feet of distance between them.
"Watkins," Aldo scolds, his voice sharp and carrying across the lawn. "You're married. Stop messing around with women."
Watkins stumbles back, throwing his hands up in mock defense, a defensive, slightly embarrassed grin plastered across his face.
"That's unfair! You're out there enjoying yourself in high-society establishments while you're keeping it a secret from the rest of us!"
The sheer lack of tactical focus, Aldo thinks, a heavy wave of disappointment washing over his internal monologue. We are standing on the precipice of a regional collapse, and the commanding officer is distracted by aristocratic gossip.
"We're about to face a massive, armed rebellion in Thromium," Aldo says, his voice cold, slicing through Watkins' banter like a knife through silk. "And you're still concerned about such trivial matters."
From the sidelines, Onaga's jaw literally drops. The stoic warrior's dark eyes widen to the size of saucers. He takes two rapid steps forward, reaching out to grab Aldo tightly by the shoulder plate of his armor, shaking him slightly.
"Captain!" Onaga gasps, his voice trembling with exaggerated, shocked moral outrage. "You've... you've done all sorts of adult things already! We're not old enough yet for this kind of information!"
Hano, standing by the stone bench, slowly lowers his flintlock. He looks at Aldo, his eyes narrowing in deep, analytical suspicion. He tilts his head, studying Aldo's rigid posture. He seems quite unusual. Aldo, the machine, the tactician, stumbling into a high-end brothel by accident? Hano doesn't buy it for a second, but the absurdity of the situation is too surreal to dissect.
Off to the right, near a sprawling bed of vibrant, blooming hydrangeas, Comtois has completely abandoned the military briefing. The giant man is currently tiptoeing through the flowers, his heavy boots crushing the delicate petals as he waves his massive, calloused hands through the air, attempting to catch a stunning, sapphire-winged butterfly that flits just out of his reach.
Hearing the commotion, Comtois pauses mid-lunge. He turns his head, his eyes lighting up with childish curiosity. "Hey, Aldo!" Comtois shouts across the lawn, entirely ignoring the severity of the political situation. "What about Priscilla's bust size?"
Aldo closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, summoning every ounce of his legendary patience. The plants around them—the ancient oaks, the creeping ivy, the crushed hydrangeas—stand as silent witnesses to the bizarre, chaotic dysfunction of the squad.
Aldo opens his eyes, ignoring Comtois entirely. He turns his focus back to Watkins.
"I suspect Priscilla is deeply connected to Volkov," Aldo states, injecting the most dangerous name in the region into the conversation to instantly kill the banter.
It works. The atmosphere in the courtyard plummets from comedic to freezing in a microsecond.
Comtois, who had just managed to trap the sapphire butterfly between his massive palms, instantly freezes. The color drains from his scarred face. He slowly opens his hands, letting the delicate insect flutter away into the morning mist.
"Volkov?" Comtois repeats, his voice dropping into a terrified, hollow whisper. He takes a step backward, shaking his head rapidly. "Well, I won't ask anymore. Forget I said anything."
Watkins' smile vanishes completely. The mention of the rebel warlord instantly snaps him back to his role as a commander. He squares his shoulders, his good hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Do you have any more clues?" Watkins asks, his tone now entirely professional, laced with urgency.
"No," Aldo replies, shaking his head slowly. "It's not that easy. The network is compartmentalized. The poisoner is likely already dead or across the border. If we want the truth, we have to cut the head off the snake." Aldo steps forward, his eyes burning with cold tactical fire. "We should go to Flora, the capital city, no, I mean, the leisure city of the duchy of Thromium. We surround The Sanguine Lotus, breach the perimeter, and capture Priscilla Lowe."
Watkins rubs his chin, his eyes darting across the lawn as he calculates the political fallout of such a maneuver. Flora is a fortress of aristocratic privilege.
"I'll issue a proper document regarding Lowe's arrest and interrogation," Watkins finally says, his voice measured. He looks at Aldo, a warning in his eyes. "You know, Aldo, we can't arrest her arbitrarily. She is high nobility. If we drag her out into the street without cause, the Duke's loyalists will slaughter us. We need a proper document, a signed warrant, and undeniable initial evidence."
Watkins turns around, facing the entirety of the assembled squad. He takes a deep breath, puffing out his chest, and loudly asks, "Alright! Once we have her in custody, who wants to interrogate Priscilla Lowe?"
The reaction is instantaneous and deafening.
The entire group of conscripts and veterans starts shouting, waving their arms wildly in the air, pushing and shoving each other to get to the front of the line. The sheer chaotic desperation of a dozen battle-hardened men volunteering for a private interrogation with the most beautiful, dangerous woman in the duchy shatters the morning calm.
Onaga groans loudly. He throws his hands up in the air in utter exasperation, turning his back on the squad and staring at the marble wall of the mansion in despair at his comrades' lack of discipline.
Hano bursts into a fit of roaring, hearty laughter, slapping his knee as he watches two conscripts literally wrestle each other for the right to volunteer.
Comtois walks back over, shaking his head with a wide, cynical grin. "Aldo, look at them," Comtois chuckles, gesturing to the shouting mob. "Priscilla will probably win all these idiots over to her side in five minutes. She'll bat her eyelashes, and they'll be handing her the keys to the armory."
Aldo's face hardens into stone. He steps up onto the first marble step of the mansion, elevating himself above the crowd, and unleashes a voice that cuts through the noise like a cannon blast.
"Then no one here is allowed to interrogate her!" Aldo roars, instantly silencing the squad.
The men freeze, lowering their hands, looking at Aldo with wide, terrified eyes.
Aldo sweeps his cold gaze across the men, his tone dripping with absolute, uncompromising authority. "To break a woman like that requires a mind of iron. Choose someone with magic. Someone with high Charm resistance. Someone who does not turn into a drooling Simp the moment they stand in front of a pretty girl in a silk dress."
The silence stretches out. Watkins slowly turns his head, looking directly at Aldo. A slow, knowing smirk creeps onto Watkins' face. He points a finger squarely at Aldo's chest.
"So... you," Watkins says simply.
Aldo takes a sharp step back, his eyes narrowing in sheer defiance. "I don't have magic," Aldo snaps back instantly. "Choose someone else!"
Watkins chuckles, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. I'll make the arrangements. We have a broader strategic issue to handle first. The rebellion is moving." Watkins steps away from the mansion, moving toward the center of the lawn to address the entire unit.
"We are shifting defensive postures," Watkins commands, his voice carrying the full weight of a military officer. "We will split the battlion into teams of ten. We will spread out and guard the strategic positions exactly as I instruct. We choke their supply lines before they can march on Carravin."
The transition from the opulent, mist-shrouded lawns of Duke Ferris's estate to the sprawling, muddy reality of the Thromium countryside is jarring.