Prologue​

11th of Johannar, 1197 SA
Buerrenstadt, Capital City of the Republic of Buerren

​

They used to put news in the newspapers, Benny. Real journalism, stories that meant something. Sure, the headlines were more fluffed up than they needed to be, but the knowledge on sale was worth it.

I fell in love with your mother over a newspaper. That’s how good they were.

She used to write for the Feldan Chronicle. She covered local politics, wrote this firecracker piece on Hannes Ehrenberg. I used to have it framed in the living room; maybe you remember. Well, you might’ve been too short back then, but it was up there.

Your mother's writing was remarkable, Benny. No matter what your opinion on any given topic was, reading her work felt like reading a more articulate version of your own thoughts. See, I knew Ehrenberg was a scumbag who didn’t deserve his position or a halia of his inheritance, but she’s the one who put it to paper and had the courage to see it sent to every front door in Buerren. Sure, she didn’t use my colourful language, but what she published did far worse damage.

I wrote to them, the Chronicle, when it first came out. Asked about the fine woman who’d penned the article. They didn’t write back. I bought my train ticket to Wellentor a few days later... figured I’d try in person, since finding a paper and a pen was too difficult for the damn newspaper company.

It was raining when I got there, and an umbrella cost a halia more than the pocket change I’d thought would last me a day. Supply and demand, I suppose. Buerren’s golden law in action.

I showed up to the Chronicle’s office soaking wet. They didn’t like that very much, not with all their precious paper lying around. A couple of security officers made a move for your dad, but I was pretty spry back then. Managed to duck around them and get to the front desk long enough to say my piece. And that’s when I saw her.

It might be cliché to say the world slowed down when it happened, Benny, but it’s the honest truth. It was straight out of a play, one of those Endemerre romances all the girls go crazy for. Security’s closing in, the receptionist looks terrified, and I’m frozen in place watching the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen carry a box of belongings to the door. Her green-speckled eyes are all red and puffed up, raven-black hair in shambles, coffee stain on her blouse. And she’s looking right at me because I just said her name to the front desk. This woman’s the woman I’m looking for, and suddenly I don’t care that security wants to throw me out, because that’s where she’s going too.

I asked her out to dinner that night. She said yes. Don’t worry, we ran out of the restaurant before we got the bill. A few years later, we were married.

We didn’t talk about her writing once you got old enough to understand. She made me take that page from the Chronicle off the wall, too. It was a reminder; one she didn’t need. Because they used to put news in the newspapers, Benny, and then one day they stopped.

I had to start throwing the paper away before she saw it on the doorstep, or she’d read it compulsively and spend the rest of the day in this awful mood. That part you probably remember. The cold dinners. The colder eyes. It was harder to see the green speckles then.

I guess I’m writing this because I don’t want you to blame her for what she did. That paper was her hope. When things went wrong, when people went wrong, the paper was there to set the record straight. That’s why watching them twist that record broke her as bad as it did.

But she loved you, Benny. She loved you so much.

She was so excited when you went abroad, even more so when you came back with this burning sense of purpose. That it wasn’t enough to stop her is only my fault. I was with her since that first day it all started to change, and I couldn’t do anything. Maybe I delayed it, but it wasn’t enough. And now I can’t be there for you.

I’m sorry, Benny. I am. I hope I did better for you than I did for her. And I hope your sense of purpose only burns brighter, so that one day the folks who feel as hopeless as your mother will have a fire to find some comfort in.

I love you,

Dad

​

It was a good service. People told nice stories. The food was alright. I got through my speech without completely breaking down.

It rained, ironically. Rain when Dad met Mom, rain again when Dad joined her in rest. I’m not sure who to thank for that. Probably God, though that would mean he’s only good for theatrics and nothing else. My parents would be here otherwise.

In other news, I invited Ada and Kostas to the funeral. A strange decision, maybe, though I suppose Ada makes some sense; she’d met Dad a good number of times. The two always hit it off, which seems fitting. Dad has... had a thing for headstrong women.

Bringing Kostas was more of a gut instinct. He’s become family in the last six months, and family shows up to the good and the bad. I wasn’t sure how it’d feel in the moment, but I’m glad he came. I think he needed it, too. Being surrounded by family after losing your own can help.

I’ll admit there were a few raised eyebrows. Bringing employees to your dad's funeral isn’t exactly standard practice. But it’s like I said: we’re family, and family shows up for the bad. I just wish this was as bad as it was going to get.

Dad’s letter meant a lot of things, but in light of recent developments, it feels most like a call to action. In my line of work—politics—real action means getting your hands dirty, an area where I’ve been a lot of bark and very little bite. Some might call that cowardice. I'd be inclined to agree.

Six months ago, Kostas left everything he's ever known to give me knowledge that'd make Mom’s Ehrenberg exposé look like child’s play. And what had I done with it? Sat still in some repugnant fear of consequence, refusing to move forward? Maybe… yes. My aides are kind with their words, but their eyes betray them. Ada and Kostas want to act, and I’ve been holding them back.

“I need to do better,” I say. We’re in the carriage at this point, heading back into the city. The rain’s falling harder, blanketing the windows in a formless grey.

“I’ve been stuck in my fear and you’ve both suffered for it. I need to do better.”

The two turn to me. Ada’s curls are stuck to her cheek, the rest pulled loose from the comb she always carries but clearly didn’t bother with today. Her coat’s soaked through at the shoulders, sticking to the cotton of her blouse underneath. Pale skin shows at the collar, where one button’s come undone. Her arms are crossed tight, more for warmth than anything else.

Kostas is completely soaked through. His sleeves are shoved up, rain tracing the lines of his forearms. His skin still holds that deep Orahni bronze, a kind of weathered sunburn he hasn’t managed to lose since leaving his family in Naógora. His shirt clings wet to a cord around his neck, and through the fabric I can just make out the wooden prayer beads that all Orahni monks wear. Tucked under clothes, but never off. He’s trying not to shiver, which means he’s definitely shivering.

Still, they manage a smile.

“It’s not like you didn’t have a reason,” Kostas offers. “Your dad was sick. No one expected you to drop everything.”

“Maybe not," I say, "but he's gone. Now, every day I stay frozen in place turns Dad into an excuse, and I'm not letting that happen.”

“Then we get back to it," Ada replies without hesitation. "For your father... and your mother."

I glance at her... steady, soaked through, but clear-eyed. It lands harder than I expect. I can hear Kostas hold his breath, as if waiting for her boldness to backfire. But it doesn’t. I’ve known her long enough for that.

“So, what’s the plan?” Kostas eventually asks, letting out a relieved sigh.

“The plan,” I say, “is to change, go to the office, and figure out a plan.”

Ada frowns, but her damp dress is unpleasant enough to buy me a couple more hours of cowardice.

 “Who would’ve thought a parliamentarian would be so... agh!” Kostas says. “I should’ve voted for Ada. Ada, you should’ve run!”

He’s not wrong. “I’d vote for you over me any day,” I say.

“It’s Frau Herschlag, Kostas, and maybe next year. For now, Herr Eigner here is our MP, and we are but his lowly aides.” Then she turns to me, eyes alit in complete contrast to any look of deference I might've expected from her self-imposed 'lowly' title. “I’m taking no longer than twenty minutes to change and get to the Silberhaus. If I’m waiting in the office for more than five minutes, I’m quitting and running as your direct opponent in the next election.”

“It’s strange,” I say, turning to Kostas. “She clings so tightly to decorum, only ever calls me Herr Eigner, yet she has no problem ordering me around.”

“At least you get decorum,” he laments.

Ada holds back a grin and returns her gaze to the window, watching the rain cascade down, no doubt cycling through all the ways she might break me in the next campaign season.

The rest of the ride home is quiet. I expect some wave of grief to hit now that the conversation’s ended, but it doesn’t come. There’s only the weight of Dad’s letter in my coat pocket... heavy, but not unbearable. Maybe the crying will come later, like it did with Mom. When I least expect it. When I think I’ve made peace but have only lowered my guard. I suppose time will tell. For now, all I can do is join my aides in staring out the window.

The trees give way to smokestacks as we cross into the East Bloc of Buerrenstadt, capital city of our less-than-glorious Republic of Buerren. They come in clusters, like factories trying to grow a forest of their own. The buildings here are short, wide, and colourless—function first, then maybe survival. Soot stains climb the walls like ivy, and whatever wasn’t built from concrete looks like it wants to be.

Some blocks later, we pass an armour-plated recruitment booth emblazoned with the crossed-rifle emblem of the Senheisen Arms Corporation. It's staffed predictably: two young women in embarrassingly tight gray uniforms, their feathered blonde hair flapping perfectly as they hand out train tickets to the northern front line. It's a classic appeal to our planet of Halrin's most dependable market force: male libido. And it works. Too many sorry souls are there to collect, flashing muscles and grins as they secure their ticket to a bullet in the brain. Even sadder are the ones who think fighting in the Arboreal War will serve their bank accounts better than the East Bloc ever could.

Not long after, a delivery tram rolls by—loud, wet, its cargo half-covered by a tarp advertising the latest miracle balm. Probably meant for the few sorry souls who survived the Arborous and ended up right back here.

Ada and Kostas keep looking out, saying nothing. I watch their gaze. We’ve passed through here before, and I expect to see the familiar blank stares. The kind that don’t expect things to get better. The kind that know everything here works, technically, though it all feels like it’s working against someone. But today, it’s different. For the first time in a long time, I see fire.

“You’re late,” Ada says as Kostas and I crash through the doors of my office.

“Kostas slipped on the stairs,” I lie. “Took a nasty tumble. We would’ve been on time otherwise, promise.”

Always the showman, Kostas shifts his weight to one leg and starts massaging the other. “I think it’s gonna heal, you guys, no need to amputate.”

“Oh, good,” Ada says dryly, already turning back to the task at hand. “Get over here.”

She couldn't have gotten here more than a few minutes before us, but she’s already transformed the cluttered office into a bona fide war room. Stacks of loose paper that once colonized every surface have been pushed to the far windowsill to make room for a massive cork board laid out across the floor. On it, photographs of every Member of Parliament form a neat grid: Majority Party on the left, Opposition on the right. Strings and notecards dot the margins, scrawled with handwritten notes on backgrounds, alliances, and debts. Even my face is there, decorated with a handlebar moustache drawn in marker.

“When did you do all of this?” I ask, kneeling beside the board and running my fingers across the paper web, trying to absorb the sheer scale of it.

“Six months, Herr Eigner,” she replies, not looking up. “I wanted to be ready when you were. Kostas helped too."

“I drew the moustache,” he says with a proud little nod. “Consider it a suggestion.”

“I’d tell you to grow up, but that hasn’t served most of these folks well,” I say, gesturing toward the board. “Where do we start?”

“With Kostas. A reminder of what you told us six months ago.”

Kostas nods, then stops. Slowly, he turns to me, then to Ada, then back to me. “I have to go to bathroom,” he yelps suddenly. Ada furrows her brow as he hops off the floor. Then he grabs my hand.

“You’re nineteen, Kostas, you can go to the bathroom on your own—”

“It’s scary,” he blurts out, already dragging me toward the door.

I shoot Ada a confused look as we slip out. The moment the door clicks shut behind us, I snap back to him, voice low and tight. “There wasn’t a more elegant way to do that?”

“Sorry. I just—it’s happening now, and I wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

“I thought I was pretty clear,” I say. “Don’t mention the... well, you know... until we have proof.”

“But you saw how much work she’s done,” he replies. “I don’t like lying to her. I mean, think about how much more we could do if we just told her the truth.”

“Soon, Kostas. We’ll tell her soon. We just need proof.”

“You believed me just fine without proof,” he snaps.

“Because the sacrifice you made to get me that information was all the proof I needed. Ada’s different. Without proof, the best we could hope for is her resignation. More likely, she'll get us locked up in an institution. Look, you're right to acknowledge all the work she's done, which is exactly why we can't risk her leaving. Yeah?”

Kostas sighs, rubbing his temples. “So we’re going with—?”

“What you saw six months ago, minus the... weird stuff. Match as many details as you can. Same people, same places. Just a different conspiracy. The Silberne cult you made up for her last time was good.”

“Okay, and why exactly does she believe in the Silberne cult? We don’t have proof of that either.”

I place my hands on his shoulders—not to reassure him, but to hold his focus. “Because” I say quietly, “unlike the truth… it’s actually plausible.”

Kostas grumbles, shrugs off my hands, and walks back toward the office.

Ada perks up as the door clicks open. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Kostas replies. “I didn’t have to go the bathroom. I just… got anxious. Thinking about my parents. I’m good now.”

I follow him in, nodding at Ada as I close the door behind me. “So,” I say, careful not to meet her eyes just yet, “Silberne’s Order.”

Kostas continues into the room, quiet now, and crouches near the cork board. His eyes scan the crisscross of red string and marked-up faces. Then he taps one. “This guy,” he says under his breath. “There were a few others too—I can point them out—but he was in charge.”

We’ve reviewed this before, but I still flinch when I see the face. David Ehrenberg. Son of Hannes.

Ada senses it. She rests a hand on my shoulder—firm, grounding. Her voice is steady, but low. “Start from the beginning, Kostas.”

He doesn’t answer at first—just sits back on his heels, staring at the face on the board.

“It was a delivery run,” he eventually says. “Out to Leimáti Temple. The Diani—the Orahni clergy—they’d appointed my dad as the liaison for that kind of stuff. Food, drinks, toiletries, you name it. Companies would ship stuff down from here to Naógora and then he’d manage the capillary routes to the smaller temples. But Dad had busted his ankle on one of his runs, so I’d taken over for the season. It was hot that night, humid. Barely a road to mark the way, but I’d done the run before. I got there, a few hours after sunset, and dropped the stuff off in the front room—one of those cubby rooms, a place to put your shoes. Except there were no shoes. There were jackets, nice ones. Horrible for this weather, though that’s probably why they took them off. I guess curiosity got the better of me, because I walked farther in. At some point, I started to hear the whispers. Then I saw the light peeking through the door.”

“The Order?” Ada asks, leaning in slightly.

“Yeah. This guy and his buddies, all gathered around a table,” Kostas says, tapping Ehrenberg’s face again. “Not a big group. Six, maybe seven. All dressed fancy. One of them was in a military uniform, another in a silk scarf like he was at the opera. None of them were locals, that much was obvious.”

He pulls his hand back from the board and wipes it on his pants, like the memory’s left something on his skin.

“They were going over charts. Campaign donation routes, stock activity, Arborous-bound shipments for the war effort. The kind of stuff you’d expect to hear behind glass in some fancy compound in Buerrenstadt. Except they were whispering like it was a séance. And they kept using that word: 'Silberne.’ Not in a speech, not as a group name. Just… him. Like he wasn’t there, but everything was about him.”

“Not him,” Ada says. “Them. The Von Silbernes were the Republic’s last monarchs before the Revolution. Is this about lineage, then? Have they found a descendent the guillotines missed?”

She turns back to the board, eyes scanning for patterns again. Kostas shoots me a look—sharp, irritated. I get it. She’s getting distracted by the lie. “Just wait, Ada,” I say, trying to keep the charade intact. “Kostas, keep going.”

He rolls his eyes but nods as she looks back up. “They’d say things like, ‘We’ll hold position until Silberne arrives.’ Another one said, 'Senheisen can cover the rest if Silberne signs off.’ They sounded scared. Not panicked, but… careful. Like they didn’t want to mess up in front of a ghost.

Ada’s brow lifts. “Senheisen? Senheisen Arms?” she repeats, not doubting the name but filing it somewhere new. “They have the biggest bottom line in Buerren, if not the entire continent. They don’t wait for anyone.” She paces once, then stops. “Alright. Forget the lineage theory. If it were bloodline, they’d be protecting him. Hiding him. But this sounds like they’re waiting on instruction. They’re following orders, not guarding a crown.” She holds up a finger, sorting it out aloud. “So ‘Silberne...' that’s not a person with a royal claim. That’s a codename. A symbol of control. Of authority you’re not supposed to question. Which fits... if Senheisen Arms is waiting on a green light, this is bigger than some forgotten heir.” Her jaw tightens. “That’s our ghost. And this Order... whoever they are... this is how Silberne keeps a monarchy alive inside a system that killed the last one. But... why meet there, in Leimáti? Why not here in the capital, if they’re so powerful?”

Kostas hesitates, then says quietly: “Because they need something that’s only there.”

Ada lifts her chin, eyes narrowing. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t ask again right away. She just stares. Straight through him, searching for a ripple of falsehood. But Kostas holds the gaze. No grin this time. No smirk. Just stone.

“Need what?” she finally asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice even. “That’s what the plan's for. Who’s Codename Silberne? Who else is involved? Why Leimáti?”

He lets the questions hang there. His questions now, not ours. I can see what he’s doing: shifting the frame. Planting new weight behind the investigation. Reinforcing the story just enough to keep her pointed in the right direction.

Ada says nothing. She simply grabs a pen, lips tight, and writes a single word next to Ehrenberg's photograph:

LEIMÁTI

“All right,” she says, still not looking at us. “I’ll start running names. If Senheisen's involved, it’s too big to be clean. Someone’s left a footprint.” Then, she reaches into her pant pocket, pulls out a folded note, and hands it to me. A list of names, two circled in red.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“I figured this would end up with us sneaking around the Majority Party. Since they're not exactly fans of us, I shortlisted some third-party operatives.”

I glance at the circled names. “Lydia Terell… Marie Terell.”

“Siblings?” Kostas asks, leaning over my shoulder.

“Sisters. Twins,” Ada replies. Then she pauses, just a beat, like she’s weighing whether to keep going. “Herr Eigner,” she says at last, “do you remember the Kiyokawan aid package I worked on for Frau Velhaas two years ago?”

I nod. “It’s why I hired you.”

“Her speech to Parliament is why you hired me,” she says.

“Sure, if you want to be specific. I mean, you wrote a five-minute speech that convinced those fossils to send two hundred million halia worth of aid to Kiyokawa. I’d have been a fool not to hire you.”

“I didn’t write that speech, Herr Eigner,” she says, unblinking.

I blink instead. “I beg your pardon?”

“Lydia Terell wrote it. Two hours. Then she packed her bag and left for her next job.”

Kostas whistles, low. “Scary.”

“And she doesn’t do rewrites,” Ada continues. “She doesn’t ask follow-ups. You give her a file and a deadline. If she takes the job, you get gold.”

Kostas takes the note from my hand, flipping it over like there might be more written on the back. “And the other one, Marie?”

“A mercenary… prefers fists to words. She didn’t do much for Frau Velhaas, but I’m sure she has her uses.”

“Expensive?” I ask.

“Very.”

I glance at Kostas. His expression says: Your call, boss. My wallet says otherwise, but Future Bennet could deal with that. I nod. “How soon can I meet them?”

Ada walks over to one of the paper towers on the windowsill and pulls a sheet from the middle. “Passenger manifest out of Hranost, two days ago,” she says, handing it to me. “Express ferry to Eisehafen. Lydia's listed under ‘Claudia Rell,’ which is about as subtle as she gets. Marie’s just ‘Marie.’”

“That’s it?”

“They’re not hiding. They just don’t care who’s watching.”

Kostas chuckles. “Awesome.”

“They’re expected to dock in six days,” Ada continues. “No handlers, no cryptic instructions. You go to the port, and you wait.”

“Anything I should bring?”

Ada shrugs. “Basic courtesy. Just don’t try to impress them... it won’t work.”

“Noted.”

Kostas leans back, folding his arms. “Should we be nervous they’re this casual?”

“Extremely,” Ada says. “But it’s also what makes them useful.”

“Alright,” I nod. “I’ll go to Eisehafen. Alone.”

“Good,” Ada replies, returning to the cork board. “They don’t do groups anyway. Bad symmetry. We’ll stay here, map out this Ehrenberg probe. And I’ll line up some back-ups in case Eisehafen doesn’t go well.”

“It’ll go well,” I say. I slip the manifest into my coat. The paper crinkles against Dad’s letter, still in the pocket. I don’t take it out; just press it flatter. Fuel and Firestarter.

I: The Huntsman​

8th of Johannar, 1197 SA
Hranost, Northernmost Outpost of the Borleynsdal Frontier

​

Hranost Journal:

Snowfall coats all here, in this place far north of any land of worth. This isn’t the gentle cotton of Syridic desert dreams. It’s nature telling man that she can be cruel in the most personal of ways. The dead trees betrayed by her. The howling winds weaponized by her. The frost committing upon her a numbing suicide.

And yet, here stands a monument to man's indifference for nature's displeasure: Hranost, the northernmost outpost of the Borleynsdal Frontier and our home for the month.

Per my research, this place long lay outside the jurisdiction of Halrin's many nations. It was sustained instead by those who had nowhere else to go. They built ramshackle structures of Borleyni pinewood, warmed with Borleyni coal. In my observations of Olde Hranost, not much has changed in that regard.

As best as I can tell, it was the industrial boom of the late 11th century that first brought more explorers to the north, those interested in discovering what lay beyond nature's imposed boundaries. Most lacked the fortitude to stay for long, though they remained just long enough to establish a port and shipping routes. Hranost was, and remains, advantageous in that regard, being pressed against the Daskolgi Alps and the North Erisian Sea. Ice floes likely made travel difficult enough to keep the place hidden for a time, but sea access was an option. One only needed a powerful enough vessel.

Progress did as it does, and such vessels grew in number. The appetite of industry grew in tandem, shifting interest toward untapped corners of the map. It wasn’t long before company men arrived in ships, bringing the infrastructure needed to let weaker spirits endure the cold. I suppose I’m to be counted among those weaker spirits... we Terells are not built for the boreal.

It's been only a few decades, but already the old town has become encircled by dense concrete compounds. Windowless grey strongholds web in and around each other, occasionally parting to let new rail lines snake through.

I hesitate to pen my own opinion on these developments, given the work I’m doing here. Then again, this is my own private journal, so perhaps it’s admissible.

I don’t believe Hranost was ever truly free, despite what the locals are quick to claim. Nature was their old landlord, and its cruelty was the rent. They have a new landlord now, one that provides food and board in exchange for labor. It’s a better deal. Some of Olde Hranost’s residents have taken it. Those who haven’t… well. We’ll see to that, won’t we?

“I'm angry, folks,” says a bellowing voice, roughened by decades of inhaling ash and smoke. His proclamation receives nods of agreement and grunts of approval.

The audience is small. Maybe twenty, seated in crooked rows across the cleared-out floor of what’s usually a modest tavern. The tables are stacked in the far corner, the chairs mismatched. I count four patched coats, three sets of cracked knuckles, and two rifles hidden behind barrels. Marie has probably spotted five. She likes to win.

The speaker is bundled in a thick navy sweater, belly round, posture commanding. The kind of man who talks like a furnace and expects heat in return.

“I'm angry and I'm tired. Damned tired,” he says. “But today, after a long while, we have some cause to celebrate. Let's have a round of applause for Filip!”

He pulls forward a boy half his size and many times more nervous. He's tall for his age but tremendously gaunt, barely filling out the coat draped over his shoulders.

“Filip, tell the good people of Olde what you did.”

I watch the boy carefully from behind the last row. He’s twitchy, but proud. He doesn’t expect to surprise anyone, but he hopes to. The poor thing practically radiates hope. It’s leaking out of his sleeves.

“I—I charged one,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Louder,” the man urges.

“I charged one of Company's men... when he tried to pass through West Gate. Took six halia off him.” He grins weakly, reaching into his pocket to produce six small coins.

I don’t react. Neither does Marie.

“Another hand for Filip!” the speaker calls. The crowd obliges—more excited now, louder. “This is what I mean, folks. These small acts, they add up! And certainly, if Filip here can do it...” he lifts one of the boy’s arms and gives it a theatrical shake, “...then any one of you can. Little rebellions make Company's lives harder. Add friction. But remember, never too much! We cannot be their enemy. Only an burden. Enemies are destroyed, while burdens live to fight on. Yes?”

More nods of agreement and grunts of approval, all alit in some bizarre blaze of passion and complacency.

“Now, it has come to my attention,” he continues, “that some find this line between inconvenience and violence difficult to understand. So, I’ve taken it upon myself to procure some outside help.” He gestures toward the shadows behind the bar.

A man steps forward—black-clad, bearded, tall-collared, and clearly aware of what he looks like. Wide-brimmed hat, overcoat cut to impose. The image is curated to the inch. The audience hums with whispers.

Marie leans slightly to whisper near my ear: “Showtime.”

The man doesn’t wait. “I begin with a simple question,” he says, his voice carrying a precise charisma. “What does it mean to revolt, hm? To say ‘no’ beyond mere words?” He paces slowly, eyes scanning. “Revolution, it is a complex thing. Standing up for yourself, ah, it is a quaint sentiment. But standing down the beast of your oppressor? That is entirely different. Different too are the tactics such a beast might employ. It may choose to trample you with brute force, oui, but another may play a much more insidious game. The smartest among them, they do both. They push you into a corner of their own making, n’est-ce pas?”

A few heads nod again. A couple glance around, unsure how much they agree. I notice four people shift in their seats as he speaks—not discomfort. Anticipation.

“I see among you looks of recognition,” he continues. “You are well-travelled folk, you recognize my dialect. You know this beast of which I speak, the beast my countrymen have fought for centuries.”

Whispers rise again. Some lean in to translate to others. I wonder what version they’ll give.

“Do you know what this makes me?” he asks, slowly raising his voice. “I am the man who knows the beast’s mind. I am the man who knows the tools it employs. I know which defenses these tools cannot pierce... and the soft underbelly that leaves it vulnerable.” He pauses. “If oppression is the tyrannical beast... then I—I am the Huntsman.”

The room erupts. Front-row hands reach toward him in gratitude, in hope. He accepts each one with a grin.

“Quiet now, mes amis,” he says. And they listen. Of course they do.

“I do not wish to rob or swindle, so I won’t ask for payment of any kind. I would feel dishonest if I did, because the advice I’m about to give is surprisingly short. Are you ready to hear it?”

Nods of agreement, grunts of approval.

“A little friction, it is good. But where you place it matters much more. You live in your cold homes, surviving off your pride. But pride, ah, pride is not the weapon you believe it is. I can ignore your pride simply by walking out the door. What good does it do you then?”

He steps forward. “Your acts of friction remain confined to your lives; lives you've separated from your oppressor. Every so often, these two cross, and a brave soul like Filip will apply some friction. But in the grand scheme, it is an inconsequential friction. From my perspective, it is foolish, hein?” He reaches into his overcoat and reveals a sealed envelope. “Which of you have received this?”

Every hand rises.

“Then, mes amis, you are fools.”

The room shifts. Whispers turn harsh. A few look ready to stand. No one does... yet.

“This letter, the one you've all spurned, is an invitation to wreak havoc. It is the key to the door separating you from Company’s vulnerable insides. Why stab at the concrete wall, hein, when you can walk right inside?” He raises his voice slightly. “Your past comrades—those who accepted employment—they did not sell out. They were the true rebels. Now, it is your turn to join them.”

Gasps ripple outward. And slowly, as though waking from a long nap, heads begin to nod again. The man in the navy sweater reappears beside him and begins to clap. The others join.

The Huntsman bows, then opens his coat. On the inside: dozens of the same letters. “To those who have destroyed all that Company has sent, I have sourced new employment applications for you to fill out. Come and claim your key to rebellion!”

The room rises all at once. Every body moving forward. Every voice talking.

Marie and I look at each other. We don’t speak. Just move. Out the front door. Into the cold.

“He was good,” I say. “Better than I thought he'd be.”

“You're blushing, Lydia,” Marie replies, her tone already smug.

“It's the cold...”

“You would be cold if your heart wasn't beating so fast.” She pauses, then smirks. “I understand. I've never heard someone make your words sing like that.”

“I said he was good, didn't I?” I can feel the heat at my cheeks now. Unfortunately. “It's the pauses. They rarely get the pauses right. He got the pauses right. And the antagonization. There's a way to do it, you know? To rile them up and strike at their hearts.” Without thinking, I mimic the final words with a half-hearted stabbing motion.

Marie raises an eyebrow. “'Strike at their hearts?'“ she says. “Bit violent, no?”

“Words can hurt, sister.”

She considers that—surprisingly long—then sighs. “Don’t we know it,” she mutters, yawning as she does.

We wait outside, leaning against the wall of the tavern while the Huntsman finishes his performance inside. With our heads this close together, I’m sure the resemblance is obvious. Same tangled bun, same cursed strands that keep falling into our eyes. Same amber color too.

We’ve been called identical before, but it’s not strictly true. Marie stands a half-centimeter shorter, though she never lets me say so. She’s younger by two wonderful minutes. Her face is rounder—softer, people assume—but that softness is a lie. Anyone who watches us long enough figures it out.

Even now, she manages to turn her natural charm into a scowl. Her cloak bunches awkwardly as she pulls it tighter and shivers hard enough to rattle teeth.

“We couldn't have waited inside?” she mutters.

I slide down the wall into a crouch, cloak tugged tighter across my knees. “You know we can’t,” I say. “The longer we do, the more likely someone starts asking you questions you’re not ready to answer.”

She kicks me lightly in the arm. “I’m plenty ready,” she says under her breath.

“It was a joke,” I say.

“Well, it wasn't funny.”

“Yes, alright. Sorry.”

“You know,” Marie says with theatrical slowness, “‘pride isn’t the weapon you think it is. I can ignore your pride by simply walking out the door.'“ She chuckles... until she winces. I glance over just in time to see her looking down at her leg, where my elbow is firmly lodged against her knee.

Before she can retaliate, the tavern doors swing open.

We’re already tucked behind the side wall, but I motion toward a crate stack and we slip in behind it. A quick peek reveals the street filling with movement. Laughter, shouts, the rustle of paper. Letters in hand. A full conversion.

We stay silent. Wait.

The crowd disperses eventually, one letter-waver at a time, until the door swings for the last time and stills. No footsteps in the snow. Just quiet.

Then a whistle, barely audible beneath the wind.

I answer with one of my own, then rise, brushing hair from my face. Marie doesn’t see it, but I fix the strand that’s been bothering me for the past hour.

I step out from behind the crates just as he rounds the corner. Not the Huntsman anymore, of course. That mask served its purpose. “How do you feel, Tom?” I ask.

“Like I wasn't built for this bloody cold!” he snaps, sprinting toward us as he turtles into his overcoat. Gone is the elusive accent, borrowed from the notoriously totalitarian Kingdom of Lourette. In its place: the familiar West Rendish dialect of Torenfaen. The real voice.

I feel Marie’s gaze before I see it. She looks at me, eyes searching. She catches the slight slump in my shoulders before I can fix it. Doesn’t say anything. Just turns and starts walking.

“They were completely entranced! I knew you could write, but that was brilliant! I've read plenty of fantastic scripts, and I—I perform them well... but this was different. You gave me room, room to improvise! Did you see it!? How I worked Filip into the script?”

Tom, now basking in the miracle of central heating, spins to face us as he walks.

With the Huntsman gone, what’s left is a boy in a borrowed man’s coat. His mid-length curls uncoil from under the wig cap, hanging in disarray. Freckles across his face stretch into his cheeks when he smiles, and he does smile—without self-consciousness, as if he’s only just remembered he enjoys things. The eyes give him away most of all: wide, unguarded, too bright to be faked.

“She's quite impressed with you, Tom,” Marie says, all practiced sweetness. “She told me you got the pauses just right, and the 'antagonization.' Whatever that means.”

I glance at her sidelong. She smiles without blinking.

Tom breaks in, oblivious. “Well, given who we’re working for, I had to put in some extra effort. And speaking of our employer, how much are they paying us exactly?”

We’re walking behind one of the security officers now. Her posture is military, her expression isn’t. She looks bored in a way I recognize: the boredom of people who know no one’s going to stop them. Her uniform is white-patterned for the snow, pristine, the Senheisen Arms Corporation insignia on the chest sewn so flat it almost seems natural.

Tom moves to tap her shoulder. I grab his wrist mid-air. Head shake. Don’t.

“The full-service fee is 25,000 halia,” I say, eyes forward. “We’ll divide it later.”

Tom’s eyebrows launch into orbit. He doesn’t speak again until we reach the end of the hall, where his expression quietly shifts into the grin of a man who’s just realized he’s rich.

“You should expect them to enroll en masse starting tomorrow,” I say. “I wouldn't be surprised if you've already received some mail.”

We stand in a room that feels designed to keep people from relaxing. Concrete walls. A massive desk. Bookshelves for show. A brutalist fireplace that might as well be a furnace door. Our host doesn’t rise to greet us. He just looms behind his desk, seated as if by geological force. Antonin Ulmer, Chief Operating Officer, Borleyni Division.

Ulmer is distinctly large, but not like the navy-sweater man from the tavern. This is the fat of wealth, not work, the sort that accumulates in men who haven’t had to lift anything heavier than a contract. The sort that doesn’t come to places like this unless forced. That’s why I priced my services as high as I did. Men like Ulmer pay anything to make a discomfort disappear, anything to lessen their burden. And with Olde Hranost now folded neatly into his portfolio, he was ready—eager, even—to sign whatever it took.

“You’re certain it will hold?” he asks, voice low and heavy.

“You may experience some resistance. That’s natural. But it won’t last. These people have been exhausted for years. They’ll fight, briefly. Then they’ll adjust.” I meet his gaze, calm. “They’ll grow fond of your men. Fond of warmth. Fond of being heard. In a month, the memory of rebellion will feel like someone else’s story.”

He watches me. I don’t blink. Behind me, Marie shifts slightly, but says nothing.

Eventually, Ulmer nods. “You’ll stay the night,” he says. “A ship leaves at sunrise. You’ll take this…” he draws a letter from the desk drawer and signs it with deliberate weight, “…to the Eisehafen office. Your fee will be processed upon arrival.”

“Understood,” I say, and take the paper. I turn on my heel, and Marie and Tom follow. The security officer from before returns, falling in step beside us as we head to the guest quarters. Only when we’re alone again—just the three of us walking—do I allow myself a smile. A thin one.

Tom’s speech had lasted ten minutes. Preparing it had taken nearly a month. I’d studied Hranost like it were an ancient script: memorizing old rifts, subtle allegiances, who they feared and why. I’d recruited Tom, coached him, tested every word he’d say. Then we’d charmed our way into the town’s nerves, let them soften just long enough. All of it threaded together, line by line, into a performance.

The letter in my hand is heavier than it looks. But the weight feels right. Controlled. Calculated. Save for the creeping pain in my fingers, it all feels good.

II: At Sea​

12th of Johannar, 1197 SA
The Mid-Erisian Confluence​

​​

How is it that something so tiny, so laughably small up in the sky, is supposed to be big enough to swallow the entire planet? The sun just hangs there, all dainty and golden like a coin someone flicked too far, and yet I'm told it's the size of twenty Halrins stacked and set on fire. Sure. Why not. And then, right when I start to wrap my head around that nonsense, it has the audacity to disappear. Behind the ocean. Like it’s embarrassed.

Yeah, yeah, I know the official story. We’re spinning, it’s far away, something about angles. But that doesn’t stop the whole thing from feeling like a big scam. One minute it’s there, flaunting itself, and the next it’s gone without so much as a goodbye. I stare anyway. Maybe because I’m stubborn. Maybe because I keep thinking I’ll catch it in the act, pulling some sleight of hand.

Four days since we shoved off from Hranost. Four days, and already I’m starting to name the creaks in the ship. We’re on the Benevol now, skimming the imaginary border between the North and South Erisian Seas. The ship’s got some kind of prototype something-or-other, and a reinforced steel who-knows-what. The specifics are beyond me, but Tom’s taken to them like gospel. He’s been bouncing around the deck since we boarded, grilling the crew as if he’s prepping for a dissertation.

It’s not irritating. Not exactly. Just... relentless. Like a mosquito that’s decided to write a biography about your ankles. Buzz buzz, tell me your secrets.

“A beautiful sunset, isn't it, Lydia?”

And there he—wait—did he just call me Lydia?

“Hello, Tom,” I say, turning from the deck railing to give him the kind of smile that usually comes with warning labels. His expression drops immediately, cheeks filling with red.

“Well?” I lean into the moment. “Anything more to comment on that sunset, or was that all you had?”

“From—uh—from behind, you two look—”

“It’s okay, I understand. The lighting’s bad, we’re on a boat, there’s bound to be confusion. I’ll just let Lydia know you tried to flirt with me. I’m sure she’ll take it in stride.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he blurts, scrambling. “Marie, I just thought—”

“Oh, I know what you thought, Thomas.” I draw his name out, just like grade school. “Aren't you supposed to be a prodigal bard? Where's that suave demeanor of yours?”

“I need prep time!” he protests. “Getting into character's a proper task!”

“And improvising is apparently beyond you,” I shoot back. “Tragic, really.”

“I can improvise!” he snaps. “In specific, controlled circumstances where I’m emotionally prepared and the lighting is decent and no one’s being an ass!”

I blink. “Be better.”

He gapes. “That’s not advice!”

“Well I can't give you all the answers! And, between the two of us, who spent four years at the Bardic College of State? If you didn't learn what you needed to there, then—ah—unless you lied on your resumé. Did you, Tom? Did you lie!?” 

Before he can retort, I spot a familiar figure approaching. Perfect.

“Lydia, Tom lied on his resumé!” I shout, jabbing a finger toward him. “He's never even been to college!”

Lydia barely glances at him. “It hardly matters now. He's done the job, hasn't he? I say he's earned his share of the reward.”

“You’re no fun.” I pout. “What if I told you he tried to flirt with me?”

Lydia stops. Tom stops. The air goes still. And then she just shrugs. “He's his own man, no? 'Tis not my place to fret whither his heart doth wander.”

God, I love her. “You see, Tom!” I grin. “That is acting! And she pulled that line out of thin air! ‘To fret something his heart something something!’ Incredible!”

“I wasted my tuition money, didn't I,” he sighs, a soft smile growing in place of his anxiety. “It really was lovely, Lydia.”

“Ah, well, I'd be flattered if the words belonged to me. Stole them from an old novella, so it seems you and I are both liars today.” She smiles, placing a hand around my shoulder and squeezing hard. “We’ll need to have a long talk about you consorting with strange men, Marie. I don't need you getting whisked away while I'm not looking.”

“Oh, come off it,” I reply, shrugging her hand off. “I'd sooner toss myself overboard than get whisked away by him!”

Tom, clearly too comfortable now, starts lumbering toward me with his arms outstretched in a menacing hug. “I'm really not so bad once you get to know me,” he croaks.

I screech and kick at the air. He retreats with a grin. The sun dips lower.

Then it’s gone, swallowed by the waves as we laugh against the railing of the Benevol. After a few more minutes of idle chatter, Tom shuffles off to rehearse or cry into a pillow or whatever he does.

I lean against the railing next to Lydia. The wind’s calmed a bit, just enough to let the quiet feel earned. For a while, neither of us says anything. Then: “He’s getting under your skin.”

She doesn’t look at me. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only when you’re breathing.”

She exhales through her nose, the closest she gets to admitting I’m right. “He’s... confusing.”

“Confusing like, ‘where’d my left sock go,’ or confusing like, ‘why’d that feel nice’?”

She chuckles. “Somewhere between the two.”

We lapse back into silence. The waves are doing their thing. I listen to them like they’re the only thing not lying to me.

“I think you like him,” I say, just to test the waters.

“I think I don’t know what I think,” she says. That’s fair. That’s Lydia. Always precise, even when it’s messy.

A few more moments pass. Then she asks, “Why do you care?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I guess I want to understand the math of it. Like, how someone like you—who eats men like him for breakfast—keeps pausing when he walks in the room.”

She’s quiet for a long time. “It’s not him, exactly,” she eventually says. “It’s the way he vanishes into his roles. It’s like watching someone else inhabit him. And that man, well, that one’s a little bit dangerous.”

“You do realize how messed up that sounds?”

“I do.”

“But also kinda romantic?”

She side-eyes me. “We’re not doing that.”

“I’m just saying.”

“I know what you’re saying.”

Another quiet.

“You know,” I start, “I was watching the sunset earlier and it reminds me a bit of that.”

“How so?”

“Well, some things... like the sun... don’t stop existing just because we can’t see them. Maybe that’s Tom. Or, like, the better version of Tom. The one he pretends to be. It’s not fake, just… not always visible, despite how big it is. Comes and goes. And when he’s back to his regular bumbling self, maybe part of you still feels that version underneath. The part that knows the sun will come back up in the morning, no matter how dark it is.”

She stares at me. Then gives this slow, smug nod like she’s proud of herself for raising me right. “Look at you, Marie Terell. You’re a fucking philosopher.”

My mouth drops open. “Did you just curse at me!? You did! You actually cursed! I thought I was supposed to be the vulgar one!”

She shrugs. “Maybe we’re due a fucking role reversal, now that you’re spouting metaphors and waxing poetic!”

“You can stop saying it like it’s a new toy,” I chuckle, rolling my eyes. “You sound like you just learned the word yesterday.”

“Well, maybe you should teach me how to use it properly,” she grins, jabbing me in the ribs with her elbow.

“This is already unbearable,” I say, turning away. “I’m going to bed. You can practice cursing here, alone, in the dark.”

“Oh, pish posh, Marie! You can’t wind me up and then walk off!”

“Goodnight, Lydia,” I sing over my shoulder, already halfway gone.

“Goodnight,” she says back, and I can hear the smile in her voice. Then it drops, just as she turns back to the water.

I pause a few steps out. Only for a moment.

“You alright?” I ask, not turning.

There’s a beat. Then her voice comes, quieter. “I'm fine. Just... thinking.”

I linger, but say nothing.

“These things take time,” she adds, like it's the end of a thought I wasn’t invited to hear.

“What things?” I ask.

She exhales. “All of it. The writing, the work. I’ll have time once this is all over. A couple months of peace and quiet and I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

I glance back. “What does that mean?”

“What does what mean?” she replies.

“‘Once this is all over.’ You say it like there’s a finish line.”

“I don’t know. I just… need a rest, Marie.”

Something about how she says it stops me cold. The words feel heavier than they should, like they’re pulling something behind them. I watch her leaning on the rail, staring out like the sea’s going to hand her a solution in its next breath.

The water moves like it always does. Even, endless. Back and forth. Back and forth. I wonder if that’s what she sees when she writes: lines moving without effort. She used to write for hours without stopping. I’ve noticed lately she taps her fingers before she starts, like she’s testing them.

She hasn't told me anything. But I’m not stupid.

We’ve been running for a while now. One job after the next. And now we’re headed to Eisehafen of all places, summoned like someone snapped their fingers and expects us to appear. I don’t know what waits for us there. I don’t think she does either. But I’m starting to realize she was never expecting a clean ending. Not really.

I leave her to the waves.

III: The Painter​

16th of Johannar, 1197 SA
Eisehafen, Northwestern Port City in the Republic of Buerren

​

“...I understand Marie, honest, but it's all about context. If you're forced into an environment against your will, obviously you're going to close yourself off! Does that make sense? Marie!? Hello!?”

Tom keeps pace beside me as we step off the ship and onto the Port of Eisehafen, still mid-lecture like I asked for a seminar. I’m too busy wrangling a luggage trolley with a bad wheel to respond. The thing keeps listing right like it’s drunk.

The air here smells like fish, salt, and something industrial. Ahead, the wooden planks feed into a waterfront market, all clamor and metal siding. I already hate it. But that’s probably the fatigue talking.

“Maybe it'll help to think about it like this,” Tom continues. “No one likes being thrown down a well, right? And even if you give a bloke the agency to go down the well himself, he might still hate it. But—”

“This metaphor isn’t helping you,” I say.

“Right, right, new one. No one likes being thrown into a pool—”

“That’s just a bigger hole!”

“You didn't give me a second to think!” Tom snaps. “Lydia, help me!”

Lydia walks a little behind us, unbothered. “Marie, learning something that doesn’t interest you right away can be frustrating. But if you frame it as a choice, not an obligation, it goes down easier. Sometimes, pretending to have agency is enough.”

I grunt. Still wrangling the trolley.

“And if that doesn’t work,” Tom adds, “you can treat it like prep. In case someone actually does throw you down a well someday.”

We both stare at him.

“And your initial argument was...”

“That you should let me teach you about boats,” he replies earnestly.

I pick up speed just to walk ahead for a bit. Let the conversation fade behind me.

"I don't understand what I'm doing wrong,” I hear Tom say to Lydia. “Boats are objectively awesome—”

“Ah, there's your problem,” she says. “Nothing is objectively awesome. But everything can be made subjectively awesome. You have to sell it, Tom. Study your target audience and find out what resonates with them. Nothing sells on passion alone. Passion or shitty metaphors.”

“Did you just cuss?” he says. I’m surprised he actually noticed.

“It's a new thing I'm trying. If I want my writing to resonate with the youth, I have to be vulgar like they are. See? Adapting to the target audience.” She snaps her fingers like that makes it official, then jogs to catch up. I let her.

The hotel’s a few blocks away. After that, Senheisen. No one’s meeting us here; the company expected us tomorrow. Thanks to whatever navigation wizardry Tom’s been raving about, we’re early. Not that I’m complaining. An empty hour in a new city sounds better than whatever welcoming committee they had planned.

If they even had one.

Navigating the sheer density of Eisehafen takes longer than any of us would like. The Benevol’s Senheisen registration means we’re allowed to dock at the more exclusive North Port—closer, in theory. In practice, we end up cutting through a maze of alleys between old brick townhouses just to escape the crowd.

Every now and then, we stumble across a little courtyard tucked into the blocks, a breath of air between climbs. But those grow rarer as we push deeper into the business district, where even the air feels owned. The streets clog with dealers and middlemen and overdressed nobodies trying to look like somebodies. I count six cravats in one corner and lose count at ten. Nobody moves unless a carriage threatens to run them over.

By the time we drop our bags at the hotel, my legs are already debating mutiny. Eisehafen’s infamous verticality lives up to the rumors: layer after layer of stone staircases stacked like bureaucratic misfortune. Lydia's words, not mine. The sun, meanwhile, beams down with the cheerful irony of an equatorial winter. Lydia, again.

Eventually, we reach one of Senheisen’s many gated checkpoints. The company’s secrecy is famous, especially here in Eisehafen, where most of its research and development gets done.

The plaza out front is mostly empty: some workers eating lunch, a couple engineers half-asleep on benches. It’s quiet here, cooler too. Mahogany trees ring the space, swaying in the upper-altitude breeze. For once, the buildings don’t blot out the sky. Past the trees, the Eisenbahnhof transit hub looms in the distance, easily dwarfing every other structure in the city.

Tom peels off to gawk. Lydia pulls out Ulmer’s signed credential and heads for the checkpoint.

I stay behind for a second, scanning the plaza. I don’t know what I’m expecting... maybe someone watching us, maybe something dramatic... but what actually catches my eye is a plaque. Bolted onto a waist-high concrete pedestal, clean and bold, right at the edge of the trees. I drift toward it before I can help myself.

It reads:

​

THIS SPACE HAS BEEN FORMALLY DEEMED:

A SENHEISEN-COMPLIANT ENVIRONMENT

PER SAFETY CODE 72F, REVISION 19

​

Below that, in fine print:​

“Environmental tranquility contributes to optimal morale output. Thank you for remaining calm.”

​

That’s it. No statue, no fountain. Just the plaque, the trees, the benches. A corporate-approved patch of public quiet.

“Everything alright?” Lydia calls.

“Yeah,” I say, still staring. “Just admiring the… morale output.”

She waves me over. I shake my head and rejoin them.

“We’re set?” I ask.

“To get in? Yes. To get out? Not without talking to more people than I’d like.”

Past the gate, it looks like nothing special. Just a clearing beyond a fence, and in the middle, a steel box embedded in the pavement. An elevator, probably. The real work’s always underground.

“If I'm not holding 25,000 halia within the next hour, someone's getting thrown down Tom’s well,” I mutter, eyes narrowing at the box as its front door slides open.

What emerges only makes me squint further.

Walking towards us is a distractingly handsome man in dress pants and a summer polo. A flat cap slumps over his perfect blonde hair yet manages not to ruin it. I frown immediately. There’s a specific kind of unease that only comes from someone who looks like they’ve never had a bad photo taken. Lydia furrows her brow too. Good. I’m not alone in this. 

Tom, somehow, looks completely unfazed. I expect jealousy. Maybe even a bit of theatrical insecurity. But his face is weirdly neutral.

The man gestures to the gate officer, and just like that, the iron bars begin parting. He turns back around and walks ahead, not a word spoken, guiding us through the gate.

He still isn’t speaking. Why isn’t he speaking? Why—oh Meris above.

We’re crammed into a beautiful elevator that looks like someone turned their grandmother’s parlor into a box. Flowery wallpaper. Crown molding. Too much pattern. Too little space. Lydia stands just centimeters from the golden boy, every muscle fully tensed. Tom is whistling, because of course he is. And me? I’m staring at Lydia, willing her to make eye contact before I crawl out of my skin.

She finally looks over.

"What’s wrong with him?" I mouth, nodding toward the man.

She shrugs, mouthing back, "Don’t ask me. I feel like we’ve been here for hours—"

"It’s been two minutes," the man cuts in smoothly, "and there’s really nothing wrong with me."

I jump slightly. Lydia freezes. He continues:

“Our complex runs quite far beneath the hill. My supervisor prefers her office on the lowest level. Should you wish, you may call me Egonn."

Silence hangs. No one moves. We all feel it, but no one else claims it.

"So… Egonn," I start, cocking my head, "why is your face so… symmetrical?"

"Marie!" Lydia hisses. "You can’t just ask—"

"It’s quite alright," Egonn replies, unbothered. "My father says I embody the stoicism of Löwe der Revoluzzer and the grace of Meris. My mother says I get my looks from my father. In a way, I suppose he was talking about himself."

He chuckles. Like it’s charming. Like that answers anything.

I narrow my eyes. Lydia says nothing.

"One man to another," Tom says, voice bright, "I’d say your fashion sense has a great deal to do with it. That polo is marvelous."

Egonn actually laughs. And—Meris help me—it sounds real.

I don’t like this.

"But really, Egonn," I say, "you’re much too put-together to be real. Are you sure Senheisen didn’t assemble you in a lab?"

He tugs at his cheek, squishing his face with mock concern. Then he turns to me. "I’m fairly certain I came about the same way you did. Except for the twin business, of course."

The elevator dings. I exhale.

"Here we are," he says, stepping out.

We follow him into a circular chamber. Marble floor. Stone walls. Stone dome. One chandelier dangling above a desk that looks out of place in all this grandeur. Behind it, an old man with a face like a preserved lemon in a tailored suit.

"A day early?" he says with a voice that sounds like it’s been scraped with sandpaper. "Seems our investments in the Hydronautics Division have paid off, eh Egonn? Names, please."

“Lydia Terell.”

“Marie Terell.”

"Uh… Tom—Thomas Schiffe," Tom blurts.

The man flips through a paper, then stops. "I don’t have a 'Thomas Schiffe' on the ledger. Egonn?"

“I believe Herr Schiffe will be listed as a 'Bardic Consultant,' Herr Jannik,” Egonn replies.

Jannik squints. "This is the man who changed the minds of an entire village in ten minutes?"

"I imagine it was a group effort. But yes," Egonn answers.

"Very well. She’s ready to see you. Herr Schiffe, I suggest you let your companions do the talking."

Tom shrinks himself smaller as we follow Egonn behind Jannik's desk toward a set of looming double doors.

“We keep a good bit of halia in every division headquarters, as is standard procedure. I'm sure you've guessed that by now, Lydia.” The woman smiles as she adjusts the nameplate on her desk: Sibylle Lang - Chief Operating Officer, Northeast Division.

She stands with outstretched hands, the centre of an office that somehow feels more like a converted studio. There are awards and diplomas on the wall, sure, but also amateur landscapes, easels, a half-finished self-portrait in the corner.

Lydia scans her like she always does, eyes darting for subtext. I can practically hear her cataloguing everything: the curated outfit, the intentional tone, the perfectly imperfect hair. I wait to see what she lands on.

“I’ve been guessing that for the past eight days, yes,” Lydia replies.

Lang sits, gesturing to the seats. “Tell me, then, why you think you're here. Entertain me,” she says.

Tom hangs back per Jannik's advice, which leaves one open. I move toward it, but Lang waves me off.

“You too, Thomas,” she insists. He obeys. I stay standing. Whatever. I glance at Lydia. She’s just as thrown off. Good, still on the same page. This woman feels like a monologue waiting to happen.

“Hranost was an audition,” Lydia says. “Senheisen intends to continue using our services.”

Lang perks up. “That’s a curious word.”

Lydia tilts her head, caught off guard. “I'm sorry?”

“'Use,' my dear, 'use.' All this talk of using. We use you, you use us. So transactional, no? Such a negative connotation.” She leans in a bit too enthusiastically, as if she's trying to warm the room with feeling alone. “Be honest, did you two feel used in Hranost?”

Lydia hesitates. Hesitates. That’s rare. “From my understanding, the company had a goal, and we were the tool it used to accomplish it. I don't understand—”

“Aha!” Lang cuts in. “Another word I detest: ‘tool!’ Why would you refer to yourself like that? Isn’t your value your humanity? Can one’s humanity be a tool?”

Lydia plays along, a little too stiffly. “I suppose not, Frau Lang.”

“Oh, enough of that! Call me Sibylle, dear. And drop that stiff spine of yours! You’re among artists!” Lang throws her arms out dramatically, as if she’s opening a stage curtain. “Writing’s your joy, is it not? Don’t tell me you felt nothing making the Huntsman come to life. And you, Thomas, what a performance!”

Lydia furrows her brow, clearly trying to read the woman. It’s not working.

“Yes... Sibylle. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't an engaging job—”

“Enough!” she barks, slapping the table. We all jolt. Somehow she’s still smiling, but there’s a slight vein popping on her forehead.

“‘Use.’ ‘Tool.’ ‘Job!’ Horrible words, the lot of them! Look, look here, both of you. The beauty of art is inherent, no? Your—our love of it comes from the act of doing, from being embroiled in that exploration! It shouldn't matter what the context is, yet you keep returning your attention to these details of employment as if they somehow drag the beauty out of the process. We're artists, dammit! Flexibility is our superpower! You could lock me in a box for a week and I'd be content as long as I had my paints and canvas! If anything, my caged psyche would probably create a piece full of even more value than if I were to simply laze around some godforsaken beach cabin and paint whenever I felt like it!”

And then, just like that, she deflates. Like she’s popped her own balloon. She clutches a self-portrait like it might keep her from unravelling entirely. “I—I'm sorry, you two. I tend to get quite heated on this subject. There's just so many of us out there, wasting away because they can't see a better way forward. I wish I could take them all in and keep them safe with me, but not all dreams are permissible.”

Lydia softens. It’s subtle, but I can tell. “Sibylle, I’ll try. I’ll do better at... appreciating the process. Can we ask, though, why we’re here?”

Lang nods, pulling out a slip of paper. “Ideally, I’d have brought you on here, in this office. Found you a real place. I’ve followed your career for years, Lydia. Every speech, every article. I’ve cried through half of them. I’m a fan.”

“I’m flattered,” Lydia says, cautious. “But we’re not engineers. We’re writers, performers. This place—what you do—it’s not exactly our medium.”

Lang exhales. Her hands are twitching now. “I know. Truthfully, you’re only here because this is the nearest regional office to Hranost. The real offer is from Central Headquarters in Buerrenstadt.”

And then she lunges over the desk, grabbing Lydia and Tom by the wrists. I don’t think—my hand’s already clamped over hers. She flinches like I just burned her, and something in her expression curdles before smoothing out again.

“I would have found a place for you here,” she says. Her voice is soft now. “We would've done wonderful things together.” Her eyes water lightly as she maintains a neutral smile. Then she waves the moment away like it didn’t just happen, shoving the paper into Lydia’s hands.

“Sen—ahem—Senheisen is starting a new initiative,” she begins, any hint of soul now gone from her voice. “We're calling it 'A Century of Peace.' As we move into this coming century, the company is seeking to rebrand as a force for good. This means a complete upheaval of our brand identity, our core values, all of it. Focusing on our health and wellness sectors, improving customers’ quality of life, all while stepping back from arms production and private infantry. Given your prior track record and your stellar performance with the Borleyni Division, we'd like to bring you two on as consultants. The company is prepared to offer you up to 275,000 halia each, as well as accommodations in the capital for the duration of your stay.”

My eyes nearly pop out of my skull. Tom looks like he’s going to faint. Lydia, though, remains completely unfazed. “Is my sister included?” she says, sharp.

“Not in the consultancy. But we’re prepared to offer a larger accommodation,” Lang replies. She hasn’t looked away from Lydia once.

“Can we have time to discuss?”

“You have a week. If you decide to accept, arrive at Central Headquarters in Buerrenstadt at noon on the 23rd.”

Lang's eyes had slowly dulled as she'd gone over the spiel, like she'd reverted to her standard corporate persona. I can still feel the weirdness of that outburst clinging to the walls, but there’s something pathetic in her now too. Like she knows she overshot it.

We stand. Lydia takes one last look around the office. I follow her gaze. The paintings are... more familiar than I’d like to admit. Not in content, but in feeling.

“Thank you, Sybille,” Lydia says. “And... your landscapes are beautiful. I hope you keep painting.” Those words are definitely familiar.

We leave, and behind us, Lang’s face softens... just a little.

“It was lovely meeting the three of you,” Egonn says with a slight bow. He gestures to the gate office, and just like that, the checkpoint begins to creak open again.

“And you, Egonn,” Lydia replies, offering her hand. He takes it, then pulls out a small briefcase and hands it off.

“25,000 halia, as promised,” he says. “Frau Terell, your final words to Frau Lang… thank you. I'm sure it meant a great deal to her.”

Lydia dips her head. “It was nothing, really,” she murmurs. Of course it wasn’t nothing. She always knows what to say, even when she doesn’t.

Egonn turns to Tom next. “Herr Schiffe, do return when you can. I’ll gladly take you shopping around South Harbor.”

Tom laughs, that breathless, awkward kind of laugh he does when he isn’t sure if he’s being complimented or mocked. Maybe both.

Then Egonn turns to me.

He doesn’t reach for a handshake. He just takes my hands outright, like I’ve agreed to something I didn’t hear. I let him. Not because I want to, but because resisting feels… harder, somehow.

“Not… not all of us were born to paint,” he says, eyes soft in a way that makes me want to look anywhere else. There’s no judgment in his face, but it still lands like one.

I lift my chin to meet his gaze, though it takes more effort than I expect. For half a second I think about saying something flippant. Something that sounds like me. But the words don’t come. Not this time.

He bows, gently, and walks off.

Lydia places her hand on my shoulder. Not heavy. Just enough weight to make me feel it. She leads us down the hill, quiet. Tom shuffles behind, for once not filling the silence.

The mahogany shadows have grown with the fall of the evening sun. I watch them dance in the wind, a shallow echo of what casts them. All shape, no substance. Too familiar.​