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Chapter Text

Day I

"Are you ready, Madame Royale?" inquired Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert.

Her Royal Highness Henrietta De Tristain, heir-apparent to the throne of the Kingdom of Tristain, nodded resolutely, her ornate wand held tightly in her grip. Her gaze was focused on the pentagram she had drawn on the flattened soil of the conservatory of the royal palace. To her right stood her most loyal retainer Captain Agnès Chevalier De Milan while to her right observed her most reliable advisor Cardinal Jules Mazarin.

"I'm ready, Professeur."

Colbert nodded. "Very well, Madame Royale. Please begin."

While she may not have attended the Académie Royale Tristain Des Arcanes or any similar institution across Halkeginia, she was still a trained and adept practitioner of magic occupying the highest standing among the aristocracy. It was logical for her to partake in sacred tradition—more as a necessity since she was two years overdue for this—and it made practical sense for the heir-apparent to have her own familiar. After all, her late father had lost his own during the war with the Germanian Confederation several years ago while her mother's familiar remained largely retired, lounging either in her personal quarters or out in the yard.

Henrietta took a deep breath before raising her hand and reciting the words of the Invocation Familière Sanctifiée.

The first few moments of the ritual passed as normally as the overseeing Académie professor could tell. Then, all of a sudden, her wand suddenly released a massive burst of energy so bright that it nearly blinded all those present. Agnès, Mazarin, and Colbert were nearly thrown off their feet at the sudden subsequent shockwave that shattered glass, displaced furniture, and uprooted most of the neatly trimmed verdure in the conservatory.

Henrietta, however, remained firmly unmoved but flabbergasted at the amount of raw power she had exuded. For a triangle-class water mage, the magic she had released was more than what a square-class mage could conjure.

"Madame Royale!" coughed Agnès. "Are you alright!?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" the princess answered, shaking off her retainer's grip on her. "Is everyone alright?"

Mazarin returned to his place alongside Colbert but this time, they were wary of the fifth figure occupying the center of the pentagram.

The captain of the Corps Royal Des Mousquetaires immediately stood before her charge with her hands poised to draw on either her blade or one of her many flintlock pistols. "Madame Royale, is that...your familiar?"

Henrietta felt her throat dry up as she now took in the sight of her summon: a man.

A large man in a long, brown, dusty coat and a weathered wide-brimmed hat. His face was hidden behind an odd yet unnerving iron (steel?) mask. His blackened cuirass was lined with belts that carried pouches, satchels, and pockets for small brass vials. He even wore on his right hand a strange, steel gauntlet inset with glowing jewels and a large shimmering emerald gem. Yet, the most alarming details were the assortment of weapons on his person: a short bastard sword sheathed by his hip, a quartet of odd steel pistols holstered all over his body, and a bulky musket wrapped in rags slung over his shoulder.

The princess felt her breath hitch. Ignoring Agnès's warnings and gesturing at Mazarin and Colbert not to intervene, Henrietta approached her summon. He easily towered over her, his glowing green eyes striking fear into hers. And the odor... Brimir above, he smelled! The musk of dried sweat, the pungent scent of strong drink, and the stinging in her nostrils that could only come from burning sulfur or...saltpeter?

Had this man come from the depths of Hell?

No. She could not be distracted by tangential inquiries. She needed to finish the Invocation...before this would get out of hand.

"Monsieur, may I ask that you please remove your mask?" the princess requested.

The man did not respond, instead, tilting his head slightly.

Henrietta realized that he may not be from Tristain. So she gestured as best she could that he reveal his face.

After a while, the man reciprocated. He fiddled with the straps that seemed to hold his mask in place before it finally came off, hanging below his chin. What greeted her hesitant gaze was an unkempt, bearded face smeared in grime and bearing the weight of several years.

She stepped back and, after a hesitant nod from Colbert, she recited the final phrases of the Invocation.

The summoned man, though confused, remained unmoving until Henrietta gestured at him as though she wished to speak in his ear.

He complied, bowing his head, and immediately felt her lips press against his cheek.

What followed was a rapid series of actions and reactions that nearly ended with Henrietta's death had it not been for the timely intervention of the other three people present. Thankfully, no one was seriously injured...unless scrapes, cuts, and minor bruises were considered serious enough. And that was not to mention the odd Brimiric runes burned into the mysterious man's right hand as a result of the Invocation being successfully completed. Likewise, property damage still counted and some laborers had to be brought in to repair the conservatory...or what was left of it.

Unfortunately, as Mazarin pointed out later that evening, there were going to be serious complications for a human familiar summoned by the crown princess of one of the four Brimiric kingdoms of Halkeginia. An intelligent, volatile, uncouth, and very dangerous human familiar.

-~oOo~-

Day IV

There were indeed dire consequences.

Henrietta did not need either Agnès or Mazarin to inform her of the not-so-subtle hints of resistance from the Church, the aristocracy, and even the plebes when it came to discussing the sudden stranger who appeared at her side and began functioning as her 'right hand.' It was all disconcerting with the wild rumors that began to spread throughout the capital Tristania.

Additionally, the revelations from Professor Colbert and Académie Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond, both of whom had rushed from their institution in County Hainault to deliver their findings in person, only instilled greater fear in Henrietta's heart. Thankfully, she showed none of that even after Cardinal Mazarin highlighted the possible actions to take should the Church in Romalia receive word that the heir-apparent to the throne of the Kingdom of Tristain was actually a Void mage.

For Brimir's sake, her element was water!

How was it even possible that she could also be a wielder of the lost element? Of the powers that only Brimir himself could successfully practice? While it was true that over the six thousand years since his death that there were cases of those suspected to be aligned to that affinity but the Church and many other groups like it had very little tolerance for that.

Then again, the current pope Saint Aegis XXXII was seen to be among the more lenient of the holy fathers...

"Well, shit," whistled the princess's familiar who, until now, preferred to go by his nom de guerre Courier Six (or 'the Courier' or 'Six' or whichever; Henrietta stopped caring). "Sounds like the inquisition's gon' come knockin' on your front doors soon, Henny."

Captain Agnès, Cardinal Mazarin, Professor Colbert, and Director Osmond all gave him stern looks but otherwise did not loudly rebuke him. After all, the man had shown that their reprimands entered his one ear only to leave out the other. Henrietta at least did not have to raise her hand to placate them for being slighted on her behalf; the princess was inwardly more welcoming of the pet name her familiar had for her. It was a decent relief from her formal, courtly life.

"I do hope you jest often, Monsieur Sixième," Mazarin worded. "This is not a matter to be taken very lightly."

The Courier unfolded his hands and pushed himself off the column he was leaning against. "Oh, as a matter of fact, ole Julio, I do take this seriously."

"You don't seem to act like it," Agnès snorted.

"I mean, I am Henny's familiar. Her 'loyal companion' and 'personal bodyguard for life' if we stick to the definitions given by your eggheads here."

Offhandedly, Proffessor Colbert rubbed his hairless scalp while mouthing to himself whether or not his baldness was related to the term of being an 'egg-head.'

"That don' mean I'm leavin' you," the Courier continued. "I mean, I got all the world out there to explore and I have the means and the will to fight my way out if it comes to that."

"Be careful with your words, Sixième," the musketeer captain growled.

To which, the familiar gestured at her to let go of the hilt of her sword. "Really antsy today, aren't you, Angie? But just 'cause I can ditch Henny doesn't mean I'd do it in a heartbeat. She's got to deal with problems a girl like her shouldn't. And that don' sit right with me."

"So by your conviction," echoed Director Osmond, "you will stand by Her Majesty's side as her familiar."

Courier Six smirked. "I like your smarm, old man. We should sit down for a drink some time. Talk about enlightenment and the fifth element."

Osmond simpered and rubbed his long gray beard. "Why, I would gladly accept the offer, Monsieur Sixième. Alas, my work at the Académie leaves little time for leisure."

"That's understandable. Work's always a bitch, after all."

The director snickered loudly. "That's one way of putting it."

Professor Colbert cleared his throat. "Pardon for the interjection, you two, but may we resume our discussion of dealing with any impending Papal Inquisition in light of Her Royal Highness's case as a Void mage?"

"How," Henrietta breathed loudly, ignoring the attention centering back to her. "How is it possible that I am both a mage of water and a mage of...of Void? All my training, all my lessons... My element has always been water!"

"Madame Royale, while the Church is the most knowledgeable of Brimir and his powers, I must admit that we are not entirely accurate," Mazarin explained. "Hence, we continue to study the reasons for why things were and why things continue in the manner that they should not be. I am sure there are various theses written over the years exploring these avenues. I doubt the Inquisition would overlook any archival research in their fact-finding. The case of a person being of the Void since Brimir is not uncommon."

The Courier grunted, resting his calloused hand on the princess's shoulder. "Eh, look on the bright side, Henny. You can use two elements. Two's better than one. And I'm pretty damn sure you ain't the only one in the whole known world who can pull that off."

The cardinal sighed. "Simplistic. But Monsieur Sixième has a point. Mastery over two elements is quite a common case and generally accepted in many circles. Additionally, such an advantage even yields immense practical usage."

"And a lot of jealous mages from all walks of life," muttered Agnès, "including incumbent rulers of powerful realms."

Henrietta shook her head. "But how can I be...how can I...?"

"I'm sure there's been someone in your history who's done what you did," the familiar said softly.

"And that's supposed to make me what? 'Special?'" snorted the princess as she remained despondently seated on her recliner.

Much to the surprise of most everyone in the regal chamber, her familiar stooped down to a knee in front of her so he could meet her in the eye. "Henny, you're special not 'cause you're a princess but 'cause you got somethin' that'll shake the boots off even the bigs-shots on this whole continent. And from where I'm from, that's not somethin' to be afraid of. That's somethin' to capitalize on."

Mazarin gasped. "You can't be seriously suggesting—"

"I ain't tellin' her to wage war, Julio. I'm only sayin' that Henny's got somethin' goin' for her. Somethin' big, game-changing. And, based on what I've been pickin' up about how things work around here, we best not screw it up else we're gon' be lookin' at some shit-storms we can't handle."

"We risk antagonizing the Church," the cardinal warned.

"And they ain't gon' come in here with pitchforks and torches right from the get go," the Courier retorted. "You believe in a god, sure, but you ain't stupid. I know holy men can be annoyin' as all livin' hell but a lot o' holy men I met in my travels are pretty damn smart. Way more than me. And I know they're gon' be tickin' all the boxes 'fore they do somethin' drastic."

The musketeer captain furrowed her brow. "How can you be so sure of all that?"

"Angie, it's just how people behave. No matter the time or place, no matter how sophisticated or hifalutin, we're all the same. People gon' be lookin' for answers to mysteries they find and a lot o' folks are smart enough to do some right diggin' 'fore they gon' be bustin' down doors." He turned to Professor Colbert. "Ain't that right, Baldy?"

"Pardon Monsieur Sixième, but may I reiterate that my name is Jean-Baptiste Colbert. Not 'Bal-dee.' And yes... It is more beneficial to understand the unknown through the sources given than to trudge blindly into the abyss."

Henreitta looked up and saw the confidence in her summon's weighted eyes, the vindicated smile he sported to all those present. While his vocabulary would fit among the dregs of society, he was still an intelligent man speaking from study and experience. And she could tell that, no matter how many times Agnès or Mazarin would deny it, Courier Six was actually speaking some wisdom...for a thuggish commoner...with powerful muskets and a mystical steel gauntlet that hummed with a mysterious energy that made her skin crawl.

-~oOo~-

Day V

Henrietta found her familiar to be a mixed blessing. While his behavior and demeanor was generally aggravating, his actions often meant well.

Courier Six rarely minced his words and was willing to prove his point through brute force, even to the drawing of blood. The coldness in his voice and the lack of emotion in his eyes when he threatened to kill Agnès during a particularly heated argument proved that he was more than a mere commoner of some dispensable level of martial skill. Rather, there was no reason to doubt that the princess's familiar had seen his fair share of bloodshed in realms where water was scarce, sand buried ruined cities, the air remained poisoned for over two hundred years...and magic had long ceased to exist in the minds of man.

Such a life in a such a place would have no doubt created a monster.

Henrietta blinked to clear her mind (she did not summon a monster!) and waved away the smoke wafting over to her from the discharge of one of Agnès's flintlock pistols. A handful of the princess's own Corps Royal Des Mousquetaires were present at the shooting range of their barracks to observe the apparent 'testing' of their weaponry by 'Her Royal Highness's herald.'

"Not too shabby," he remarked, examining the weapon he just fired.

Across the field, the target sported a clean hole in its head.

"Your aim is...impeccable," Agnès observed (Henrietta had known her long enough to detect the awe and begrudging admiration in her voice). "At this distance...and with just a pistol."

The Courier let out a grunt as he handed back her firearm before gesturing at one of the observing musketeers for a musket.

The next shot, fired from the signature weapon of the princess's elite guard, yielded a far more accurate result with the ball once again lodging into the quintain's head, a bare inch above the last one.

"And you say you are a courier," Henrietta quipped nervously.

"I was," her familiar answered. "Deliverin' packages is a dangerous job, y'know."

No one disagreed with that. The life of a messenger was always rife with danger. Additionally, they had seen the ugly scars on his forehead and heard the grisly tale of how that came to be.

"So, Angie. What's your plan when goin' up against mages?" he asked.

"We have a variety of approaches," Agnès replied, having already consigned herself to that sobriquet. "The immediate approach is to fire first before the mage can cast a spell. It's not quite straightforward and is rather risky, especially when confronting them without the assistance of one's comrades."

Henrietta sat back on her chair as her retainer continued to list the various ways Tristain's royal musketeers dealt with their foes.

At the end of the discussion, the man let out a snort. "That's it, huh. Seems like y'all need some work."

To this, several of royal musketeers raised their brows. Agnès, in particular, folded her arms, posturing to accept a challenge. "I'm open to suggestions, Sixième."

The smile that the Courier gave off was most unnerving. "Good."

-~oOo~-

Day IX

Henrietta walked out onto the balcony of the royal palace to find her familiar seated on a cushioned chair, stargazing while indulging in the hardest liquor that could be found in the royal cellars. From the look on his face, she could tell that he was still mesmerized by the beauty of the two moons. She could not hold it against him for being captivated by such a common sight as the man, after all, had been summoned from a place where civilization was buried under toxic sand and only a single white moon hung in the sky.

Such rare shows of serenity dispelled the image of a heartless mercenary that he seemed to relish cultivating. He may had formed a habit of antagonizing Mazarin, vexing Agnès, and giving Henrietta another headache to worry about. But, strangely enough, he behaved in the presence of her mother.

Her Majesty Queen Marianne De Tristain had become a fragile shell of herself in the wake of the passing of His Majesty King Henri De Tristain. The woman was still grieving and was having immense difficulty in properly leading her realm. And it seemed, as Henrietta, Agnès, Mazarin, and much of the palace staff observed, that Courier Six never pushed a person who was in mourning. And maybe, in the princess's mind, her familiar was himself in mourning.

"You want somethin'?" said familiar asked without shifting his gaze.

"It's late."

"I know, Henny." He emptied his goblet before filling it back up again. "Damn good stuff."

"You seem to be acclimating well," she remarked.

"You could say that I finally got it through to my head that this is my new reality now. No use in achin' for the past when the present is ten times better."

"Your past is harsh. Perhaps that is why your training regimen has been quite grueling."

He scoffed. "They say it takes ten musketeers to take down one mage. At best, takes five. In my books, it should only take one. One shot, one kill."

She winced at the mention of killing. "It is...unconventional."

"Heard it all, Henny. 'Disgraceful,' 'dishonorable.' 'Conduct unbecoming.' Like I give a damn. Let's be pragmatic here. You want a rogue mage taken down? Do some research first. If he's guilty, he won't stick around to hear the damn spiel about his rights to an attorney. One bullet to the noggin 'fore he has a chance to either bolt or burn you to a crisp."

Henrietta could not fault him for such logic; it did, after all, make sense to dispense with the unnecessary rituals in a serious situation. Though, she winced at how hard he was 're-training' Agnès and the rest of the Corps Royal Des Mousquetaires.

"Angie wants me to lighten up, huh," quipped Courier Six.

"I've heard complaints. But I think Agnès sees the wisdom in your methods."

"She's a tough girl. Been through hell, that much I can tell. Well, tell her that I ain't plannin' on drillin' 'em to death." He made a gesture with his left hand, imitating the shape of a pistol, before mimicking the recoil from it firing. "Just have to fine tune 'em a bit more."

The princess noticed the faint glow from his gauntlet—'Pip-boy,' he called it—lighting up the four bottles on the table, three of which were empty. "Don't you ever worry about your health?"

"I've been through worse," he dismissed.

She sighed, sitting on the vacant chair across from him. "Very well. Um, how has the past week been for you so far?"

The man with the ugly scar on his forehead regarded her with a flat look. "I'm surprised I ain't dead already."

Henrietta frowned. "Don't jest, please. I'm expressing serious concern for your behavior and your regard for the—"

"Look, Henny, I know that you want to, uh, bridge the gap between us." He set his goblet down on the table, showcasing the space on his right wrist where the Divine runes of the Invocation Familière Sanctifièe had been etched into his skin, probably burned all the way to the bone. "And I don't really have a say in the matter when an Abrahamic god—"

"Brimir."

"Whatever. Father Abraham's counterpart in these lands. I don't have a say when he's basically branded me to be someone's slave."

"You're not a slave!"

"Synonyms, Henny."

The princess deflated, her hands tightening over her lap. "I don't want you treated like a servant. I want you treated as an equal. You've shown that you more than merit it."

Shrug. "Eh, if you're referrin' to yourself, then you're doin' a good job of it."

"You're my familiar. As your superior, I'm just...very concerned about the ramifications of what you've been doing."

Her familiar, the supposed 'Right Hand Of God' according to the runes on his hand, sniggered. "If you're talkin' 'bout that little tiff between me and ole Julio—"

"Cardinal Jules Mazarin," corrected Henrietta.

"We kissed and made up, don't worry."

"I would appreciate it if you weren't so crass."

"Can't help myself. Some habits die hard and some languages just can't be unlearned."

"Still, did you have to insult him in front of the entire court?"

The Courier waved dismissively. "We had a disagreement. He pushed, I pushed back. Things got heated. You know how it is."

"Meetings are supposed to be civil."

"Ideally. Realistically, though..."

The princess dipped her head into her hands. "I know, I know. But I have to know why...why do you have to make things so difficult for me..."

"Am I?" The man looked genuinely confused. "I thought it was just normal for a place like this. Y'know, how kings and queens and jesters and the annoyin' little pricks who constantly suck on your toes so they could get cushier seats..."

"Please don't refer to my subjects or their conduct as...as that."

"Well pardon me being blunt, Madame Royale, but you just have to get used to it." He ran his hand over his scalp as the moonlight accentuated the hideous scars where two musket balls apparently lodged into his skull. "Can't teach an old dog new tricks as they say."

"You're not that old."

"I'm old enough to be your father."

Henrietta regarded him tiredly. "Is it too much to ask that you please...behave yourself a bit more?"

"Am I not?"

"No."

Shrug. "Well, I'll keep tryin' then. Can't guarantee a better success rate though."

"We gave you a title. We crafted a lie to defend your place by my side. You have to behave as the knight that you are lest I will be forced to have you expelled from the palace grounds and I cannot have that. Especially not at this time. So please, for our sakes and the sake of this kingdom, don't undo all of our efforts. Don't...don't ruin everything..."

Silence.

Followed by a sigh.

And the Courier leaning over from his seat. "Henny, I know you're doin' all you can to save your people. I ain't blind to that. But know that I've got my reasons for actin' the way I do. And some o' that's been hardwired into me 'cause o' where I'm from. Like I said: you can't teach an old dog new tricks."

The moment hung in silence before the princess tried another avenue. "In that case... How bad was your world? How terrible was it that you are willing to risk so much? That you are...who you are."

He laughed. "If I told you everythin', we'd be here all night."

She mulled that. The moons were not that high up in the sky and her mother had already retired for the evening. Mazarin and Agnès were at the former's office going through her itinerary for tomorrow and that often led to long-winded arguments which sometimes lasted hours. So far, the princess had the rest of the night off. And it really was already late.

Then again, she couldn't sleep. Not with so much going on.

"I can spare the time." With that, the seventeen-year-old royal grabbed his wine and took a swig straight from the half-empty bottle. Brimir above, the kick was strong! What little taste there was had been diluted by the potency of the spirits of the ale.

Her familiar snickered. "That's behavior most unbecoming of you, Madame Royale."

The princess slammed the bottle down on the table. "I blame you for your horrible influence."

"Hate to say I'm proud of it."

Her throat burned and her tongue had yet to do away with the bitterness of the drink but at least she had reason to stay by his side. "Now. You said your tale would last all throughout the night."

"If you have the time."

"I do have the time," Henrietta bit back. "Start talking. That's an order."

For the first time, Courier Six laughed. "Alright, Henny, I hear you. Let's start with an old saying back where I'm from. It's about war. And war... War never changes."

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: December 23, 2020

LAST EDITED: January 8, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 1, 2021

Chapter Text

Day XII

Henrietta sagged ungraciously onto the settee in the royal chamber. She ignored the shouting match in front of her, opting instead to massage her temples to drive away the impending headache courtesy of the most recent actions of her familiar.

Or, according to the tale they came up with, her newest 'traditionalist' bodyguard; an 'unconventional' knight-errant whose actions and dedicated service merited his low noble title (and offset his egregious behavior). Already, half her royal court was starting to doubt the story. So far, though, no one had yet considered the possibility that the man was her familiar. After all, the concept of a human familiar was laughable at best and blasphemous at worst.

Then again, very few people outside her inner circle were aware of the fact that she had partaken in the Invocation earlier than usual. After all, the annual hosting of the sacred ritual summoning of familiars was due in a few weeks time. Maybe a student at the Académie would summon a person instead of a mindless beast. Though that would mean that the summoner was a Void mage as well. And the presence of two Void mages on Tristainian soil would be enough of a melting pot for instability, even without the Church getting involved. Thankfully, such hypothetical controversies were not the focus of today's argument.

"Do you have any idea how thin the line is that you have tread!?" hollered Cardinal Mazarin.

"As a matter of fact, I do, my ole pal Julio," flippantly countered Courier Six. Or, more formally, Sir Françoise Achille Bazaine (interestingly, the man himself came up with the name, citing an old hero from his home).

"Is that so, Chevalier Bazaine? Well I am most unconvinced of your in-depth knowledge of politics and diplomacy!"

"That's just you. Me? Well, you could say that today I learned a bit more 'bout how politics work here in Tristain."

Finding her voice, the princess barked out for silence. Shortly thereafter, she tiredly ordered her familiar to shut up and her advisor to cool his head. Their yelling was making hers hurt.

Cardinal Mazarin apologized before he continued his tirade against her familiar in a more subdued tone. He grimly admitted that nothing could stop this newest disaster from happening without serious ramifications for Her Royal Highness and the Crown. It was bad enough that she lacked the genuine support of most of Tristain's noble houses. While the combined professional soldiery of her own demesne could suffice for a small army, it was still small compared to a coalition of the other dominions under the Crown. And that was not to mention the commoner levies who, according to her agents in the streets, were not as loyal to her as they should be.

"Her Royal Highness's reputation carries her authority, you know," interjected Agnès who seemed to have been fighting off the same headache. Loud, competing voices in a room tended to bring great discomfort.

"If that's the case, then this'll put the fear o' God in 'em," the Courier retorted, tapping the glistening steel on his hip.

"Musketry?" the musketeer captain scoffed. "Believe me, Sixième. I've dealt with rebellious nobles before and it is not as easy as you think it is."

"That's you. Not me."

"What's the difference? You can't do magic."

"Nope. But I can shoot straight."

Both the musketeer captain and the cardinal held back their rebuttals. And Henrietta knew why.

The muskets her familiar carried were unlike any manufactured in Halkeginia. While he refused to have his weapons appraised by anyone, Agnès's keen eye discerned of them a superior quality and technological superiority that far surpassed even the most advanced firearms ever known. These strange weapons were forged out of polished steel with the barrels 'rifled' for sharper accuracy and, in the Courier's words, 'greater stopping power.' Unlike the flintlocks that were the staple of most armies throughout the continent, Sir Bazaine wielded deafening hand-cannons that spat out less smoke yet were more damaging than a powerful square-class offensive spell.

And that was not to mention the mechanisms that made such weapons work so efficiently. Spinning chambers, oiled levers, coiled springs... The princess did not know which was more frightening: either Courier Six's guns could shoot several times without the need to reload or the process of reloading itself lasting quicker than the time it would take a mage to draw his wand. The mangled remains of the quintains in the training yard of the Corps Royale Des Mousquetaires were evidence of such deadly firepower.

Agnès drew out her words. "Sixième, you do know how duels work here, right?"

"O' course I do, Angie. I did my research."

"Research, huh. What about experience?"

"Come on, now. You forgot your drills?"

"As much as I appreciate your training regimen, I doubt you'd manage a clean shot against an accomplished mage the likes of Comté Jules Mott De Hainault!" barked the musketeer captain. "He is a triangle-class water mage with two years of military service and a lifetime of mastery over his element. Men of his skill could cast faster than we could aim! If there was anything he genuinely earned in his life, it's his runic name of La Vague!"

The Courier tilted his head. "What is it the Good Book said? We're all the same in the eyes o' the Lord."

Mazarin frowned deeper. "Le Fondateur Brimir gifted his descendants with magic to guide the less fortunate—"

"Magic or no, we still return to the dust, ole Julio. Just 'cause the prick can wave a stick right doesn't mean he's invincible."

The cardinal huffed. "Are you seriously entertaining the prospect of a duel à l'outrance?"

Agnès groused. "Knowing Comté De Hainault, he would insist on it. Probably wager his entire county like he did that one time. And since he issued the challenge so publicly, it would be detrimental to Her Royal Highness if her 'right-hand man' was to deny it. Not at this time. And not with so much on the line."

"It's too late to back down now," Henrietta interjected sternly, regarding her familiar with a rare show of anger. "Comté De Hainault has yet to mention any stipulations regarding your upcoming duel, Sixième."

Courier Six gave her a very unsettling grin. "Well, Madame Royale, we're going to find out tomorrow."

-~oOo~-

Day XIII

The duel lasted a quarter of a minute.

It was the most shocking affair in the history of Tristain and, Henrietta dreaded, perhaps even the whole of Halkeginia.

In the middle of the field of honor of the royal palace—trimmed grounds hallowed specifically for sanctioned duels—lay the broken corpse of Count Jules Mott 'The Wave' De Hainault, the royal messenger. The midmorning sun shown down brightly over the cadaver, three large holes ripped into it. The dumbfounded spectators, most of whom held high stations in Tristain's peerage as well as considerable mastery of their arcane affinity, could only gawk at the supposedly 'bastard knight' who had bested a trained, martially competent, and experienced triangle-class water mage.

From her seat, the princess stared wide-eyed at the haunting, lifeless visage of the deceased royal messenger.

For a moment, only the morning breeze made noise.

Then someone coughed. And another wheezed. Soon, the yard was filled with flabbergasted whispers and mutters of denial, of disbelief, of abhorrence at the fact that an unshaven commoner flaunting a noble title had put down a far superior aristocratic foe with only three shots from some damned musket.

Henrietta, stiff in her seat, cautiously swept her stunned gaze over those in attendance.

Across the field, Duke Antoine IV De Gramont regarded the spectacle with an air of defiance; a hardened man who followed in his family's long history of distinguished military service, it was clear he was appraising what he had witnessed. The Tristainian senior commandant almost always advocated research into military innovation and having witnessed a pistol that fired thrice in rapid succession without a need to load in a lead ball through the barrel, pour in the powder, and set the mechanism to spark on the trigger... Duke De Gramont had enough discipline to hide his catharsis.

Under the colonnade, Viscount Jean-Jacques Francis De Wardes, however, was appalled. His grey hairs twitched across his face. Clearly, the commander of Tristain's vaunted Corps De Chevaliers Griffons stood corrected in his initial assumptions of Mott's opponent. The griffon knight commander may be quick and deadly efficient with his rapier-wand but he was wise enough to recognize a foe with commendable martial skill with even the most rudimentary weapons. Cowed, Viscount Wardes eased back into the shadows.

Beside the princess, Cardinal Jules Mazarin blinked emptily as he listened to the whispers of Archduke Olivier De Poitiers. Both men were now recounting the duel, moment by moment. Both men, whose decades of experience spoke volumes of their skill and mastery of the court, were dumbfounded that a magically inept nobleman had dodged an attack by the royal messenger with the graceful speed of a gazelle and, faster than anyone anticipated, fired three times in quick succession from a single deafening pistol. Each shot hit their mark: one to Mott's leg that crippled him, one to Mott's wand arm that rendered him combat inefficient, and one to Mott's head that killed him.

Henrietta looked up to Captain Agnès Chevalier De Milan and, for the first time in a long time, she glimpsed absolute fear over her most loyal retainer.

Eventually, one of the high nobility in attendance, the esteemed Duke Centurion De La Vallière, husband to one of Halkeginia's most powerful mages, shuffled out of the crowd of onlookers. He approached the bloodied body more out of tradition and self-assurance than to actually see whether or not Count Jules Mott De Hainault was truly dead. A moment later, the obvious victor was announced.

By then, Sir Françoise Achille Bazaine, knight-errant bound to serve the Tristainian Crown, had departed the field and was instructing one of the palace staff to fetch him a goblet and a bottle of hard ale from the royal cellar.

Already, Henrietta could feel the consequences of this duel shaking the foundations of her family's rule over Tristain.

-~oOo~-

Day XIV

Duke Centurion De La Vallière winced in mild annoyance when he heard his companion Chevalier Françoise Achille Bazaine whistle as they surveyed the exterior of the manor that, by all rights, now belonged to the latter: the new count of the Tristainian province of Hainault.

"This ain't just a mansion, this is a damn fortress," the man remarked, eyeing the stone walls and towers surrounding an estate that was deemed far too lavish for a nobleman in the lower echelon of Tristain's peerage.

"Shows that the late Comté Jules Mott De Hainault spared no expense in boasting his influence," snidely quipped the monocled duke.

"Prick loved to show how big his dick was, huh."

"How crass of you, Chevalier Bazaine."

"Get used to it, Ken."

Sigh. "You're never going to stop calling me that, aren't you?"

Grunt. "I've had bad memories of folks callin' themselves 'centurion.' Besides, 'Ken' is easier to say than your title and your last name. And we're on friendly terms, now, right? You can call me by my first name, you know. No need for all that formality."

Breathe deep. Breathe out. "As much as I would love to, there is a dissonance...borne from the fact that you share the same name as my youngest daughter."

An inquisitive brow rose. "Really now? Then again, 'Françoise' fits both sides o' the coin. Gon' be real awkward if I ever pay a visit to the family, eh."

"Please don't," breathed the duke. "Louise would be...quite beside herself if she were to learn that she also shared a name with...someone the likes of you."

Laughter. "Aw, come on, now, Ken. I ain't that bad. And...I thought your daughter's name was Françoise."

"Louise Françoise Le Blanc De La Vallière."

"Oh, right. Y'all fancy them long-winded namin' conventions. Eh, when in Rome." The grizzled count roughly nudged the duke as their carriage rounded the fountain, coming to a slow stop in front of an ornate staircase leading to a glorified portico. "Now come on. I'm pretty sure there's more o' this eye candy inside."

"'Eye candy?'"

"It's a term. Come on, let's just get this over with."

The two noblemen were welcomed by lines of uniformed servants and guards covering their flanks. The head butler and the senior commandant introduced themselves curtly to which Centurion could hear Bazaine dispassionately mutter to himself that he was an aristocrat now. The former knight-errant was going to have to get used to all the curtsies and patrician polity that came with his station.

"At ease," ordered the new Count De Hainault.

Senior Commandant Ney and Head Butler Berthier exchanged glances before nodding at their respective subordinates to relax from their rigid stances.

"Christ, feels like I'm back in the army," their new master loudly groused, earning a few raised brows from both the guards and the servants.

"I'd take pride in my military service if I were you," Duke De La Vallière said, feeling quite slighted given his own years of prideful service to the Crown.

Sir Bazaine eyed his fellow peer before shaking his head. "Some things you do in the service that you ain't right proud of, Ken."

"A discussion for another day then." The duke then nodded to Berthier who proceeded to gesture at the two aristocrats to follow him across the manor.

Their tour of the grounds revealed the excesses of Tristainian nobility. And while Centurion himself had his indulges every now and then, they paled in comparison to the appalling overindulgences of the late Jules Mott. It was frankly disgusting. Completely unbecoming of a nobleman and, if he were the Pope, a sacrilege to the moral code of Brimiric gentry. And all these were fuel for Count Bazaine De Hainault's scathing oration about the behavior and supposedly chivalrous code of conduct that the aristocracy were bound to follow.

Of course, Duke De La Vallière would not allow such insults to go without rebuke. The resulting argument however, though mild and unashamedly in full display of the manor staff, only embarrassed him. Then again, who could win an argument of shame against a man who was pridefully shameless? Though, Centurion had to humbly admit to both Bazaine and the manor staff that the nobility was guilty of many egregious faults.

"I must warn you, however, that such talk is not very openly tolerated in this land," the duke later warned.

The new count sniggered. "I'm barely tolerable by nature. It's amazin' that with how stuck-up a lot o' you are, it took over a week for someone to try and cap my ass."

Some of the attending maids and butlers blinked in surprise at such profanity.

And the duke noticed. "Really, as per my station as your peer, I should chastise you for your language."

"Ah, none of that right now. We ain't puttin' on a daisy act for the masses."

"'Daisy act?'"

Shrug. "Another term."

Duke De La Vallière pinched the bridge of his nose. "Be grateful that my wife's not here. She despises such behavior unbecoming of a nobleman which, need I remind you, you are."

Count De Hainault only gave him a malicious smirk. "You really fear your wife more than the Crown?"

"Didn't I already tell you why? In full detail, at your constant behest? Ten times already?"

He sniggered, much to his great annoyance and the barely-contained amusement of the servants. "I dunno. I keep forgettin'. Somethin' about your wife handin' you your own ass on a silver platter, right? Or was it that she made you run naked in the vineyard in the middle o' winter or somethin'?"

The duke fumed at the open laughter of some of the staff. Even the ever-disciplined Head Butler Berthier turned his head away to hide his snickers.

Bazaine, however, widened his smug smirk into a malicious grin. "Can't remember much, buddy, so I'd really like to hear it again. Louder this time 'cause, uh, y'know, I couldn't hear you last time."

Brimir above, Centurion was starting to regret patronizing this fool. "You are very vexing, you know that?"

Siesta sat nervously in the office of Académie Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond.

The simple maid from the humble coastal town of Talbes in the neighboring County Flanders in northern Tristain was dressed in a modest tunic and gown. Her few belongings had been packed into her luggage case while her Académie uniform had been turned in to Chef Marteau. She was prepared to depart the institution only to be called up by the director himself in light of recent news that had reached them from the capital involving her would-be employer.

To say that the Académie was shocked was an understatement. A relative air of silence fell upon the entire fortress. Count Jules Mott 'The Wave' De Hainault, the lord of the province where the Académie Royale Tristain Des Arcanes was located, had been killed in a duel at the royal palace.

That meant that the province of Hainault was deprived of its magistrate. That meant the local lords—the mayors, the brigade commandants, and the petty nobles who relied on Mott's finances and standing in the Cour Royale—were now at a temporary loss. That meant that the entire territory had reverted back to the direct control of the Crown until Mott's replacement was to be installed.

That meant that Siesta was stuck in limbo. Technically, she no longer served the Académie; she was supposed to have taken the carriage to Chateau Hainault early this morning. Instead, she was stuck here. No work, possibly no pay. Until the matter of her contract had been resolved.

All these left her in a mixing pot of emotions. While she was elated—Founder forgive her for her resentment—that the notoriously promiscuous Count Jules Mott De Hainault had departed this world, she was also fearful of whoever would come after him. For all anyone new, Mott sired no offspring and whatever next of kin he had was either dead or in Gallia. That and his membership to one of Tristain's larger noble houses was more out of coin that out of genuine relationship.

"A lot to take in, isn't it," remarked Director Osmond. "I can hear the jubilee from Comtè Mott's passing."

Siesta heard a snicker and glanced over her shoulder to the Académie secretary Miss Marie Justine Longueville, a low Albian noblewoman who happened to immigrate before the civil war began tearing the floating islands apart. The bespectacled woman could not hide her small smile. "No love lost if anyone were to ask me."

Osmond leaned over across his desk with a stern face. "Now, Ma'amselle Siesta. As to the matter of your contract."

The maid gulped.

"Since yours was purchased by Comtè Mott the day before his unfortunate end, you are now technically a part of his estate. And, according to the conditions of the duel that ended him, you are now to be serving his...victorious opponent."

Siesta kept her head bowed even as she nodded. "I understand, Monsieur Directeur."

"Now, now. No need to so apprehensive. I'm sure the new Comté De Hainault would be more lenient."

Siesta was tempted to contest the centenarian wizard on that assumption. The look she gave him seemed to have given him that impression because he snickered to himself.

"I am well affiliated with the Crown and so far, your new employer has more honor than many of the other nobles in this kingdom combined." Osmond gave her an encouraging smile. "Far better than Jules Mott, that is for sure."

"In what regard, if I may?" interjected Longueville.

"For one, he does not behave in the same manner as the late count."

The secretary snorted. "Of course. Not all men are the same."

The director snickered cheekily. "A poor generalization but one that we must admit is one of our common faults."

The maid could only listen in on the conversation between her betters. She wanted to learn a bit more about the new count but decided on letting the Académie prod for answers on her behalf.

Eventually, Osmond pulled out his polished oak pipe and began feeding crushed tobacco leaves in preparation for a long drag. That meant that the director was relaxed enough to discuss more sensitive topics. The fact that the maid had not been dismissed yet also meant that she was deemed trustworthy to listen in on such sensitive topics.

"Chevalier Françoise Achille Bazaine, a knight-errant with twenty years of experience. A hardened and capable man who had somehow earned the favor of Her Royal Highness herself," the director began. "I've met him once. Quite the fellow. Very intelligent and rather...crass. But he does have a good head for statecraft and a keen interest in academia."

The two women eyed him.

'Earned the favor of Her Royal Highness herself?'

Had this place been a seedy tavern, then shock would follow at the scandalous insinuation that Princess Henrietta De Tristain had found a wayward lover (old enough to be her father!) and was trying to cover it up.

"I know what you're thinking," Osmond continued, dragging on his pipe and letting out a cloud of smoke. "And I assure you that such hearsay is merely hearsay; all completely untrue. I must clarify, in contrast to these malicious rumors, that Chevalier Bazaine had actually saved Her Royal Highness's life."

Longueville raised a skeptical brow while Siesta leaned in curiously.

"You are aware of the incident at the royal palace not too long ago," the director continued. "Some assassin managed to break through, made a mess of the royal conservatory in an attempt to put down his quarry. How fortunate that Chevalier Bazaine, in his chivalric altruism, uncovered the plot and pursued the assassin throughout the palace grounds and made short work of him before the worst would befall Her Royal Highness."

"And Her Royal Highness rewarded him with full knighthood," the secretary completed slowly. "I was not expecting that rumor among others to be true."

"He is a knight?" the maid mouthed dumbly.

The centenarian wizard chuckled. "He was a knight-errant but a proper knighthood grounded him here in Tristain. And potentially saved him from wandering into his death in Gallia. Or taking up arms in Albion. Or getting hunted down in Germania or Romalia for crimes no one knows."

"So a mercenary basically," Longueville deadpanned.

Osmond, surprisingly, did not disagree. He shrugged before dragging on his pipe again. "Knights-errant are often mistaken for mercenaries, Cher Marie Justine."

Siesta eased back onto the cushioned chair feeling no less assured than she had been moments ago.

-~oOo~-

Day XV

The first issue of the day to greet Henrietta was a letter of protest signed by half the Cour Royale of Tristain. And her mother Marianne was not happy.

"Comtè Bazaine De Hainault is becoming more burdensome than you anticipated, my daughter."

The princess bowed. "I apologize, mother. But you must understand why—"

The queen held up her hand. "I know of the nature of your relationship with him. He is your familiar, you are his superior. However, you must take into account the sentiments of our vassals. Especially in light of that duel in the field. There is a reason why we shutter those grounds. To prevent incidences like that, to keep untimely deaths from these godforsaken duels. And these deaths can be detrimental to the stability of our kingdom."

Henrietta glanced to Cardinal Mazarin standing beside the queen's throne. To her dismay, the royal advisor remained tightlipped and stone-faced.

Marianne sighed. "What have you unleashed upon us, my daughter?"

It was a rhetorical question and the princess let the moment pass in painful silence.

"Henrietta, what reason will you give for standing by your familiar? What excuse can you conjure that would placate our people who are asking why a man such as Sixième Courrier is now mantling the esteemed duty of royal messenger?"

"I...I doubt they would be accepting of what I say."

"What would you have me say then?"

Henrietta breathed deep. "... Tell them that Comtè Bazaine De Hainault is my direct responsibility. His actions reflect me and as such, I stand by my order not to rescind the conditions of the duel. It will not bring back a dead man."

"And of that dead man's duties? Comtè Mott De Hainault handled our messages to our peers, our fellow leaders. He was our means of communicating with our subjects. From our citizens to our direct subordinates, to the high nobility, to kings and emperors, to the Pope even. And now that role is being relegated to his successor who, up to this point, has behaved nothing like a royal messenger."

"He was a courier, mother."

"Do you expect me to trust him by his word?"

The princess clenched her fists. "No. But I ask that you trust me...trusting him."

The queen regarded her daughter for a moment. "... Very well. We will convene with the Cour Royale and you will explain to them why their petition is denied."

Henrietta nodded somberly, welcoming the new headache that came with taking care of a man was supposed to take care of her.

Siesta was sitting on her bed in her quarters in the staff ward.

So far, with no word yet from Count Bazaine De Hainault about her employment, Director Osmond saw fit to have her back working her shifts. After all, the conditions of her transfer did not cover any prohibitions during her grace period.

So here she was, back with her fellow maids at the end of a long day. The chatter was largely the same, though with the topics sometimes bouncing back to the relative uncertainty of Siesta's future.

Besides, the only thing they knew about Chevalier Bazaine was that he was a notorious drunk with the mouth of a sailor and the abrasive wit of a dung farmer. Not entirely the behavior of a count, no less the lord of the province of Hainault. Then again, over the years, there have been aristocrats like him though their names were often spoken with derision and their legacies tarnished by offended scribes.

As to how such crass, adulterated, flippant pariahs regarded commoners...

"Wasn't he himself a commoner? A courier for some low liege-lord?" raised Jasmine. "He even wandered Germania apparently!"

"And where did you hear that from?" argued Amilie. "I thought he was a knight-errant or something. He does use muskets and a blade more than a wand."

"Sounds like a wandering sell-sword if you ask me," quipped Nina.

"But still, to have the skill to save Her Royal Highness from an assassin," mused Siesta.

The other maids gave her deadpan looks.

"No one's really sure how he defeated Comtè Mott but the fact is that Comtè Bazaine is our new governor," the dark-haired maid continued. "And...whether or not he can cast magic...I feel assured that he doesn't seem the type to be...well...much like his predecessor."

Jasmine glanced to Amilie who turned to Nina who was looking away, rubbing her arm. "We don't really know that for sure."

Siesta sighed. "I know. But I can still hope."

"Hope that something happens to your contract and you get to stay with us then."

She rolled her eyes. "Merci, Amilie. Your optimism is always appreciated."

"Oh mon, Siesta. Is that sarcasm I hear?"

"Oh, quiet you three. It's late and we have work to do tomorrow."

"Double the work, you mean," groused Nina. "What with the Invocation due soon and a whole batch of students summoning Brimir knows what!"

"Ugh, the slobber."

"And the dung heaps."

"You think that one student would actually summon something?"

Siesta and the others turned to Jasmine. "Who?"

"The one with the explosions. 'Zero,' I think her name was."

"Ma'amselle Vallière?" Amilie tapped her chin in thought. "I mean...technically, she isn't incapable of magic."

"Pray tell, cher chercheur Amilie," teased Nina.

"I mean, she can cast explosions. That's something. Something is better than nothing. I mean, if she really was not a mage, then she would have been sent home last year."

"An explosion doesn't really mean it's magic."

"Yes, it is!"

Siesta shook her head as two of her fellow maids once again argued with each other over what little they knew of the arcane arts. For her, she was more concerned about what awaited her when her grace period was over. Soon, she was going to be delivered to Chateau Hainault to serve under the enigma that was Count Françoise Achille Bazaine.

A few minutes of loud bickering later, Chef Marteau rasped his knuckles heavily on their door. He then gruffly reminded them to go to bed because their chatter was keeping him awake. So the maids snuffed out their lanterns and put out the torches on the sconces before retiring for the evening.

-~oOo~-

Day XVI

The Cour Royale convened at the ninth hour of the morning in the session hall of the royal palace. Some were representatives, given the intensive duties of some of Tristain's lords. But all were here to discuss some of the more pressing issues plaguing the Kingdom of Tristain. The first and foremost being the petition to reevaluate the noble merit of Count Françoise Achille Bazaine De Hainault. And the faction within the court that was stridently against him were ready to argue their case in the presence of Her Royal Highness and Her Majesty. They presented a litany of his 'abuses' and were ready to condemn his name...until the count himself appeared.

And the man, upon realizing that he was being impeached, promptly refuted their claims with the unfiltered crass that provoked Jules Mott into walking into his early grave in the first place.

This time, no one was foolish enough to challenge him to a duel (or on anything at all). Besides, he carried his bedeviled muskets and his ugly bastard sword with him into the session hall. That gesture alone was an affront to nearly everyone in the court. To showcase such blatant defiance to the traditional expression of absolute trust in the royals by carrying one's own weapons—wand, sword, or musket—into the royal halls unless one was a member of the palace guard...

"Need I remind you numbskulls," Count Bazaine De Hainault retorted, "That I'm technically Her Royal Highness's personal bodyguard."

"Should not the accused be stripped of any means to cast harm to others?" challenged an irate Archduke De Poitiers, pointing to the litany of pistols holstered across his chest down to his hips.

"Now that ain't written down on any parchment now, ain't it? Believe me, I checked. You can look 'em up yourselves but I doubt you got the time to go rummagin' through the archives for that."

"You do not have our confidence, Chevalier Bazaine," growled Duke De Gramont.

"Yeah, yeah. We're all tryin' to be parliamentary 'bout this but frankly, you're goin' to need to rethink your show trial right here."

"Show trial?" asked Duke De La Vallière.

Count De Hainault smirked at him. "Ken, I know you're smarter than this."

All eyes shifted to the current patriarch of House Vallière who, seated next to his wife, started twirling the end of his mustache while doing his best to appear deep in thought. His wife, however, was now regarding her spouse with a narrow glare.

"Y'all are smarter than this," the count continued, gesturing at the rest of those present. "I came in here to find all this bullshit heaped on me. Well, y'all forgot that you need me!"

Henrietta glanced to her mother who was looking most uncomfortable with this spectacle. Then her gaze shifted to Mazarin and Agnès; each expressed concern that this session was exposing the rifts in the system that kept Tristain intact since its founding. Through it all, the princess's familiar continued in his tirade against his opponents before culminating in an impassioned oration regarding the greater threat to Halkeginian society: decay.

Not the elves in the Holy Land.

Not the rebellion in Albion.

Not the chaos in Gallia, or the warmongering of the Germanian Confederation, or the divisions in the Church in Romalia.

"This is why shit is fucked!" declared Courier Six, Count of Hainault. "For all we know, Brimir's pro'lly rollin' in his grave or weepin' up in the sky 'cause of how fucked the world is. I read enough o' the holy texts to know that the society we have now is not the society that the Founder himself envisioned when he forged the foundations of this continent."

The Cour Royale was stunned into silence, though many continued to glare past their shame. No one wanted to openly admit that he was right. But Henrietta could see that they were all glancing away at the mention of the decay of the aristocracy and how much of the noble creeds have been abandoned by generations of mages who had lost interest in staying true to Brimir's words.

"Now I ain't pointin' any fingers. But I ain't the problem here. I'm just tryin' to set things straight...even if it ain't as ethical and 'holy' as some of y'all think it should be."

"Comtè De Hainault," echoed Mazarin. "The purpose of this session is to determine your ability to effectively conduct your duties as Count of Hainault."

"And the purpose of my bein' here is to tell y'all that I am. That this whole damn charade is a waste o' valuable time."

"Are you trying to divert our attention from your blatant offenses?" De Poitiers snarled.

"As if your hands are clean," growled the Courier. He turned to Her Royal Highness. "Madame Royale, you heard my case. You heard theirs. I trust that you're seein' the bigger picture here. Replacin' me, much less tryin' to handle an extra lordship in addition to your own demesne, is a drain on Tristain's already dwindlin' resources. We got more pressin' matters to attend to and I'd rather spend time, energy, and coin addressin' 'em."

"And for what reason should we ignore your...your affront to the foundations of our society!?" barked De Gramont.

Henrietta eyed her familiar, silently pleading with him to salvage this mess that he was making her fix. And that was when she saw his response. His cunning, his guile, his 'trump card' as he often put it.

With a prideful smile, Courier Six strolled across the hall to where both the princess and the queen were seated. He withdrew from his coat a rolled scroll and handed it to her.

"As I said, folks. You need me."

Henrietta unrolled the parchment. A moment later, her hands began to tremble. Over her shoulder, she could hear her mother gasp in horror.

The rest of the Cour Royale held in their breaths as Mazarin read out what was written. And they were mortified. A new set of accusations were made: the late Count Jules Mott De Hainault had been secretly collaborating with nefarious agents in Gallia as well as spies from the anti-monarchist Reconquista Coalition in Albion.

The Courier presented even more evidence, in the form of letters drafted in Mott's unmistakeable handwriting. Each word condemned the dead count. Tristainian resources were being 'diverted' to small merchant houses in Gallia. These merchant houses would then freely send these resources to the Reconquista Coalition, in essence, contributing to the fall of the kingdom of the floating island.

And that was but one of the damnations. Count De Hainault brought in small tomes recording discrepancies in the levied tax and the amount of money stored in Mott's personal coffers. This was followed by testimonies from young plebeian women who recounted through stinging tears the horrors of serving under Jules Mott, their bodies bruised and their virtues besmirched.

At the end of the session, the Cour Royale had no choice but to vindicate the unconventional (if not outright degenerate) methods of their most hated member Count Bazaine De Hainault. To the point, Archduke Olivier De Poitiers himself formally withdrew the petition against the Courier...thus sparing Her Royal Majesty Henrietta De Tristain the burden of denying it, of antagonizing her vassals, of losing vital support and potentially dooming the Crown.

Later that evening, the princess found her familiar lounging once more on the same cushioned recliner on the same balcony, savoring the constellations in the sky, a goblet of heavy spirits in his hand and bottles of even more lined on the table.

"You want somethin', Henny?" he asked.

Henrietta did not respond. Instead, she strode in front of him, blocking his view of the stars.

The Courier raised her brow at her. Then he noticed how stiff her expression was and how hard her fists were clenched on her sides. He set his goblet down on the table as he righted himself against the velvet. "Henny?"

"Merci beaucoup," she choked out.

He straightened his back. "Henny."

"Merci beaucoup, Sixième."

He stood. "Henrietta."

She threw her arms around him and wept. "Merci beaucoup, merci beaucoup, merci...merci..."

Courier Six sighed. Then smiled as he reciprocated her embrace. "You're welcome, Henny."

Agnès had her arms folded as she watched from the top of one of the north tower of the royal palace the scene unfolding down below on the balcony. Given how stressful the past several days were, this moment she savored for how relaxed her charge was and how relieved and impressed she was that her (she dare say it) 'mentor' had given much needed respite to the Her Royal Highness...the only person in her life she regarded as a close friend. A true friend.

Thud, thud. Creak.

The musketeer captain did not even bother to acknowledge the person coming up from the staircase. "Oui, L'Éminence?"

"I knew I'd find you here," Mazarin intoned. He approached the window where he followed her gaze down to where the princess was mutely wailing against her familiar's shoulders. "Oh, Madame Royale..."

"I assume we have another matter of great importance to discuss?" Agnès asked.

"Comtè Bazaine is either a very skilled bloodhound or a master of deception."

She raised her chin at that. "How so?"

"While I acknowledge his fine oration this morning, and the evidence he has presented so far is absolute, I cannot help but think he is not speaking the whole truth about this...conspiracy we now find ourselves in."

The musketeer captain rolled her eyes. "Of course you would doubt him."

"For good reasons," the cardinal growled. "I have been a mediator for the courtly affairs long enough to know that there is more to this plot with Reconquista that we do not yet know."

"It's bad enough that we have been indirectly assisting in the destruction of our neighbors. Tell me then how deep is the grave we have been digging for ourselves."

Mazarin took a long contemplative moment to answer. "... I have a mind to question Chevalier Michel Ney. He was Mott's right-hand man and would have been his intermediary with the Gallians."

Agnès breathed deep. "You do know that Sixième will be aware of that. He is, you have said, a skilled a bloodhound."

"Inasmuch as he is a captivating speaker. Such words carefully selected and delivered with conviction... I admit that he is far more intelligent than I took him for."

"And, of course, by nature that makes him suspect," snorted the musketeer captain.

Sparing her a brief glare, the cardinal continued, "And if my suspicions were to be proven, then we would have been able to nip another problem in the bud. For several years, Chevalier Ney has been a loyal soldier to the County of Hainault and, by extension, the Crown. I am suspicious why Comtè Bazaine has neglected to charge his own senior commandant for treason, much less levy the same accusation against him by virtue of his service under Mott."

"Perhaps...perhaps he is preparing a trap for him?" That seemed like something the Courier would do, given what Agnès discerned from him in his methods of warfare.

Mazarin nodded. "Perhaps. Still, if Chevalier Ney is indeed guilty of collaborating with the Reconquista, then we might be facing another scandal. And one that could damn Comtè Bazaine and ruin everything we have salvaged today."

The musketeer captain swept her glances to back down to the balcony where Henrietta listened with a tear-stricken face to some humorous anecdote being recounted by her familiar. "I'm sure Sixième has prepared for that possibility."

"I see that your trust in him has grown," observed the advisor.

Agnès felt her steely visage crack. "After what he's done, what he's accomplished with so little... If Henrietta trusts him...then it is safe for me to trust him, too."

"Be careful with that mindset, Chevalier De Milan. You are Her Royal Highness's most trusted security."

"A familiar would never betray his mistress... Would he?"

Cardinal Jules Mazarin did not answer her, instead returning with a curt nod before leaving her alone in the tower.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: December 23, 2020

LAST EDITED: January 9, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 8, 2021

Chapter Text

Day XVIII

Henrietta blinked repeatedly as she tried to comprehend what she had just heard.

In the privacy of her regal chamber with her loyal retainer and trusted advisor, Courier Six announced his clandestine plan of dealing with the fallout from the revelations of Mott's betrayal. Her Royal Highness's herald was going to salvage the Gallian spy network that Jules Mott had been using to indirectly support the Reconquista Coalition in Albion. To do this, the Courier needed Mott's intermediary Chevalier Michel Ney alive and well and back to running messages and reports to the Gallian faction who had pledged allegiance to Lord Oliver Cromwell, the leader of the Albian rebels.

At least, that was what the princess could understand from the briefing. “... Is that what you are implying, Sixième?”

The Courier nodded. “Exactly as you said 'em, Henny.”

“I only recounted your stratagem.”

“But you gotta admit that it's gon' work, right?”

Mazarin finally found his voice. “Indulge me, Monsieur De Hainault. Were you not...drinking...when you conjured this...plot?”

Count Bazaine shrugged. “Eh, one or two bottles worth.”

Agnès loudly exhaled while pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don't you ever abstain?”

“Ah, abstinence and me really don' go hand-in-hand, Angie.”

Henrietta subconsciously began rubbing her temples. “Sixième. Chevalier Ney is under discreet investigation at the moment. Do you honestly expect me or Son Éminence to suspend our inquiry into his treasonous acts...so he could continue to commit even more treason?”

Her familiar shook his head. “Nah, nah, you got it all mixed up, Henny. I don't want you to stop your inquiry. I'd rather you finish it as soon as possible to fully confirm that Ney is workin' for the Reconquista. Can't have an innocent man be accused o' somethin' he didn't right do only to have him done gone doin' what he's right damn done been accused of in the first place.”

The other three people in the room gawked back at him.

Courier Six shrugged. “Alright, lemme simplify. I know that Mott's been havin' Ney do his dirty work for them Albian rebels. Now if we have definite proof—say, ah, some right damnin' evidence or a direct confession out o' his mouth that he'd really done gone did what he'd damn been done gone doin'—”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Sixième, can you repeat yourself?”

“Speak clearly, Monsieur De Hainault.”

He waved them off and continued. “Pay attention. So as I was sayin', we convict Ney but not publicly. Keep this all hush-hush else this'll blow over before we get to the fun parts.”

Henrietta, Agnès, and Mazarin shared weary glances before collectively resigning themselves to the rest of the Courier's oddly-worded exposition.

“Now I did my dues and ran background checks on all my people and, let me tell you, Ney has got a lot to loose. That makes him ripe for the pickin'. And when I mean pickin', I mean we give him a deal. He keeps his head and keeps runnin' errands for them Gallians but this time, he'll be funnelin' us insider information on the Reconquista and the Gallians. 'Cause you know, we can't right trust 'em folks to the west.”

The princess once more eyed the other two people in the room before regarding her familiar. “... You intend to have Chevalier Michel Ney acting as some sort of...two-faced liaison...for both our enemies and our allies?”

The Courier made a gesture mimicking a flintlock pistol firing in her direction complete with a wink. “Bingo, Henny. Damn, you come up with the best ideas.”

Henrietta huffed in exasperation at having her words being turned on her again. In her place, Mazarin raised his voice towards her familiar. “And what of our 'dwindling rescues,' as you put it, Monsieur De Hainault?”

The count snickered. “You honestly think we're that poor?”

“The evidence you presented to the Cour Royale—”

“Come on, ole Julio. You've been at this game longer than I have. Don't tell me you can't smell bullshit from a mile away.”

The cardinal glared at him. “So it seems. You lied to the Cour Royale.”

“More like offered half-truths.”

“You are proposing continuing a costly operation that is accelerating the collapse of our fellow Brimiric rulers! The people, the Church, the very creeds that would be violated for this...this farce!”

To this, the mirth in the eyes of Count Bazaine De Hainult burned out only to be replaced by a deep scowl that heralded total silence for the next few moments. “... Julio. To protect Tristain, we have to make sacrifices. Sometimes, it ain't just people's lives that got to be snuffed out in droves. Sometimes, we have to burn our consciences, our morals, our codes of conduct...to get what we need. For the good of everyone, of course.”

Agnès narrowed her eyes. “Sixième. Are you...?”

“This is a cold war, Angie. You got to be even colder to fight it.”

“War?” Henrietta echoed nervously.

“Henny, just 'cause there ain't no active fightin' on the surface don' mean there ain't no war. The Reconquista declared war on us when they swindled our own nobles to bleed us dry through our own domestic policies.” He sat next to her on the settee. “I ain't sayin' we go to war with 'em in the conventional sense. I say we bite 'em back the same way they've been bitin' us in the ass.”

The princess slow filtered her response. “How sure are you that this plan of yours would not fall through? We are referring to meddling with our direct neighbors. Gallia's instability has been a constant source of concern for several years. The loyalties of their lords are notoriously fickle and using their own spies...”

“There's always a risk.” The Courier's lips tweaked into a malevolent smile. “But that's what makes leadin' a nation fun, ain't it?”

“Facing dilemmas like these is not what you would call 'fun.'”

He chuckled. “I'd like to see it that way. Besides, I'm gon' be doin' the heavy-liftin' for the most part.”

The musketeer captain choked back her spittle. “You? A spy?”

“I've done it before, Angie.” He tapped one of his many holstered pistols.

Cardinal Mazarin loudly exhaled, too tired to argue. “How much blood are you going to spill for this?”

“Depends on who's in the way.”

“Sixième,” Henrietta said. “I don't know if I can allow this. If this gets out...if word of this gets out... This will be a scandal like no other. This will be...”

“I know the risks, Henny,” her familiar answered solemnly. “Trust me.”

“I do!” she barked. “I do trust you. But...this is...with what you're suggesting, I don't know if I can...”

He laid his hand on his shoulder, his voice warming. “It's alright, Henny. Look, I'm just sayin' that we need to act now while we have the initiative. Mott's dead but no one's yet actin' on the fact that their prickly little pervert's done croaked and that his lapdog Ney could be compromised.”

The princess met her familiar's piercing green orbs. Then she shifted to Agnès who appeared almost unsure. A turn to her side revealed Cardinal Mazarin furrowing his brows in disagreement.

After a long while, Henrietta stood from the settee. “Sixième, I want a detailed outline of your plan on my desk before the end of the day. I need to...thoroughly review it...before I would allow it.”

To this, the Courier leaned back and stretched his arms over his head with an unnerving smirk stretching across his bearded chin. “Sure thing, Madame Royale.”

-~oOo~-

Day XX

Louise Françoise Le Blanc De La Vallière stood alongside her classmates on the open grounds of the Académie Royal Tristain Des Arcanes to welcome the arrival of the new magistrate of County Hainault. Members of the teaching staff were already present along the cobblestone road that crossed the trimmed grass of the main court. At their head, standing on the steps to the main hall, awaited the centenarian wizard Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond in his iconic grey robes, a hand on his long grey beard and the other on his heavy staff.

The petite, pink-haired sophomore held herself as primly as possible under the glaring mid-afternoon sun, thankful that she was not sweating profusely from the heat. She did her best not to glance around too much lest she be reminded of her more successful classmates.

“You seem rather on edge today, Zero,” quipped one of them.

Louise grit her teeth as she growled out her response. “Shut it, Zerbst.”

“I'm just expressing my observations,” cooed the buxom, dark-skinned, red-haired Germanian Kirche Fredericka Von Anhalt-Zerbst. “Though I wonder why we are all being marshaled out here if we are not being graced by any of the royals.”

“Have you no modicum of respect for those above us? Ugh, never mind. Not as though you respect your own confederate nobles.”

The taller, well-endowed girl took the barb in stride, beaming at the discomfort wrought across her companion's face. She was about to speak when she felt something prodding on her side.

Louise allowed herself a slight turn of the head to see the laconic Gallian Tabitha D'Orleans putting away her book as she nudged Kirche with the tip of her staff.

“Behave,” she said. “He's here.”

Sure enough, the count's procession was indeed coming into view. The clatter of hooves resonated across the open yard and heads began to turn to the mounted escorts riding ahead of the ornate carriage carrying the provincial governor.

The pink-haired mage held her breath as her curiosity was finally reaching its peak. And she was not alone in that regard. Freshmen, sophomores, and seniors alike were all left in the dark as to the person that was Count Françoise Achille Bazaine De Hainault (she hoped he was not a man she would be ashamed of sharing a name with). Interestingly enough, most of the Académie staff were about as equally ignorant of the man. Out of everyone here, it seemed only Director Osmond and Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert were the most acquainted with their guest, greeting him as though they were old friends.

“So this is the school, eh?” loudly remarked Count Bazaine De Hainault, his massive arms planted on his hips as he regarded the Académie. The tall, bearded man was adorned in finery that, compared to his late predecessor, was more humble and fitting of a wealthy commoner. A simple hat, a long dry coat, and...was he wearing a cuirass underneath all that?

His questionable attire, however, was overshadowed by the fact that when he turned around to regard the assembly of students and staff, he displayed a quartet of glistening steel pistols, saddled over his chest and strapped to his hips. Louise, like many of her classmates, wordlessly scrutinized him for a wand tucked somewhere but could only discern a short sword sheathed by his side and two belts of...brass vials? Perhaps he kept his wand hidden as a sort of reserve?

A nobleman so openly displaying commoner's tools was not unheard of but to see such a display was...rather disconcerting. Certainly not disappointing as this was the man who killed a triangle-class water mage in a sanctioned duel at the royal palace. Certainly not demeaning as he at least held himself to the posture of his station.

“And these here are the new generation o' mages, I see,” he loudly observed, weighted green eyes hovering over student body.

“Indeed,” the director proudly declared. “They hail from all across the continent. Truly a testament to the prestige of the premiere institution for magic and all manner of arcane study in the kingdom and the whole of Halkeginia.”

Count Bazaine, for some reason, appeared less impressed than he should be. “Uh-huh. And this place falls under my jurisdiction.”

“We can discuss the legalities of your rule over the school in my office.”

The magistrate was about to follow the old wizard into the Académie when, after once more surveying the whole lot of students, his eyes bounced back to Louise. In fact, his placid expression morphed into one of curiosity as he narrowed his gaze at her.

This was noticed by everyone. And everyone likewise turned to her.

Louise did not allow herself to shrink under the weight of so many eyes. She had gotten used to it over the past year given her detestable reputation and even more detestable spell-casting. In her mind, she kept repeating the mantra her mother drilled into her when she was but a child: the Rule Of Steel. And the Rule Of Steel did not allow for the youngest daughter of House Vallière to fold under the scrutiny of those around her, even if they were senior nobility who stood at the right hand of royalty.

Before she realized it, she was staring up at the hardened, bearded, and intimidatingly unsmiling face of Count Bazaine De Hainault.

And...dear Founder...was that the smell of...ale? Was this man drunk? Was he seriously intoxicated at this hour of the day!?

“Pink hair,” he muttered.

Louise wanted to say something back but could not find any words. Instead, she let the breeze ruffle her mane, bearing the color she inherited from her mother. That and she could smell his horrid breath. Founder above, the rumors about this man being so heavily indulgent in drink was most uncomfortably true.

“What's your name, kid?”

She breathed through her mouth. “My name is Louise Françoise Le Blanc De La Vallière, Monsieur De Hainault.”

He narrowed his eyes at her again. “Louise...Vallière?”

She nodded. “Oui, Monsieur.”

“Huh. So your Ken's little girl.”

Come again? Louise held her tongue though, opting to stare curiously back at him.

“Is your father...Duke Centurion De La Vallière?”

Huh. Unusual for people to ask her about her father. Normally, her mother's fame would be enough to end formalities but it was rather refreshing to actually feel the influence of the family patriarch every now and then. “Oui, Monsieur. He is my father.”

Count Bazaine's frown morphed into a small grin. “Well, I'll be damned. Never thought I'd actually see you in person.”

This time, Louise was not the only one who was wide-eyed. “P-pardon, Monsieur?”

“Your father's always harkin' on and on about his precious daughters. About time I met one of 'em in the flesh. Guess I can see why he's antsy 'bout me meetin' the family but I reckon he ain't got no hand in serendipity.”

Odd and confusing wordplay aside, Louise preened at how highly this man seemed to regard her and without the need to even make a proper first impression too. Her pride wilted however when she began to wonder if he was aware of her...explosions. Or her damned monicker...or her penchant for failure in casting magic. Or maybe he was not properly informed? A part of her pleaded to Brimir above that should this man be aware of her failures, that he was still accepting of her...even if by virtue of his association with her parents.

Already the whispers from the other students began to reach her ears and she did her best to restore the pride on her face. That pride once more faded when she noticed the man walking away from her to regard another of her classmates.

“You don't seem like a local,” remarked Count Bazaine.

“Non, Monsieur De Hainault,” Kirche replied with a low bow. “I hail from Germania. My name is...”

Louise had to physically pinch herself to keep from yelling in frustration that she was, once more, being outshined by her more attractive, more well-endowed, and more seductive arch-nemesis.

Siesta finally laid eyes on her supposed would-be employer. Standing alongside her fellow maids in the main hall of the Académie, they presented themselves before him as part of his tour of the premises.

Count Bazaine De Hainault was as much of an intimidating giant as Chef Marteau, complete with the bushy beard, the bulky arms, and the tired expression on the face of a man who seemed to actually know manual labor...and seen more than he needed to. Yet, unlike the posh and elan of the aristocracy, the new governor opted to openly carry several muskets and a short sword on his person. Maybe the rumor about him being a commoner incapable of magic was true...or maybe he just hid his wand somewhere and preferred to use magic as a last resort.

“Ah, shit.”

Eyes went wide at the profanity so shamelessly uttered by the royal messenger. Director Osmond and Professor Colbert—oddly the only two people in the entire school who personally knew the guest—turned to regard the count who appeared to be...chastising himself.

“Is something the matter?” asked the director.

“Eh, I just remembered.” The count began looking over the maids, causing half of them to straighten themselves too much. “Which one o' y'all goes by the name of... Shit, what was her name again? Damn it. I just know that I'm supposed to be reappropriatin' one o' you.”

Most of the staff were still reeling from the blatant expression of such vulgar language that Professor Colbert had to answer for them. “You are correct, Monsieur De Hainault. One of our servants here was supposed to have been relegated to the household of your predecessor. Her contract had been purchased the day before you, erm, dueled him at the capital.”

“Alright. So which one of 'em here is she then?”

The moment followed in stiff silence. But Siesta, swallowing her fear and steeling herself, stepped forward with her head raised. “That would be me, Monsieur De Hainault. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Siesta.”

“Siesta. Right.” The count nodded, almost ignoring her curtsy entirely to silently chastise himself. “I'll keep you in mind. Keep forgettin' 'bout your paperwork. You, uh, you keep doin' what you're doin' here and I'll get to sortin' out your contract as soon as I can find it.”

Now even Director Osmond had to raise a brow at that even as Professor Colbert sputtered out his next query. “You lost her contract?”

The count shrugged. “I'll find it eventually. Got more important things to deal with. Besides, got way too many maids at the manor.”

Siesta almost beamed with hope. Maybe there was a strong chance she could keep her job here at the Académie! Then again, that meant finding her contract which, apparently, was misplaced. No physical contract meant her continued employment was on shaky ground.

Professor Colbert, being one of the few noblemen who actually sympathized with the plebes, interceded for her. “Oh. Well, in that case, then maybe we can come to an agreement regarding her services...”

Only for the magistrate to absently wave him off. “Eh, I could always find somethin' for her to do. Gon' be a lot of heavy liftin' comin' up the next couple weeks anyway...”

The maids subtly deflated. And Siesta eased back into her place, her hopes dimmed and her head bowed. Oh, well. At least, there was still a chance she might be saved from this. So far, there was no mention of any of the more deviant proclivities that some of the gentry were more inclined towards. Maybe serving under Count Bazaine was not going to be so bad.

The meeting was disrupted by an explosion.

Académie secretary Marie Justine Longueville had gotten used to them after the first month and by now, she was ready to pay the intrusion no mind. After all, she was busy standing in (and listening closely) on the discussion between Director Osmond, Professor Colbert, and Count De Hainault. While she already gotten a solid grasp to the other two personalities in the room, the third one was an enigma; she had neither heard of a Françoise Achille Bazaine nor recalled any knight-errant stirring up trouble in Germania or anywhere on Halkeginia.

Then again, that must have been before her time—before she started becoming active in the underground machinations of the known world. Still, after the infamous duel with Jules Mott and the various other reported oddities and unusual closeness with Princess Henrietta De Tristain, it was clear that there was more to Chevalier Bazaine than anyone had yet to know.

And today she learned that his reflexes bested even a trained battle-mage. The man suddenly stood up, piercing green eyes glinting with the sharpness of a sword, his heavy hand on the pommel of one of his many pistols, while he paced towards the window behind the Académie director, his attention focused solely on the source of the blast.

A puff of smoke wafted out of one of the classrooms in the Académie's Tower of Fire.

“What the hell's goin' on down there?” demanded the magistrate.

To which, Osmond let out a long sigh before gesturing at his guest to seat himself. “One of our students...has an unfortunate case regarding her...practical application of magic.”

The count appeared unconvinced and remained standing, leaning close to the window sill where he continued to observe the commotion. “Explain.”

“A sophomore. Ma'amselle Louise De La Vallière. Her spell-casting results in explosions.”

The mention of Louise's name seemed to have shocked Her Royal Highness's herald into some form of normalcy. Because, other than the surprised glare and the fact that he asked the centenarian wizard to repeat himself, Count De Hainault eased back onto the cushioned chair in contemplative thought.

“So, you're tellin' me,” he worded slowly, “that Ken's little girl creates...explosions.”

“Ken?”

“Duke De La Vallière.”

Interesting, Longueville noted. So this man also personally knew Duke Centurion De La Vallière.

“Ah, yes,” the director replied. “His daughter is indeed capable of nothing but explosions. No matter the spell, simple or sophisticated. The end result is always a blast.”

“As in boom-boom, smolderin'-crater, fire-and-brimstone-and-smoke kind of explosions. Right?”

The other three exchanged glances before the director nodded. “Yes. Though not in the manner as you have described but still in the same vein. Destruction to school property, physical harm to those within its radius.”

The count raised his brow. “... Really now.”

“Rest assured. This is a common occurrence. Judging by the intensity of what we have heard, it is safe to say that no serious harm has done.”

“Oh? An explosion that don' harm nobody? I mean, harm is still harm, serious or no.”

“Luckily, Ma'amselle Vallière's magic is largely contained with only the most grievous injuries being the temporary incapacitation of some of our teaching staff.”

“Define 'grievous,' Ozzy.”

Uncomfortable nickname aside, Osmond continued to list some of the notable the incidents involving Louise and her explosions, some of which Longueville had to personally run damage control. Throughout the discussion, she noted how unnervingly impressed the magistrate seemed. Colbert did not hide their discomfort at the smile creeping on the edges of the count's lips and, admittedly, neither did the Académie secretary.

At the end of it, Osmond had to ask his guest, “What are your thoughts on this? You seem to be taking this far too well.”

“Well, I just don' see how all them explosions are considered failures.”

“A concussive blast coming out of an attempt at conjuring a simple fireball is not technically a success, monsieur,” rebutted the bald professor.

“Technically, she didn't cast a fireball. But she done cast somethin' that I find to be more useful and far more potent.”

To this, the director's aged old face hardened into one of unforgiving scrutiny, a rare sight that Longueville had to admit made her wary of the breadth of the centenarian wizard's true magical power. “I find your insinuations disconcerting, Monsieur De Hainault.”

Count Bazaine laughed. “I ain't one for sittin' on my ass signin' papers, Ozzy. You'll have to forgive this old war dog for his sentiments. Especially when he can sniff out a prospective soldier.”

Professor Colbert growled. “You cannot be seriously suggesting that Ma'amselle Vallière be—”

“Oh come off it, Baldy,” barked the magistrate. “You know just as well as I do the deadliness of somethin' like that on the battlefield. Ten, twenty, thirty fightin' men packed into a single formation. Wave your stick, ground underneath 'em goes boom. No more enemy cohort advancin' on your position.”

Osmond had his hands planted firmly on his desk as he regarded the count with a stern glower. “Ma'amselle Vallière is here to study the beneficial applications of magic and to master her arcane craft. While I admit that her endeavors in the latter department are in need of dire work, I will not entertain any attempts to have her abilities abused.”

“Here's the thing, pal.” The count leaned over with an equal glare. “I ain't gon' be the only one who'll see how useful that girl is in a fight. While you can talk me down and threaten me, I don' think you can have the same amount o' success with others who're damn well determined to get what they want.”

“I have the full authority of the Crown to pursue everything in my power to protect my students, Monsieur De Hainault.”

“That's mighty admirable of you, Ozzy. But we all know that explosions ain't just flukes. We all got enough years in us to know a bit o' boom-boom goes a long way in changin' the course of history.”

The moment passed in tense silence with the two men silently pressuring the other. Colbert was of the same mind with his superior while Longueville herself felt caught in the middle of a storm. Though she weathered the atmosphere until the count once again relaxed against the velvet on his chair. In the back of her mind, she was starting to understand the count's argument though she doubted how useful a girl like Louise would be in an actual battle, much less a duel.

Clink. Pour. Sip.

Count Bazaine was savoring his goblet of wine with a small smile. Then he regarded his hosts. “So, correct if I'm wrong, but, I believe that, ah, familiar summonin' thing is comin' up soon, right?”

“Of course,” Osmond replied neutrally, his unsmiling gaze never wavering. “The Invocation Familière Sanctifiée is due at the end of next week.”

“Right, right. Always a nice surprise to see what comes out o' the aether, y'know?”

Colbert cleared his throat. “There is no telling as to the variety of what would respond to the student's call.”

“Familiars,” snickered the royal messenger while swirling his drink, a special variety kept hidden by the staff in the cupboards. “Imagine how useful an animal'd be if he had the brains of a human, eh?”

The director replied slowly. “Yes. I can imagine.”

Meanwhile, the humble Académie secretary, remained meekly impassive. Though, behind her spectacles, her mind whirling about. Count De Hainault was proving to be acutely intelligent and abrasively reasonable. He regarded matters through a more pragmatic lens, preferring less reliance on magic (or more practical usage thereof).

Yet, there was one thing she began to wonder... There was a lot more she was missing here and she was damn well sure of it. She caught the subtle stiffness in Osmond and Colbert at the mention of familiars. And some of her contacts had mentioned the rumor that Princess Henrietta had partaken in the Invocation earlier than usual. She would have dismissed it had it not been for the fact that Count Bazaine De Hainault suddenly emerged as a prominent figure in the Cour Royale at around the same time the royal partook in the summoning ritual. Unless the royal's familiar was kept hidden in the royal bestiary or maybe the beast was ill-suited to be made public or... Could it be that...?

No.

That was ridiculous. Utterly blasphemous if such a theory were to be taken seriously. Very dangerous. Very damaging to the Tristainian Crown. And, as a clandestine agent of the Reconquista Coalition, Marie Justine Longueville was going to uncover the truth behind these matters that could shake this kingdom.

Louise was on her way back to her dormitory after a long soak in the Académie baths.

Another day, another explosion.

And maybe another serious embarrassment. After all, Count De Hainault was present on the school grounds and he would have no doubt heard—or felt—her damned failure. So, after enduring the relentless, venomous taunting of her classmates, she retreated to the baths after dinner to...get away from it all.

At least the others at the baths gave her space, pretending that the pool she chose to immerse herself in never existed. Not that they wanted to socialize with her. Her fellow sophomores avoided her by habit. Most of the freshmen were driven off by her reputation while the seniors had mostly retired early. As if she needed their company. She liked the solitude...and the isolation...and the absence of someone to have a casual conversation with.

Despite being left to her lonesome, Louise felt herself fortunate that one of the maids was available to help carry her things back to her quarters. Not that she needed someone to walk back to her room with. Even if it was not their station to converse with a noble.

And so the two of them silently meandered the corridors a few hours past sundown when they came across none other than Count Bazaine De Hainault himself...oddly without any guards or anyone to accompany him. More odd that he was still here. And even more strangely, as soon as he saw them, he shifted his gait directly towards the two, the candlelight glistening off the pommels of his steel pistols holstered across his body.

Louise heard the maid beside her muffle a squeak as they bowed low before the provincial governor.

“Good evening, Monsieur De Hainault,” curtsied the two girls.

“Ma'amselle Vallière,” the man started roughly, his breath rancid from the amount of liquor he must have imbibed, “how're your classes today?”

The pink-haired mage blinked wide. What an odd way to start a conversation. Certainly not unwelcome but did he really have to be such a drunkard? “My classes are going rather well, monsieur. Thank you for asking.”

He nodded. “That's good, that's good. Nothin' like a good ole' explosion to spice things up, eh?”

Louise froze. Founder above, he knows! What would he think of her now!? His association with her father, and by extension her family, and his standing in the Cour Royale, his rumored personal relationship with Her Royal Highness herself... Such a man of influence who she hoped would be her bulwark against her classmates could very well leave her be! She had to say something but ended up stammering an unintelligible response.

To which the man laughed. “It ain't always a bad thing, kid. Just gotta fine tune 'em, y'know? You're gettin' there.”

Now the girl was gawking up at the count with the most shocked expression on her face. Was he...was he complimenting her? Was he encouraging her to continue with her...failures? Or maybe he was just spouting some drunken nonsense with how much he reeked of fine spirits.

“Hey, no matter what your pals say, you still got somethin' in you. Somethin' big that'll make you great. Explosions don' mean you can't do magic, after all. Otherwise, you'd be on your ass out there in the wilds, ripe for them wolves.”

Louise gulped. That was one (crude) way of putting it.

“And if ever that does happen...” He knelt down to her level, giving her a smile. “You're always welcome at my estate.”

And Miss Vallière almost felt her spirit wilt up. 'Welcome at his estate?' What did he mean by that...? Was he referring to...? Oh, dear Founder! What about her engagement to Viscount Wardes!? Did her father have a hand in this? What was...?

“Tristain needs some damn good soldiers,” he said.

She blinked. “S-soldiers?”

He stood up now and was regarding the maid. “You. You're Siesta, right?”

The maid in question straightened herself and bowed low. “Oui, monsieur.”

“Yeah. Lemme get back to you on your contract. See if there's somethin' I can have you right doin' over there. Could use some extra hands with the business, is all.”

With that, the count patted them both on their shoulders before strolling off. Both student and servant watched him vanish off into the outside where his carriage was waiting, his footfalls heavy but stroll almost unmoved by how much strong drink he must have consumed. And both remained rooted to where they were, comprehending what they had just experienced, before slowly eying each other.

“Maid,” Louise began slowly. “What did he mean by contract?”

The black-haired woman bowed timidly. “H-he was supposed to be my new e-employer, ma'amselle.”

“Oh? Yet you still work here.”

“My contract was purchased by Monsieur De Hainault's predecessor.”

The sophomore softened her glare. Everyone knew about the late Jules Mott and his disgusting proclivities. And while it was a sad affair that he had passed, no one was shedding any tears. In fact, some were even grateful that he was killed so gloriously in a duel sanctioned by the royals and the entire Cour Royale. And, Louise quickly realized, the two of girls had somehow curried the favor of Mott's killer.

Whether or not that was a good thing or a bad thing was debatable. And those thoughts about him made it difficult for Miss Vallière (or the maid even, she later found out) to get any proper sleep that night.

“Agnès?” Henrietta asked as she absently stared up at the starry night sky. “How is Sixième's training regimen?”

The musketeer captain took a moment to compose her reply. “He certainly has hardened us. Sharpened our aim, improved our endurance, encouraged camaraderie. We are most definitely better than we were before.”

The princess nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course. It has been very effective.”

After a while, Agnès allowed herself to break her facade as she sat beside her charge on the bench in the royal conservatory, the glass walls and reflecting their visages across the constellations. “Madame Royale, are you alright?”

“You know I'm not,” Henrietta groused bitterly. With Cardinal Mazarin busy in his office as usual and Her Majesty retiring early for the evening, there was no one else here to see the princess break royal decorum.

“What can I do to help alleviate your burden?”

“You don't have to do anything,” the princess insisted. “It's just...it's just Sixième's methods...his plans for the Reconquista, his machinations with the Cour Royale, his goals for doing all this... It bothers me. It bothers me so much that I lose sleep.”

Normally, her retainer would release filtered vitriol towards whoever was giving her liege such hardship. Yet, this was Courier Six they were talking about. The man was a different breed. Some would say uncultured, barbaric, animalistic... Agnès would silently agree with her subordinates that, despite the respect and begrudging adoration they held towards him, the Courier was a monster.

An intelligent, agile, godless monster.

And she trusted him as much as she trusted the princess. Because the princess trusted him even more. Because he was her familiar... But could a familiar betray its master?

“Did you know that he came from a place that had been burned to ash and buried under sand for two hundred years?” Henrietta began morosely. “His ancestors crafted these weapons that...could level entire nations. And they used them very liberally in a great war. The result was a...was a 'waste-land' where the air, the water, and the plants were poisoned for centuries to come.”

The musketeer captain knew her charge well enough to simply let her ramble on. But hearing such unbelievable things... Surely, no such place could exist, right?

“... I cried myself to sleep when I first heard it,” the princess continued. “How we human beings could be so wicked, so evil, so...heartless to be willing to exterminate each other over...over anything, really...”

“Madame Royale, surely Sixième is exaggerating.”

Henrietta regarded her for a moment, her reddened eyes completing her sad smile. “His scars, his voice when he talks, his eyes that look past me into the abyss... He's not a man to lie about such things.”

“Madame Ro—” Agnès sighed and squeezed her hand. “Henrietta. Please, you're tired. You should get some rest.”

“I had a nightmare last night. I dreamt I was in a desert. I was thirsty, hungry, and sick with something. I looked down and saw my...saw my own hands...rotting apart. The flesh peeling off, muscle and bone cooking under the sun. And around me...these ruins of cities whose towers were made of steel and stone and broken glass...”

“Henrietta.”

“Agnès, his familiar runes,” the princess croaked. “I think they're affecting me. Because I saw what he saw... In my dreams, I see what he does, who he sees, what he eats, where he goes... It's a horrible place. To have to be born there, to live a life like that... I just can't...”

The musketeer captain took Her Royal Highness in her arms so she could weep silently. If what Henrietta said about the Courier was true, then she had nothing but the highest regard for him in the same way that she discreetly feared him.

-~oOo~-

Day XXI

“Another order?” queried Duchess Karin Désirée De La Vallière.

Her husband, Duke Centurion De La Vallière, eased back from his desk in his study with a tired sigh. The letter from his 'brotherly associate' Count Françoise Achille Bazaine De Hainault was, simply put, rather vexing. He would have burned it if the uncomfortably salacious message did not end with a serious request for more wine. Specifically, the new royal messenger asked for sixteen barrels of refined spirits squeezed out of the vineyards spread across the fertile meadows within the Vallière Duchy.

“Yes. The payment for all this is on its way as we speak.”

Karin raised her brow. “I never took Monsieur De Poitiers to be so heavily invested in drink.”

Centurion laughed. “No, he is not, ma chérie. Rather, this is from our new client.”

“Oh?”

“He has a preference for our stronger varieties, particularly the flavors of honey, beets, and juniper.”

“And who is this new prospective customer?”

For a moment, the duke paused. He considered the next set of words he was going to say, given who he was married to. But the day had been long and he had just arrived from Tristania after another grueling session with the Cour Royale regarding Gallian spies in Tristain. Then again, things had gotten a bit more complicated with the recent machinations of Her Royal Highness's herald. Or, in the words of his more disgruntled peers, the princess's 'precious pompous pet.'

Centurion chortled to himself. “Our new family friend.”

To this, Karin gave him a scrutinizing look. “Is that so?”

“My dear, do you recall a particular session of the Cour Royale not too long ago involving a certain...reputable character?”

“You mean Comtè Bazaine De Hainault?”

The duke curled his lips into a thin smile upon seeing the scowl tugging on his wife's lips. “Monsieur De Hainault wishes to replace his predecessor's preference for women with wine. Copious amounts of it.”

The duchess turned to the window in thought. “... I see.”

Centurion followed her gaze across the sprawling meadows that reached past the rolling hills of their family estate. “Something on your mind?”

Karin tapped her chin for a moment. “This request...arrived today?”

“A scant few hours before I arrived from the capital, yes.”

“Ah. Well, it just so happened that our neighbors in Germania have recently been sending caravans of supplies to one of our fellow lords.”

To this, he adjusted his monocle. “Oh?”

His wife nodded. “Yes. Saltpeter, pitch, and sulfur from our friends at House Anhalt-Zerbst. Steel, iron, timber, and stone from our fellow peers under the Crown. Masons, artisans, craftsmen, smiths, and laborers from across the kingdom. All heading to one place.”

“Is someone building a city?”

“In Hainault? There has been no motion towards urban development in any of the communities there much less any attempt to restore some of the ancient Romalian forts dotting our lands. Not even Mons is seeking to add more homes. And I doubt the Académie would need such supplies unless they were considering significantly expanding their facilities.”

The duke stoked his beard, hearing a nagging suspicion that he dare not entertain. “Perhaps Directeur Osmond is opening a new curriculum? Or one of his inventive instructors was experimenting again.”

“With so much supplies and hired help?”

“You've seen how maverick Old Osmond is. Not to mention some of his staff, Professeur Colbert included.”

The duchess turned to him with eyes focused like a hawk. “... Or perhaps, all these deliveries were never meant for the Académie.”

Centurion, upon seeing Karin's glare narrowing further against him, decided to play coy. “Who else could be building...a new...settlement... Oh dear.”

“Centurion, mon chéri,” his wife began with the cold, steel voice that made her one of the most feared mage in the whole of Halkeginia. “Tell me more about your 'brotherly associate.'”

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 6, 2021

LAST EDITED: January 19, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 15, 2021

Chapter Text

Day XXIII

Henrietta could not believe her eyes.

Before her, atop Mazarin's varnished yew desk, lay unfurled a comprehensive list of possible agents currently serving the Reconquista Coalition or any similar proxies within both Tristain and Gallia. The cardinal was already poring through the names, his aged facade marked with heavy scrutiny. Beside him, Agnès was running through a copy of the same list, her knuckles no doubt whitened with rage underneath her steel gauntlets. All the while, Courier Six casually leaned against the bookshelf with a goblet of hard ale.

The princess remained rooted where she stood, her mind recovering from the shock that came over where after recognizing a name near the top of the list.

She slowly turned to her familiar. “No one knows that we know. Right?”

The Courier shook his head.

“All this time,” Henrietta began, “Monsieur De Wardes was...was working against us.”

“That traitor,” hissed the musketeer captain. “We should have him summoned here where he will be put on trial, defrocked, tossed into the dungeons and—”

“That is not your place to say, Chevalier De Milan,” chastised Mazarin. “We cannot fully trust the Cour Royale to act on our behalf with regards to Monsieur De Wardes. He is well connected with House Gramont and House Vallière and he commands the loyalty the Corps De Chevaliers Griffons. As well, there is no telling how entrenched he is with His Majesty De Gallia.”

Agnès swallowed the lump in throat as she bowed slightly. “Pardon my impatience, L'Éminence. But I must insist on the soonest possible action in light of these developments.”

“Monsieur De Hainault, how sure are you of your sources?” interrogated the cardinal.

Count Bazaine swirled his goblet. “Sure as the Word o' Almighty God.”

Mazarin regarded his liege. “Madame Royale?”

Henrietta stewed in silence. She eased onto one of the vacant chairs and stared emptily at the books lining the shelves. It took her a long while to find her voice. “... Sixième, how long has Monsieur De Wardes been involved with the Reconquista?”

“Accordin' to my sources, 'bout close to a year now.”

“Before Cromwell began his offensive against House Tudor?” Mazarin interjected.

“That's what them finicky bastards said. Granted, they're still a work in progress but they don' seem to be lyin' 'bout that one.”

“What do you mean by 'work in progress'?” Agnès asked hesitantly.

“I'm still workin' on 'em. Some folks are just plain ole stubborn.”

The princess was not liking what she was hearing. “Sixième, tell me how exactly you retrieved all this information.”

Courier Six raised his brow at her. “D'you really want to know?”

She shook her head. “I only need to be assured that we can act on solid information gleaned from very reliable sources. I require assurance that this is all legitimate.”

He snickered. “Always the cautious one, eh, Henny. Well, let's just say that information gatherin' can be a...right messy business. A really, really messy business.”

“Pardon, Madame Royale,” Mazarin interjected. “But I would rather Monsieur De Hainault spare us the details of his interrogation methods. We still have to address the matter of these traitors within our midst.”

Silence.

The Courier coughed. “I mean, if y'all ain't gon' do anythin', I could go ahead and set 'em all to rights.”

Henrietta's eyes went wide. “No! No assassinations! No proscriptions, not yet!”

“Easy, Henny,” he snickered. “Nothin' too drastic just yet. I mean, scum as they are for, y'know, betrayin' us, they could be useful. Like our ole pal Michel Ney. He delivered.”

“Under duress?” Agnès sniped.

“He still delivered. Tough son of a bitch that one but every man's got his breakin' point.”

“Putting the dungeons under your chateau to use?”

“I'll neither confirm nor deny what you just said, Angie.”

“Sixième,” the princess harped, “I assume Chevalier Ney is still loyal to you then?”

Her familiar shrugged. “Ney's got a lot to loose and an olive branch o' leniency is the best thing that he's gon' get in exchange for him keepin' at what he's been doin' all this time. And out of all them ne'er-do-wells runnin' round our kingdom, Chevalier Michel Ney is one of them diamonds in a dusty ole gold mine.”

“So what exactly do you intend to do with these spies?” inquired Mazarin.

The Courier shuffled over, the steel of his pistols glinting under the candlelight. “Either we turn 'em like we did Ney or we make sure they won't be a problem anymore.”

Heads turned to the royal.

Henrietta's gaze drifted to the patterns on the carpet for a long while before she regarded her familiar. “... Sixième, I'd prefer if we could avoid any more unneeded bloodshed.”

“Can't guarantee that, Henny. But I'll try.”

That response was not very assuring. Then again, neither was what she was going to say. “If all other means have been exhausted then...then you have my permission to put them to the sword. The same with you, Agnès. Any threats to me or the kingdom, if they are beyond reason, then you are allowed to put them down by any means. But make haste with your tasks and keep yourselves clandestine.”

Her retainer pressed her fist to her chest with an eager glint in her eye. “Understood, Madame Royale. I will pass on your instructions to the rest of the Corps.”

“It has been awhile since we had to resort to these methods,” the cardinal remarked morosely. “This will be seen as nothing short of proscription by some members of the Cour Royale, Madame Royale.”

“I will take the risk,” the princess responded resolutely before taking the goblet from her familiar's gloved hand and replacing it back onto the end table with the half-empty wine bottle. “You should really stop drinking so much.”

Courier Six put on a faux grimace. “Come on now, Henny. I need my fuel if you want me workin' at my best.”

“I need you at your best and your heavy reliance on hard spirits is more of a nuisance than a benefit.”

“Look, I can't make any promises but...well, I can't really cut down on my poison.”

Henrietta sighed. “I don't want you to poison yourself before we get any progress with this. Now, with regards to our spy problem. You already have the loyalty of Chevalier Ney and a few others from Gallia. Who do you intend to turn this time?”

The Courier snickered while lightly scratching at the back of his gloved hand upon which were etched his familiar runes. “A lot more. Includin' someone near and dear.”

-~oOo~-

Day XXVII

Louise liked to believe herself above petty gossip but the newest round of rumors echoing off the halls of the Académie made her quite nervous...even though she had no reason to be. Besides, she had more important things on her mind. Such as her studies, her attempts to control her errant spell-casting, and the upcoming Invocation Familière Sanctifiée which, if she were to completely botch that one, would result in her expulsion and the consequently painful relinquishment of her membership in the nobility.

Such a possibility was so disturbing that the pink-haired sophomore had to pause in her stride just to calm her mind.

'You're always welcome at my estate.'

What did Count De Hainault mean by that? Was he offering her an olive branch of hope? Or did he pity her so much that he was doing her father a favor by providing a means to salvage her dignity...by having her serve him as...something hopefully not detestable...?

'Tristain could always use more soldiers.'

That did not make as much sense to her as it caused her a bit of anxiety when she mulled over it. Her explosions did cause damages and physical harm. And offensive spells were meant to injure, kill, and destroy given that most of them were crafted for the purpose of fighting wars. To an extent, her explosions could be considered in that realm of spell-casting which meant that she was technically capable of magic. Harmful, detrimental, unrecognizable magic. But magic nonetheless.

Did this mean that the count was suggesting she hone her craft less as a traditional mage but more as a...an unconventional battle-mage? Did the governor want her to...?

No. She cannot think such things right now. She had to focus and—

“Beautiful sunset, don't you think, Zero?”

Oh Founder above.

Kirche leaned against the pillar with her arms conveniently folded under her bust. “Makes for a lovely painting. Even better being the perfect backdrop for a lovelier time spent with some of the loveliest hearts.”

Louise grunted dispassionately. “What do you want, Zerbst?”

“Just making for friendly conversation.”

As if you were every friendly, the pink-haired girl mentally scoffed. “I have better things to do.”

“Oh? As though there's nothing better than trying to come up with something out of nothing.”

Breathe in, breathe out. “At least I put in effort instead of using my body so salaciously to skip hardship for well-earned results.”

To this, the eldest daughter of the Germanian House Anhalt-Zerbst grinned like a vixen. “It works wonders, actually. Though I doubt you'd ever succeed even if you try. No one in their right mind would want to bother with someone who reminds them of their own daughter. Well, unless they are not in their right mind, of course.”

“At least people favor me out of the goodness of their heart than out of the tightness of their pants!” she barked, almost mortified at the horrendous notion that Professor Colbert and Director Osmond were kind to her out of more base desires. Wait. Did that mean that Count De Hainault was also...?

“Really? I sometimes wonder when the day would come when certain people's patience would run out and you would, inevitably, see yourself somewhere else other than here.”

“Even if that were to happen, at least I have the favor of Monsieur De Hainault!” And just like that, it was too late for Louise to take back her outburst.

Oddly, Kirche did not react in the manner she expected. For a brief moment, something other than malice or mirth flashed in the redhead's eyes (panic?) before quickly snuffed them out with another condescending smirk. “You really think the governor cares that much for you, dear Zero?”

Did he? “He sees potential in me!”

The Germanian pursed her lips. “Mmm~, yes. Potential.”

“Ugh! Not that kind of potential, you shameless whore!”

“To insinuate such things is scandalous, need I remind you,” Kirche snickered back.

“He is not that kind of person!” Louise practically screamed, ignorant of the attention she was getting from some of the students passing by.

“Oh? Do you know him personally?”

“No! But I know that he has more dignity and integrity than any of your so-called nobles in that backwater confederation of yours.”

The Germanian raised her brow. “Have you not heard? Herr Von Hainault may be so much alike to my kinsmen than you'd think.”

“He would never!”

“Never do what, Zero?” interjected Guiche De Gramont who happened to suspend his philandering ways to torment her. “Openly insult the Cour Royale? Defile the homes of nobility with the filth of uncultured commoners? Compromise with criminals? Invest our taxed coin in illicit trade? Burn our fellow nobles at the stake?”

Louise finally noticed the small crowd that had gathered. Not uncommon given how often her arguments with her arch-nemesis tended to get loud. But the fact that Guiche unusually came off a little too hostile made her pause and the tone in his voice somewhat snuffed out a bit of her burning anger.

“Zero, don't pretend to be blind to a man who is suspect from the start,” the blond scion of House Gramont declared. “Not only has he abused his position for personal gain but he is using his duties to bring good noblemen to heel.”

“You're just blindly following along with hearsay,” retorted the pink-haired girl.

This time, it was Guiche's fiancé who responded. “Hearsay isn't hearsay when there is truth to them.”

Louise narrowed her glare at the blonde Montmorency Margarita La Fère De Montmorency. “What truths do you even have?”

The water mage frowned. “Almost every aristocrat the count has visited has somehow suffered great misfortune. Arrested, fallen grievously ill, or befalling an 'accident' that they would never wake up from. And the Crown is turning a blind eye to all this, instead reaping the bounty left behind.”

“Th-there has to be a logical reason for s-such misfortunes!”

Montmorency huffed. “These fallen nobles have had their possessions confiscated by either the Crown or the count himself. Additionally, countless witnesses from the peasantry to the nobility to even visiting dignitaries all saw weapons and armor being stockpiled at Chateau Hainault. And there are credible reports of former soldiers, mercenaries, and disgraced mages riding to this county looking for work specifically from one person.”

“He's offering redemption to brigands!”

“Redemption in the form of service to a man who acts like a brigand about to go to war with his own neighbors? Don't be delusional, Zero. Of course, there is also the suspicious relationship he has with Her Royal Highness herself. To me, that means nothing but a scandalous affair—”

“Don't you dare speak ill of Her Royal Highness!” bellowed the furious pink-haired sophomore.

This shocked the crowd but none more so than Guiche who stepped closer. “Zero! Don't you dare raise your voice towards my darling!”

“As if you really care for her with all the other girls you flirt with!”

The water mage closed the gap. “Shut up, Zero!”

The pink-haired girl glared right into her eyes. “You shut up, you dried-up wellspring!”

“Squeaks the petulant child who refuses to leave!”

“That's rich coming from someone acting like one—”

Whoosh!

The two girls suddenly found themselves suspended in the air by a powerful current of wind. Heads quickly turned to a mildly vexed Tabitha D'Orleans. The blue-haired girl had her staff held up, keeping the air currents spinning around her fellow sophomores who were powerless to orient themselves with respect to the floor. They remained hovering in the air until the stoic monocled Gallian felt assured that there would not be any more petty catfights happening tonight.

“My, my, Zero sure has a short fuse,” Kirche yawned as she dipped into one of the steamy pools of the Académie baths later that evening. “I swear that girl should just tender her resignation from the school before someone gets seriously injured.”

“Too harsh,” replied Tabitha who sat in the corner, her shoulders barely rising out of the water.

The redhead harrumphed. “She escalated it. In all honesty, Louise really should know when to back down. It stops being fun when she starts taking things too seriously.”

Had Kirche been less focused on herself as she bathed, she may have noticed Tabitha rolling her eyes at her.

“Still, I am rather curious,” the Germanian continued. “Herr Von Hainault surely sees Louise as more than some extension of her parents' legacy that he could exploit, right?”

The Gallian raised her brow.

Kirche continued, “I mean, the reason why he fancied getting to know some of us personally is because of our families...or at least what our families have. It's pretty obvious. Like, when he approached me, he was basically asking what we produce and how much they cost. And from my family's recent letters, he's already placed deliveries from our forges back home.”

“Stockpiling.”

“You really think so?”

Tabitha regarded her with a degree of seriousness that almost never manifested unless someone's life was on the line. “Suspicious.”

“I know. For what reason would one of Tristain's lords hoard all these supplies? His manor's already as big as it is. Mons is big enough to see no reason to expand. There doesn't seem to be anything going on in this county that would merit such an influx of raw materials and select services.”

“Princess?”

The Germanian paused in her musings. “... You're right. Herr Von Hainault is the royal messenger, submitting directly to the royal family. Tabitha, are you seriously suggesting that the rumor about Her Royal Highness being romantically involved with him are true?”

Tabitha responded with a frown. “Albion.”

“What does Albion have to...? Oh. Oh my. Vom Gründer, is he preparing for war...against Albion?”

“Contingency.”

“So not just Albion but...”

Tabitha broke her facade for a bare moment to regard Kirche with a look of primal fear.

To this, the Germanian let out a gasp. “He's preparing for all possible scenarios. War with Albion, war with Gallia, war with Germania, war with Romalia even...”

“Civil war here?”

“In Tristain? I...” Kirche turned away with clear discomfort. “I don't doubt the possibility. What with the tensions between the kingdoms and the saber-rattling and the posturing going on...”

“Connections.”

“That's true. No doubt, he's buttered up any of those he delivers messages to. He is Her Royal Highness's herald, after all.”

As the two best friends ruminated on their theories, someone else had taken to remain after her bath to hear the rest of it.

Montmorency never really hated Louise.

Far from it, she was at most only vexed to anger by her explosions. But to actually wish grievous harm (and potential death) towards her classmate? Nonsense! She was a daughter of nobility; she did not stoop to such pettiness that made commoners wallow in the dungheap of their self-imposed misery. Hence why she had to step in to mediate between Guiche and whoever it was he antagonized because Brimir knows her fiancé would do anything to salvage his pride, even if it meant invoking duels of honor despite the obvious rules that such challenges were not allowed...

...on Académie grounds.

Still, the blonde water mage adamantly denied Guiche's pleas to let him 'defend her honor' if it meant exploiting loopholes in the school's regulations. Even if he did duel someone outside the Académie walls, he was still a student at the Académie and still subject to punishment for offenses committed beyond the borders of the institution. After all, it was the Académie's name on the line.

And besides! Louise had a poor temperament by nature. Everybody was used to it (somewhat). And explosive as she may be, she was still a fellow nobleman (for however long that lasts) and worthy of some modicum of respect (even though she deserved less of it). If anything, Montmorency had every reason to be passably affable towards the pink-haired mage. House Montmorency and House Vallière were, after all, on good terms.

Thus, Montmorency could not detach herself from the tomfoolery that ensnared Kirche and Tabitha with regards to Louise.

Because for all her faults, her pink-haired classmate did not deserve the grave danger that hung over her head courtesy of the reviled Count Bazaine De Hainault. And, if the grumblings of her parents were anything to go by, the royal messenger was someone most suspect and potentially dangerous to the Crown.

Already, some of his opponents in the aristocracy were either losing influence or prematurely retiring from the gentry entirely. Even a few members of the Cour Royale found themselves silenced. Most worrisome were the spate of 'unfortunate incidents' in the dark corners of towns and villages. While it could be dismissed as either commoners turning on each other or cases of frustrated vigilantism, the fact remained that people either vanished or suddenly exiled themselves. And most, if not all, of these cases were linked to the count.

If he were not overtly loyal to Her Royal Highness or vindicated in his actions, he would have been defrocked and disposed of. Yet why was it that such a man was in such a coveted position among the gentry? Maybe some of the rumors were true...? Then that would mean that Count De Hainault truly was...

“So how much have you heard, Monmon?” Kirche echoed.

Montmorency bit her lip and silently cursed herself for her curiosity.

“Come on,” the Germanian prodded. “Don't be shy. It's not like we were gossiping over something serious.”

“Sh-shut up,” the blonde hissed back. “It's not my fault you talk so loud.”

The redhead rose from her pool and rested her hand on the water mage's shoulder, ensuring she would not easily slip out. “We were being discreet. Why ever would you listen in on some whispers?”

“Why were you even being discreet?” Montmorency sneered.

“Why did you stick around when you could have left minutes ago?”

The blonde felt her tongue dry up.

Kirche smirked. “As I thought. Have a seat, we're just about done anyway and it's nice to talk about how we can stop our dear Zero from being turned into some ruthless warlord's thrall.”

-~oOo~-

Day XXVIII

Viscount Jean-Jacques Francis De Wardes did not get this far in life without cunning, guile, and general dishonesty skillfully masked as a necessary evil for the greater good. And while he differed with Lord Oliver Cromwell on many things, he could always agree with the reformist Albian that things needed to change if mankind was to seize its destiny and restore control over the Holy Land in the name of the Founder Brimir.

Hence, he exercised utmost caution when he was asked to meet with Count Françoise Achille Bazaine De Hainault at the Charming Fairies Inn in the heart of Tristania.

It was dusk and the tavern was mostly full with the usual patrons, some making enough noise to drown out chatter. And while it was uncommon for nobility to frequent such places, heads did turn to the door when Francis entered. He was, after all, a recognizable face even without his signature hat or his rapier-wand or the mantle worn only by members of the Corps De Chevalier Griffons.

Still, he did visit this particular inn every now and then (usually to drag back the errant members of his corps after a night of shameful debauchery) mainly because the inn's proprietor Scarron served some of the best spirits.

And that was probably why Count De Hainault chose here of all places to have whatever meeting was going to take place. Because the magistrate was in the corner cubicle, reserved specifically for patrician clients, gulping down a tankard of heavy ale. How he was able to remain cognizant and sober after the three empty bottles on his table, Viscount De Wardes could only guess.

“Damn good stuff, eh, Viscount?”

Speak of the devil. Francis nodded at Scarron before making his way over towards the magistrate. “You called, Monsieur De Hainault?”

“Sit.”

The griffon knight commandant eased himself onto the cushion across from the bear of a man who towered over him by a full head or two. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Have some o' this stuff,” the count accosted. “It's pretty damn good, holy shit.”

“It's a little too early for me,” Francis deflected. “Now, may I ask what matters you wish to discuss?”

“Ain't one for small talk, eh?” Bazaine chuckled, scratching at the back of his gloved hand. “Well, let me make this clear and plain to you since you're sober an' all.”

The viscount resisted the urge to lean in close. He could hear the man well over the noise and there was no need to cast any containment spells to protect their conversation.

“How much're you bein' paid?”

“Pardon?”

“How much are you earnin' for your hard work?”

Francis partly wondered if this was a trick question but decided to remain aloof. “Are you asking for my salary as the senior commandant of the Corps De Chevalier Griffons?”

Bazaine shrugged. “Sure, let's go with that. What's your monthly score on that job?”

“I'm sure you are well aware of the exact numbers given your services to Her Royal Highness and His Eminence.”

“Yeah. Got me there. It's a pretty good sum, though, ain't gon' lie. Though not as much as what ole Ollie up in the north is payin' you, I guess.”

The viscount felt his blood run cold but remained calm and composed as he breathed out through his nostrils. “I don't understand you.”

The count rested his empty tankard on the table and gestured at Scarron by the bar that he no longer needed another pint. “There's gotta be better reasons for a man o' your stature to be goin' right behind our backs now. I mean, you're rich enough as it is and with the extra money comin' to you from the north, I doubt you got anythin' else frivolous to spend 'em on.”

It was then that Francis noticed that Bazaine's left hand was under the table while both of his were firmly planted on top. With the profligacy of the tavern reaching a crescendo, it was impossible for any outside observer to tell that something was most definitely wrong in their little corner of the Charming Fairies Inn. Even Scarron was too occupied with his duties as proprietor and...casual entertainer...to bother with the two high-standing aristocrats and members of the Cour Royale. One of whom was pointing a musket at the other under the covered table.

The viscount was sure of it because his trained ears heard the distinctive click of the damned firearm. Also, he was confident that the barrel was aimed at his tender nether regions. And while it was possible to fight out of this in any given scenario—collateral be damned—the refined fox Francis De Wardes had to remind himself that he was facing down the rugged bear Bazaine De Hainault.

And Francis never forgot the duel that killed Jules Mott.

“You ever really use 'em?” the count taunted. “I mean, you definitely got a pair down there but you're chaste...accordin' to my sources.”

Sources? What sources!?

“Be a shame though to go all them years without touchin' a woman the way you want to. Still, you'd make a fine eunuch...if you can make it through the process, o' course.”

Viscount De Wardes forced upon himself the rigorous discipline hammered into him by his mentor Duchess Karin De La Vallière and met the man before him with a heavy glare. His rapier-wand was out of reach and he doubted he was fast enough to avoid a ball of lead hovering inches before his gonads. Given the circumstances—and the fact that he was by himself with no solid back-up—he had to play along.

With deep breaths, Francis slowly growled back. “What do you want?”

“Tell me, John-Jack Frankie. What's the most precious thing in the world?”

Insulting monicker aside, the viscount worded his reply carefully. “That is a complicated question, monsieur. I am no philosopher and I doubt what I would say would be satisfactory enough for you to spare me your wrath.”

“Wrath?” Bazaine chuckled. “I ain't mad at you, son. I'm just curious. What or who do you think is the most important thing to you?”

Francis bit his lip. “My fiancé. Ma'amselle Louise Françoise Le Blanc De La Vallière, youngest daughter of our dear friend Monsieur le Duc De La Vallière.”

“Really now? I never knew you liked 'em young.”

The viscount really hated that notion and made no attempt to hide in the venom in his voice. “It was an arrangement.”

“That you had control over? Surely, you were old enough to have a say in that, right?”

“Sometimes, unions are made for the greater good, even at the expense of a person's happiness.”

“So you're not happy that you'll have to be fiddlin' a sixteen-year-old girl who's got the body of a twelve-year-old and a temper two years less.”

Francis grit his teeth in righteous indignation. “You're disgusting if you think that I find that appealing.”

Bazaine simpered. “Nah, that's some sick shit even for me. But at least you saved yourself a bullet to your left nut for that one. Still got a bead on your right nut though so don't get antsy.”

“You favor my testicles too much.”

“And you favored the wrong side, son. I doubt you even care 'bout little Louise other than usin' her as some kind o' leverage to get in good with them Vallière's. Especially her mother. And we all know mommy dearest got a mean streak. Wouldn't want her gettin' right privy on this whole, y'know, marryin' her daughter just so them rebels up north can right use their noble house for, ah...what was it? Ah, well, you tell me.”

The viscount paled. This man knew too much. The plot that he and Lord Cromwell himself had spent months planning and nearly a year to properly execute was coming apart at the seams because someone had somehow unraveled the web of secrecy that kept this plan from being prematurely exposed. Very few people outside of the Coalition's inner circle were aware of it and he doubted any of the Albian lords had any sympathies towards the enemies of the Reconquista.

But to have half of their plan laid out so casually by an outsider was more than just alarming. It meant someone had broken the chain, that the underground network that had been keeping their movement alive had been compromised, that someone somewhere had leaked vital information or something happened that...

Oh.

Oh Brimir above.

Francis closed his eyes and let loose the breath he had been holding as he mentally rebuked himself for not seeing this sooner.

Of course, when Jules Mott died, someone would take his place. And that someone would inherit his predecessor's intelligence network. But no one expected someone the likes of Françoise Achille Bazaine to lay claim to something that could easily have been ignored by some of the more petty, predictable, and pedantic nobility in the Cour Royale.

The rumors claimed that Count Bazaine De Hainault was a ruthless bloodhound whose skills had been honed through years of gritty fighting in the mud and dirt and rain. While some such hearsay were spurious, there was much truth to the rest. And tonight, Viscount Francis De Wardes learned the hard way never to rile up this old war dog.

“You turned Ney, didn't you,” the griffon knight commander defeatedly began.

“Greed's out o' the picture,” the royal messenger listed off. “So's lust. Unless you're a heartless bastard, you gotta love somethin' other than some spoiled brat with a short fuse.”

Francis scoffed. “You really care about my loyalties?”

Bazaine shrugged. “There's a reason you chose the wrong side. I'm only curious.”

“Good for you. Though I have to ask what do I get in exchange for sating your curiosity.”

“You get to keep your nuts.”

The viscount laughed morbidly at that. “You're smarter than that. You know I have every reason to stab you in the back as soon as you let me go here and we go our separate ways.”

“You could. And you know that I could do the same to you. We go out that door, we shake hands, you turn around, and this right here piece o' mine goes pop right into your sternum.” Bazaine leaned in close enough that his rancid breath reached Francis's nostrils. “And I doubt you'd outrun a bullet and nineteen more.”

“Your muskets are far too advanced to be considered fair.”

The count leaned back against the cushion. “Nothin's fair in love an' war, son.”

“War? What war?”

“Cold war. And the casualties've been mountin' for months now, don't you think?”

Bitter huff. “You truly are an old war dog.”

Grunt. “And you still ain't tellin' me what I'm curious about.”

The viscount eyed their surroundings. The evening was young and the debauchery was now raging in full. Still, there some sober eyes glancing their way every so now and then. Maybe he could use this...

“You know that our voices are still audible to those with ears to hear.”

“What? You want to cast a silencin' spell or some abra-cadabra bullshit? Nah, ain't gon' happen, son.”

“You're willing to risk a leak? Not many around us are as drunk as they should be.”

“That is true. But then again, they're all expendable.”

Francis blinked, his jaw nearly dropping. This madman. He was as murderous than the fanatics raving about in Albion, nay, even worse! While he himself was willing to make sacrifice for the roots of their cause, he would not go so far as to condone wanton massacre! He had to know who exactly he was dealing with. Perhaps this was all a bluff? It had to be.

“... Are you really that willing to raze this tavern to the ground?”

Bazaine's laughter chilled him to the bones. “Hell, if it means burnin' down the whole city, I'm fine with it. Makes for somethin' excitin' to do. Besides, we could always repopulate. Got a lot o' horny bastards in this country and a lot o' women eager for a man to love 'em in more ways than one.”

“You're mad...”

“And you're stallin'. Chop-chop or you're gon' hear a pop-pop.”

Viscount De Wardes counted his chances. And ended up with none favoring him in any way. That left him nothing else but to concede. And Founder above, the taste of defeat was furiously bitter. For there was no winning against an insane spawn of the Devil that even the elves would fear.

“What do you want to know, Monsieur De Hainault?”

Contrary to what he expected, Count De Hainault did not grin like a hungry, victorious bear eager to devour a sullen, resigned fox it had trapped. Rather, the man's unkempt, bearded face contorted into an intimidating scowl. His voice, however, fully convinced Francis that the Reconquista Coalition had lost its initiative against Tristain as well as its most finest agent.

“Everything, Monsieur De Wardes.”

-~oOo~-

Day XXIX

“Madame Royale, you are aware that you have allowed nothing short of a purge against certain influential members of our society here in the kingdom,” warned Cardinal Mazarin.

Henrietta, who had so far been engrossed in a tome she had pulled from one of massive bookshelves built into the walls of the royal parlor, only hummed in reply.

Her advisor let out a loud sigh before trudging over to where she was seated. “Madame Royale, Monsieur De Poitiers is adamantly requesting for a meeting with you to discuss what he calls an 'unwarranted proscription.' I suggest immediately addressing this issue with him.”

The princess raised her head from the book. “I know. I will meet with him tomorrow.”

“Very well. I will make the arrangements. I will also be present for this meeting as I'm sure you understand.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Additionally, I would like to confirm a transaction between the royal treasury and the proprietor of a notable social business here in the capital. Recently, I have received word that a Monsieur Scarron wishes to extend his utmost gratitude to you for your generosity,” Mazarin worded flintily.

She nodded at him to continue.

“His premises is oft frequented by prominent aristocrats including members of the Cour Royale, hence, the rise in his revenue which he claims to invest in the development of the district he resides in. In this regard, Madame Royale, may I please be properly informed of a transaction between the palace and our subjects that may have gone unnoticed by me?”

She gave a short wave. “You can write back a letter reciprocating his gratitude. How much has he been paid?”

He raised his chin. “From our own treasury? Nothing less than three thousand écu. Delivered in person by Monsieur De Hainault the previous evening stating that it was 'on behalf of the Crown for providing much needed entertainment, company, and emotional solace to the aristocracy.'”

“How thoughtful of him,” mused the princess.

The cardinal did not leave her be. Instead, he remained standing beside the table she was reading off of. “Pardon my observation, Madame Royale, but I find your nonchalance disquieting.”

Henrietta leaned back on her chair. “Unless you are here to assist me in deciphering my connection to the lost element, then I believe any further discussion between us regarding stately matters would resume later this afternoon.”

Her advisor glanced at the tome—an old text recording the early treatises of Founder Brimir's arcane affinity. Particularly, the current page bore a colored illustration of the Founder himself and the visage of his familiar, connected by a wave of blue hues that symbolized the intrinsic connection between master and familiar.

“I see that your curiosity is yielding results,” he remarked.

She shrugged tiredly. “Not so much as anything concrete that we can act upon.”

“Have you consulted with the Acadèmie?”

“They will be hosting the Invocation in a few days. I found it best to consult them afterwards.”

Mazarin paused in thought. “... You could dispatch Monsieur De Hainault to consult in your stead.”

The princess nodded at that. “Yes, of course. Agnès will temporarily take over his duties.”

“Chevalier De Milan?”

“Yes. Who else?”

Her advisor appeared unsure. “Her methodologies differ greatly from that of Monsieur De Hainault.”

“But Sixième trained her. And the rest of my musketeers. She would know what to do.”

“To purge our people no worse than barbarians do, Madame Royale?”

She exhaled tiredly. “I'm not in the mood to argue with you, L'Éminence. Questionable as Sixième's actions are, he is still far more effective than a hasty court martial. He has yielded greater and more numerous results in little time than what an entire delegation of inquisitors could achieve in a week.”

“I do not recommend impatience—”

“I am not being impatient,” Henrietta sternly retorted, feeling a small headache ease into her temples. “I am only acting preemptively. For the safety of our people and our kingdom.”

“Preemptive action,” mused the cardinal. “Your grandfather was most fond of them.”

“Perhaps I take after him more than I do my mother.”

“Perhaps.” Mazarin shook his head. “Perhaps Monsieur De Hainault exercises too much influence upon you.”

The princess gave him a most ungracious shrug. “What can you do? He's my familiar.”

The cardinal turned to leave. “Of course, Madame Royale. I will inform him of his new assignment.”

Once again left to her lonesome, Henrietta sagged on her seat and stared blankly up at the frescoes in the ceiling. For a moment, the paintings of the exploits of her ancestors morphed into the horrifying corpse-strewn landscapes plaguing her dreams. A two-headed bear lay mangled atop an eviscerated bull, their blood mixing and spilling into a vast crystalline lake, as a city of lights glowed every brightly through clouds of sand. Over them stood her familiar, a courier whose tattered duster rippled in the dry desert breeze.

She rubbed her fingers over her eyes and the ceiling once again bore the image of her grandfather standing proudly over the horned, winged, fire-breathing demons of the Germanian Confederation. In the back of her mind, a voice decried the romanticization of such a chapter in Halkeginia's history; the fresco needed more blood and bullets and a massive crater...

“... Par les Fondateur, Sixième really is exercising too much influence on me.”

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 16, 2021

LAST EDITED: January 30, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 22, 2021

Chapter Text

Day XXX

“I must argue, Madame Royale, that the liberties you are providing the Corps Royale Des Mousquetaires are causing more harm than good,” formally protested the stalwart Archduke Olivier De Poitiers.

Across from him, the diminutive Princess Henrietta De Tristain set down her teacup and placed her hands neatly folded over her lap. “And again, I must argue back, Monsieur De Poitiers, that I have provided these liberties in response to credible reports confirming the presence of hazardous elements within our realm.”

The highly-revered marshal of all of Tristain's armed forces frowned. “Madame Royale, you are aware that the these actions are causing discontent among the Cour Royale as well as many of the lower nobility throughout the kingdom. Additionally, these 'protective measures' that you have instituted are causing significant disruption to the local economies which are draining the royal coffers of much needed coin.”

“I am aware of the risks and the consequences and I assure you as I will assure the court later on that these measures are entirely for the safety of Tristain.”

Archduke De Poitiers exhaled long and loud. “... If I may echo my peers sentiments?”

“You may.”

“Madame Royale, we of the Cour Royale find it difficult, if not impossible, to comprehend the pretexts that necessitate for such wanton brutality waged against us.”

To this, the princess calmly breathed in and out, in and out, in and out. One, two, three, four, five, six bullets in a spinning chamber. One, two, three, four, five, six bullets in a spinning chamber... “Monsieur De Poitiers, you are aware of the civil war in Albion, yes?”

“Bien sûr, Madame Royale.” The archduke raised his chin in thought. “... Is there a correlation?”

Henrietta turned to Cardinal Mazarin seated between them. The parlor of the royal palace was vast and its spaces were wide enough to accommodate a social gathering of a hundred people. Yet, with only the three of them present and the discussion turning in a direction that Henrietta was not comfortable with and that Mazarin clearly had little room to mediate, much less having contributed very few words to the discussion, the whole room felt like a giant cage with too little air.

To her relief, her advisor nodded back.

The royal breathed deep. Courier Six may complain that Archduke Olivier De Poitiers was not trustworthy enough but the man before her was the appointed marshal of Tristain's armed forces for several meritorious reasons. And, no matter what her familiar would say, the archduke was one of her most loyal subjects, his service extending to the days of her father and her grandfather.

“Monsieur De Poitiers, what we discuss from now on will not leave the palace,” Henrietta sternly said. “Am I clear?”

He nodded hesitantly. “Oui, Madame Royale.”

Assured by another nod from the cardinal, the princess stood from her settee with her fists visibly clenched by her sides. “Good. Follow me, please.”

“I can feel your curiosity, Agnès,” Henrietta quipped. “It is just the two of us here.”

Her retainer glanced around the vacant parlor of the royal palace, brightly colored by the orange hues of the setting sun peeking through the glass windows. She still kept her arms folded over her chest while trying to be as unseen as possible between the bookshelves.

“... Was it wise to reveal everything to Monsieur De Poitiers?” Agnès asked.

“I didn't reveal everything,” the princess replied, flipping the page on another old tome about the Founder Brimir. “Just enough to sate his curiosity and convict him into silence through his conscience.”

“He will be hounded by the Cour Royale for what he has learned today.”

“And he is wise enough to withhold sensitive information that could jeopardize the kingdom he is entirely devoted to.”

“... I still don't think he should have been made privy of the details.”

“Of our operations against the Reconquista?”

The musketeer captain pushed herself off the column. “I could be at risk, Madame Royale. I cannot serve you if I am being hounded by inquisitors.”

Her liege hummed. “Sixième will take care of that.”

“That's...a bit more confidence in him than I expected from you.”

Henrietta raised her head from the book to glower at her. “Is that doubt I hear, Chevalier De Milan?”

Agnès reeled slightly. “As your retainer, I gracefully accept your rebuke. As your friend, I take offense.”

The princess blinked wide and turned away, having belatedly realized what came out of her own mouth. “I...I'm sorry, Agnès. I just... I... There's so much on my mind right now and I...”

The blonde pulled up a chair to sit by her table. “I understand, I understand. I am only expressing my concern. I may not know Monsieur De Poitiers as much as you do but I cannot discount the possibility that he may be influenced by less supportive members of the Cour Royale.”

“He has been stalwartly loyal to my father and my grandfather. He has disagreed with my mother on many occasions but he still willingly serves her despite their differences.” Henrietta leaned back tiredly. “I'm not blind to the possibility that a man whom I trust is going to betray me. But I have to be cautious. I have to take chances. I have to test the loyalty of my subjects.”

Agnès shook her head. “But to risk Sixième's undertaking...our undertaking...”

The princess rested a hand over hers. “Agnès, I promise you. If anything befalls you, I will do everything in my power to clear your name and have you restored to your station.”

“Madame Royale!” she gasped, pulling back. “I...I am unworthy of such leniency—”

“Oh, stop it with the false humility, already!”

The musketeer captain blinked back in surprise, the tome having bounced off the table after her liege slammed her fist against it.

“You said it yourself. You are more than just my retainer, Agnès,” Henrietta said, her lips drawn thin and the sun glistening off her eyes. “You're my friend. There are very few people in this world I can call my friend and I will be damned to Tartarus by Brimir himself if I allow myself to continuously treat my friends no less than the subjects who willingly bend under my heel.”

“Madame Royale...” Agnès exhaled. “Henrietta...”

“... I have to take risks that I can't keep ignoring. And risking you and Sixième was the safest option I have. If I continue to lie to the Cour Royale, to keep pretending that the nature would take its course, the consequences when we will be found out would be too devastating for me to contain. I have to compromise while I still have the advantage.”

The next moment passed in punctuated silence. The musketeer captain let her liege wipe her own tears as she checked the grandfather clock ticking away in the back: a half hour before the sun would fully set.

“You know,” the blonde started. “That sounds like gambling.”

Henrietta, her eyes still red from her outburst, chuckled. “Brimir above, where did that come from?”

“Sixième is a gambler. He said so himself. He even explained to us many times during our drills how he would make large bets and 'double down' even if it meant he would lose thousands.”

“And I take it that what I'm doing with the Cour Royale is gambling.”

Agnès shrugged. “You're shuffling the cards in your deck. Or at least, that's what Sixième would say.”

The princess laughed. “No. I think he would say that I'm 'placing my chips' on the 'right tiles' or something along those lines. His games of chance are so ludicrous when he tries to explain it. Honestly, what kind of games are 'poker,' 'roulette,' and 'black-jack' anyway?”

“I really don't know, Madame Royale. I honestly shuddered when he mentioned a gambling game from his homeland called 'sluts' or something where you had to constantly pull on an iron scepter and hope that three cherries fall in line. I did not like what he was insinuating.”

“In my dreams, they all seem like card games. You know, the ones like hazard?”

The blonde raised her brow at her. “How do you know about hazard?”

Henrietta returned with a flat look. “I may be the princess but I'm not ignorant of my subjects fondness for games of chance that they like to play in their not-so-subtle corner-clubs.”

“What else did you see in your dreams?”

She stared up at the ceiling where the frescoes once more reminded her of glories of her ancestors. “... I've told you before... Palaces of bright lights where desert people come to throw their wages at green tables hoping to win them back tenfold. Armies of steel golems, two-headed bears, and raging bulls. Commoners digging up broken trinkets from ancient steel temples to sell for poisoned meat... I know it sounds cryptic but what other words do I have to describe them?”

“And you say Sixième bathed this land in their own blood.”

“They're dreams, Agnès. And I'm not a prophetess. I just...” The royal gestured emptily at the book that was now laying on the floor. “...this familiar bond between me and Sixième. It's not...'normal' by any standards I've come across. Surely, he's dreamt of my life as well. Though he probably doesn't want to acknowledge it.”

Her retainer scrunched her brows. “Shouldn't the Académie be looking into this on your behalf?”

“That's why I sent Sixième to them. To inquire. To check on their research, on anything that they've been doing with my case.” The princess pulled out her wand and, with a quick incantation, levitated the tome back onto the table. “I'd like to help as well by doing some reading of my own right here with what I have. Feels more fulfilling than 'making hedge bets' as he likes to put it.”

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

“Monsieur De Poitiers sounds like a safe bet,” the musketeer captain remarked softly.

“You don't have to say that to impress me.” Henrietta once again reached over. This time, she cupped both her hands in hers. “I know you don't trust him as much as I do. And I know full well what will happen to me if all this falls apart. But if you still insist on going down with me, then I'll fight my way back up with you if it comes to it.”

It was a rare thing to see the hardened Chevalier Agnès De Milan twinkle from ear to ear.

-~oOo~-

Day XXXI

Marie Justine Longueville was just getting out of bed a full hour before sunrise in time to see through her window from her quarters in the upper floors of the central tower the carriage of the royal messenger pull into the Académie stables. As far as anyone in the whole kingdom knew, Count Bazaine De Hainault was not a man who favored either punctuality or handling official business in these wee times of the day. This meant that either he was here on something particularly serious...or the Crown was forcing some discipline into him.

The Académie secretary kept her curiosity confined though; she still had to keep up appearances after all. So after bathing and dressing herself, she tucked her wand behind her belt under her blouse, and headed upstairs to Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond's office to begin her duties, half-expecting the magistrate to be present and already discussing something that might be of interest to her and the Reconquista. And sure enough, when she opened the door, he was there sipping on a goblet of wine (of course, he was) just as the director slumped down onto his chair with a resigned look. Interestingly enough, Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert was about to leave the office, his face contorted into a frown before quickly morphing into stiff politeness upon seeing her on the threshold.

“Ah, cher Marie Justine,” Osmond greeted half-heartedly. “Come in, come in. We were just talking about you.”

Talking about her? That could be concerning.

“Pardon, Ma'amselle Longueville,” Colbert apologized with a strange hardiness in his voice and an uncomfortable flame behind his monocles. “I must prepare for the Invocation. Have...have a good day.”

She watched him leave before adjusting her own set of eyewear and bowing before the other two in the room. “Good morning, monsieurs. How may I be of assistance?”

Count De Hainault eyed her like a hawk. “I hear you're in charge o' inventory, Ma'amselle Longueville. Is that right?”

That was why she took this job to begin with but she was not going to tell him that. “Oui, Monsieur De Hainault. Part of my duties entail assisting the Académie quartermasters in these matters. In effect, I have to physically handle various personal effects, prized possessions, and valuable equipment.”

“Uh-huh. Includin' high priority artifacts?”

The secretary glanced to the director who merely gestured at her to respond.

“Oui, monsieur. I am one of the very few within the institution with authority to manage...such highly-guarded articles kept on the premises.”

“So other than ole Ozzy right here and ole Baldy down there, you're the only one with access to the vault an' every shiny trinket in it.”

Longueville had to suppress her brow from rising at that. “Oui, monsieur.”

The provincial governor turned to Osmond who shrugged as though he had been beaten at some tabletop game.

And that alarmed her. Something did not feel right and she tempered her next words with caution. “Pardon, monsieurs, but... Is there something the matter that...involves the vault?”

“There is, actually.” The count downed everything in his goblet then took the bottle of wine with him. “I need to see the vault. Somethin' o' grave importance that concerns the Crown, you understand.”

No. No, she did not. But best play along.

Director Osmond stood from his seat, a bulge moving in his sleeve, and paced over with his grand staff. He appeared unusually exhausted this early in the day. While not uncommon given how troublesome the affairs at the Académie could get, Longueville discerned something far more grave lingering behind the centenarian's weathered stare. He passed her a glance—most unlike the mischievous leers he sometimes liked to toy her with much to her disgust—and, for the first time since her first week, the secretary felt truly intimidated.

“So today's the day, huh,” remarked Count De Hainault.

Longueville spared a glance at the crowd of sophomores assembling down on the Vestri Court. Their chaperone, Professor Colbert, was orating on the principles of the Invocation Familière Sanctifiée. The scene alone brought memories of her own participation in the ritual back when she was still a student in Albion's Royal Academy For The Arcane Arts. She had to suppress the memory though—she could not afford to reminisce on a past burned to ashes by those she now served.

“Yes,” Osmond answered morosely. “The sophomores will summon their familiars as is Divine custom.”

“Familiars, huh.”

The secretary noted how the count enunciated the word. She glanced to the director who seemed more and more resigned by the minute. He did not even bother to return her wordless questioning glances. Might as well chance pressing the count directly.

“I hope you don't mind me inquiring, Monsieur De Hainault,” she began.

“What?”

How blunt of him. “Do you have a familiar?”

Both men stopped in their stroll, Osmond regarding her with a raised brow while Count De Hainault shuffled over to lean on the bricks near the window sill, his arms folded as his heavyset green eyes surveyed the ritual field.

Longueville winced. “I apologize if I—”

“Used to,” the magistrate grunted.

She blinked. Then bowed. “Oh. I see. I'm sorry for—”

He shrugged. “Eh, it was their time. They come, they go. In the end, it's the memory that stays.”

“Their?”

“Had a lot o' friends who've come and gone, ma'amselle.” He snickered to himself as he surveyed the assembly of students. “Beasts o' burden, beasts o' war, beasts too docile to see the light o' day. They all come and go what with the constant trouble we'd get into. I recommend havin' the company of loyal companions, ma'amselle Longueville...assumin' you can stomach eventually losin' 'em.”

For a moment, the secretary felt pity for him. Then she snuffed out her compassion and resumed walking in step with him but not after she caught the director's sideways glances to the some of the sophomores milling about below. Namely Miss Zerbst, Miss D'Orleans, Miss Montmorency, and Monsieur Gramont—unsubtly glaring daggers at the count. It seemed the Longueville was not the only person in this institution who openly held the provincial governor highly suspect.

“He's here,” Tabitha quietly announced before returning to the book she loaned from the library.

Kirche glanced over her shoulder to see Montmorency and Guiche searching the crowd for that blasted count. After a few moments of not-so-subtle head-turning, they spotted their quarry observing them from one of the upper windows in the central tower. An indiscernible smile stretched across his bearded face as he returned their glares.

“He's watching us,” quipped the blonde.

“I don't like that look,” added his fiancé.

The Germanian shook her head. “He's probably enjoying the show.”

“Louise,” the Gallian said.

The other three traced Count De Hainault's gaze towards an unassuming Louise who so far was busy trying to keep up her facade of steel to even notice her immediate surroundings.

Kirche would never admit it but she really did care for Louise as a person, as a mage (yes, technicalities given and monickers aside, the pink-haired girl truly was capable of magic uncontrollable), and as a rival to their noble house. And she would be damned if her only source of premium entertainment in this school was going to end up with the fate of so many unfortunate ladies back home. The Germanian Confederation was far from perfect and Kirche was determined to ensure that none of the horrors of her kinsmen would replicate themselves here in a country where she found some semblance of peace and serenity. Most especially not to Louise.

Tabitha, on the other hand, may not entirely share her best friend's sentiments but having escaped a tormented life under her sadistic uncle meant ensuring that what she experienced would not befall others. And what the Gallian saw in the count's eyes reminded her of the godless opportunists patiently waiting for their prey to waltz right into their serpentine arms. If she was paranoid enough, she would have believed that Count De Hainault could merely be an extension of her mad uncle King Joseph De Gallia.

As for Guiche and Montmorency, they could claim to care less about Louise. But, Zero that she was, the girl was still their classmate and fellow Tristainian. Had circumstances been different, they would have probably gotten along really well. And after confirming with their parents through ceaseless letters their suspicions of the sinister motivations of Count De Hainault, the proudly betrothed pair had resolved on their honor and virtue as nobility to save one of their own...and, if their parent's mania was to be believed, the Crown as well.

All the while, Professor Colbert had spared careful glances towards them and towards Her Royal Highness's secret familiar up in the wide open windows of the central tower chuckling at an uncomfortable Miss Longueville and a sullen Director Osmond.

Longueville prided herself as the best of her ilk. She alone had so far worked her way into a position to be able to freely enter the highly-coveted vault of the Académie Royale Tristain Des Arcanes twice a month as part of her 'job.' And while it was tempting to make her score, she knew she had to be patient. She could not let her greed ruin an endeavor that many could only dream of.

The sentries—four heavily armored Line-class halberdiers from each of the four arcane affinities with at least five years of experience in military service to the Crown—guarding the antechamber housing the massive vault doors saluted stiffly at the arrival of the secretary, the director, and the provincial governor.

“En place repos,” Osmond ordered.

The guardsmen, their wands tucked behind their belts while their dominant hands gripped the shafts of their tempered steel halberds, marched from the doors to the position themselves on their flanks with practiced elan.

“Nifty lines o' defense you got here,” remarked the count. “Really ain't takin' no chances, huh, Ozzy.”

“None whatsoever,” tersely replied the director who was dug his wrinkled hand inside his robes.

The vault doors were specially forged to withstand brute physical force and enchanted many times over to make them nigh invulnerable to magic cast against it. The locking mechanism built into the center was designed specifically to the make it difficult for a thief to pick their way in—because the thief would need to have at least three separate keys simultaneously fed into the three separate keyholes installed in a triangular lock which would then enable the mechanism to be manipulated by a clockwise twist of the central torc, triggering the intricate mechanisms within it.

And, given the state of affairs and some clever bureaucratic maneuvering by her 'amicable associates' in the Reconquista, Longueville had been considered trustworthy enough to be entrusted the third key. The first was held by Director Osmond who was currently feeding it into the tumbler. The second was for some reason surrendered to Count De Hainault by Professor Colbert, the second keeper. And the magistrate, mimicking the director's actions, likewise fed his key into the hole.

The secretary could feel the count watching her every move as she completed the set and twisted the torc on the lock with a soft grunt.

A moment later, the massive doors eased open on their own—an action driven by intricate mechanisms hissing and rumbling within—revealing a staircase leading into the depths of the Académie.

Count De Hainault snickered. “Underground. Smart.”

And damn frustrating for most thieves, Longueville did not add.

Together, they descended. The enchantments detected their auras and the sconces on the walls flickered to life with balls of arcane light. A minute later, they arrived at the cavernous hall that housed more than two-thirds of the treasures of the Kingdom of Tristain along with a few gifted by the other nations on Halkeginia and some looted from the Germanian Confederation in a savage war many years prior.

The secretary heard the magistrate let out another proud whistle as he surveyed the glorious strongroom and everything in it. A similar reaction she had when she first set foot in here months ago; it had taken immense self-control not to abscond with half the goods in here.

“Go~odda~amn,” drawled the count. “Now this is a right proper vault, sweet mother o' God...”

Osmond almost preened despite his scowl. “Yes. Majestic and lined with a portion of Halkeginia's treasures.”

Longueville kept mum, keenly tracing the magistrate's wide eyes as they bounced from item to item. From enchanted weapons locked on enchanted racks to cursed jewelry housed in 'unbreakable' glass cases. From antiquated haberdasheries unearthed from tombs and excavations across the continent to aged scrolls, tomes, and grimoires cataloguing magics bordering between harmlessly pagan and damningly heretical. From the ornate décor on what little of the walls, floors, and ceiling could be seen to another set of sealed doors at the far end of the cavern.

The magistrate pointed. “What's in there?”

“The reliquary,” the director breathed out rather tightly. “It is where we house artifacts that are deemed too valuable or too deleterious to see the light of day...unless Brimir himself would call for it.”

The secretary raised her brow at the addendum. Maybe her superior was being cheeky again but the metaphor was lost on her. “... I know it is not my station to ask of the matters necessitating your presence here, Monsieur De Hainault. But I do hope you would consider indulging my curiosity.”

The count snickered, his massive hands planted on his hips. “Ain't nothin' wrong with askin' them kind o' questions, ma'amselle. Though, right now, I think it best if we, ah, open up them doors and we see what all the fuss is about concernin' this so-called 'Staff Of Destruction.'”

Oh bollocks.

That was what he was here for?

No wonder Osmond was so unlike himself today.

Longueville reined herself in when the director surprisingly acquiesced to the royal messenger's request. The old wizard never once allowed anyone to access the reliquary, not even herself or Colbert, swearing by his name and by the Founder Brimir that only a direct order from the Crown would get him to grant access to such a highly-guarded place. And it was rather convenient that Count De Hainault carried such an order and was fortunate enough to bear witness to the contents.

It was an opportunity that the secretary would never pass up. After all, she very much needed to gain access to this part of the Académie and to think she would have to resort to drastic measures just to get this far. She steeled herself to contain her excitement; finally, a chance to grace the Staff Of Destruction and perhaps anything else within with her own eyes before she would cart them off should that time come.

“Guess you ain't ever been this far, eh, ma'amselle?” quipped the governor.

She feigned meekness. “Non, monsieur. I only catalogue what is in here but never the reliquary itself. It is strictly off-limits unless...”

He smiled back a smile that almost made her skin crawl. “Yeah. I can see the reasons why.”

Osmond cleared his throat as he dangled his key. The three of them approached the reliquary doors, also bound by a similar triangular lock. After going through the process again, they were now in the smaller chamber of the Académie vault.

And this time, even the director was visibly surprised at the reaction that came from Count De Hainault when he surveyed what was inside.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” he breathed as though he had seen the face of Brimir himself.

“Monsieur De Hainault, are you alright?” pressed the director.

Longueville watched the count approach the pedestal on the dais upon which rested the fabled Staff Of Destruction. And, unlike the descriptions she had heard of it, it was completely...different than what she had expected. For one, it did not look like any staff she had ever seen. At best, she could describe it as a metal pillar bearing the oddest reliefs and protrusions and...was that a trigger? As in, the switch that made a musket fire?

What exactly was this thing?

“... Ozzy,” the count began chillingly. “Where did you get this?”

The director glanced to his secretary—was that pity or regret?—before sighing. “... Monsieur De Hainault—no. No. Monsieur Sixième, I mean.”

Six? Mister Six? What was going on?

“Monsieur Sixième, the Staff Of Destruction was retrieved from the body of a knight-errant much like yourself.”

Longueville raised her brow. What an odd monicker for a count. Certainly not a sobriquet one would adopt unless it was bestowed upon him for his deeds or something...unless...

No.

Wait.

He was a former knight-errant who supposedly spent much of his time in the service of warlords in Germania and elsewhere across Halkeginia. Surely, over his years he would have developed a reputation that merited monickers, some of which tended to be quite unusual. 'Mister Six.' Was that his nom de guerre? The number six?

Still, why was he here for the Staff? What did the Crown want with it now of all times? Unless he was not acting on behalf of the Crown...

To her surprise, Count De Hainault grasped the staff with alarming familiarity...as though he knew what it really was and how to use it. What was more, Director Osmond did nothing to stop him. The old wizard remained in place, morosely clinging to his own grand staff.

“Directeur,” she gasped. “Are you sure we can allow—”

“Calm your tits, Longueville,” barked the magistrate, whose massive build kept her from seeing what he was doing with the artifact. “Or would you rather prefer we drop the bullshit and get down to brass tacks, Fouquet? Oh, I'm sorry, I meant Lady Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha.”

The Académie secretary froze.

How...

How in Brimir's name...

How did...how did he know!? Had she been compromised? Had she slipped up somehow? How long had he seen through her ruse? How much else did he know? Was he really a bloodhound agent of the Crown? What was his agenda!?

Clink, clang, tumble.

Marie Justine Longueville, otherwise known as Fouquet De La Saleté En Ruine, gawked in wide-eyed horror as the fabled Staff Of Destruction literally came apart and clattered in large separate pieces onto the floor, revealing it to be some damned contraption with all the intricate gears and coils peeking out of the open metallic tubes rolling off the dais. By the time she traced the remains of her prize up to the man who dismantled it, she found herself staring down the barrel of one of Count De Hainault's pistols.

“M-monsieur!” she squeaked. “Wh-what are you— D-directeur! Please mediate! I—”

Osmond shook his head at her as he positioned himself in front of the open doorway. “A shame, really, cher Marie Justine. You were a diligent and obedient secretary. To think I was senile enough to let someone like Fouquet deceive me for so long.”

“Don't even think about tuggin' on that damn magic stick you got there,” growled the count, his heavy green eyes piercing into hers. “Ozzy? You mind?”

Something small skittered across the floor. It was Osmond's familiar; that annoying little white mouse he named Motsognir.

The damn thing had always been a bane of her existence, always peeking up her skirt on behalf of its master. But this time, the tiny creature that she was constantly tempted to squash under heel ignored her undergarments entirely. It scurried up her leg, bouncing onto the hem of her dress then squeezing into her belt to drag her wand out with its teeth. It then leapt off of her and into the hands of a severely unsmiling Osmond.

“I know what you're after,” the magistrate said. “Now you tell me why you're goin' after it. 'Cause a missile-launcher sure as hell ain't gon' feed sweet little Tiffa and the dozen or so little shits you got runnin' 'round in your safe house up north.”

Founder above, no! How could he know so much!?

“That is...unless I've been lied to and Miss Tiffania Westwood is the actual brains o' this whole operation you've been runnin' under our noses. Now if that were the case...wouldn't be hard to hop on a ship. Ask the right questions and, well... Movin' through a civil war ain't gon' be too hard when you play your cards right, don't you think?”

For a moment, Longueville's heart skipped a few beats as all breath left her lungs. Slowly, her lips began to tremble as she rubbed her sweaty palms against the wall she backed into, her wand confiscated and herself poor with her fists. And goodness knows that while she was masterful at her affinity for a Triangle-class mage, she was not as agile enough to dodge a lead ball speeding towards her face from a foot away.

“Be wise with your words, cher Marie Justine,” the director crowed.

Her tongue dried up with her jaw going slack. She glanced around in a panic; a revered Square-class wizard she had no chances of beating in a fight blocking her exit and a murderous madman she had no knowledge of who was rumored to be capable of killing superior mages without magic...

“You have five seconds,” Count De Hainault said. “Five.”

She sputtered. “W-wait! Th-this is all a mis—”

“Four.”

“Please, monsieur! Don't—”

“Three.”

She had to take her chances now, the Reconquista be damned. Her loyalty was to Tiffania and the precious little jewels who depended on her, not Cromwell and his damn fanatics! “W-wait, please! Stop, I just—”

“Two.”

She raised her hands in a show of surrender. “Tiffa has nothing to with this!”

“One—”

She shut her eyes. “Don't kill Tiffa, please!”

Bang!

Searing pain rocketed into her thigh and the defrocked Albian noblewoman Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha collapsed with a cry onto the floor.

“Monsieur Sixième!”

“Relax, Ozzy. She's still breathin'.”

“That was too much!”

“You wanted her alive, you got her alive. At least she seemed reasonable. Ain't like those sum'bitches up north.”

“But to cripple her—”

“Would you rather I do the cripplin' or the boys at the palace dungeons? 'Cause you know them sick bastards ain't takin' too kindly to scum-fucks like this bitch who's been robbin' their buddies all around the kingdom.”

“You are crossing very thin lines, Monsieur Sixième.”

“And you've grown soft, old man. Might want to shelve your retirement plans and get back into the game while you can still walk 'cause we got a long road ahead of us.”

“You're mad.”

“Uh-huh. And she's bleedin'. I reckon about fifteen minutes 'fore she'd hemorrhage herself to death.”

Matilda was biting back tears of pain, gripping her leg which was now covered in her own blood courtesy of a large hole in her thigh. Such raw power from a musket, such coldblooded callousness, such disregard for human life... She felt herself being hoisted up by the shoulder and glared back at Director Osmond who very roughly dragged her out of the reliquary.

“How...” she gasped. “How long have you known...?”

“Myself?” the director grunted back as he handed her wand to the count. “Just this morning. Monsieur De Hainault? Since last week.”

She squeezed out a bitter chuckle despite the limping agony. “He really is a bloodhound.”

“An old war dog who would have killed you right then and there without my intervention,” Osmond uncharacteristically growled back. “Now behave yourself, woman, if you wish to have yourself treated.”

Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha, once known as Marie Justine Longueville, nodded obediently and remained painfully tightlipped as they exited the vault where they were received by the same sentries who, she realized, had been privy to the whole charade from the beginning. How convenient that half the student body were in their classes while the other half was partaking in the Invocation outside. The staff were likewise busy with their shifts, leaving the corridor empty as she was basically dragged towards the infirmary.

“I pity the servant who has to clean up after you,” one of the halberdiers snorted.

The thief looked down on the polished marble floor being marred by her own blood, some of which Motsognir was licking up. What a way to get caught, she bitterly mused.

Today was the day.

And Louise was terrified.

One by one, her classmates brought forth a familiar and bound it to their service. Every time it was something either adorably humble or majestically awesome. Guiche was already doting on his mole of a familiar while Montmorency was cooing at her frog sitting on her palm. And then there was Kirche who summoned a rare fire salamander (was that a literal fireball burning at the end of its tail?) from the eastern mountains of Halkeginia and Tabitha who summoned—of all things—a dragon.

A dragon.

A large, blue dragon that immediately bended its knee before the Gallian—as a knight would to his liege—even before the monocled girl could seal the Invocation with the ritualistic kiss.

Louise almost felt her soul leaving her envy-stricken body. She glanced away during the congratulations to see someone regarding her from one of the windows in the central tower.

Was that...? Was that Count Bazaine De Hainault?

And was he...? Was he smiling?

Smiling at her?

He caught her stare and gave her a thumbs up and a nod. Then he vanished behind the stonework.

Maybe...

Maybe Louise was not as terrified as she should be. And maybe she might actually call forth something so magnificent, so powerful, so majestic that not even Kirche's salamander or Tabitha's dragon could stand up to it.

“Is there anyone else who has not yet partaken in the ritual?” asked Professor Colbert.

Filled with newfound confidence, Louise immediately raised her hand and eagerly declared that she was ready to summon her familiar.

Siesta was doing her rounds, brushing off dust from the reliefs and the pottery, when she encountered Count De Hainault in the corridors.

“Pardon, Monsieur De Hainault,” she apologized with a low bow, her eyes passing over his holstered guns to a discernible wand tucked behind one of his many belts. So that was where he kept it...though it looked a bit familiar. “I did not see you.”

“Eyes up, woman,” he gruffly ordered. “Since you're gon' be workin' for me soon, might as well get you right conditioned.”

It was hard to discern what he meant with that but the maid knew not take risks raising questions to her betters, especially to a man the likes of Count De Hainault. So she wordlessly nodded and followed after him. And then she saw it.

A trail of blood leading from the chamber housing the vault doors. The guards on duty were absent and the magistrate was handing her a mop while pointing to the crimson stains smeared over the fine marble tiles.

“Keep this to yourself,” he sternly ordered. “Otherwise, you won't be seein' the sun again. Am I clear?”

With a yelp and a nod, Siesta feverishly went to work, her mouth clenched shut but her frightened mind wondering what exactly had happened. Injuries were not uncommon here at the Académie but this much blood stretching across an entire corridor...

Maybe working for Count De Hainault was not going to be so easy as she thought it would be.

The yard was silent ever since Louise declared herself ready to partake in the Invocation, being the last among her class to do so.

She could practically hear the morning breeze sweeping across the open field. Not a single word from her peers, not a single jeer, not even the usual jab at her being an absolute failure at magic. Truly, either she was concentrating so hard she blocked out the world or the world fell mute in patient judgement. Even Kirche, her most ardent tormentor, had her lips locked tighter than Tabitha on an y given day.

Regardless, she focused on her task. Her wand at the ready, she stood before the runes carved into the ground, and, with a comforting nod from Professor Colbert, she recited the words.

May the Founder Brimir, the aether through which magic flows, and the cosmos where everything was and is and is to come grant her this. A familiar, even the most humble mouse or an obedient dog or even a griffon to match the wind dragon and the fire salamander sitting close by their mistresses. Anything really.

And the cosmos responded.

With an explosion.

A very large explosion.

So large that Louise was sure it was the largest one to date.

And the blast, though deafening, did not harm her ears while the shockwave, though powerful, did not knock her off her feet. Ignoring the complaints of her peers who were now clamoring for her expulsion, the young pink-haired mage waved away the smoke and peered into the dissipating cloud.

Something was there; a discernible form splayed across the ground. Opaque but definitely something. And it was moving now.

Louise felt her cheeks widen into a smile as she finally graced what would be her familiar. A majestic, powerful, awe-inspiring beast that would prove her name...that would...be standing on two legs...and having two arms...and a head...like a person...no older than her...

...wearing some kind of armor...

...shouting at her...

...pointing some kind of musket in her face...

Professor Colbert pulled her by shoulder while he thrust his staff forward. “Ma'amselle Vallière, get behind me!”

The voices of her classmates finally came through.

“Zero, who is this!?”

“He's an armed commoner!”

“Par les Fondateur, she might get shot!”

Louise felt her joy evaporate and her knees almost buckled as she was forcefully dragged behind the professor. But then, something else resonated across the field that silenced everyone: a command bellowed by Count Bazaine De Hainault marching out into the yard that startled the reasonably terrified foreigner into lowering his weapon.

“Stand down, son!”

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 20, 2021

LAST EDITED: February 1, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 30, 2021

Chapter Text

Day XXXII

Henrietta jolted awake.

Her breathing was erratic, her hands were moist, and her room had yet to be illuminated by the sun barely cresting over the horizon outside her window.

A moment later, she cupped her face to wipe away the sweat and tears.

"Par les Fondateur, that wasn't some macabre dream," she mewled to herself. "That was a nightmare..."

And, so far, it was the worst one to plague her since she summoned the Courier.

The princess laid back down on her bed, her nightgown damp with her own sweat and her bedsheets in disarray from how much she had apparently been tossing and turning in her sleep. Slowly, the bright orange hues of the morning sun began painting the walls of her personal chamber.

"Sixième," Henrietta muttered, turning on her side where the the spires of the stone towers peeked through her window. "So much blood, so much guilt... How much do I have to pray for your soul?"

The images were still fresh in her head. As were the smells of burnt flesh and the suffocating smoke and the bitter taste of copper and dirt and sand. But above all, forever seared into her mind were the faces of those whom Courier Six had faced: a perfidious snake in a checkered coat, an erudite king speaking through living portraits, a godless warlord wearing a twisted steel mask, a penitent priest wrapped in strips of cloth...and a second messenger with the banners of a dead world on his back.

All of them stood over a sea of bodies, some consumed by the fires falling from the reddened sky and the survivors poisoned until the fifth generation.

But it was that messenger with the twisted hairs adorned in grey clerical robes who remained after all the illusions faded. He strode over the cadavers with his golden eagled staff, pushing through the raging dust clouds, to where she was floating in the abyss and spoke to her in his hypnotic baritone...saying that she was burdened by a weight that she lacked the strength to shoulder. There was a sadness in his eyes when he spoke of how she was being misguided by one who was also misguided.

She rubbed her eyes again. It was not the lack of guidance that she was worried about at the moment, however. It was the amount of sin...of grievous, heinous, unbearable sin...crimes that could not be forgiven...vile deeds that made it difficult for her to breathe the more her mind lingered on them.

"Holy Founder above, may your name be praised," the princess prayed softly, her hand gripping her pillow as the tears poured anew from guilt that was not hers. "Please grant my familiar peace...and forgive him for the sins he has done...for I cannot bear his pain as I lead Tristain... Please, dear Founder Brimir, please..."

"So we have two Void mages now," echoed Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond.

Silence permeated his office and at this midmorning hour, the centenarian wizard was already yearning for some of those exotic dried herbs he liked to smoke with his pipe. Then again, though he would not outwardly admit it, he begrudgingly agreed with the sisters in the infirmary that he should reduce his reliance on such controversial commodities. The same could be said of Count Bazaine De Hainault who, by now, had gone through an entire bottle of hard ale and was popping the cork off a new one.

"The 'Right Hand Of God' and the 'Left Hand Of God' both in Tristain," offhandedly remarked Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert, his research notes sprawled haphazardly over his superior's desk. "Her Royal Highness and...and Ma'amselle Vallière. It shouldn't...it shouldn't make sense. Yet it happened and...and blasphemy cannot be blasphemy if it bears the unmistakeable mark of the Divine. All my findings do not indicate otherwise."

"Drink up, boys," grunted the magistrate.

Osmond and Colbert sullenly accepted their cups of heavy spirits apparently purchased from some tavern in Tristainia.

"Ma'amselle Vallière's familiar," the director started. "His actions and his words speak of a boy forced to grow into a man by circumstances beyond his control."

Count De Hainault took a long swig from his goblet. "The wasteland is a dog-eat-dog world, Ozzy."

The professor pushed up his monocles. "He carries himself...so similarly to you, Monsieur De Hainault. Yet, he is barely half your age."

The count grunted humorlessly. "Trouble don' give a shit how old you are. If you ain't out lookin' for it, it'll come lookin' for you. And once it gets to you, it won't let go even after you hang up your boots. Don't you agree, captain?"

Jean-Baptiste Colbert glared intensely at the magistrate, his normally calm voice now dripping with tempered fury. "I volunteered to aid the Crown to the best of my ability. Some decisions I'm not proud of but I at least endeavor to right my wrongs while I am still able."

Bazaine De Hainault snickered. "Still got some o' that fire in you. Good."

"Are you trying to provoke me, Monsieur De Hainault?" the professor growled.

"Just checkin' to see if you ain't rusted to shit like ole Ozzy over here."

Antoine-Laurent Osmond, for his part, remained impassive. But his aged irises bore heavy consternation towards the provincial governor. He may be passed his prime but he was still a formidable Square-class wizard capable of defending the whole Académie by himself if it came down to it.

"... The youth, Monsieur De Hainault," he echoed more sternly. "He knows restraint but his poor temperance makes him a danger to those around him...even after he has been disarmed. With what we have learned since then, I can only conclude that it would only take a direct order from you, of all people, to pacify him. Goodness knows that any of our attempts to rein him in would result in...severities. And while we can be sure that his runes are powerful enough to prevent him from directly harming Ma'amselle Vallière, he remains unrestrained from causing harm to others."

"Yeah," the count drawled. "I knew that was gon' be the case. I'm already workin' on gettin' that boy sorted out. Remember that little private chat we had with little Louise last night 'bout her new familiar?"

"I was not present for that," Colbert intoned coldly. "What came of it?"

Osmond folded his hands over his desk. "Monsieur De Hainault strictly reminded Ma'amselle Vallière to behave herself given her station as a daughter of a prominent noble house. During the discussion, he expressly instructed her to treat her familiar as an equal lest she...be punished."

"Punished how?"

"She stops school and starts work at my estate," Count De Hainault said.

The professor nearly slammed his hands on the director's desk in fury. "Osmond! You cannot be serious about such a condition!"

The wizard calmly gestured at his subordinate to take his seat. "Jean-Baptiste, you must be aware that the current volatility of her relationship with her familiar may undo her self-restraint and lead to damages beyond our capabilities to rectify. To this extent, I have decided that a heavy hand is needed to instill discipline."

"If Madame le Duchesse De La Vallière learns of this—"

"We will weather the storm together," Osmond said, his eyes shifting between the other two. "Understood? We are not fools to challenge the tempest alone, are we?"

The governor chuckled while the professor slumped back in muted despair.

"And what of his equipment? His armor, his weapons, his various...trinkets?" croaked Colbert.

"Took 'em apart," replied Count De Hainault. "Useless for now."

The professor downed his tankard before grabbing the bottle to fill it back up to the brim. "... Repeating muskets, wars over clean water, and men who are much alike the monsters they hunt. If I were a lesser man, I would think either you were born in Tartarus or your world has simply gone mad."

"Both." The count paced over to the window to gaze back down at the sparsely populated trimmed grounds of the school, his drink sloshing in his goblet. "I'll pass on the message to Her Royal Highness."

The director regarded him with reddening eyes. "Discreetly?"

"You know me, Ozzy. Besides, at least Henny'd feel a little less lonely."

"What of the other students?" Colbert raised. "What of Ma'amselle Zerbst and Ma'amselle D'Orleans? You know how adventurous the former is. And the latter is not above acting on her convictions no matter the consequences."

"Have they been a nuisance recently?" Osmond asked.

"They, and a number of their peers, are already openly suspicious of Monsieur De Hainault here. Have you not heard of the new tales they've been spinning about him and about us and the Crown? That we are all part of some wild conspiracy, tainted beyond hope and hypnotized by a corrupt influence who is standing in our presence right now?"

"Kids make up their own bullshit all the time," dismissed the magistrate. "They'll grow out of it."

"I would not underestimate the foolhardy resolve of a noble son or daughter," the professor contested. "They are neither blind nor deaf. And mind you, Ma'amselle Zerbst and Ma'amselle D'Orleans are more than who they seem. If anything, they outrank even their betters; none of the juniors this year can hold a candle to them with regards to their skill and some of our alumni have yet to match their adeptness."

"Prodigies, eh?"

"With veritable experience that none of their contemporaries have been afforded," Colbert all but hollered. "Those two young ladies know who is sitting in the infirmary nursing a broken leg. And the fact that Fouquet—"

"Longueville," Count De Hainault interjected. "Gotta get the story straight."

"And how long is that going to last?" the professor angrily retorted. "Without a doubt, those two are probably spearheading some student inquiry into why the Académie secretary is suddenly crippled, distressed, and chained to her bedpost in the infirmary under heavy guard!"

"She fell down the stairs, Baldy. Happens sometimes."

Osmond blinked. Colbert blinked.

The Courier settled for drinking straight out of the bottle. "What? It's a good excuse."

"She fell down the stairs?" Montmorency repeated incredulously.

"That's a very poor excuse for a blatant abuse of power if I've ever heard one," derided Guiche.

For a moment, the other three girls in the empty classroom fell silent as they regarded him with the flat looks.

The blonde earth mage blinked back confused. "... What?"

His fiancé shook her head. "Okay, so Ma'amselle Longueville supposedly suffered an accident that rendered her crippled in such a way that she is unable to leave the infirmary...which has been placed under heavy guard."

"And any visitors are extensively vetted before being allotted the minutest time with her," Kirche added. "The only people allowed to see her are the sisters, their attendants, and...a select few."

"Directeur Osmond," Tabitha added. "Professeur Colbert, and Monsieur De Hainault."

Montmorency scrunched her brow. "The director, I can understand. But Professeur Colbert? I can hardly see any reasons why he would be given such special privileges much less have any other reason to even visit her. Not that I don't see him being in any way close to her; we all know he is more obsessed with his research projects than engaging in social gatherings. And what would the count even want with Ma'amselle Longueville?"

Kirche fluffed her hair. "I suspect a tryst."

It was the Germanian's turn to receive even flatter looks.

"Really, it's always something scandalous with you," the water mage groused.

"Wait," Guiche intoned. "She might have a point. We cannot discount such a possibility. I say this entirely as a compliment: Ma'amselle Longueville is in the prime of her youth. Maybe through her rather remarkable appearance—second only to my dear Monmon, of course!—our dear secretary may have captured the attention of Professeur Colbert or Monsieur De Hainault."

"See? Even le petit cochon is starting to see through the falsehoods," Kirche snickered.

"Bien sûr! Being that my father is a discerning—wait, I beg your pardon!?"

She ignored the melodramatically offended blonde. "Who is to say that Monsieur De Hainault is not too old to be virile? Or perhaps Professeur Colbert is hiding more behind his kindness? Or even Directeur Osmond really intends to go beyond peeking up her skirt with little Chu-chu?"

Montmorency shuddered. "I'd rather not imagine."

"Not that," Tabitha argued. "Silencing."

Silence.

The redhead broke her facade. "Wait. Tabitha, do you mean...? Are you saying that...Ma'amselle Longueville was being silenced? That she had just survived an assassination attempt?

"Walked passed the infirmary. Saw the count leave. Saw her crying."

More silence.

"... So Ma'amselle Longueville must have discovered something about Monsieur De Hainault," Kirche worded, "and he found out and came here to try and...silence her?"

The blond earth mage rubbed his chin in thought while he around the classroom. "And Directeur Osmond became aware of this..."

"...by way of Professeur Colbert who must have uncovered it and reported it immediately to the director," his fiancé piled on. "They then tried to stop him—"

"Or appease him," Kirche continued. "Given how much power he now holds. In light of all the proscriptions across this kingdom and how much he has benefited from them, he is probably on equal standing with a duke..."

Guiche raised his finger. "And the Académie is powerless or afraid to act against him for his deeds...because of how closely tied he is to the Crown."

Montmorency shook her head and waved her hands. "Wait, wait, wait! Are we all going to agree that...that, that, that...that Monsieur De Hainault tried to kill Ma'amselle Longueville on school grounds, going so far as to paint it as an accident?"

"But she survived and now the school is trying to save her while appeasing her would-be killer," summed the Germanian, "who happens to wield more influence and authority...than the school. Hence the guardsmen at the infirmary and the fact that Monsieur De Hainault has not left the premises since yesterday. And from what our cher Tabitha has witnessed, he must have reached a compromise with the school that has left Ma'amselle Longueville alive but in tears."

The water mage sagged onto a vacant seat. "Par les Fondateur... This is a conspiracy. A conspiracy! Who knows how big this might be! What secrets may be hidden from us in plain view that...that could have an immense impact!"

"A member of the Cour Royale trying to silence a witness currently seeking refuge on neutral grounds—our prestigious academy," Guiche summed up with growing excitement. "Such a tale, such a scandal...is so storybook. Almost like a mystery begging to be solved, an adventure waiting for its heroes!"

"With a kingdom to save."

"And rewards to reap."

"And glory for our names!"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, you two," Kirche intoned, separating the betrothed pair. "I think we're jumping to conclusions based on what little we know so far. Don't you think so, Tabitha?"

Tabitha pushed up her monocles. "Need more information."

"And that is what I have," boasted the Germanian. "Yesterday after the Invocation, yours truly noticed one of the maids behaving unusually only to discover her 'secretly' emptying a bucket full of bloody water. Either someone hurt themselves real badly or she cleaned up after the attempt to assassinate our dear secretary."

The other three eyed each other.

"What is her name?" Guiche asked.

"Is she in league with the count?" Montmorency demanded.

"Patience," Tabitha intoned vexedly.

"Now, now. No need to get too excited," Kirche chided. After all, they had just summoned their familiars and spent much of today bonding with them. To quickly go on a self-styled inquisition on an increasingly powerful nobleman the likes of Count Bazaine De Hainault would surely end in their extreme detriment. And that was not to mention the latest even that had enraptured much fo the institution: the fact that Louise the 'Zero' had summoned a person as her familiar.

Someone who was so much like the count complete with the foreign armor, the foreign weapons, and the foreign language. It took the intervention of the magistrate himself to pacify the volatile young man enough for Louise to finish the ritual...and almost cause a more serious incident that might have ended in some deaths had it not been for the quick responses from both Count De Hainault and Professor Colbert.

Through the commotion, Kirche, Tabitha, Montmorency, and Guiche all recognized one key detail: Louise's familiar recognized the count. Or at least responded to him more than he did to anyone else. Did they know each other? Did the young man factor in all this? What was really going on with their provincial governor and the Académie?

The students realized that they had be patient with all these events happening so suddenly. And three of them, yearning for glory in their youthful zeal, were growing quite impatient.

Noise.

Noise outside her window.

Noises of the sophomores enjoying their time with their newly summoned familiars. Noise of freedom that taunted her through the windows of the infirmary where she had been imprisoned.

Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha sighed to herself. Other than stewing in her miserable captivity or waiting for the sisters to check on her every now and then, the former Académie secretary and infamous thief lay in her bed with her thigh wrapped in fresh bandages. The damn bits of lead were still buried deep in her thigh and causing great discomfort whenever she took strides but at least it was not bad enough to cause an infection or, at worse, necessitate the amputation of her entire left leg. In essence, she was recovering at a steady pace and, according to the sisters, without any further 'complications,' she would be discharged in a few days time.

Complications. Yeah, right.

One such 'complication' was her brutal interrogation under the monster that was Count Bazaine De Hainault. He showed neither mercy nor general human compassion when he pressed his finger into her wound until she told him everything she knew and and anything else that she hoped were true, her screams muted by the powerful silencing enchantments cast upon the entire infirmary by Director Osmond. And while she had little love for her superior or her 'colleague' Professor Colbert, she could see that the latter was tempted to intervene on her behalf.

After all, the notorious Sulfur Serpent had his limits hence his 'penance' as a pacifist professor expending his efforts on various research. If anything, Matilda would admit to holding Colbert with more respect than she could give to most anyone else in this whole kingdom. His repeated apologies to her for 'resorting to brutal methods' were at least genuine. That and she detected the disapproval and growing animosity between most of the Académie staff and the provincial governor.

Count De Hainault may be buying his allies but he was not entirely winning their favor.

"How are you feeling, Ma'amselle Longueville?" asked her attendant Sister Catalina, a healer three years her junior hailing from Gallia's Iberian provinces.

"Better. Thank you for asking," she replied with a small smile.

"Are you feeling any discomfort?"

Dear Founder, this girl was just like her little munchkins back in Albion. "None. Just the usual itch and throb but nothing too serious."

"Very well. I will be here for the rest of the evening. Call upon me if you need my aid."

"Oui, oui, bien sûr. Merci, Soeur Catalina."

Founder bless Sister Catalina for her naivety and kindness. At least the sisters here were passionate in their work and truly caring of their patients...regardless of who they were. Though Matilda could not say the same for her Line-class halberdiers who remained stalwart outside the infirmary doors. It was not like she could escape in the state she was in but Director Osmond could 'not take any more risks.'

The former secretary went back to watching the clouds hovering in the mid-afternoon skies outside her window. No wand to channel her magic, no associates to help her escape, and certainly no resolve to even bother.

Especially not with the count still lingering about.

Noise.

Noise coming from the hallway outside.

Sister Catalina rushed past her to open the door just as one of the guardsmen escorted a newcomer into the ward.

This one Matilda had never seen before. And she had been working here for half a year now to know nearly every face in the school.

"Stay here," instructed the halberdier.

"Sure. Not like I'm going anywhere," retorted the patient, a young adult man almost the same age as Sister Catalina. He was cradling his arm which was bent at an angle that made her wince. His features were rough, unshaven, and mostly unkempt with his eyes darting around akin to a wild wolf brought into a menagerie clinic for the first time.

Those wild eyes eventually landed on her sequestered in her little corner at the end of the ward, prompting the halberdier to pace over and pull the curtains surrounding her bed.

"What's up with her?" the young man asked.

"She fell down the stairs," the guardsman grunted.

"Really."

"I wouldn't keep asking those types of questions if I were you."

"Why? Something going on?"

"I said no questions. Soeur, how long is this going to take?"

"Patience, please," Sister Catalina pleaded. "This is delicate and I ask that both of you keep at peace so I may work."

Matilda laid down on her bed. Whoever this new person was, he was coming off more akin to Count Bazaine De Hainault: unpredictable, uncommon, and unsafe.

A few moments later, she heard Sister Catalina gasp. "M-monsieur! Th-those scars...h-how can you have survived such, such... My word, what have you been through, monsieur!?"

The newcomer let out a nervous chuckle. "Err, sorry, lady, but, ah, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't ask those kinds of questions."

"Now you get it," snorted the halberdier.

Siesta was on her way to return the mop and pail she had been using when she chanced upon a sight that made her bite her tongue to keep from squeaking. She had no idea what came over her but her instinct led her to leaping behind a pillar, hoping that she was not seen in the shadows as her ears picked out the argument.

"I'm not going to be someone's slave!" Was that the young man that had been summoned by that one student?

"You're already one!" Count De Hainault growled, his gravelly voice sending shivers down the maid's spine. "Get your head straight, boy. You seen them moons up there? Get it through your goddamn skull that you ain't on Earth anymore. This ain't the wasteland. No rads, no robots, no goddamn anythin' that you can find up in your paradise—"

"This can't be real!" screamed the young man who, now that she had a good peek, had his arm wrapped in a sling. "This...this can't be real."

The count let out a long sigh. "That's what I thought a month ago, boy. Thought I was trippin' on some bad fruit or someone spiked my drink. Or maybe I damn well finally died. But I guess...there's some things waitin' for you in another life."

The young man slumped to the floor, his weighted eyes glaring wide at the marble, as his free hand clamped down on his own hair. His mouth was moving and Siesta strained to hear, only picking out what sounded like names.

To which Count De Hainault kneeled with a hand on his shoulder. "I ain't gon' ask who they are but let me tell you right now, son. You won't be seein' 'em for a long time. Pro'lly never again. And you're just gon' have to accept it. I went through your gear and I damn well can see that hell in your eyes. This ain't easy, I know. But you can't keep ignorin' all this."

"I... I... This can't—"

"Take it from me, kid. You ain't the only one who's been branded like some brahmin."

He locked his gaze back up at him. As did Siesta who was pondering what she had heard as she witnessed the count remove pull on his right glove. She could not see anything more beyond that given his large build but whatever it was cowed the volatile young man.

"God screwed us over, son. Might as well make some goddamn good lemonade out of them lemons, don't you think?"

"H-how?"

The magistrate put back his glove and stood up, offering his hand. "You can start by talkin' to little Louise. I'm sure she's hurtin' in other ways than you are, especially after those little tiffs you two've been gettin' into."

"But she's—"

"A scared sixteen-year-old girl who got a damn good deal thinkin' all her life it was a bad hand." He helped him up. "In the meantime, I'll be holdin' onto your gear. Can't have you lettin' loose a warning shot on a bad day."

Snort. "I'm not that reckless, sir."

"That's what I told myself when I was your age, son."

The next few minutes passed in obscurity with Siesta remaining where she was long after she had discerned that both Count De Hainault and Ma'amselle Louise's 'familiar' had left. Her mind was a mess after having heard some words she never thought could be spoken by anyone else outside of her own family: 'wasteland,' 'rads,' and 'robots.' Could it be that all those stories were more than just morbid, fanciful tales meant to whip her and her rowdy cousins into shape?

Did her future employer hail from the same mysterious land as her grandfather?

It was getting late and now was not the time to dwell on those things just yet. She still a few more things to do before her shift would end. But even as she emerged out of the shadows and hurried back to the servant's quarters, mop and pail weighing down on her tired arms, a part of her dreaded that the two men she had unintentionally eavesdropped on were aware of her presence the whole time.

Louise sat in contemplative silence with an empty roll of parchment spread over her study table. She had spent the last candle's worth of time repeatedly dipping her quill into her inkwell. Whatever words she could come up were almost always erased by her self-doubt and uncertainty.

What could she tell her family? Surely they were expecting something to come by this week since they were well aware that the Invocation was within the past few days and the youngest daughter of House Vallière had been mostly timely with her letters. What could she say to her sisters? To her father? To her mother?

Brimir above, why did Count De Hainault have get involved with all of this anyway!?

"'A fellow soldier from another frontier,'" she verbally recounted him saying. "Par les Fondateur, why did my familiar have to be...to be...to be a detestable vagrant the likes of him!? A dog would have better. Nay, a mouse! Even a humble cockroach would suffice!"

Louise ungraciously dropped her head into her hands.

"What am I supposed to say?"

Knock, knock.

For the love of... She did not need this right now! "Who is it?"

"Louise," echoed back her familiar's voice.

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

Slowly, she unlocked her door and let him inside. Whatever animosity she had for him was tempered by the sling that held his broken arm. That and for the first few moments, he refused to meet her in the eye.

Louise was tempted to demand the reasoning for his visit but the instructions of Count De Hainualt rang strong in her mind. She did not want to be 'in service' at his estate!

"Is there something I can do for you?" she asked through gritted teeth.

Now, he looked at her...apologetically. "Damn it, I'm not...really good with this so... I'll just get to the point then."

She raised her brow as he straightened himself before her.

"Louise, I'm sorry. I...I shouldn't have yelled at you...and assumed that you were...um...a spoiled little sh—um, I mean... I shouldn't have called you all those nasty things, I guess, is what I'm trying to say and, uh..." He stammered and sputtered and scratched the back of his head before slumping and regarding her rather pathetically, his lanky frame bending like a broken clockwork toy. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll just— I'll just leave it at that."

For her part, the pink-haired mage kept her nose up and glare prevalent. Then the moment passed and she too had to release the breath she was holding. "... L-likewise. I sh-should not have a-assumed as well th-that you were some l-lowly commoner...with all the colorful vocabulary I used to describe you."

He nodded.

She nodded back.

Crickets.

"So...are we good?" he asked.

She exhaled. "All is forgiven. For now."

"Great." He scratched his broken arm, now wrapped in clean strips and hanging limply off his sling. The Brimiric runes carved into the back of his left palm shown against the candlelight. "I, uh, I won't be going off on you from now on...I hope. And, well, y'know, randomly making holes in the wall, right? Ha-ha-ha, um, yeah."

She felt her eye twitch at the mention of the damage done to a particular section of her room that she had yet to get fixed. "So long as you don't irritate me with your, with your—"

"Hey, I was overwhelmed, alright? It's...it's complicated why I acted the way I did. Too much going on at the same time."

"I suppose I understand." She really did not. But Count De Hainault expected better from her with regards to her familiar so she had to play along. A part of her wondered how much influence the magistrate had to convince Director Osmond to agree to this...despite the consequences if her mother were to find out.

"Cool," her familiar replied. "That's good. Um, so...can we start over?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, um, can we...start anew? Like, um... Okay, how 'bout this." He smoothed his unkempt hair, rubbed his stubble, and the presented himself as best he could with his good arm. "Hi, miss! My name is Leon Walker. I'm from back east. Uh, way back east. I mean— different places! Yeah. Um, I, uh, wasn't expecting to be...summoned...as your sla—um—s-s-s-servant but...I'll...I'll give it a shot. Not like I got a choice anyway."

Founder above, the rest of her life was going to be more difficult than she realized. But at least he was finally cooperative. "Very well. My name is Louise Françoise Le Blanc De La Vallière, third daughter of Monsieur le Duc Centurion De La Vallière of House Vallière and Madame le Duchesse Karin Desirée De La Vallière of House Maillart. A pleasure to...meet your acquaintance, fami—I mean—Monsieur Walker."

"Awesome." He stretched out his hand.

She looked at it.

"Oh. You...don't know what a handshake is?"

She folded her arms. "I am unfamiliar with your customs."

He shrugged. "Okay then. Well, um, I guess... I didn't plan on going this far so... Is there anything you'd wanna know?"

Louise had so much she wanted to know. She had so many questions to ask and she was not about to let this renewal of their relationship as mistress and familiar be ruined by her excitement. So she started slowly. "First things first, Monsieur Walker. How are you acquainted with Monsieur De Hainault?"

To this, his baggy eyes went wide as his slacking jaw. "Um...I don't really know him personally. To be honest, I've never met him until yesterday."

"But he knows you, correct?"

"How do I say this? Um, he knows...where I'm from. And I, sort of, know where he's from. We just...happen to be from the same, uh, continent. Like, uh, meeting a fellow Tristainian in a foreign country. Yeah! Like that."

That made sense, she mused. "So you were a knight-errant like him?"

"A knight-err—uh, yeah! Sure, I was. Um, I think. I was, uh, moving from place to place." He glanced away, almost ashamed to continue. His voice dropped to a low whisper. "Y'know, taking jobs and doing my good deed for the day and all that."

Louise sighed. So he really was a knight-errant. A mercenary. And mercenaries were a fickle bunch, often sung as villains more than heroes in bards' tales and the written epics. From what she was seeing of him, it seemed he had done things that he was not proud of. Best not to push too much on that for now. Then she remembered what he was carrying on his person when she summoned him.

"Your muskets," she said. "You both use muskets, the likes of which I've never seen before."

"Yeah. 'Muskets.' Sure. And a few other things that I really feel naked without."

"You're fully clothed."

"I meant that I feel—what's the word? Oh. Vulnerable. Yeah, I feel vulnerable without my stuff."

Similar to how a mage would feel if he were to be deprived of his foci, she reasoned. Fair enough. "What about magic?"

He bit his lip and glanced around before answering. "We're more on science than, um, magic."

"But isn't science the exploration of magical theory?"

He regarded her with an almost insulted expression then shook his head. "No. No, no, not that— Well, okay, yes but no. Not really. It's...it's complicated, okay?"

So she summoned a commoner. A martially capable one with the confidence of the provincial governor. Still, capability is still capability and he had skill. Terrifying skill from what she had experienced the previous day. To be able to move at such speeds while encumbered with that strange armor he wore. And the fact that it took the combined efforts of Professor Colbert and Count De Hainault to restrain him after she had sealed the Invocation.

She pointed to his runes. "... How is your hand?"

He shrugged. "Itchy. But not painful."

"Professeur Colbert seemed surprised by them. He says they're unlike the ones usually seen on the other familiars."

"Yeah, I heard. Guess that makes me special, huh."

Being a human summon? Completely special. Unique, if one were generous. Blasphemous, if one were fundamentally devout. "How do you find your accommodations?"

"The food's great, I have to say. And you have clean water. Clean water. People kill for that."

She almost recoiled. Where in Brimir's name can one find a place where water is enough for people to fight over? Was the water from his land of origin so tainted?

"Room's good, too. Better than where I used to sleep."

Because mercenaries and commoners were not often accorded such luxuries given their station, she did not add. "If anything, you're being treated like a noble."

He grimaced at the mention of the aristocracy. "Sure. Met a few. Guess you could call them 'nobles.' Didn't like them. They paid well but... There are lines that just can't be crossed."

Louise sympathized with him on that. The desires of some of the nobility completely went against the very code that Brimir himself wrote down for his descendants to follow. At least, her familiar confirmed that he indeed had morals and that won him greater regard from her. "How did you deal with them?"

He frowned. Then scowled at the floor. In her peripheries, she noticed his knuckles clenched white. "Not something I'm keen to revisit. Sorry."

"That's fine. You don't have to. It is not my place to know."

It was then that she noticed one of the candles flickering. With practiced ease, she pulled out the tinderbox from her drawer, scraped the flint against the metal until the sparks reignited the wicker.

"You know, I thought you were going to just magic the light back," quipped her familiar.

She sighed through her teeth. "I'm an exception."

"So you're special too?"

"Not the word I would use."

"Nothing wrong with being unique."

"Oh really?" she growled. "How about being unable to cast magic properly and always ending up with explosions? Being called a 'Zero' to my face because I'm a failure of a mage? Oh, how about being insulted daily and my name cursed by even the teachers because I caused too many injuries due to my attempt at trying to learn!?"

"Whoa, whoa! Easy," he barked back. "I didn't— Wait. You were bullied?"

"Forget it. I don't expect you to understand."

"I actually do. You're not the only one born with a target on his back, you know."

She regarded him only to find anger burning behind his baggy eyes. "I guess torment cares not for one's upbringing or station in life."

He shook his head. "Nope. At least over here, they don't try to kill you for being different."

Much like the elves in the Holy Land would kill any human who dared cross into their lands. How quaint. "Where exactly are you from?"

For a moment, he studied her. "... You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

That was not entirely true. Though she would dismiss most as frivolous, she did try to keep an open mind to things. Mostly. Sometimes. Okay, maybe not as often. She did not like being left in the dark and she was curious, for the love of Brimir! "Tell me. Just tell me."

He sat down on the chair across from her. "Alright then. Would you believe me if I told you that I grew up in a vault?"

Louise blinked. Okay, so maybe she was going to have take everything he would say from now on with a grain of salt. (Seriously, a vault? As in like the Académie vault?) With a nod, she gestured at him to continue and he did, elaborating that there existed these large communes hewn deep inside mountains that were called 'vaults' which were meant to protect its inhabitants from an inevitable, apocalyptic war. His tone shifted every now and then—from how fondly he seemed to reminisce living a sheltered life away to how bitterly he recalled the horrors he inevitably had to face.

Yet, as the night progressed, he became more relaxed...more amicable than before. And that was greatly relieving for the pink-haired mage. For now, she would not need to worry about this discussion devolving into another argument, another hole in the wall, and another broken arm.

Kirche sat in silence on her bed in relative darkness with only the light of the moons to illuminate her lavish quarters and the light from the ball of fire hovering over the tail of her familiar Flare bathing his corner in vibrant red. So far, the Germanian sophomore had kept up the illusion that she was already asleep and blissfully unaware of the affairs in the rooms adjacent to hers. In particular, Louise's.

While the Académie walls were built thick enough to mute most noise (so as not to let students unintentionally 'disturb' their neighbors who were 'studying') and granted with the protective enchantments (in case some students were hazardously experimenting), they were still susceptible to less spells like, say, twist the air to cage sounds so as to preserve them for later use. In this regard, the spell cast earlier was one that was common in Germania and Gallia: a spell that amplified the sounds of certain areas.

Very useful for lords trying to learn the plans of their rivals. Also commonly used by lesser mages with scores to settle.

In this case, Kirche was only curious to know what Louise and her mysterious familiar were talking about. No malicious intent whatsoever. Perhaps material for tugging on her hairs but nothing more. She was not that cruel.

And the fact that Louise even failed to cast cantrips meant that there was no silencing spell to reinforce the enchantments in her own room. Which meant that nothing counteracted Kirche's magic which allowed for her to hear every detail of the tale of Herr Leon Walker.

A tale so outlandish, so unbelievable, so unusual...yet spoken so passionately with hints of emotions that painted it all genuine. After all, Herr Walker was no thespian, that she could tell. On the possibility that this was all an act, then he was as good a deceiver as Herr Von Hainault. If not, then the reality that there could be another world that existed somewhere where magic was a fool's construct and man could end empires in a day with fires that rained down from the sky. Such vivid descriptions were frankly unnerving to the point that she found herself sweating under the sheets out of how restless she had become from imagining them in her head.

But above all were the personal tragedies that Herr Walker himself had to endure. Some of which tugged at her heart, drawing on emotions of vulnerability that she thought she had suppressed. Yet to have experienced such cruelty, bigotry, and downright betrayal atop a raging war he could not avoid...all within the span of a year...

Kirche snapped out of her sympathies upon hearing a chair being dragged across the floor.

"Goodnight, Louise."

"Goodnight, Monsieur Walker."

"Um, how 'bout you just call me Leon. Not really, uh, comfy with the 'monsieur' thing."

"Very well...Leon."

"A~and I'm out."

Footsteps. Door hinges creaking. Door lock clicking. Shuffling. Rustling sheets.

The Germanian thought that was the end of it and was considering dispelling what she had cast only to hear another noise echo from the corridor. Steel rubbing against leather and a low gravelly humming that could only belong to...

"How'd it go?" Herr Von Hainualt? He was still here!?

"Better than I expected," croaked Herr Walker.

Chuckle. "Yeah. Kid ain't that bad. Just got a rough life, is all."

"You and me both, sir."

Oh? Just exactly how much did these two men have in common? Did the governor likewise hail from these cratered 'waste-lands' filled with demonic bears, sickly ogres, immortal ghouls, steel golems, and Brimir-knows-what-else?

"Um, I, uh, told her...a lot."

"Really now. Even your name?"

"I gave her a substitute: 'Leon Walker.' Much easier to say than 'Lone Wanderer.' Like hell am I telling her my real name just yet."

What a monicker, Kirche thought. A lone wanderer? She wondered why he left that particular detail out. Then again, he did not sound all too proud of it.

"Understandable," grunted Herr Von Hainault. This was followed by a long pause. "... I take it she now knows what nuclear energy is."

"The concept of it. And more on the consequences of its misuse."

Another chuckle. "Good thing that ain't a reality over here. Well, not yet. What else you tell her?"

"The Brotherhood. The Enclave. Project Purity. Big summary of all of that, basically."

The concerted effort to purify a tainted river and the factions that warred over it. The Germanian could have easily dismissed it all as some fanciful story conjured by a minstrel after four tankards at a Bavarian tavern. Yet Herr Walker's storytelling was filled with such zeal and passion that she found it all hard to doubt.

"Project Purity? Boy, you still need to tell more 'bout that. Ain't gettin' much from the East Coast with all the shit-storms burnin' up the Midwest and comms eaten up by god-knows-what across the rest of the fuckin' continent. Be nice to hear 'bout civilization over there."

"And it'd be nice to know about Vegas and what happened in California, sir. With all due respect, I know you don't like the Brotherhood but at least..." Breath hitching, voice dipping. "...at least give me some closure. The western chapters have gone dark and the paladins in DC have been getting restless the last time I checked."

Grunt. "Fair enough. You like to gamble, son?"

"I've made some. Not fond of taking risks unless I have to though."

"Well, this'un ain't really that risky. Ain't that much to wager, anyway. Nothin' like puttin' down some bets to get somethin' off your chest. That is if you got the time. You look like you could use some shut-eye."

"I'd say the same for you, sir."

Herr Von Hainualt snickered. "Guess that shows that we're both tough sons-o'-bitches."

Herr Walker scoffed. "And I was told I was going to be a fry cook for the rest of my life. Who knew flipping a pan is about as good as swinging it at someone's head."

"Yeah. Wasn't expectin' to end up a courier myself but, well, shit happens, son. Deliverin' packages is a dangerous job, after all. And now we're here after all we've done."

Bitter chuckling. "Yeah. If this is Hell, then what the fuck is Heaven like?"

"I'd like to think this as Purgatory. Or maybe Limbo."

"Same shit, different day?"

"Same shit, different world. But hey, at least this'un's got clean water an' clean air an' folks who ain't either mutated to all livin' hell or rottin' alive." Chortle. "The afterlife ain't too bad, don't you think?"

"Not the 'fire-and-brimstone' I read about but I'd take this over that any day." Yawn. "Been awhile since I talked someone's ear off like that. I'd hate to go to bed feeling like this though."

Heavy footsteps echoing against the polished marble. "That so? Ever heard o' this little card game called Caravan?"

Shuffling. "No, sir."

"It's a decent past time. Think of it like, ah, poker or blackjack but without the house edge. Really gets 'yer mind off things." Their voices were growing soft; they were leaving. "... Can easily rake in a fortune if you play your cards right. Rules are simple..."

The spell wore off and the Germanian was left to her thoughts in her room. All she could hear now was Flame's soft snoring and the crickets cooing in the wilderness outside. After ruminating for several minutes, she wondered if Tabitha had done the same thing given that her best friend's room was only a few steps down the hall. Then again, she could be reading. Or asleep.

Needless to say, Kirche August Frederica Von Anhalt-Zerbst did not get much sleep that night.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 30, 2021

LAST EDITED: February 7, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 6, 2021

Chapter Text

Day XXXIII

If Louise De La Vallière was poor with her magic, at least she was devout. Or so she liked to reason.

Still, she considered herself more devout than the redheaded Germanian girl who decided to sit in the same pew as her in the Acadèmie chapel during mass. For some reason, she found it difficult to concentrate on the homily being delivered by the newest deacon assigned to the school, a lean young charitable man named Stephen who, according to the newest rumors, had once been stoned by an angry mob for preaching selflessness.

"Amen," chorused the entire congregation of students and teaching staff.

Louise, though, found it a little disconcerting that someone so shamelessly lustful as Kirche spoke with such reverence in response to the holy word. Then again, Louise herself was no saint and she would admit to her own faults. But at least she did not flaunt herself to such degrading lowliness!

Speaking of lowliness, that was one reason why she entered mass in such a dour mood.

Her familiar had been found sleeping in the stables in nothing but his undergarments, reeking of dried sweat and covered in hay! Had it not been the holy weekend, she would have meted out severe punishment for such ill behavior that undoubtedly tarnished her name by extension.

"You've been awfully sour today, mon cher Louise," Kirche started almost immediately after mass had ended.

"Shut it, Zerbst," Louise hissed, stomping away towards the infirmary where her familiar had been taken to. Not because Leon was wounded but mainly because he needed a better place to recover from his apparent hangover. Brimir above, why had he been drinking last night? In fact, where did he get so much drink to become so greatly inebriated?

"I heard Monsieur De Hainault had taken a keen interest in your familiar," the Germanian said, falling in step with her.

The pink-haired mage grit her teeth. Of course, it was the provincial governor. The same man who had been dangling a sword over her head ever since the day of the Invocation and was most likely the reason why she was bearing the shame of what Leon had done under the influence of heavy spirits. In fact, what exactly had he done last night? There did not seem to be any serious damages or anything unsavory that she may have come across.

Or maybe she was about to find out in a moment as she was allowed inside the infirmary by the four halberdiers standing guard by the doors. Thankfully, they kept Zerbst and her annoying salamander out.

"Leon!"

"Don't yell, please," groaned the young man who was thankfully fully clothed and lounging on one of the many vacant beds.

Louise stomped over. "What in Brimir's name were you up to last night, hm!?"

"Ugh, I don't know... I don't remember, really."

She folded her arms. "Do try. I unfortunately have the rest of the day to listen to your excuses."

He glared at her while reaching over for the cup of water on the bedside table. "Look, I wasn't planning on getting drunk, okay? Things just...happened."

"Things don't just happen. I didn't think you were of the sort to indulge in such vices but it appears I have to deal with that unfortunate characteristic of yours."

"Damn it, Louise, I'm not an alcoholic," Leon growled. "I just remember...playing cards with that old bastard...and, I guess, he had some booze on him. Really strong booze now that I think about it..."

So the count was involved. Because, of course, the count had to be involved. "You mean to say you were accosted into drinking by Monsieur De Hainault."

"Pretty much. Look, I didn't want to but...he was persuasive."

Louise did not appreciate the answer. "From now on, I forbid you from taking so much as a sip of spirits."

He nodded weakly. "Seconded."

"Good. Now do you need to stay here a bit longer or are you sober enough to help me?"

"Help you? Wait, what was I supposed to do again?"

"Holy Founder above," she groused. "You agreed to assist me in my studies?"

He furrowed his brow. "Oh shit, was that what we agreed on last night?"

"Shortly after your colorful tales of your homeland, yes."

"Damn. Well, I better not be treated as some kind of goddamn slave or else—"

"I am aware of the conditions," Louise snarled. "Because of your familiarity with Monsieur De Hainault, he has convinced the school to grant you special status among us nobles. Hence you are to therefore behave like one."

Leon blinked back in surprise. "No shit? Wow. Fuckin' A, I don't know what to think about that."

"And speak like one!" she barked. "I will not tolerate such vulgar language from you."

He rolled his eyes at her. "That'll be a little hard to do away with."

"It is not impossible. Or do I have to resort to punitive measures to ensure compliance?"

To this, he smirked at her before wagging his finger in her face. "Ah-ah-ah. I wouldn't do that if I were you. After all, we agreed that I shouldn't be treated as a slave. Maybe a servant but not some kind of pack mule or workhorse that you whip around with a stick."

Oh, right. She forgot about that particular detail. Physically harming her familiar meant abuse in the technical sense and a breach of the agreement they had settled upon.

Leon stood up and stretched. "Alright, I missed breakfast. Is it lunch already?"

"Not for the next two hours," she seethed. "You have been granted privileges befitting us in the aristocracy. Do not abuse them."

"Can't promise that," he muttered.

The pair made to leave when they heard someone else call out from across the ward.

"Pardon me!" Was that the Miss Longueville pulling aside the curtains surrounding her bed? She appeared rather haggard. "Are you by chance heading to the refectory?"

"Oui, Ma'amselle Longueville," Louise replied politely.

"Splendid. May I walk with you?"

An odd request but nothing to dally on about. "Bien sûr, ma'amselle."

The Académie secretary beamed as she swung herself off her bed, showing her right leg wrapped in bandages and angled in a limp. She reached for a crutch leaning against her bedpost and began hobbling over towards them, cringing all the way. "Please don't mind me. I'm only in this for the exercise."

"Whoa, lady, you look like you're not ready for that yet," Leon interjected. "You sure you want to keep walking?"

She beamed back sheepishly. "I thought I'd be able to after spending so much time in here."

"Looks like you haven't been here longer than I have. And you look like you haven't eaten," he continued. Then he glanced at a disapproving Louise before adding, "Just saying, miss. Nothing really, uh, insinuating about it."

Mademoiselle Longueville giggled. "No offense taken, monsieur. I can see you are not one to ignore any observations."

Louise noticed her familiar grinning a little too eagerly at the older woman. For some reason, that irked her.

"I call it like I see it," the younger man snickered back. "And from the way I see it, I don't think you're ready to be walking yet. How about you just stay here a bit longer. I can understand why you want to get back on your feet but, well, your leg isn't really ready for that yet."

She sighed then nodded. "I guess you're right. Forgive me for being eager."

"Hey, it's okay to get a little antsy. Believe me, I've been cooped up in worse places for far longer and that drives you crazy, you know? Ha-hah, um, yeah. That was...that was a bad time, um. Okay." He shrugged, glancing around, before helping her back to her bed. "Say, if you don't mind me asking, what happened to your leg?"

The secretary flashed him a rather thin smile. "Just a little accident. Fell down the stairs as they say."

"Must've been a nasty fall."

"Quite."

Louise felt that there was something more behind the secretary's facade. Or maybe it was her long uncombed hair draped over her spectacles that made her look almost somewhat offended. Regardless, the older woman had somehow managed to coax more friendlier words out of her familiar than the sophomore could ever achieve in two days—which was all the more irritating.

"So, you needed to get food? I thought you had servants for that," Leon continued, leaning by her bedside.

Mademoiselle Longueville curled her lip. "We do. But you can't deny a woman her cravings for something sweet at odd times of the day."

"Oh. Oh, right! Yeah, I get you. Got a sweet tooth, huh. Hey, maybe I might pick up a few sweet rolls if they have any. Does that sound good?"

"It does, actually. Thank you, monsieur."

"Call me Leon. I'm more used to that."

"Very well, Leon."

Later on, halfway down the corridor to the refectory, Louise asked her familiar rather tersely, "You seemed very friendly with our secretary."

"What? I can't be friendly with anyone here?" he grunted.

"No, that's not what I meant!"

"So you're what? Jealous?"

"Not that either!" Why in the world would Louise ever be jealous? There was absolutely no reason for her to be jealous! Jealous of what? Nothing at all. If anything, she was only curious as to why Leon was more amicable to the people around his mistress than his own mistress? "It's just that...you complimented her so quickly."

"More just noting observations here and there," he answered thoughtfully. "Pretty weird that she got something that bad from a nasty fall. Even weirder that she needs a whole set of guards. Or maybe this place takes real good care of their employees, I'm not sure."

"You don't think you would break a leg if you tumbled down several flights of stone stairs?"

Leon opened his mouth to argue. Then clamped them shut with a thoughtful hum. "... Point taken. Still, something just...doesn't feel right with that."

That she could agree with. "So you heard how angry she was when she said she had a fall."

"A pretty nasty fall, don't you think?" he muttered. "If you ask me, I think there's more to it than that."

Louise shook her head. "I don't think we should pry."

"Nothing wrong with being curious, you know."

"Let's just get you something to eat."

"And some sweets for Miss Longueville, too." Sensing the tense pause, he returned her flat look with a shrug. "What? She asked for some. What's wrong with that?"

"... Well then get me some sweets, too," the pink-haired mage grumbled.

"... Okay, then."

Matilda tried, that she did.

Was it so bad to just have some fresh air? She was not even going anywhere, for Brimir's sake. She missed mass, too, and even that was no excuse to leave—they could just have the deacon come by and give her a summary of the sacrament. Sister Catalina, bless her heart, really wanted the best for her but there was only so much a lowly healer could do. Opening the windows a tad bit was enough of a risk and so Matilda had to make do with her goose down prison.

Then again, there was the unexpected amicability from the supposed human familiar summoned by that Vallière girl. Leon, his name was?

Rough to look at and far from charming. But he was acutely perceptive which confirmed what she had been hearing through Sister Catalina; this young man was an experienced mercenary who had been living the same past life as that of the provincial governor.

How sweet of him though to insist she stay back in bed. Her leg was still in pain and when she forced herself to walk, the agony only intensified and it took her so much strength not to let any tears fall. Given how much strain she put on her injury, she was greatly relieved that she did not undo all of Sister Catalina's hard work.

"I heard that you tried to walk," groused said healer who had just arrived from the chapel.

"How was mass?" the older woman asked cheekily.

"Enlightening. Had Monsieur Stephen not been a man of the cloth, I'd say he would have made for a fine orator."

Matilda chuckled. "I had a guest today."

"Yes. Ma'amselle Vallière and her familiar companion Monsieur Walker."

"Hard to believe that girl summoned a person to be her familiar," the secretary prodded.

"Controversial matter, honestly," sighed Sister Catalina. "But it is not my place to theorize on the works of the papal scholars. Now, how is your leg?"

As she let the healer poke and prod and practice her magic on her injury, the defrocked Albian noblewoman began to ruminate on the ramifications of a human familiar...and with what she knew of the holy texts and the obscure Brimiric prophecies, this could mean the return of the lost element. And that little Miss Vallière was most possibly a Void mage.

It was a good thing the Reconquista was so far unaware of all this—she shuddered at what they would do if they found out she failed. Nay, what they would do if they found out she had turned her backs on them and sided with the Tristainian Crown! Well, there was not much she could do now...other than hope that that damn count would stay true to his word and make an effort to save Tiffa and the others.

A half hour later, Monsieur Leon returned to the infirmary albeit for a very brief visit. He waved at Matilda as he dropped off a basket of sweet rolls.

While there existed no law requiring anyone to attend mass, to skip attendance for reasons beyond ill health, emergency service, or downright war was considered a serious faux pas at best. And Henrietta knew that the Courier could care less to give a rat's...bottom...about religious matters. At most, he was indifferent to the teachings of the Church and was unmoved by the consequences of his public disregard for adherence to the Brimiric faith. And although Cardinal Mazarin—whether out of respect for the man or his loyalty to her—strove to minimize the severity of her familiar's irreverence, it would only be a matter of time before the Church in Romalia would become privy to the royal messenger's considerably 'heathen' behavior...and promptly dispatch a papal legate to 'encourage' proper religious observance from the higher echelons of the nobility.

Which might lead to the discovery of Henrietta's case as a Void mage. And would inspire a call for a Papal Inquisition that would no longer be ignored. And that may expose everything...and undo everything...and lead to turmoil far worse than the mess in Albion. Until that day, the princess saw fit to have Courier Six on errands on the seventh-days and holy feasts to at least keep up the argument that he was busy serving the Crown to serve the Church. Though she wondered how long that excuse would last.

The cathedral bells rang throughout the sanctuary and the congregation rose to their feet as Cardinal Mazarin concluded his homily. It was time for the prayers and Henrietta stood with her mother Marianne and her retainer Agnés, all three being 'exemplar' followers of the Brimiric faith (though, truth be told, they were about as devout as any lowly commoner). Having been seated at the first pew as per her station as the queen, her mother was the first to approach the altar upon which she knelt down to offer her supplications.

The princess knew what it was about; the queen had transitioned from grieving the loss of her beloved to depression from losing her beloved. And as the days passed, it was becoming evident that she was passing on her right to rule to her daughter. After a while, Marianne departed with her aides. And Henrietta approached the dais with Agnès close behind. She knelt down with her hands clasped tightly and her head bowed.

Mazarin leaned down with the usual words. "What is your supplication, Madame Royale?"

The princess already knew that the cardinal was aware of what she was going to say. It had been the same for the past two weeks. "I pray for the soul of Comté Bazaine De Hainault. May he find forgiveness from his sins, may his heart find peace, and may he see the light of Brimir and feel the embrace of the holy saints. And may Brimir grant me the strength to continue my duty as princess as I will soon mantle the throne..."

It was the same prayers.

And the same pleas.

By the time she was done, she felt her cheeks wet with tears and she hid her face to dab them dry with a napkin. As she made to depart, her eyes scanned over the congregation that were offering their own supplications either where they stood or directly to the cardinal. To her surprise, she saw her familiar leaning against one of the pillars at the end of the nave...waiting for her.

"How long has he been standing there?" whispered an astonished Agnès.

"Only one way to find out," the princess answered, the crowd parting before her as she made her way across the sanctuary towards the Courier.

"Henny, why is he here?"

Henrietta breathed in, breathed out, and set down her teacup to address her most irksome and very irked familiar who was now irking her other guest in the parlor of the royal palace. She held up her hand to keep neither Agnès nor Cardinal Mazarin from answering in her stead.

"Sixième, as you know, this is Monsieur le Archiduc Olivier De Poitiers, the current appointed marshal of our entire military."

The archduke offered a short bow before continuing to sip at his tea. "A pleasure to finally meet your true person, Monsieur Sixième Courrier."

Courier Six frowned deeper as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Goddamn son of a fuckin' bitch, Henny."

De Poitiers blinked wide-eyed in surprise and was even more baffled when he saw that Henrietta, Mazarin, and Agnès were all equally nonchalant about such blatant vulgar language. The royal musketeer even shrugged with an almost bored look on her face that told him to get used to it.

"This really ain't no fuckin' joke, in'it," the royal messenger gruffly continued.

"Non, Sixième," the princess replied resolutely. "Whether you like it or not, Monsieur De Poitiers is now involved with our humble little clandestine circle."

The archduke recomposed himself, aware that he himself was a kindred soul to the Courier with regards to physical imposition, battlefield experience, and general directness. "I understand, Monsieur Sixième, that you have no love for me—"

"The feeling's mutual."

"Yes, understood," De Poitiers droned. "However, for the better, I have been included into this elaborate scheme of protecting Her Royal Highness and the kingdom. You will simply have to accept it in the same way that I am inclined by my oath of service and my loyalty to the Crown to cooperate with you in every way I could."

Henrietta felt the Courier's dry, green eyes bore into hers with such intensity that she began to feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Then again, her will was absolute and her familiar, by the power of Brimir, was compelled to obey regardless of his opinions.

"You ain't makin' this easy, Henny," he growled.

"You likewise never made my work any easier, Sixième," she hissed back.

"If I may intrude," Cardinal Mazarin echoed sternly. "Discussing Monsieur De Poitier's awareness and involvement in our endeavors against the Reconquista is moot at this point. Monsieur De Hainault, you are aware that the archduke is the marshal of the kingdom's military and hence holds supreme authority over the entirety of our armed forces subordinate only to the Crown."

The Courier snorted. "Fine. So I guess he knows about you and me bein' some damn prophecy come true."

"Her Royal Highness being a mage of the Void," the archduke said reverently. "To think such a notion was outrageous, if not blasphemous. Yet here we are. My liege blessed by the Founder Brimir and the entire matter kept from the Church in Romalia."

"For now," Henrietta added. "Sixième, you have something for us?"

The royal messenger, glancing to the musketeer captain leaning by the bookshelves with her arms folded, paced over to the table between the princess, the archduke, and the cardinal. "What I say here does not leave this room. Understood?"

Henrietta offered him a flat look, her lips almost moving to retort back. Then she him leveling a fierce glare at Archduke De Poitiers who glared daggers back in turn.

"Good." Six straightened himself. "Silencing spell?"

Mazarin rapped two of his fingers against his papal staff.

"Right. Angie?"

Agnès nodded back. The palace guards and the royal musketeers on the grounds were made aware of this meeting and were keeping the hallways and adjacent rooms vacant.

"You."

The archduke raised his brow.

"Lie to the Cour Royale," the royal messenger ordered. "I know the reason you're here is 'cause o' them finicky fucks. Remember that we've done some right prunin' and know that I'm still prunin' so don't even bother try to call up your buddies for another show trial 'cause you ain't gon' find much support than you did last time."

De Poitiers huffed. "You clearly do not know me, Monsieur Sixième. I am above petty desires that either harm the interests of the Crown or threaten the stability of this kingdom."

"Uh-huh. I know who y'are. I done gone did my homework, done some right diggin' on you. And I damn well know that you'd rather someone other than Henny right here be in charge, don't you think?"

Henrietta, Mazarin, and Agnès eyed the archduke.

"I will not deny my concerns as you have stated them," De Poitiers stoically admitted. "But I am here to serve the Crown and the kingdom. Everything else is secondary."

The Courier appeared unconvinced. "Even the Church?"

To the princess's muted surprise, the old marshal nodded unashamedly. "Even the Church. I follow the teachings of Brimir, not the desires of his servants. No offense intended, L'Éminence."

"None taken, Monsieur le Archiduc," the cardinal replied neutrally.

"Right." The royal messenger eased back to pour himself a goblet of wine from one of the end tables. "I know I'm not supposed to like this but goddamn it, I don't like it."

"We are aware of that," the princess echoed tersely. Patient she may be but her familiar had depleted most of it at this point. "Now, Sixième. What is it that you have for us?"

He took a long gulp before striding over, not liking the uncertainty twisting his bearded mien. "Henny. Don't freak out."

Oh Brimir, no. This better not be bad news.

"Your childhood friend Louise..."

She gulped, reining in as much control as she could over herself, keeping stone-faced as her hands clasping tightly over her lap.

"...she summoned a person at the Académie."

Oh no. This was worse.

"She's a Void mage, Henny. Just like you."

This was much, much worse.

"On the bright side," the Courier continued, "at least we ain't gon' have to worry 'bout buildin' bridges with someone who's technically got a fraction o' God's powers now, eh?"

Princess Henrietta blinked in disbelief. Mazarin rubbed his forehead. Agnès's jaw fell slack. Archduke De Poitiers stared at his tea.

And Courier Six downed his goblet, pursed his lips, then inspected the bottle of imported southern Gallian wine. "Not bad, this'un. I like the flavor."

"Henrietta?"

Henrietta quickly spilled the remaining contents of her goblet onto the trimmed grass while she tucked the bottle of light Vallière fruit wine under the garden table.

"M-mother! You surprised me," she stammered.

Queen Marianne De Tristain strode over to where the princess was seated in the royal conservatory. "Are you by yourself?"

Not anymore. "Yes, mother. Is there...is there something the matter?"

The older royal regarded her daughter with tired, discerning eyes. Her aged lips stretched thin into a disapproving frown which only deepened when she sat on the vacant chair across from her. "Where did you find this?"

Henrietta sighed dejectedly. "... In the royal cellar, mother."

"You never liked that place. Ever since you were young, you refused to go down there for fear of the palace ghosts and the sort. And up until now, I have never considered you willing to venture there for a drink since you almost never indulge in such things," the queen outlined. "What has changed?"

Her place in life, mother. The princess was doing far more work than she needed to long before she even had to be cause of a certain grieving royal widow. "... The burdens of the day have gotten to me. It is how it is."

"Henrietta... If you pour yourself another cup, you might not be able to walk back to your quarters."

"I can manage," she choked out softly. "I can manage...like I always do..."

Crickets. The night time breeze wafted over them both, rippling through their evening gowns.

"Henrietta—"

"I'm fine, mother."

Marianne's face remained stoic, her weighted eyes growing heavier and sterner than her voice. "No. No, you are not. Come, my daughter. You have had enough and it is time to rest."

"I'm old enough," Henrietta protested weakly, failing to resist the tug of the queen's grip on her wrist. "Let me go..."

"You are tired," her mother cooed. "It is time to rest. Come now before you get a cold."

No matter how much she tried to resist, she found herself submitting. The more she willed herself to protest, the more her body allowed herself to be dragged out of the chilly air of the conservatory into the warmer halls of the palace. And when she attempted to reach for the bottle under the table, she found it scooped up by her mother who took a swig herself before setting it onto the table.

"... That is enough spirits for today, don't you think?" the queen remarked.

Henrietta, her rosy cheeks now wet with bitter tears, growled back, "It's not enough! It's not enough... I need— I need more to f-forget that you d-don't even w-want to..."

"Want to what, my daughter?"

Her fists tightened hard enough to go white. "Forget that you don't even want this anymore...and I now I have to pick up the pieces. Why me? Why not you?"

"Henrietta, I cannot—"

"When will you stop mourning and start helping me lead!?"

The pair stopped in the middle of the corridor, marble floors mopped immaculate and frescoed ceilings polished clean.

"I'm sorry I cannot help you with how I am now," Marianne whispered, taking her into her arms. "Forgive a senile woman for her shortcomings...and pray for the end of her grief...for it cannot leave me no matter how hard I try to forget."

"Don't forget father," the princess sobbed. "I don't want you to forget him... I just want you to mold me in the way he would have wanted me to be. What you both would have wanted me to be..."

Caressing her hair, the queen pecked her on the forehead. "I will try, that I promise you. From now on, I will try."

As her daughter continued to weep against her shoulder, the soon-to-be dowager queen of Tristain stared distantly at the end of the hallway where two opaque shadows stood opposite each other, leaning against the pillars, both regarding the royals from afar.

"Oh, Henrietta," sighed Agnès.

"'Bout damn time Her Majesty up an' gone done somethin' right," grunted Courier Six, her mentor and trainer leaning casually against the column across from her with his arms folded.

The musketeer captain huffed at him. "Offering Her Royal Highness a drink and later informing Her Majesty of where she could find her was an act of kindness I almost never expected from you. Though I consider the preference of spirits unnecessary."

"Hey, Henny right needed a cold one. Wouldn't deny her that. Plus, Her Majesty couldn't sleep so why not point her in the right direction?"

Incredulous, she shook her head. "Sometimes, I think you are too proud to showcase your benevolence."

Shrug. "I do what needs to be done, Angie. Ain't no need to pin morality to that."

"And sometimes, I think all those spirits have rotten the part of your brain that gives you empathy. Or was it the bullets?"

He breathe deep before muttering back, "Definitely more than them bits o' lead, that's for damn sure."

Agnès regarded him for a bit before turning to see the princess leaning heavily against the queen as they walked back to their quarters. "It was a good thing you did not offer her the stronger variety. You know, Her Royal Highness does not have the tolerance for such heavy spirits."

"Prissy lightweight," he snorted. "Well, least she ain't like that whiny-ass Maryland batter. Kid talked my damn ear off last night with his sob stories. Didn't think he couldn't handle a shot o' the good stuff 'til after the first cup."

Her brow rose high. "Are you saying that the Left Hand Of God cannot hold his liquor?"

The man scoffed. "Shit, Angie. He's a damn featherweight. Killed his fair share and done some more and you'd think he can down a whole keg o' the hardest kickers this side of the continent. But nope. Two sips in and he starts goin' on and on and on and on about how the wasteland fucked him over an' why he has trust issues... Christ, at least he didn't reach for my shooters else I'd have delivered to y'all worse news."

"What can be worse news than having two Void mages with two legendary familiars in our kingdom?"

"Oh, I don't know," he drawled half-heartedly. "Maybe the fact that I may have potentially gotten on the bad side o' one o' the most powerful mages in the entire kingdom...maybe even the whole continent."

She narrowed her eyes. "Come again? Who did you offend now?"

"Ken's wife."

Agnès felt her jaw drop.

"Pretty sure that woman ain't gon' like what I done gone did to her daughter," he prattled. "Necessary measures, you understand."

The musketeer captain could not hide the disbelieving bewilderment overcoming her. Of course, out of all the people in the world, the man she begrudgingly admitted to looking up to finally offended the one person everyone hoped he would not offend. "Sixième...what did you do?"

"Calm your tits, Angie," the Courier grunted. "I didn't hurt anyone...well, not anyone o' them students. Just had a chat with the little firebrand, made sure she complied. Hell, even got the Acadèmie to cover my ass when the shit's gon' hit the fan and I'm pretty damn sure by that look on your face that shit's really gon' hit the fan real soon."

She blinked several times. "Do you even know who Madame le Duchesse De La Vallière is?"

He shrugged. "I know. 'The Great Tempest' of Tristain. Seen her in person before an' let me tell you, she got them Medusa eyes."

"She is known as Le Grande Tempête for a reason!"

"Uh-huh."

Agnès had to remind herself that this man, despite having been here for a month now, remained largely a stranger to many of the customs, traditions, and personalities of this world. "Have you ever prodded a manticore?"

He rubbed his unkempt beard. "I treaded on a two-headed bear and rodeo'd a golden bull."

"... You're inviting trouble from one of our most loyal subjects."

"I know Ken. He's still got enough of his balls left to calm his wife down. Then again, that'd mean his nuts will be gone by the time she'll be comin' for me."

She massaged her temples. "What did...what did you do to Ma'amselle Louise?"

"Just had a friendly chat with her. Laid down some ground rules. Had Ozzy there to back me up, don't worry."

Dear Founder Brimir, she did not like how he worded that. "How 'friendly' of a chat?"

"I wasn't that cruel." He scratched on his gloved hand where the Brimiric runes had been burned into his skin. "Needed to set things straight 'fore things'd get out o' hand."

"I can understand why," Agnès croaked morosely. "Either Ma'amselle Louise, or her entire family, is descended of a different non-Tristainian noble house. Or Her Royal Highness is."

"And little Louise ain't cut out for the shit that Henny's goin' through," the Courier piled on. "She's too arrogant, too hotheaded, and too damn naive."

The musketeer captain could not disagree with that, barring the bluntness of it. "What about her familiar? Monsieur Leon Walker, you said his name was?"

"Vettin' him." He eased off the wall and began pacing in the other direction with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his iconic duster fluttering in his wake. "Got work to do. See you around, Angie."

Agnès watched him leave, herself too occupied with her own thoughts to even bid him a good night no matter how much she wanted to.

Earlier that evening...

Queen Marianne De Tristain did not know why she needed to be out and about at these hours of the night. There had to be a good reason for this and when she saw that it was Count Bazaine De Hainault who had asked for her personal presence, she felt assured that it was something of utmost importance. Her expression fell flat however when he simply told her that her daughter was waiting for her in the royal conservatory.

"Monsieur Sixième," she groused tiredly, "why must you waste my time like this?"

Silence.

Maybe she her senses had dulled with age or her depression was clouding her judgment but when she opened her eyes after massaging her temples, she noted the sourest look on one of the very people in the kingdom who showed her nothing but warm sympathy, heartfelt kindness, and genuine understanding. To someone she could rightly call one of her closest confidants, she felt ashamed at how offended he appeared.

"With all due respect, Madame la Reine, what the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded quietly, his green eyes burning with an anger she never felt from someone close in a long time.

Had he been another person, then such a slight would be met with immediate corrective punishment. If Duchess Karin De La Vallière were present for this, the woman would have cut off his tongue before castrating him for being so blatantly disrespectful. Only the queen would not allow it. For while Karin was the caring and compassionate sister she never had, Count Bazaine De Hainault had since proven to be the crass and concerned brother she did not know she needed.

Nevertheless, Marianne recoiled with a hand over her chest. "Sixième, what are you saying?"

"I get that your grievin' but come on, woman. You got two eyes an' two ears an' a workin' brain but you still don't get it, do you."

"I don't understand—"

He shook his head at her. "Your daughter. She needs you."

To this, the queen turned away. "I am...not in the proper state to be advising her."

"Yes, you are."

Marianne seethed. "You said it yourself, Sixième. I am grieving. I am still in mourning over my husband, my light, my love—"

"His late Majesty ain't the only one you deeply care about," snarled Courier Six.

"I lost someone dear to me!"

"And another is losing someone dear to them right now," he growled into her face, shocking her so much that she took three steps back.

Wide-eyed, the queen recomposed herself, her hand clutching tightly the bust of her evening gown. A part of her raged at the blatant offense yet her heart screamed back in firm rebuke. Whatever retort she could muster died at the tip of her tongue, leaving her gawking much akin to a fish hauled out of the sea.

He continued to glare at her, towering over her with the build of a golem and the seething fury of a tamed bear. A moment later, his back was to her as he eased against the wall, his arm over his head and the other on his hip, his head bowed in exasperation.

"Goddamnit, Marianne. Henny doesn't need the queen," the Courier rasped. "She needs her mother."

She felt the world around her stop.

"It ain't my job to fix your fuckin' problems. Sure as hell ain't my job to let your daughter go hurtin' like that. This ole war dog can do a whole lotta things but I can't fill a role I wasn't meant to have."

His gravelly voice rang in her ears and slowly she took steps forward, her destination the royal conservatory. She paused in her stride when she was a few paces ahead of him.

"Sixième...do you have children?"

She did not have to turn around to see his face when he responded. "That's irrelevant, Madame la Reine."

He sounded so broken. About as broken as her when her beloved Henry succumbed to the damned illness that had no cure. Such brokenness...such pained acceptance of the inevitable... It was enough of an answer for the queen. For if there was anything Marianne De Tristain could discern in her current mood, it was that she knew another grieving soul when she heard it.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 30, 2021

LAST EDITED: February 13, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: February 13, 2021

Chapter Text

Day XXXIV

"Did you have to shoot her?" Francis asked.

Her Royal Highness's herald emptied his tankard before replying. "Had to. Couldn't take the risk."

"Risk of what exactly?"

"Y'know. Her magickin' her way out o' the box. I was half-expectin' her to throw ham with her fists but the cheeky bitch don' even known how to throw a straight jab. Just shows how a lotta y'all high-standin' mages are pretty damn fuckin' useless without your magic sticks an' whatnot. Laughable, really."

The Viscount of Wardes, whose secret allegiance to Reconquista had ended in favor of 'redemptive service' to the Tristainian Crown, nursed his own tankard of moderate ale, the subtle jabs at the limitations of mage-craft stinging a little. So far, it was a slow morning here at the Charming Fairies Inn which, over the past week, had seen a surge in clientele. That and there were significant renovations going on simultaneously within the same district; seedy shops were being refitted with better facades and more credible wares while cramped apartments were being reestablished with better housing. Even the canals running alongside the cobblestone streets were coming unclogged by recently hired street cleaners.

Interesting to know where the coin for all these sweeping changes came from.

"So d'you confirm her intel?" Count De Hainault asked after a most immodest belching.

Francis nodded. "There is an orphanage in the village of Westwood, County Wiltshire, southern Albion. Currently managed by a young woman by the name of Tiffania, so far unimpressive though many within the Reconquista think she is of some obscure repute. The orphanage is home to at least a dozen or so children, oldest being sixteen, youngest being three. Tiffania herself is a year shy of her twentieth."

"Records are accurate?"

"We cannot know for sure given that Albion's annals are still held by the royalists. It is possible that the information we have gathered is at this point outdated."

"Hmm, a'ight." The magistrate signaled to Scarron over by the bar for more ale. "So Miss Tilly from Picadilly's got herself shot silly 'cause o' some wee nilly orphans, huh."

Francis gawked at him. "I don't know whether that was an attempt at poetry or merely your drunken rambling."

He waved him off. "Focus, Frankie. So them rebels up north are holdin' a whole town hostage—Westwood, you call it—so Tilly can fuck around here in Tristain, eh?"

"That is a crude but correct summary, yes." 'Tilly?' What an unnervingly charming sobriquet for Lady Sachsen-Gotha.

"Shit. So she really ain't lyin'."

"Her circumstances were inevitable given the climate," the viscount remarked somberly. He held the defrocked noble thief with the same regard as any professional associate—dispassionate respect with either compliments or rebuke based on their merit—yet even he had room for sympathy for the woman. "For her skill and experience, I did not expect her to be rooted out so easily."

"You were rooted out easily," the count reminded him.

Francis scowled. "Is there anything else you'd wish to know, Monsieur De Hainault?"

"House Gramont and House Grandpre. They ain't behavin' like they should. I need you to confirm whether or not they're worth stringin' up. Or if they just need a kick in the 'nads to get 'em to fall back in line."

"You know if you keep at this, there would not be much of the Cour Royale left," the viscount echoed solemnly.

The count raised his brow at him. "Isn't that what you were gunnin' for in the first place?"

Francis nearly slammed his fist on the table. "I only aided those northerners because of common ground on matters of the purity of the Church, the restoration of true aristocracy, and the salvation of the human race. Not to thin out righteous men deluded by the illusions of a weakened crown. I am willing to put down a life for the sake of a noble goal, not to wantonly massacre innocents accused without a semblance of a fair trial."

"Or y'all just delayin' the inevitable."

"I'd rather live with the hope of the preservation of humanity no matter the cost."

"Even if it cost humanity itself?" Count De Hainualt snorted. "Never underestimate the stupidity of the human race, Frankie. Where I'm from, we done right shot ourselves in the foot so goddamn bad, we had to start over. And we did it more than once, mind you."

"Your origins constantly elude me."

"The less you know the better." The magistrate quickly plastered on a polite smile just as one of the scantily-clad barmaids arrived with another full bottle of hard ale. "Thank you, miss."

"And I thought we had a bit more trust in this relationship," groused the viscount behind his tankard.

Haughty laughter. "Keep earnin' it, son."

Siesta wondered if the reputable 'human familiar' Leon Walker was either earning her good graces in exchange for something or simply expressing a genuine unconditional kindness towards her and her fellow plebeian staff. Such treatment was not unheard of but quite uncommon so having to go through this in person was something new that astounded her.

Here was a dashing, young man no older than her who was unconditionally helping her with her tasks, offering her awkward but heartfelt compliments, and even sympathized with her struggles as a plebeian serving ungrateful patrician children. He was far from charming but he was very amicable, all the more so when they both began talking about her grandfather's homeland...

...the so-called 'waste-land.'

And while she still held doubt, she was now most convinced that a world burned by great fire and poisoned for near eternity very much did exist. And that both Monsieur Walker and Monsieur De Hainault hailed from the same distant land, albeit from different 'coastlines' as the former put it. Which made her a little more prideful of her lineage and the tenacity of her ancestors living in a world that could easily kill them with the air they breathed.

Splash.

"Ah, fuck!" hissed Monsieur Walker. "Damn it. Sorry."

The maid giggled behind her palm at her companion's soaked shoes. "It's alright, monsieur. It happens sometimes."

He whinnied. "Come on, Siesta. You can just call me Leon. I'm not really with that whole 'monsieur'- 'mademoiselle' stuff, remember?"

"I apologize. It is hard to do away with pleasantries." Especially towards someone who was most pleasant company, she did not add.

"Yeah, yeah, old habits die hard, I get it," he groaned. "Anyway, you were saying...?"

Siesta continued to recount to him the stories of her grandfather's initial callousness and cruelty towards her grandmother back when she was still but a virtuous maiden. Such a topic came at the request of Monsieur Wa—ah, pardon her—at Leon's request. It seemed his interest gradually rose the more she regaled him of the vague yet colorful exploits of Talbes's own celebrated knight-errant.

"... So he came here in a set of...'unbreakable steel armor,' was it?" he reworded.

"Unbreakable from near anything except rust," the maid replied, hanging up the clothes to dry.

He planted his hands on his waist in thought. "That so? Did they, uh...did they happen to glow in some areas?"

"They were supposed to. The parts that were made of glass like the eyes were supposed to be alight with some kind of magical energy which, supposedly, meant that the enchantments on it were working, making the armor near indestructible in the same way that it empowered the person wearing it."

"... Okay then."

Siesta noticed how suddenly distant he became. "Leon?"

"Could you...could you describe the armor more?"

"Um, it has been awhile since I last saw it." After all, other than rare family gatherings or the sacred days of remembering the dead, there was no reason to visit her grandfather's shrine...and behold his majestic steel armor and steel weapons sealed in a glass case next to the sarcophagus he built...as well as caress the slumbering steel wyvern forever guarding the old warrior's tomb. "What I know is that it is...odd in the way it was forged. Unlike any of the armors I've ever seen before. Frankly, the visage of the helm alone is quite scary. As a child, me and my cousins were almost always terrified by it even though we knew it was an empty suit of armor."

"Did anyone try it on...after your, uh, grandfather, um, passed?"

"My father, uncles, and some distant relatives tried. But they all claim that it was almost impossible to move in it. And that there were these odd little bulges and other things inside the armor that made them feel like they were walking into a tight closet filled with dozens of dull needles."

"Kind of like walking into an iron maiden, huh," he remarked offhandedly. "And the, uh, the...the 'enchantments?'"

"Oh, no one could figure that out either. My grandfather stubbornly took those secrets to the grave, saying that the world was not ready for such 'breakthrough ingenuity.' Still, if you pressed your ear close enough, you could hear a faint humming noise like some kind of energy whirring inside. I don't know if you could now though; it has been a long time."

Leon rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Still got some juice in it then, huh... So...what did they do with it?"

"It was immediately decided from then on to respect my grandfather's wishes and have it sealed away. Which made sense since no one else knew how to use it." And while Siesta could guess that not even the nobles could achieve any success with it, her entire family did not want to take the risk of exposing such exploitable treasures to someone who could have easily wiped them off the face of the earth with the snap of their fingers.

Looking up from the now empty washbasin, she noticed her companion seated on the grass in contemplative silence.

"Leon?"

He blinked back up at her. "Sorry. Yeah?"

She gestured at the assortment of wet clothes that belonged to his 'mistress,' Mademoiselle Vallière. "Do you need help with that?"

"Uh, no. No. I got this. Thanks..."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, yeah." He began awkwardly fumbling with some pink, frilly loincloth that most definitely belonged to the reputable sophomore. "Guess panties haven't been invented yet, huh."

"Pan-teys?" Siesta echoed confused.

Leon blinked wide-eyed while he tried to hide his flustered cheeks. "Nothing. Uh, how about you handle her underwear and I do the dresses and the uniforms, yeah?"

The maid chortled behind her palm. Oh how amusing that men, no matter their station, never really could understand the mysteries of women. "Very well."

-~oOo~-

Day XXXV

An explosion rocked the Académie.

Siesta had long since gotten used to it; Mademoiselle Valliére had a reputation for making the tasks of the staff and custodians all the more difficult. But she was surprised when Leon darted past her towards the source of the blast.

She heard yelling from the classroom that was surely wrecked. This was followed by a confused and slightly bemused Leon re-emerging into the corridor with his furious and very embarrassed mistress.

The maid simply stood aside, offering a low bow with her hands neatly folded, as they passed. Though, this time, when she raised her head, she caught her...friend...shrugging at her with a smile that told her that this was going to be another long day for him.

A few hours later, the maid noticed Mademoiselle Zerbst and Mademoiselle D'Orleans following Leon across the school. Knowing her station, she did not inform him. And she was probably just reading too much into the situation; the two sophomores were most likely on a mid-afternoon stroll, most likely to shake off the dirt from Mademoiselle Vallière's explosion earlier that morning.

As she passed them by, she overheard another argument. A loud one that was punctuated by two loud slaps and two very angry students—was that Mademoiselle Montmorency?—storming off amid a small crowd of jeering sophomores. In the middle lay a dumbfounded Monsieur Gramont, both his cheeks reddened by handprints.

Well, that was unfortunate.

Siesta quickly averted her gaze and resumed her gait until she reached the servants' quarters. No use in attracting the ire of a noble son whose charlatan tomfoolery had been exposed in a dramatic fashion. The ordeal made for fun chatter later that evening though, much better than talking about another Tristainian nobleman falling from grace and his properties confiscated by the Crown or another band of mercenaries getting into trouble somewhere in Tristain on behalf of some local lord.

-~oOo~-

Day XXXVII

If anyone were to ask Siesta what she really thought about Mademoiselle Zerbst, she would privately admit to being astounded that the Germanian was masterful with what she naturally had: playing with her assets to the point that her promiscuity had long since ceased to become a source of shame and scorn but a matter of pride and leverage. Very few boys succeeded in resisting her charm.

Among the very few being Leon Walker.

And Siesta wondered whether or not he was the reason for Mademoiselle Zerbst being rather offish lately. Less charming and more irritable. And the way the Germanian regarded Mademoiselle Vallière's familiar with an unusual look that bordered between lust, curiosity, and frustration. Or maybe the humble maid from Talbes was reading too much into things.

"Hey, Siesta!" greeted Leon. "I just checked with Director Osmond. The Void Tower's pretty much abandoned and the stuff stored there is, well, forgettable."

"Yes, the Void Tower has long since been more of a ceremonial addition to the school. Usually, that's where we throw away anything deemed irreparable or worthless," Siesta replied. "Does that mean—?"

He gave her a thumbs-up. "Yep, we got a new hangout. With a nice view, too, if we can clear out the crap in the upper floors. See you there in a few?"

'We.'

Dear Founder Brimir up above, she felt rather strange at that.

"Siesta? Um, you okay?"

"Oh, um, I...d-didn't quite catch that. P-pardon?"

"I said I'll see you there later? Y'know, during your break? I'll bring some snacks too so you don't have to carry a whole tray across the school."

"Th-that would be nice." With that, she bowed slightly as he walked off with his hands in his pockets and his rather uppity mood alleviating most of her worries.

-~oOo~-

Day XLII

Her daily afternoon breaks with Leon had been the most pleasant—if not her most favored—part of working here at the school.

To be in the good graces of such a kind young man of greater standing. While he himself was completely incapable of magic, no one could deny the fact that he was a commoner with a noble title. Something that was very common Germania and frowned upon yet tolerated throughout the rest of Halkeginia. He was horrible at brewing tea, preferred coffee, and was averse to heavy spirits, that much she learned.

And of course, this was not entirely in secret. No effort was made or encouraged to put up any illusions; Leon insisted on it, saying that it was just too much work for some 'stupid rumors.'

Well, the newest 'stupid rumors' that Siesta had been picking up were nothing short of scandalous. No, they were not having an affair! No, she was neither 'stealing a noblewoman's love' nor 'plotting to overthrow the authorities' or something ridiculous. In fact, Siesta was more surprised at how...accepting...Mademoiselle Vallière was about this nature of her relationship with her familiar. Perhaps the pink-haired sophomore was not as irritable and ill-tempered as she thought. Or maybe because Leon had argued (as usual) with his mistress about befriending a commoner like her.

That seemed most likely. Given that later that evening, Leon mediated a more informal introduction between herself and a prickly Mademoiselle Vallière.

Of course, stuttering aside, she still held up her chin and puffed out her (non-existent) chest being that she was of the aristocracy. But at the end of the hour, Siesta could only pity the poor girl. Burdened by luxury and privilege yet finding no happiness in her daily affairs.

"I feel more grateful about my place in life," the maid remarked as she walked with Leon down the corridor to the servants' quarters to retire.

"I mean, if you take away this class-and-rank bullshit, we're all people who eat the same stuff that grows out of the soil, y'know what I mean?"

Siesta giggled into her palm. "You're right. We all get our food from the same farmers, after all."

"Exactly! And you all drink the same wine from the same vineyards."

"You mean we get our grapes from the Vallière lands."

"All the more reason for Louise to quit being such a spoiled little shit and learn to accept that she needs us—you, me, and every commoner around—to help them up," he joked. "I mean, who is it that makes the fancy, cushioned chairs they sit on? Who grows the wheat and bakes them into their fancy bread for their fancy cakes? Who cuts down all the timbre and digs up stone for their fancy-ass mansions?"

The maid chortled.

Her companion continued mirthfully. "I mean, like, who else hauls 'em up-and-over on someone's shoulders and carry them around like some human carriage? Without us to hoist their asses in the air, they can't taste the clouds, right?"

Siesta burst out laughing. "I'm glad the students are all asleep lest they would take your opinions so poorly."

"Fuck 'em," Leon snickered. "Who cares what they think? Sure, they can magic all this crap but take away their wand and close in with some good old fisticuffs and they're about as easy as, well... It'd be cheating at that point, hah!"

"If only those brats could get that straight through their heads, hein?" interjected Chef Marteau.

The maid squealed in surprise even as the young man beside her bumped his fist with her superior.

"It's a little late to be wandering around, eh, Monsieur Walker?"

"Just making sure Siesta here gets back to her dorm safely," the human familiar replied with a smile.

The burly cook simpered. "With how you've been treating her for the past week or so, I'd have thought you were courting this fair maiden here."

Oh Brimir above, please stop it with this, Seista mentally screamed. She felt her cheeks warm up as she hid her face behind her hands.

"Ah, well, I'm not on the market, sir. Just looking out for my friends, y'know," Leon echoed back sheepishly.

Friends. Of course, they were friends. Very good friends and nothing more.

Chef Marteau bellowed out a heavy laugh before slapping him on the shoulder. "Of course, you are, boy. Wish we had more of you. Now, off to your dorms now. It's late and wouldn't want Siesta here facing the coming day without any proper rest."

"Sure thing. Goodnight, Mister Marteau. Goodnight, Siesta."

The maid stammered out a weak response before rushing back inside much to the confusion of the young man she wished she could be even closer to and the older cook who was shaking his head at their 'youthful antics.'

-~oOo~-

Day XLVIII

Siesta did not know whether or not she was being blessed or cursed by Brimir. Perhaps both given how often she would hear Chef Marteau joke about the Founder's 'sadistic' sense of humor. All she knew right now, however, was that Leon Walker, class and standing be damned, was willing to defend her name.

Her.

A lowly commoner.

A humble maid from the humble fishing town of Talbes in the not-so-humble County Flanders, north of here.

What did she have that she was deemed worthy of concern from the servant of a daughter of a prominent noble house in Tristain? Was it because...because of their daily afternoon tea breaks? Was it because of their...friendship? Did he truly regard her as a friend? Did he, a man of greater station than her—privileged by the Académie and favored by a prominent member of the Cour Royale—actually care for her well-being as a person?

Could it be that...that he...he really, truly was smitten by her of all people!?

"Listen, asshole," he loudly growled across the refectory. "I don't give a shit if your dad's the goddamn field marshal of this fucking country. You leave Siesta alone and we let bygones be bygones."

Gasps.

Silence.

Monsieur Gramont was shaking with fury on the other side of the long table.

"Guiche," pleaded Mademoiselle Montmorency. "That's enough. Let this go."

Siesta found herself powerless to stand from the floor, akin to a crippled hare sandwiched between a dire wolf and a huntsman. The moment passed suffocatingly with the whispers of the on-looking students echoing off the walls.

"Y-y-you insolent buffoon," hissed Monsieur Gramont, his hand clenched white over his rose-wand. "What makes you think you're better than us?"

Blink.

Flash.

And the entire refectory was witness to a 'lucky commoner' standing over the long table, his hand clutching a bread knife pressed against the bare throat of the blond sophomore whose anger was now replaced with pure, carnal fear. Said fear passed to the crowd when they heard the taller man speak.

"You have until the count of three to back down before I drag this over your neck."

Monsieur Gramont tried to glare back. "Y-y-you wouldn't dare!"

"One."

Mademoiselle Montmorency stomped on the floor as she tried to assert her noble station. "Stop this at once!"

"Two."

The proud scion of House Gramont did his best to remain adamant. "I...I will not—"

"Three."

Shlack!

Siesta screamed as much as most anyone else present when Monsieur Gramont staggered back under a spray of blood that erupted from his below his chin. He fell atop Mademoiselle Montmorency who, despite her horror, did her best to stop the bleeding.

All the while Leon wiped the butter knife he used to so blatantly harm a noble son with a table napkin. "I warned you."

"You monster!" the blonde water mage screamed. "What have you done!?"

"I cut him. Not too deep. Didn't hit the jugular so he'll live. Didn't hit the voice box too so he can still talk shit. If he still wants to keep talking shit, that is."

"Y-you've assaulted a noble!" one of the seniors present declared.

"And? I'm technically a noble at this point. Besides, he was being a dick towards Miss Siesta here."

"He was only going to ask her some questions!" screeched Mademoiselle Montmorency while she cradled her fiancé in her lap, the blond himself now wide-eyed in pure terror as he covered his throat with both hands.

"That so? Well, did he have to be a such a pompous, condescending dick about it?"

Siesta found herself being hefted up by Leon who seemed unbothered by all the attention and by the fact that he just committed a punishable crime in front of several witnesses.

"You alright, Siesta?"

The maid nodded shakily.

"Good. That's good. You know, you've been spacing out lately. Everything alright with you?"

Before Siesta could respond, someone else raised their voice in the refectory.

"What in Brimir's name has happened!?"

"Oh shit," Leon sighed, his cold demeanor now replaced with guilt...at being sloppy with his crime that he was now easily caught. He turned around to face the unnervingly furious Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert. "Oh, hi there, prof! Didn't see you there. You see, um, I can explain."

Later that evening, shortly after most of the Académie's denizens had retired for the day, Siesta was seated on her bed in the servants' quarters, herself the subject of the excited gossip between her fellow maids who seemed rather indifferent to the fact that she was right there and listening to them weave tales out of today's mess!

"He is definitely smitten by you," Jasmine cooed.

"There is no way in Tartarus that such a dashing young man would stand up for your honor without some hint of affection," piled Nina.

Amilie pinched her cheeks. "You're lucky you have someone pining for you, you know."

To which Siesta pulled back with a groan and flopped onto the sheets. "Par les Fondateur, why me?"

"Why not you?" chorused the other three.

It was a good question. And one that the dark-haired maid from Talbes could not really answer. For one, she was elated that she found favor in the eyes of someone so chivalrous and kind and sweet and friendly and handsome and...and..and... She rubbed her eyes. On the other hand, she was terrified that she was about to be sold off to someone who seemed the exact opposite: a cold, irreverent, cruel, and terrifyingly conscienceless warmongering count.

After what she had experienced today, if Leon were to find out about this—if the day ever came that she would have to depart for Count De Hainualt's estate—then that might spell trouble on a grander scale than what had been mitigated this afternoon.

Or maybe Siesta was taking her blessings as curses and she was rather very tired and wanted to sleep away her concerns because they were making her most uncomfortable.

"I hope Ma'amselle Vallière won't mind," she mused.

And that got the others riled up again.

"Oh my, Monsieur Walker is indeed the familiar of that girl. And they have been bonding recently."

"They say that her explosions have gotten worse. You should watch out, Siesta!"

"Maybe it'd be best if you were to remain amicable with him. There are more fish in the sea as they say."

"Will you three shut up and drop this already!?"

Heavy knocking on the door. "Bordel de merde, you girls are always keeping me up at night! Go to bed already!"

"Apologies, Chef Marteau!" the four squeaked before blowing out their lanterns and dashing under the covers.

-~oOo~-

Day XLIX

Louise wanted to hit Leon so bad.

But alas, she was beginning to fear the provincial governor as much as she feared her own mother. The more credible news reaching the Académie from all across the kingdom only vindicated the wild rumors that had been plaguing the school recently.

Already half of the Cour Royale had been 'purged' by the Crown through the 'vigilance, intuition, and initiative' of Count Bazaine De Hainault and his bloodhound lieutenant Chevalier Michel Ney. The most alarming bit—and one that terrified Louise after seeing how mortified the staff, including Professor Colbert and Director Osmond, were upon hearing it—was that Archduke Olivier De Poitiers, the marshal of Tristain's entire military and essentially the most powerful man in the kingdom below the royal family, had been speaking in favor of the controversial count!

That was not to mention the rising number of mercenaries, mostly Germanian, riding around imposing law and order in County Hainault. There was no doubt as to who they were working for. One Germanian was enough here at the Académie but having to deal with even more gallivanting about in the nearby towns and villages. At least Kirche had the decency to hold herself to the modicum of aristocratic standard. But uncouth commoners on warhorses with longswords, pikes, muskets, and Brimir-knows-what-else...

And that was all on top of the encounter between her familiar and her classmate yesterday...which was the sole reason why she was summoned to the director's office to stand by the actions committed by someone she was supposed to have control over. Then again, with the arrangement brokered by Count De Hainault, 'control' was loosely defined as it was loosely applied.

"I thought we talked this over," Leon groused.

"Shut up, you imbecile," Louise hissed, half tempted to stomp on his foot with her heel. "You nearly killed Guiche!"

"He was being an ass! I even gave him several chances to back down but his 'oh-so noble pride' just had to take precedence over common sense."

"You're not helping matters!"

"I was being reasonable and I'm still getting punished for it. Guess the worlds out there are still the same. Shouldn't be surprised then."

Director Osmond cleared his throat. "Ma'amselle Vallière, Monsieur Walker, consider yourselves fortunate that Monsieur Gramont, Ma'amselle Montmorency, and the countless other witnesses have all agreed neither to pursue any punitive action against you nor support any punitive action by the school against you for your ill behavior."

Both mistress and familiar sighed in relief.

"However, while this institution has unanimously decided to forgive this incident, know that the next time such a thing would happen again, I will be forced to take punitive action regardless of the benevolence that may be accorded to you," the centenarian wizard intoned very sternly. "We gave you leniency and privilege and expanded your standing on the basis of trust, Monsieur Walker."

And coin and influence from a certain magistrate, no one wanted to added.

Director Osmond withdrew his varnished smoking pipe from his drawer, his voice never once rising from the baritone of authority that made Louise shake in her shoes. "Once more, I reiterate: do not abuse our generosity, Monsieur Walker. You may be a martially adept warrior but I am also a competent Square-class wizard. Do not provoke me or I will show you the consequences of depleting my patience. Am I understood?"

The pink-haired sophomore glanced to her familiar to see him cowed. Was that fear she was seeing or humble acquiescence? Or maybe both? Still, it was a unique sight to see from someone so arrogant and abrasive.

"Understood, sir," Leon humbly croaked. "It won't happen again."

The director squeezed in a few more crushed herbs into his pipe to fuel his long drags. A moment later, behind a nauseating cloud of smoke, he calmly said, "You know, Monsieur Walker, I am curious as to why you have consistently ignored the advances of Ma'amselle Zerbst."

Louise gawked. That harlot was still pining after him!?

"She's not my type," her familiar replied. "But she just won't get the hint. I've met a lot of people like her so this isn't really a first for me."

"Stalwart, you are. And while I can surely reprimand her behavior—as I've done countless times before to no avail—I am met by an interesting development from her dearest companion Ma'amselle D'Orleans. I am sure you aware of her keen observations of you both."

The pink-haired mage blinked. Tabitha was spying on her? How!?

"Yeah, I could see that but, well, she's a weird one. So I try to ignore her like I do everybody else. It's not like she's telling her dragon to eat me or something." Leon shuddered. "I think the damn thing wants to though. I've seen that kind of look before on, uh, these big-ass muta—ah, erm—monsters that I used to hunt."

Director Osmond snickered. "You're a curious fellow, Monsieur Walker. A human familiar of obscure origins, unusual Brimiric runes, uncanny coincidences involving our provincial governor... Now, you have the eyes of many of the young ladies here, including some of the maids. And one in particular."

The young man frowned. "Siesta. I know you know. Don't pretend, sir."

"Yes, yes. You stepped in when she was being pestered by Monsieur Gramont over matters that he has admitted to me. That boy was fearful and acted irrationally and he is already serving his due punishment. But the questions he wished to ask the poor girl. Would you like to know?"

Louise very much wanted to. She nodded with Leon.

The director set down his pipe. "Very well. Is it true that you have been hired by Monsieur De Hainualt to put on this entire charade of you being Ma'amselle Vallière's familiar? For the sole purpose of extending his influence over the school and, allegedly, ensnaring the daughter of a prominent Tristainian noble house for political leverage?"

The two blinked back.

"What?"

"Excuse me?"

The centenarian wizard chuckled. "Absurd, isn't it? They think that Ma'amselle Siesta was privy to some inane plot involving you and the count. Hence, since they found both of you unapproachable for various reasons, they thought they could find the answers from a commoner."

Leon waved his hands. "Wait, wait, hold up. They?"

"Oh, pardon this old mind for forgetting. Monsieur Gramont was not acting on his own ill-informed fears. Ma'amselle Montmorency, Ma'amselle Zerbst, and Ma'amselle D'Olreans all shared these same concerns and thought to, ah, investigate of their own accord. In their minds, they were saving the school. Though, from where I stand, it is nothing but youthful folly unchecked and left to fester towards a putrid outcome. A mistake on our part as instructors that we continue to rectify."

Louise sat gobsmacked. Is that...is that what her classmates in this school thought of her? That she was still a Zero with no magical talent...to the point that she faked the most sacred of rituals? Why the audacity!

"Man, and I thought Three-Dog was the best at this kind of bullshit," sighed her familiar.

Director Osmond raised his brow. "You know of Kérberos?"

"No, no. Not the three-headed dog from Greek mythology, I mean the—"

"Whose mythology now?"

"Ancient Greeks. Uh, never mind them. They were a thing back where I'm from but I don't know if you have something similar over here."

"Still, a three-headed dog? From the ancient myths? Kérberos. You personally know of one?"

"Oh, no. Just a man. Charismatic dude with hypnotic voice. Really chill and can spin up a tale and sell it hard to even the best skeptic. He calls himself Three-Dog but, then again, come to think of it, I never really knew his real name. Eh, he probably doesn't tell anyone that so nobody really knows what his real name was."

"Interesting. Was he a bard, a spinster, or...?"

"He was a disc-jockey."

"A what-now?"

"A disc... Ah, I mean...think of him as this guy who...has this, uh, tower that projects his voice across this massive area so people can hear it. But they need a certain, um, device to hear his voice."

"Intriguing. He speaks from a tower yet only those with a certain artifact can hear it?"

"I wouldn't say artifact but, well, it's called a radio and it's this thing where..."

Louise pulled on her hair as the discussion between her familiar and the director took on a tangent that was beyond her means of understanding. Was she not here to be punished, told-off, subjected to some consequence?

"...and that's part of the reason why people suddenly know who I am almost everywhere I went, y'know?"

"Yes, I can see how that can sometimes be vexing. More so when you are trying to remain inconspicuous for the task, no?"

"Exactly! And I was thinking to myself 'how the hell did they know?' and then I hear Three-Dog come in through the radio in the back talking about what I just did like two days ago and I was like..."

Louise looked around the office, finding some form of solidarity with Miss Longueville sitting in her desk by the door. The bespectacled secretary offered her a sympathetic gaze and a shrug before going back to her papers, her crutches leaning by the wall behind her.

"...so what was it again that you were going to have Louise do?"

"Nothing much, really."

"Really?"

"Really."

The pink-haired sophomore blinked between Leon and Director Osmond.

Her familiar coughed into his fist. "Well, Louise. Looks like you're off the hook."

"For now," intoned the centenarian wizard, whose sternness once more returned. "The next time, I may be willing to hand you to the wolves."

"Of course, Monsieur Directeur," Louise said, glaring at the largely unapologetic young man seated beside her. "I will ensure that nothing like this ever happens again."

"Oh, I'm sure you would. However, with the liberties accorded Monsieur Walker here and the limits of your control over him as per the agreement we have with Monsieur De Hainault, I will not hold you entirely accountable for his...misbehaviors."

That was not very relieving. "What of my classmates? I mean, they started it. Right, Leon?"

Director Osmond dragged on his pipe before answering. "... I assure you that Monsieur Gramont has learned his lesson in humility. Though not entirely from his experience the previous day. More so, there have been events outside of his control, outside of the Académie, and outside of my control that have convinced him to trim his youthful pride."

Louise and Leon shared a look. That sounded ominous.

"Um, what do you mean outside of your control?" her familiar asked.

"Let's just say that many of the students here have had their own families go through some difficulty regarding allegations of corruption and the sort. Rather boorish politicking, I'm sure. Most uninteresting."

Leon raised his brow. "It's not uninteresting if it scares the kids here half to death."

"I cannot say for I do not know, Monsieur Walker. What I do know is that House Gramont, House Grandpre, and a few other prominent noble families are being, ah...set to rights."

And having to involve the family during such a time would be disastrous, Louise mused. Perhaps she should pay more attention to the affairs of the world outside the school. Though that would mean filtering through all the baseless gossip but, well, where else could she start?

"I see that we have discussed what was needed to be discussed," concluded Director Osmond. "You may return to your classes, Ma'amselle Vallière. And you, Monsieur Walker, I expect you to behave whilst you busy yourself with your own affiars."

Louise stood up and bowed. "Of course, Monsieur Directeur."

Leon yawned and shrugged. "No guarantees but I'll try, sir."

Five minutes after the pair had left his office, Osmond smoked the last of his herbs and gazed at the view outside his window.

"Par les Fondateur, I'm getting too old for this," he groused to himself.

Lady Sachsen-Gotha grunted from her desk. "And you said you would never retire."

"And you want money to keep flowing into your orphanage, don't you?"

The centenarian wizard heard his secretary cease her writing and her labored breathing. He counted to three before her expected acerbic retort. "You really like to bring this up, old man."

"I will hardly tire of tormenting someone who has deceived me so spectacularly," the director answered coldly. "You have made a fool of me in front of too many people."

"It wouldn't have been so easy if you weren't such a damn lecher."

"And I would not be so lenient towards you were it not for Monsieur De Hainault."

Silence. Followed by the tip of a quill dragging against parchment. "Fine. Remind me hour after hour how the people I care about are starving to death while I slave under you for money that I doubt would really go to them."

Osmond regarded her. "You doubt my generosity, Fouquet?"

The wounded thief glared at him through her monocles. "Your past sins speak otherwise."

"The past is the past, woman. I was a selfish man in the prime of my youth. Now, I am an old wizard serving his purgatory as the director of this institution."

"You see your role here as penance?"

"I gave you my word that a portion of your salary from now on would go to Westwood village through our channels in Gallia," he said. "If you must know, three Tristanian Dot-class battle-mages were killed trying to deliver the first shipment. The first was killed by corrupt Gallian officers. The other two perished in Albion, fending off the a band of rebels from stealing your gold."

Judging by the way Lady Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha stared back slack-jawed, it was clear she had no idea of how sincere he was with this. "You...what...?"

"That is my generosity, Ma'amselle Longueville. As for Monsieur De Hainault...well, I'm sure his benevolence would manifest itself when the time would come."

Osmond turned back to the gazing out the window. A while later, he heard his secretary choke out, "He gave me his word that he would save Tiffa...he would save everyone..."

"I do not know how much his word is worth," the director intoned morosely. "Yet I feel that Monsieur De Hainault is the not the sort of man to go back on it. If he can win the favor of archdukes and purge half an entire court in so little time, then I have no doubts of his capability to see through to his grandiose promises."

"Are you saying that...he's actually going to Albion...?"

"I do not know. If he is, I do not expect to be informed of it." The director reached for his staff and levitated the paperwork on his secretary's desk onto his. "You may rest for now, Ma'amselle Longueville. I see that your distress is preventing you from working. I will handle this for now."

Without a word, Lady Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha wiped her face dry, hefted herself onto her crutches, and limped out of his office.

-~oOo~-

Day LII

Siesta always anticipated the worst whenever she received a summons from the nobility. Hence she was most nervous when she was escorted to Director Osmond's office by one of the Académie guards.

Her nervousness elevated to anxiety when she saw Count Bazaine De Hainault leaning next to the window behind the director's desk with his arms folded over his chest, his holstered steel pistols glistening against the sunlight peering through the glass. The director himself was nursing a goblet (of wine, no doubt) and appeared to have very recently recovered from a headache or two.

"Greetings, Ma'amselle Siesta," he greeted tiredly. "Come in. Have a seat, please."

The maid bowed and eased onto the cushioned chair. "How may I be of service, Monsieur Directeur?"

"Monsieur De Hainault has recovered your contract and we have been going over the clauses and discussing the transition of your employment from the school to his estate."

Oh.

The time has finally come.

Siesta stilled her beating heart and remained as stone-faced as she could. She did not really know what to feel towards this news. For one, at least she was not being sold off to some coldhearted lecher rumored to be housing a dungeon of pleasure-slaves. But at the same time, she was being sold off to a coldblooded killer who had no qualms about openly murdering anyone regardless of station and consequences.

"You're gon' be workin' for me now, lady," the count said gruffly. "Pack your bags, say your goodbyes an' all that. You'll be picked up by a carriage tomorrow morning."

The maid bowed low enough to hide the tears that were threatening to break from her eyes. "Oui, monsieur."

"Siesta's feeling a little down today," Leon remarked.

"Again with that maid," Louise groused. "What is it about her that you feel the need to needle me about her well-being? I am not her mistress! She belongs to the school."

He shrugged. "Hey, just saying. Can't fault me for being concerned about my friends."

Friends? With a commoner? Not uncommon but not something that the pink-haired mage felt comfortable with. "... Well, voice your concerns to someone who can actually offer aid."

Her familiar folded his arms while giving her a look that made her feel a little guilty. "You can't help or you won't help?"

"Even if I would, I could not. I am a student, a sophomore. Not to mention my magic. What do you expect me to do?"

Leon sighed. "I guess you're right. But...look, I'm going to talk to her again. Maybe figure out if we can do something to get her out of the doldrums, y'know?"

"She's probably tired."

"And how would you know that?"

"We just had dinner. The sun has gone down. For sure, she is resting from her chores. Would you not be irked to be disturbed from a much needed rest after all the things that you've had to do for the day?"

He shrugged. "Point. But I'm still going to check up on her."

Louise grit her teeth. "Fine. Go! Just...just don't pester me with things that are far above me. Above you, as well."

"Aye-aye, ma'am."

Louise could pinpoint so many reasons for her irritability today. She sat before her vanity mirror, scowling at her reflection, and gripping her hairbrush so tightly that her knuckles were white. The dreams she had been having recently were partly to blame, she was sure. Waking up in a cold sweat, unable to forget walking through the ruins of some mighty civilization, running from mercenaries wanting her head or a horned devil yearning for her flesh...

No. They were just dreams and nothing more. Vivid, haunting dreams that made her relive in some twisted way the experiences of her own familiar... Ah, nothing to get too worked up about. And definitely not something worth telling anyone really.

Besides, worse things have happened in reality during the day. As usual, her attempt at casting a spell during one of the morning classes ended in spectacular failure with the classroom being shuttered for the remainder of the week for clean-up. At least her explosion was minuscule with the most damage being soot on everyone's faces.

But then Kirche just had to pester her and... Wait, then again, Kirche was herself feeling a little irritable as of late. Maybe that harlot was finally confronted by her many suitors or she had been scolded more sternly than ever before by the school staff. Even Tabitha seemed to be a mite concerned for the well-being of her friend. Okay, so maybe the Germanian was not entirely the source of her foul mood today.

Oh, wait. Of course, it had to be Leon.

Leon and his callous disregard for the Brimiric hierarchy that had been in place for six thousand years. He cared not for his social standing, openly mingled with commoners, and even dared to flirt with...with...with that...that...

"Gah!" she hissed, nearly tossing her hairbrush out the window.

She was not jealous! She was not craving attention, especially not from the likes of her annoying familiar! She was only feeling...that time of the month. Yes! Yes, it was that time of the month...even though she had gone through the cycle a few days before the Invocation.

Louise dropped onto her bed exasperated. It was hard to study, harder even to focus on something else. Even the moons in the sky were offering little comfort for her addled mind.

"Damn it, Leon," she hissed, allowing herself respite from using such foul language. "I'm a...I'm a..."

Dare she say it?

"I'm a...I'm a..." She sniffled. "I'm a friend, too..."

"You say something?"

Louise shot up to her feet and nearly tossed her hairbrush at her familiar easing into her room. "Don't you ever knock!?"

"Sorry! Sorry," Leon stammered, hiding behind the door. "Can I come in now?"

The pink-haired mage folded her arms with a scowl. "What do you want?"

"Geez, can't a guy pay his partner a visit?"

Partner? Partner!? "I said. What. Did you. Want?"

Instead of rolling his eyes or throwing back some snark, he instead shuffled in with the most concerned look on his face. Checking that no one else was in the corridor and shutting the door slowly, he said, "You said you wanted to help, right?"

"Help with what?"

"That if you could, you would."

Brimir above, was this about that blasted maid that he enjoyed spending time with more than eh spent time with her? "If I could, yes."

"Good. That's good enough for me."

"Where are you going with this?"

He breathed deep. "I'm thinking of heading out tomorrow. To the nearest town or city."

"And?"

"You know. Go shopping."

"For?"

"Ah, this is where you come in. See, I don't know what girls like and..."

What girls like? Is he...is he asking her for advice...for buying a gift...for a girl? And who was it for?

"...well, I was thinking a dress or maybe a necklace or something. I don't know. That's why I was wondering if you could, y'know, take me on a tour of the nearest town and we go, ah, shopping for some stuff...?"

"And for whom are you doing this for?"

Leon sheepishly scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, I was thinking of buying Siesta something to cheer her up. She still won't tell me what's getting her so down and not even the staff are filling me in so I was thinking of buttering her up with a little something special, y'know? And, ah, I'm also technically broke so...you're rich, right?"

Louise felt a vein pop in her temple.

"My apologies, Madame Royale, Madame La Reine, for the lateness of the our," Mazarin echoed. "But we have a serious problem."

Henrietta sighed. Immediately after the cardinal's arrival from a summons to Romalia, he greets her with words that she did not want to hear until after she had breakfast. It was close to midnight and she thought she was done for the day, her weighted eyes showing how rudely she had been interrupted from her slumber...not that she minded given that her dreams were once more delving into the desert paradises of her familiar's past.

Clad in a mantle that concealed her nightgown, the princess gestured at her royal advisor to sit in one of the chairs here at the parlor of the royal palace. Thankfully, Agnès was still awake, often rarely stepping out of her plated armor, and was setting down the lantern onto the table. Her mother, Marianne, having been asserting more of herself over the past few days, had joined her, also in her royal mantle draped over her own nightgown and expressing consternation at having been woken from her rest.

The royal pair seated themselves before the cardinal who then asked, "I have not seen Monsieur De Hainault."

"He is—"

"Right here," intoned Courier Six, his heavy boots thudding against the polished marble floor, having most recently arrived. "Got your message, ole Julio. This better be important."

"It is," Mazarin intoned. "And what of Monsieur De Poitiers?"

No one answered. It seemed the archduke was either running late or had already retired for the evening.

"I shall have him summoned here then," the princess said, gesturing at her royal bodyguard to dispatch a messenger to rouse the marshal of Tristain's armed forces for this rather urgent and secret meeting.

"While we're waitin'," Six began. "What's this that's got your jimmies in a knot?"

The others present in the parlor stared back at him.

To which Count Bazaine De Hainault groaned. "It's a saying. What's the matter?"

"Right," the cardinal said, recomposing himself. "As you know, I have been summoned to report directly to His Holiness concerning matters here in our kingdom and...he has been made privy of the affairs being conducted on behalf of the Crown regarding 'dissident' elements of the Cour Royale as well as the lower nobility. So much so that His Holiness has expressed great concern."

Henrietta wanted to drop her head into her hands. She knew this was coming. And now she was caught ill-prepared for it. Damn it!

"Shit. Sounds like a bad thing," quipped her familiar.

"That's because it is," retorted her mother.

"This matter has already been discussed by the Holy See and His Holiness is considering their motion of dispatching the Inquisition to investigate and"—Mazarin cleared his throat—"settle the matters concerning the questionable manner by which we have conducted 'unwarranted proscription' of the Cour Royale among all things."

The queen narrowed her tired gaze. "Define 'among all things.'"

The cardinal took a moment to compose his response. "Among other issues discussed by the Holy See regarding the kingdom is the issue of corruption among the nobility, cases of desecration of Church property by aristocratic proxies, and instances of blasphemy uttered by...well...a prominent member of the Cour Royale."

Eyes turned to the Courier emptying a bottle of wine into his goblet. "I ain't apologizin' for callin' God a heartless bastard."

"And the corruption charges?" asked the musketeer captain.

"That the proscriptions have been the result of corruption in the highest echelons of the Cour Royale, falling short of accusing Her Royal Highness and Her Majesty of such things."

Again, eyes turned to Courier Six frowning at his goblet which was nearing empty. "I say that if they're lookin' for corruption, they ain't lookin' in the right place. Gallia's got it much worse with a hundred sticks up a hundred asses an' they gon' be right pickin' at us 'cause we're small enough to be picked on and there ain't no civil war that's gon' complicate matters for 'em."

"What is this about desecration of Church property?" Henrietta inquired. "I've never come across such claims."

"Neither have I, Madame Royale," the cardinal said. "It seems that representatives of the Cour Royale, or their proxies, have appealed to the Church in Romalia with these claims showing evidences of such desecration. I have seen these proofs and I assure you they are masterful forgeries; nothing but false reports of damaged properties. I will be conducting a thorough review of these locations myself tomorrow to challenge these claims."

Count De Hainault burped loud enough to draw everyone's attention again. "Yeah...about that, ah... Damn, I didn't know y'all take your places o' worship really seriously."

Stiff silence.

"... Sixième," the princess growled. "Is there something you need to inform us regarding the properties of the Church here in Tristain?"

"Hey, it ain't me that done gon' pissed on the walls o' some church somewhere, a'ight? Them boys just had a little too much to drink an' I let 'em loose. Didn't think they'd waltz right into a church and, well, unload on the altar or somethin'." Courier Six ignored their bewildered guffaws as he paced around the parlor looking for something to drink. "That's how them Germanian boys do it. Hell, they're some damn fine warriors with their zweihanders and flintlocks but goddamn do they drink like there ain't no tomorrow."

Agnès furrowed her brow. "Germanian...warriors?"

Mazarin huffed in surprise. "Unload onto the...the altar of all places?"

Marianne pinched the bridge of her nose. "Of course, you're the only one who would hire entire companies of landsknechts and have them prance about unfettered in the streets."

The royal herald held up his hands. "Look, at least they didn't tear them places down. Sure they may have relieved themselves on some chairs an' graffiti'd their names on some walls an' maybe sort of, ah, redesigned some saints."

Unnerving silence.

Courier Six, being the irreverent irreligious image of insanity, only scoffed. "It ain't too bad, a'ight? I'll whip my boys into shape, don't you worry. Besides, we got more than enough coin from all them wealthy opposition nobles to a pay off all them witnesses. And who knows? Maybe them inquisitor boys wouldn't mind a little extra coin in their pocket in exchange for, ah, some little white lies? Nothin' that a minute in the confession booth don' fix, eh?"

This time, Henrietta dropped her head into her hands.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 30, 2021

LAST EDITED: March 14, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: March 6, 2021

Chapter Text

Day LIII

The carriage arrived at early dawn.

Siesta stood by the Académie stables as Chevalier Michel Ney, the stalwart lieutenant of Count Bazaine De Hainault, had his armored subordinates in their polished emblazoned cuirasses and colorful mantles load her meager belongings—all conveniently packed into one big luggage case—into the back just behind the cushioned seats.

The maid turned to her now former co-workers here at the school. She gave Jasmine, Nina, and Amelie each a warm hug before allowing herself and the other three to be swept up in Chef Marteau's parting embrace. There were a few tears that were shed but none bearing too much concern or worry for her well-being in the service of someone who was so polarizing. To the plebes here at the school, the provincial governor had proven to be the fairest and most sympathetic nobleman to grace them in a long time, his vulgar proclivities notwithstanding.

“I'm sure you'll be fine,” Marteau said with a warm smile.

Siesta dried her cheeks and beamed back. She had already given her goodbyes earlier to the head maid and the rest of the staff but these four insisted to tag along until her parting moments.

“Write back often if you can,” Jasmine insisted.

“Tell us what it's like over there,” Nina said.

“I do hope the work you'll be doing is as good as the pay,” Amelie remarked.

Yes. Siesta did hope so. After cleaning up a corridor full of blood and being told to expect more of such chores in the future, she did hope that the wages she would receive in the count's employ—allegedly double of what she was earning here at the Académie—was worth it. After all, it was clear that she would not end up as some concubine or the sort. And while Count Bazaine De Hainault made no effort to hide the blood on his hands, he was not without honor, dignity, and Brimir-given moral sensibility.

If only she could tell Leon...

Alas, with how dangerous it had become for misunderstandings to be so misconstrued as to cause grievous harm to a student, it seemed best (and was very much encouraged by Director Osmond) to keep this private. Siesta did not want her...dearest friend...to get into trouble for her sake again, especially not with the likes of her new employer. And although Leon and Count De Hainault seemed to be on very amicable terms, the maid was averse to being the root cause for a bloody feud between two noblemen...a feud that might harm more than a single student.

“You know he's going to be very upset if he finds out,” Chef Marteau echoed. “Someone has to tell him sooner than later.”

“I'll let him know...in a letter,” Siesta deflected. “Or maybe you can tell him now? Are we allowed to inform him?”

“I will make a request to the director. Hopefully, Monsieur Walker will take the news of your departure well.”

She really hoped he would. “Merci beaucoup.”

A few hours after breakfast, Louise accompanied Leon to the stables to board one of the school's chartered carriages to Mons, the regional capital, which the former insisted had the finest shops with the finest tailors, smiths, craftsmen, artisans, and haberdasheries in Hainault.

“Haven't seen Siesta today,” the latter remarked as he helped Louise inside.

“You really fancy her so much,” the sophomore snorted. “Why don't you just go on and court her?”

“Again with this. Louise, she's just a friend. In as much as you are. Sort of.”

Sort of? What in Brimir's name did he mean by that!? “You are going this far to impress her. How can that not be interpreted as such?”

“I'm doing this to get her out of her funk. I mean, how can I help her if she won't tell me what's going on? At some point, I'm going have to squeeze the answers out of her, y'know? Butter her up a little.”

She did not like his wordplay on that one. “Perhaps it would occur to you then that some matters are simply too sensitive to be shared with others?”

He shrugged. “I did but...well, I feel like this is something I might actually help with. I mean, she's sweet and caring and really patient with me...and you, too. After all, you're, ah, y'know—”

Louise rolled her eyes. “Fine. You like her. You want to get her a gift. And you're going to pay me back a portion of the money I'm going to spend for this.”

Leon chuckled. “Of course, I will. You know me.”

“At least you're fair.”

“And I'm hardworking.”

Yes, her familiar was a workhorse, that was for sure. It was evident with his rather commendably toned muscled arms. Though he was more diligent with his work if she was not the one giving him the orders. Still, annoying as it was that he enjoyed vexing her with his occasional disobedience, he had yet to severely disappoint her. And he always came through with his tasks.

Louise digressed. He was still insolent and aggravating. But then again, who wouldn't be? Given what he had experienced in his past life in this 'Capital Wasteland' that came to her in her dreams every now and then.

No.

No, that cannot be real.

They were just dreams after all. Nightmares, to be exact, yet nothing entirely tangible. Massive steel golems, giant steel hornets, a brotherhood of steel-clad knights in perpetual war with an enclave of steel-clad enforcers... Grisly and unforgettable images flashed in her mind and she almost felt a bit of nausea. What kind of world could exist where near everything was poisoned? The air, the food, the water... Leon and his comrades were fighting for clean water. Clean water for all, even the plebes. They fought against an entity that wanted nothing but to corrupt the only good thing that could help so many innocent people.

She had to remind herself that they were nothing but dreams.

Then again, were dreams not a means by which the bond between master and familiar would manifest? And if that were the case, then did the others dream about the lives of their own familiars? Did Kirche dream about being a fire salamander in the eastern mountains? Did Montmorency dream of being a frog in a lake? Did Guiche dream being a dirty little rodent burrowing in the ground? Did Tabitha...?

“Louise.”

She blinked out of her reverie to find her familiar regarding her with concern, the Académie walls shrinking in the distance.

“You...alright there? You were spacing out.”

“I'm fine.” Just ruminating on the possibility that she was being unjustly cruel to a man who had suffered far worse than anyone ever could.

“You sure? I mean, we got a long road ahead of us so...”

“I said I'm fine.”

“... You know I'm right here. If you need an ear or...”

“Look, Leon. I've been having a rough few days, okay?” Not that she appreciated his concern.

“I know, I know. Just saying. I mean...I am your familiar, after all.”

Then bond with her as much as he was bonding with that maid! “Do you...do you have a list of things to purchase?”

He blinked. “... Huh. You're right. Forgot to write that down. Whoops.”

Louise sighed into her palm. “You should really learn how to plan ahead.”

“Hey, I'm spontaneous.”

“Were you always so spontaneous back in your...back in your 'waste-land?'”

Leon leaned back with a frown. “Had to be. That didn't mean that I didn't plan ahead every now and then. But most of the time, plans get shot to hell so I sometimes just didn't bother.”

“Well, you're not there,” she said firmly. “And there is different from here.”

“Not really that different,” he muttered.

Louise shook her head before turning back to the window. A few moments later, Leon started whistling a tune. While not a melody she could recognize, it sounded quite pleasant. She opted not to speak for the rest of the trip so he would continue humming more of his homeland's odd yet satisfying music.

Halfway through the morning, Chef Marteau was granted allowance to meet directly to Director Osmond. After a brief discussion, the centenarian wizard relented and the cook headed downstairs in search of Monsieur Walker only to learn that the young nobleman and his mistress had since departed for Mons on a shopping trip and would probably not be back until dusk.

Oh well. It was not like the young man had a poorer temperament than Miss Valliére. Though, Marteau dreaded that Monsieur Walker may not take the news of Siesta's departure very well.

Chateau Hainault was a fair distance away from the Académie and Siesta spent most of the travel time either marveling at the sights, ruminating on her upcoming servitude to the local magistrate, or napping away. Chevalier Ney certainly did not mind her dozing off, even ungracefully. The stern commandant was about as intimidating as his master, a horrid scar running from the top of his brow, through his cheek, and ending below the corner of his lip. What had once been a handsome face for a man of four decades had been marred by an ugly reminder of something no one dared to ask him about.

And so Siesta ruminated on that as well: what kind of battles Chevalier Ney had fought in, what kind of wars Count De Hainault fought in, what kind of people she was going to meet in her new environment...what sort of service she would be doing...how much blood she would be mopping up...

“You seem troubled,” Ney remarked.

The maid blinked back and bowed meekly. “Apologies, monsieur. I was only in deep thought.”

The commandant huffed. “I can understand your hesitation. Switching work from one lord to another is no easy matter. I assure you that your transition here will remain smooth and peaceful.”

“Oui, monsieur.” Siesta never took the man to be conversational but then again, what else was there to do on a long carriage ride with a complete stranger? Well, she would not be a stranger to him for long...and neither he towards her, for that matter.

“If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”

She bit her lip. Chevalier Ney was an experienced battle-mage as evidenced by the ornate steel engraving around his wand tucked behind his belt next to the hilt of his blade. That placed him somewhere in the middle echelons of the nobility—he was, after all, Count De Hainault's most vaunted retainer. That did not mean she could freely engage him as freely as she did Leon.

“If it would not bother you, monsieur—”

“It will not. Proceed.”

The maid nodded. “Um, would you be, perchance, my new, ah, I mean...would I be answering to you as I would a head butler?”

Ney scrunched his brow. “Me? Non, non, ma'amselle. That would be Monsieur Berthier. He handles the administrative and logistical affairs of the estate and the county as well.”

So another noble of similar standing. Made sense. Siesta considered Chevalier Ney to be more of the head of the military arm of the county. “Are there...are there others like me?”

The commandant sized her up...in a fairly platonic way. His eyes never lingered too long over her certain features and he came off somewhat dismissive of what he saw. “Fair maidens of your youth and stature? Of course. And other more senior servants as well. They will be guiding you in your more specific tasks, I'm sure.”

“May I...may I ask what these specific tasks may be?”

Ney sighed. “Perhaps I should have remained silent. I am a soldier, first and foremost, ma'amselle. I know little of the day-to-day affairs of a household servant. I do know that you will be involved in the cooking and the cleaning and other mundane chores.”

So much like her work at the Académie. Yet her pay was double, nay, near triple that of what the school had to offer. Grateful as she was for the added coin, she wondered what exactly merited such an increase. Surely it was not entirely because of the count's generosity or immense wealth.

Galloping.

Siesta looked out her window to see a small band of horsemen in colorful garb constrained by polished cuirasses and shinguards. Each rider had a blade sheathed by their hip and another longer one bound in leather tied to the end of their saddles. The foremost hefted the standard of County Hainault, barking back at those following after him in heavy yet mirthful tone. They did not speak Tristainian. In fact, the maid thought they might be speaking in...

“Ah, our Germanian friends,” the commandant remarked. “Landsknechts. Fine warriors. Formidable on the battlefield and capable of standing up to a trained mage despite their inferiority, or lack thereof, of magic. Willing to challenge their foes despite the odds. You could say they are suicidal. I say they are very eager to earn their pay.”

So the rumors of these mercenaries were true. Siesta gazed wide-eyed at the passing troupe, their flamboyance displayed as they gestured at her so...creatively...amid jeers and indiscernible joking.

“Don't mind them. They can get rowdy but nothing that proper discipline can fix.”

Siesta did not mind the gestures; growing up with such a boon made her used to it. Besides, they were largely inoffensive. Save for that one rider who repeatedly tapped his chest to show how much he appreciated hers. But still, they seemed amicable...if one were not to offend them so.

“How...how long have they been around, monsieur?” she asked.

“About a few weeks now. They have acclimated well. And so have our people.” Ney gave a flippant wave. “In time, they will be accepting of our brothers and sisters from the east. Not all Germanians are filthy barbarians as they say.”

Oh, Mademoiselle Zerbst would surely agree with that statement. Siesta traced the vanishing shapes of the horsemen until the carriage rounded the hill and she was graced with the sight of even more riders practicing their horsemanship across the grassy plains and knolls surrounding the stone citadel in the distance—her new home.

“Magnificent sight, isn't it?” the commandant remarked proudly. “I was there when those walls were raised. Even had a hand in the protective enchantments.”

Siesta had been to Tristainia once and some of the other more urban towns a few times as well. While larger and more populous than the settlement rising around Chateau Hainault, there was no denying the remarkable artistry adorning the stonework. As the carriage neared, she could see these newly-built domiciles housing foreign families. Foreign being that they were largely Germanian women and children, no doubt the families of these 'landsknechts.' They were not the only ones though.

“We are a diverse land, ma'amselle,” Ney said. “We have volunteers from the other counties as well. They have settled here alongside volunteers from Gallia and Romalia. As a matter of fact, I do believe we will be receiving small companies from Gallia's Iberian provinces as well. I heard those tercios were masterful with their sword-wands.”

That was a lot of 'volunteers.' The maid wondered just how wealthy the count was to have the coin to pay them all. Maybe she would keep those questions for later...and for someone else seeing as that the commandant either may not have the right answers or may not be willing to give her any more.

A cacophony of bursts echoed from the fields, startling the maid who knew what muskets firing en masse sounded like.

The commandant simpered. “You're going to have to get used to that, ma'amselle. Monsieur De Hainault emphasizes constant training to keep us all sharp and prepared for any eventuality. With these trying times, the wisdom behind it is understandable.”

Siesta could see now all the activity as they rode into what seemed more like a military canton than a small town: musketeers marching in line with freshly hewn muskets, footmen practicing against each other with wooden swords, and even a few lowly mages comparing their wands against the backdrop of a few burnt quintains. And most all of them were foreigners.

“Is the Crown...?”

“The Crown is accepting of all these,” Ney answered hastily. “No need to dwell on such matters. You are here as a member of the estate staff, Ma'amselle Siesta. I expect you to leave the fighting and the politics to your betters.”

That will not stop her from being curious. “Of course, monsieur. My apologies.”

Not too long after, the grizzled chevalier peaked out the window and announced, “We are here.”

The maid looked out the carriage window and gawked up at the majestic fortress that was going to be her new home.

Another student had been withdrawn from the Académie.

That meant that another noble family had fallen from grace and their properties forfeited to the Crown. While they would still retain their noble standing, their reputation was now severely marred and their place in society dropped down a serious peg. At least, that was the more popular explanation amongst the students. Strangely, neither the teachers nor the staff bothered to correct them on such assumptions, probably because they thought the same.

“There goes Armand,” groused Guiche who had been resisting the urge to scratch at the bandages around his neck. “Any more and we will be running out of peers.”

“I'm not going to say what we're all thinking but what else can we do?” groaned Montmorency. “We've already gotten into enough trouble as it is with Monsieur Walker and that maid.”

Across from them, seated against the bark of the large oak tree with her hand absently rubbing at the back of her familiar Flame, Kirche could only offer a morose nod. The fact that the lively Germanian sophomore had suddenly become as sullen and withdrawn as her best friend Tabitha was an added concern to the already harangued student body. After all, the redhead was not one who was distressed so easily, much less at all.

“Thank Brimir, we weathered through the storm,” the blond earth mage sighed, his own familiar Verðandi tunneling out of its hole in the ground to sit on his lap.

The blonde water mage caressed his hair. “I told you those allegations were baseless. House Gramont and House Grandpre have their black sheep but they would never outrightly betray the Crown.”

“I almost lost my place here! And, and...and I almost lost you...”

“Non, mon chér! That will never happen. Have faith. Lies will not hold against your family name, especially not against the finest, most loyal, and most resolute military leaders in Tristain.”

“That's because those lies were badly thought out,” Kirche echoed.

Guiche, Montmorency, and Tabitha regarded her.

The Germanian sighed, continuing to stare out at the horizon. “It's a classic tactic often used back home. If you want someone of the picture, you start with the cloak and dagger. If they survive that and they still persist on being a pest, then you use a little bit of muscle.”

The blonde water mage narrowed her gaze. “Where are you going with this?”

Kirche offered a weak smile. “It's been awhile since I last saw my kinsmen in their colorful drapery.”

Tabitha raised her brow as Guiche sputtered out something about the landsknechts.

“Seeing them here...makes me feel like I'm back home.”

The other three could see how fragile her smile was becoming.

“You...you know some of them, don't you?” Montmorency prodded.

The redhead nodded.

“Landsknechts,” Tabitha said.

“Those types of mercenaries,” Guiche spat out. “Their reputation precedes them. I can understand your hesitation, Kirche. But I'm sure you're safe here at the school.”

“It's not my safety that concerns me, young Gramont,” the redhead insisted. “It's yours. And those your family cares about. Landsknechte are not known for subtlety or tact. They are very determined at their task and will see through to it to the end, failure notwithstanding.”

The blonde raised his brow. “Even when they run out of coin?”

“Until they run out of breath.”

Tabitha pushed up her monocles. “Count hired them.”

“For so many good reasons,” Kirche continued morosely. “Well, reasons that are good for him. Not so for his opponents. Earning the loyalty of my kinsmen is not easy yet I can see signs of them staying true to their new lord for the rest of their foreseeable future.”

“So you're saying that he pays them well enough to retain them for life,” Montmorency echoed, “no doubt with the coin confiscated from those he purged.”

“Money is not the only factor in winning a lifetime of willing and devoted servitude, Monmon,” Guiche quipped. “Our soldiers are our own brothers and sisters and they yearn to be treated as such by those they serve.”

“Old friends?” Tabitha asked her best friend.

To which Kirche offered an even sadder smile. “If they ever pay a visit? Well, let's just say that it's going to be a fun reunion.”

And the four of them were not looking forward to that at all.

“Look, I'm sorry, alright?”

Louise still ignored him. She may not be able to physically punish him but she could still deny him her attention to show her utmost displeasure.

“Still giving me the silent treatment, huh.”

The pink-haired mage turned her attention fully to the landscape that was bathed in the bright orange glow of the setting sun.

“Come on, Louise. I know you're not really mad. It's just a hundred écu!”

Just a hundred écu? 'Just' a hundred écu!? Her (family's) money for someone else!?

Leon threw up his hands. “I told you, I'll pay you back. It's not like it's impossible to save up for that much, y'know?”

“Oh, really now?” Louise finally seethed. “I'd like to see you try to earn back all the coin you spent on that, that, that...dress!”

Her familiar scrunched his brow. The dress(es) in question—an ornate pink bliaut woven from fine silks, tailored with aristocratic embroidery, and hemmed with beautiful frills over an equally elegant chainse—was neatly folded in one of her spare suitcases. A gown fit for a princess to be offered to a lowly servant! For a nobleman with nothing else to his name, Leon essentially had to rely on her personal finances for his own personal whims.

Was it not enough of an insult that he was using her as some larder for his emotions? It was not like she liked the dress too and that she wished she was the one who was going to wear it and not that well-endowed commoner maid that he so frequented in his free time. Louise had free time, too; besides, that Siesta girl was the only lady in the world.

Then again, at least he wasn't doing this for Kirche or anyone else.

“I told you, I'll pay you back,” he insisted. “I didn't know they were going to charge that much for it.”

“Well, now you know that you do. It was costly but none more so than the accumulated purchases you made at my expense in addition to that,” the sophomore grunted.

“Okay, so I went overboard with the extra stuff. Happy now? Or do I have to keep saying that ten more times after the ten times that I told you I was sorry?”

“How is purchasing all those other junk simply 'overboard!?'”

“Don't yell please.”

“A short sword, I can understand. A dagger as well. One crossbow was the limit but three? Three, Leon! Who else would use the other two!?”

He tilted his head as though she was some kind of fool for asking such a question. “Me, of course. Need to have a back-up weapon.”

“That bollock knife is your back-up, is it not?”

“Several back-ups. Just in case.”

She pulled on her hair. “You do know that sooner or later my expenses will come into question by my parents.”

“Hey, now,” he started, clearly showing that he too was weary of her mother. “No need for that. I mean, they don't need to know, right? Not like you can live off meager funds. Hell, I lived off of nothing for almost a year.”

“Do you honestly think I would stoop to your level and beg for alms like some wayward ascetic?”

Leon recoiled. “Whoa, now! I didn't say begging. I worked my ass off to get to where I was, thank you very much.”

“What do you expect me to do!?”

“Um...get a job?”

Louise seethed. She was still a student! Menial labor was not meant for someone of her standing and far be it from her if she was to resort to sullying her hands laboring among commoners for a bit of extra coin. “What of the rest of your purchases, hmm!? How can you explain that?”

He shrugged. “Bare necessities.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What? I can't be wearing the same clothes everyday. And besides, you know I look good in leather.”

Louise blinked, wondering whether or not the smirk on his face was aimed at some inward joke that only he could understand. It had been most vexing when the money he thankfully did not spend on luxurious clothing ended up in the pockets of the local armorer in exchange for a full set of hardened leather armor. Any more and he probably would have even purchased the 'complimentary' steel cuirass, greaves, and shinguards hanging off the walls of the shop. And that was not to mention the suggested commission for a claymore. He even had the audacity to ask for a musket!

Seeing as how there was no use in chastising her familiar for his other frivolous expenses (why purchase a washboard for her laundry when he could simply borrow one from the staff who he oh-so-frequented more than her), the pink-haired mage settled for gazing out the window of their chartered carriage until they had returned to the Académie.

That maid better be grateful for all this trouble she had to put up with.

-~oOo~-

Day LIV

Working for Count Bazaine De Hainault was not entirely what Siesta expected. Then again, she had no room to complain since she her salary was what anyone would literally kill for. Her accommodations here at the chateau were lavish compared to the servants' quarters back at the Académie and, astonishingly, they were fed almost the same meals as the nobility. And the work was really not too dissimilar from the school—dust this, swab that, sweep away some dirt, scrub the carpets, polish the vases, keep the place neat and tidy.

Of course, these tasks had to be done to near perfection and under the scrutinizing eye of Head Butler Louis-Alexandre Berthier (the fact that the man had two first names indicated his status as a reputable vassal), Siesta found herself exerting more effort than she was used to. Then again, with how well they were treated, it made sense that much was expected from them.

After all, Monsieur Berthier aimed to please and simply not because of his station as head butler. He made no denials when asked whether or not caring for the household were his only duties and Siesta was wise enough not to prod any further as to what more he was charged with. So she asked the other servants and they all confirmed that the heavyset baritone man shared some of the same duties as that of Chevalier Ney; they were both responsible for running the county in the count's absence, including civil administration and military affairs.

And today, the count himself had arrived from Tristainia. Being the newest addition to the household, Siesta stood in the antechamber to formally greet her new employer.

“A good morrow on your return, monsieur,” Monsieur Berthier welcomed.

“Good to be back, Lex,” grunted Count De Hainault, his iconic steel pistols glistening under the sunlight with the midday breeze rippling through his overcoat. “Lookin' sharp there, Mitch.”

Chevalier Ney nearly preened. “Likewise, millourt.”

He had taken two steps inside before stopping in front of the maid. “Good. You're here.”

“Oui, monsieur,” Siesta answered modestly. “I am at your service for as long as you wish.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah. S'long as you know the ground rules an' don' break anythin', ai'ght?”

“Of course, monsieur.”

He turned to Monsieur Berthier. “She didn't right done break anythin', did she?”

The head butler shook his head. “Non, monsieur.”

“Right. Good 'nough for me.” The count stopped on the threshold to the main hall. “Oh, shit. Almost forgot. Miss Siesta?”

Head Butler Berthier and Chevalier Ney paused by the grand entrance as the count wheeled on his heels with his weighted eyes boring deep into the now unnerved maid.

“'Siesta.' That is your name, right? Like your birth name an' not some bullshit they done wrote down on the record?”

Siesta blinked. Should she answer with the pet names her family gave her? Perhaps not; that might come off as condescending. “Oui, monsieur. That is my name since birth.”

Count De Hainault nodded slowly. “A'ight. A'ight then. You see...I've heard some right interestin' things 'bout you, Miss Siesta. Some very, very, very interestin' things.”

Siesta gulped.

“Come on, now. We're gon' have a right long talk, you an' I.” He offered her a smile that, with his rough visage, filled her with dread more than lifting her anxiety. “I don' bite, woman. Seriously, come on. I ain't one for dallyin' when it comes to somethin' like this.”

The maid nodded and nervously followed after her new master across the redesigned interior of Chateau Hainault, through the corridors lined with busts of previous governors and noted heroes, past her fellow servants who were genuinely pleased to see their master return. All seemed normal with nothing untoward. However, instead of the parlor, the gardens, the study, or the conservatory on the roof, the count instead headed towards the dungeons underneath the estate. Now Siesta began to inwardly panic. She paused in her stride only to immediately felt the cold steel of Chevalier Ney's breastplate press against her back and the heavy hand of Head Butler Berthier resting over her shoulder. Neither men showed any emotion as they nudged her deeper into a place where many a horrific tale was born.

“'Fraid o' the dark?” chided the count.

“N-non, monsieur.”

“What about spiders? Or roaches?”

Ants, cockroaches, flies, mosquitos, and even rodents she could stomach—nothing that she could easily crush under her heel. But spiders and maggots? Founder help her keep from running if she was ever tasked with coming within inches of one. “I...I w-will d-do my best t-to r-r-remove th-them for y-you, monsieur.”

To which the royal messenger laughed. “Easy there, woman. Bugs ain't much of a problem down here. Not with what we got keepin' all this right afloat, after all.”

Siesta followed after him with Chevalier Ney and Head Butler Berthier keeping in step behind her. Limestone, granite, mortar, and concrete bricks stretched ahead in arches with alcoves in-between kept alight by torches mounted the sconces. So many stories she had heard about places like these—so much more when the late Count Jules Mott was the governor—and she felt her heart race at what grisly scenarios her mind conjured. She kept her hands to wrapped tightly over her belly, mainly to hide how sweaty they were getting.

Eventually, they reached the end of the corridor where the count heaved open a bolted cast iron door. When it grated open, and Count Françoise Achille Bazaine stepped aside, the humble maid from Talbes was greeted by something else entirely...something she thought she would never see before...much less anywhere else outside of the secret, sacred family shrine back home.

“Looks familiar?” snickered Her Majesty's herald.

Siesta blinked several times before she was ushered inside the brightly-lit chamber. And her jaw fell slack as she took sight of artifacts that, by her limited knowledge, should remain sealed in vaults like the one under the Académie. So many bits and pieces that fit the description of much of the 'deadly trinkets' her grandfather always warned her and her family about; they lined the walls, leaning on racks, sitting on shelves...a few emanating that faint greenish-yellowish glow that reminded her so much of the terrifying armor sealed away in her grandfather's sarcophagus.

Count De Hainault walked over to one of the workbenches and hefted up an artifact that almost made Siesta's heart stop. “You know, Miss Siesta, some birdies told me 'bout some mystical treasure hidden up north in County Flanders. Some old tomb that an entire village is keepin' secret 'cause, ah, well, y'know how right messy some nobles can done get when they done gone find out there's a damn right armory sittin' under their noses.”

Siesta dreaded to think who he (tortured) interrogated to learn about Talbes's most guarded secret. Then she saw him examine the artifact...or rather a familiar-looking steel gauntlet embedded with glowing gemstones including a large emerald slab that flickered with that bright green light...and showing shapes and words and a crude but recognizable caricature of a smiling man winking with his thumb up.

The count noticed her gaze. “See somethin' you like?”

The maid failed to stop the words from spilling out her mouth. “Is that a Pip-boy?”

To which Monsieur De Hainault grinned like a bear with fresh salmon in its maw. “I knew you were a damn right good investment.”

-~oOo~-

Day LV

“An invitation?” Leon asked.

“From the count himself,” Louise replied, gesturing at the open letter sitting atop her study desk.

“I...don't know what to feel about that.”

“Likewise.”

“Any reason why he wants us to come over?”

She shook her head. “It does not say. He is expecting us this weekend, however, so...”

He raised his brow. “You don't want to go?”

“I don't think it would be wise to decline.”

“Well, I mean...what happens if we don't go?”

Louise glared at him. “I'd rather not risk finding out.”

Leon folded his arms and leaned against her dresser. “So what? Are you saying that we dress up and take a trip across the county to his luxury mansion because he asked us to?”

“Yes, in fact. What choice do we have?”

He opened his mouth to retort.

“What choice do we have that does not entail potentially severe political consequences?”

He closed his mouth in thought.

Louise kept scowling. “At least now we have a good reason to go there. Instead of your utterly ridiculous plan of assaulting his estate to rescue that dear friend of yours, maybe we can negotiate for her return? Preferably without any violence?”

Leon scowled back but nonetheless nodded. “Fine. We'll do it your way. But if things go south, I'm taking charge.”

She snorted. “You are most lacking in diplomacy.”

He sneered. “Hey, at least I tried to learn it, okay. From where I'm from, a lot of people shot first before asking later.”

The sophomore groaned into her hands. “I still don't understand why you're willing to risk bringing down the wrath of the Crown upon us for some...some...some commoner maid.”

Her familiar sounded slighted in his response. “Hey, commoner or not, Siesta's good company! A real sweetheart, loves her family, will do anything for them. Like, she really shouldn't deserve any of the crap she has to go through because she wasn't born with the magic blood or some bullshit like that.”

Devout as Louise was, she held back from rebuking him for such slander towards their divine right as nobility. She had learned long ago that Monsieur Leon Walker said what he wanted and was willing to draw blood to defend his opinion when challenged, consequences be damned. Detestable as such behavior was, she found some modicum of respect there.

Not many people were willing to stand up for what they believed in. And perhaps that was one reason why she could not bring herself to hate the man she summoned. And maybe, just maybe, she could at least earn a bit more of his favor. After all, it hurt that she had less of a bond with him than she should. What kind of mage could she be if she lacked that connection to her familiar?

“Guess I'll be packing up then,” he mumbled. “I'm bringing my gear with me, alright?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “That's not even a request. Even if I declined, you would still insist on carrying with you an entire armory for a simple visit.”

He shrugged, unashamedly showing his (admirably) muscled arms. “Eh, nothing I've done before. Besides, I got the muscle for long hauls.”

“Is it too much to ask that you only bring the bare essentials?”

“They are the bare essentials.”

Louise was about to contest what she meant by that. Then she remembered how...frustratingly different...Leon understood the words 'necessities,' 'overindulgences,' and 'overpacking.' It was akin to telling a pack mule to abstain from carrying a mountain of goods.

“... Never mind,” she groaned. “Just don't bring too much.”

“Old habits die hard, okay? Back in D.C., I was packing a minimum of fifty kilograms everywhere I went.”

“Fifty what?”

Her familiar made a face. Then rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Oh, uh, forgot you don't use metric. Uh...what's the conversion rate...? Ah, right. Ten stone on average.”

The pink-haired girl felt her eyes go wide. “Ten stone?”

“Err, eleven? A dozen? Somewhere around there.” He shrugged at some private memory. “Was a pack brahmin most of the time and that was just my own stuff.”

Louise shook her head. “Look. Leon, please. Just...just get what you need. And, for the love of all that is holy, please, please, please behave yourself when we're there. I don't want a scandal to my name. I'm having enough difficulties as it is...”

He regarded her for a moment. “... Having a hard time managing me?”

She massaged her temples, her voice dropping to a weak whispered plea. “Just...behave. It's all I'm asking.”

“Sure,” Leon answered quietly, his tone of irreverence gone. “Hey. I've got your back, remember? I'm not going to screw this up for you. For me, too, y'know. And also Siesta 'cause she's at risk if things really go south. Besides, I know that the count's got a lot of pull and, if you ask me, we might need that sometime down the road.”

Louise was surprised when she felt his hand—bearing those Brimiric runes—rest on her shoulder. She was taken aback when she was met by one of the warmest smiles she had seen on him.

“I'm your familiar, after all,” he assured her, stretching his lips to a toothy grin. “See you tomorrow, Louise.”

She would later fall asleep with nothing but his sweet smile on her mind and how much she needed something like that after all those months enduring the torment of failure and ridicule by her lonesome.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: March 8, 2021

LAST EDITED: April 9, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: 6, 2021

Chapter Text

Day LVI

Henrietta was convinced that her midmorning tea tasted a little different. Or maybe her breakfast had affected her palate. A part of her morbidly wondered if she was being poisoned but she dismissed it as a manifestation of Six's macabre influence on her. Perhaps, the princess was instead savoring the change in the winds.

Purr.

Whatever the case, she lounged on the garden bench in one of the gazebos dotting the palace gardens while she bore witness to her mother smiling and caressing her familiar Yvette along with her chambermaids. To see the queen genuinely enjoying her time out here in Tristain's finest verdures—savoring the sights and sounds without the dim garb, the mourning veil, or the creased frowns—was as refreshing as a visit to the oft unbothered towns that were so peaceful and serene because of the lack any noble meddling.

“My, your fangs haven't dulled as much since we last had them checked,” Marianne cooed, stretching wide the old lioness's maw. “Still, it seems we've coddled you too much since your retirement. I do hope you haven't atrophied.”

Yvette the great lioness mewled back like a kitten.

“We're not feeding you any rowdy Germanians,” the queen bantered. “You know that. Besides, you and I both know Sixième would not appreciate that one bit.”

Her aged familiar growled with folded ears at the mention of the royal messenger.

Marianne pouted playfully. “Now, now. He's not that bad of a person. He's just like you, remember? Bound to serve and deserving of love regardless of their faults.”

Whimper.

“Come, now. Unlike him, at least you don't constantly reek of spirits.”

Yvette made a noise that almost sounded like a laugh.

“The bath is ready, Madame la Reine,” informed one of the chambermaids.

The queen nodded back before regarding her proud, aged, and battle-scarred familiar. “It has been awhile since I scrubbed grime off your hide.”

The servants blinked in surprise. It had been years since Her Majesty herself had personally taken a brush to the great lioness's hair. Yvette, on the other hand, nearly leapt to her feet in excitement to which her mistress gladly reciprocated by ruffling the back of her ears.

“I do hope those nasty scars don't itch as much as they used to,” Marianne remarked cheekily. “Brimir knows, mine have long since faded.”

“Shall we prepare your personal grooming kit for Yvette, Madame la Reine?” inquired another chambermaid.

“Yes, please. Brimir knows it has been a long time.”

Henrietta wondered jokingly if she should appropriate her own grooming kit for Six. The man refused to bath regularly and he sported such an unshaven mane that Mazarin once almost believed he was hiding fleas in there. Then again, she trusted the Right Hand of God to be able to trim his own excess when necessary.

“There isn't really much source of excitement these days, especially not for those in their better ages like us,” her mother prattled to an eagerly listening lioness. “Maybe if things get exciting like the old days...”

Purr.

“Now, now. We wouldn't wish for another war after the mess of the last one. Exciting as conflict may be, it is a horrible thing to have to deal with.”

Whimper. Mewl. Lick.

“To the bath now,” Marianne instructed, leading the way to the royal bestiary.

Henrietta smiled, the warmth never leaving her long after her mother, her familiar, and her retinue departed. Then the princess glanced down at her tea and realized that she preferred the taste of Vallière fruit wine more than most anything else.

Siesta thought nothing much of her current task: delivering steaming herbal tea to Monsieur De Hainault downstairs in his secret chambers. Given how much the count drank on a daily basis, she correctly guessed that this was his morning counterbalance to the hangover he was surely enduring. Additionally, she was also—according to the entire manor staff—the only lowly servant to be allowed access to the most guarded cavern underneath the estate.

It was a privilege that she dared not abuse. The fact that Chevalier Ney and Monsieur Berthier were the only others in the entire county allowed into such a place defined how much trust was entrusted to her to keep this strictly confidential (and to report to her master anyone who kept pressing her for answers though she was averse to getting her fellow servants hanged for being overly curious).

And the maid did not feel better at the reason why she was given this privilege.

Count Bazaine De Hainault obviously lusted after her grandfather's relics. It was Talbes' worst fears finally manifesting. For years, her family and friends strove to the keep such treasures sealed from the world partly in accordance to her grandfather's wishes and partly because they were obviously weapons of great destruction that would have been better kept sealed under lock and key in the vault of the Acadèmie. Still, over the years, a part of her cynically accepted the inevitability of this secret being revealed to the worst lot...

...yet Siesta could not really consider her master to be the worst of the worst.

Then again, she was barely a week into her new job and she did not yet entirely know Her Royal Highness's herald well enough to have a sufficient image of him. Though, she did confirm his most infamous trait and hence was standing before the cast iron door to the secret caverns of the chateau dungeons with a common remedy to hangovers.

“Monsieur, it is your tea as you have requested.”

“Ah, shit, it's that herbal shit that Henny likes, in'it,” he groaned back. “A'ight, come on in. Fuckin' A.”

Gently, she eased inside to find the magistrate slouching against his chair with three empty bottles of hard liquor on his workbench and another five piled on the floor. Yet for all those spirits, he appeared to have fared better than even the strongest drinkers she had personally witnessed in her life. Brimir above, how strong was his liver?

“A good mornin' to you, Miss Siesta.”

“Likewise, monsieur.” Siesta meekly bowed as she carefully laid out his tea on the varnished yew end table closest to his workbench upon which was spread a disassembled pistol. Interestingly, it was not one of the common single-hand muskets fielded by commoner levies but rather the glistening steel weapon with the revolving cylinder and long, heavy barrel.

“No breads?”

She froze. She had not been told that he needed something to eat. “I apologize, monsieur. I will—”

He waved her off. “Nah, nah. Ain't that hungry yet.”

“Very well, monsieur.” She poured his porcelain teacup to the brim and then stood by as he took a sip and grimaced...then pursed his lips...and sipped again...and nodded at himself with an almost satisfied frown.

“Huh. This...this actually ain't that bad. No wonder Henny drinks this shit on a daily.”

“It has been prepared according to your instructions, monsieur,” Siesta said.

“Accordin' to Henny's instructions,” the count corrected her gruffly. “Just passin' on what she done right told me 'bout this stuff that she read somewhere that's supposed to kill a bad hangover any goddamn day.”

Hearing her master refer to Her Royal Highness so informally felt odd—taboo, in a sense—but not entirely unwelcome. Then again, a pet name for a princess spoke volumes of how close he must be to her and her to him. Hopefully in a strictly platonic and familial manner as Director Osmond so vehemently insisted.

“Is there anything else you need, monsieur?”

He motioned to one of the stools pushed up against the weapons racks. “Sit.”

She obeyed. “Monsieur?”

“Miss Siesta, you realize that unless someone else pops up somewhere on this magical little continent, you're basically one o' only three people who know how to right use a Pip-boy an' got some familiarity with all the fancy new toys we got down here. Now that don' mean I ain't expectin' you to be doin' maintenance on all the gear down here.”

Technically, her father and uncles and a few of her male cousins were somewhat familiar with these 'energy weapons' and loud, repeating muskets. Then again, the most they did was hold them and look them over. Besides, she was often her grandfather's favorite and thus received the most instruction on how to properly operate these kinds of...relics.

The armor, on the other hand...

The count scowled at his tea before chugging it down. “But since you know how to use a Pip-boy, might as well have you doin' the basic clean up an' shit. Nothin' too complicated. Can I trust you with that?”

She wanted to refuse. She was not a tinkerer! “Oui, monsieur.”

“Good. You can start by scrapin' off the damn molds off the goddamn walls. It's humid as shit in here and it's gon' give us some technical problems later down the line if ain't done right dealt with. Sturdy as Pip-boys are, they still got a shelf-life an' a place as moist as this ain't gon' do wonders for 'em.”

Dealing with molds. Okay. Nothing she hasn't done before and certainly not something she was averse to. “Understood, monsieur.”

“I also don't want you touchin' any o' the gear here,” he instructed sternly. “Not that I don't think you'd know how to fuckin' handle 'em right but then again, I've had idiots literally shoot 'emselves right in the foot 'cause they didn't done know how to handle a musket right.”

“I will be sure not to touch the equipment here, monsieur.”

“I ain't askin' you to clean 'em. I only want you to make sure this place ain't moldy and smelly as shit when I come back from business.”

Siesta could do that. “Of course, monsieur. Is there anything else?”

“Yeah. Don't go into any o' the places that I done right keep locked up. Even if you could smell the shit comin' from in there, you ain't got no clearance to even so much as take a peep. Not yet, at least.”

That was not impossible to obey. “Should I start now, monsieur?”

He regarded for a moment with his heavy, weighted, bloodshot green eyes before shrugging. “Yeah, sure, why not? I'm headin' out in a few anyway.”

“Sixième is going too far with this,” Henrietta quietly groused.

“I concur, Madame Royale,” quipped Archduke De Poitiers, Marshal of Tristain. “Scourging the legacy of Monsieur le Duc De Gramont simply to test his loyalty is too much.”

Agnès huffed. “Is there ever anything that isn't 'too much' for him? He broke Chevalier Ney to cement his allegiance to the Crown above all else, even above the Church.”

The marshal grimaced. “I shudder to think how he can destroy a man only to build him back up again as his own puppet.”

“He's done it before,” the princess said, her gaze drifting emptily over the maps of her kingdom, her kingdom's provinces, and the rest of Halkeginia, all arrayed over the wide varnished table in the center of the planning chamber in the western wing of the royal palace. “Monsieur De Poitiers, how is the discipline and morale of our own troops here compared to the other provinces?”

“Their loyalty to you is ironclad, Madame Royale. Nothing will sway them from their oath of service to you, most especially the knightly corps.”

Henrietta wanted to believe that but she doubted that the archduke was confident in his own assessment of her own regional forces. Even though she could assume direct command of masses of troops born, raised, and trained in her own demesne, she had yet to actually do so. And, to be honest, how could she deny that one demographic of soldiers who would be willing to question why some seventeen-year-old monarch who had yet to draw blood was leading a campaign against experienced commanders decades her senior?

She also did not want to tell her familiar that she doubted the loyalty of the mercenaries he had been employing. Then again, she could not risk pretending that his soldiers-of-fortune were willing to follow their master beyond his wealth. Mercenaries were fickle by nature and it would be greatly detrimental if his coffers had dried up before they left her kingdom's borders.

“How large is the force being built up at County Hainault?” she asked.

Archduke De Poitiers looked back with concern. “I apologize, Madame Royale, but I was hoping you were more privy of that than I would be. Monsieur De Hainault is your familiar, after all.”

Chevalier De Milan sighed. “Sixième's been vague when he was approached about this. And we already know how secretive he is with his methods.”

The princess traced over the map of County Bruxelles, the seat of power in Tristain, bordered by the surrounding provinces that were being shaken to their roots by purges conducted by her familiar...and sanctioned by her. More than half the Cour Royale had been purged and their replacements, despite declaring absolute fealty to the Crown, were far from trustworthy. Henrietta barely knew a third of her own court before her own Invocation and now she had to familiarize herself with strangers who claimed to be better than their predecessors.

At least, though, she could not doubt the allegiance of the prominent noble families who had been in her father's inner circle. The Courier had so far been cordial with them and no word had yet reached her of any inquisitions made towards them. And that brought another issue: Duchess Karin.

“La Grande Tempête?” asked the royal.

The marshal of Tristain took a while to respond. “... Madame le Duchesse De La Vallière has yet to voice her concerns regarding these matters.”

“Yet.”

“If I may intrude, Madame Royale?” echoed Cardinal Mazarin, striding in and unfurling a set of missives. “Our Gallian associates have news for us.”

Henrietta, Agnès, and Olivier De Poitiers diligently pored over the reports...and came away stunned.

“His Majesty De Gallia is already guilty of giving support to the Reconquista,” the cardinal said. “It seems we underestimated how much he has been meddling in our affairs.”

“That sly bastard,” the musketeer captain seethed.

The marshal shook his head. “We were too busy rooting out snakes in our garden to see the dragon nipping at our fence.”

“We were looking at the wrong dragons,” the princess said, slumping onto the cushioned chair. “The civil war in Albion, Germania's provocative posturing, and the Church dealing with reformists...whether deliberate or coincidental, they served to distract us from Gallia's—no—King Joseph's machinations.”

“And we still don't know exactly why he's doing this,” Agnès growled. “We've unmasked the 'Mad King' yet we have no idea what is smiling back at us.”

Thud, thud, sloshing, thud.

Henrietta raised her head from her hands to see the Six swaggering into the war room with a half-empty bottle of brandy.

“If it's any consolation, Henny,” he echoed, “them elves are keepin' to themselves over in them holy deserts so that's one less thing to worry about. At least, that's as much as we right know 'bout 'em so far.”

“Monsieur De Hainault, I never would have imagined the day when I would wholeheartedly agree with you that you were right all along,” remarked Archduke De Poitiers. “We have decayed so much that we are at the mercy of our most hated enemy.”

The Courier snickered. “Yourselves or the elves?”

The princess felt the subsequent silence suffocating.

“... What do we do now?” queried the musketeer captain.

Henrietta felt all eyes weigh heavy on her. And she focused the pressure back onto her familiar who seemed numb from the tension (probably due to the alcohol). “... Sixième, based on what you have gathered so far, which do you consider to be the most pressing threat out of all these?”

“Albion.”

That was a quick answer. “Very well. How can we affect the events there?”

“War's goin' badly for them royals up north so mountin' somethin' big ain't gon' cut it.”

“Yet you are suggesting we intervene,” jabbed the marshal.

“I mean, it's pretty obvious Gallia's proppin' up them Reconquista folks an' Germania's busy moppin' up their eastern front while shootin' themselves in the foot. Romalia's got their hands tied with their investiture bullshit and even I ain't gon' rattle the beehive by suggestin' askin' the elves. I mean, y'all haven't even had a goddamn envoy to them in over a thousand years.”

Henrietta saw him plop the bottle atop the map of Albion.

“We ain't got nobody but ourselves to deal with this,” he said, tracing his gloved finger over County Wiltshire in the southern territories of the beleaguered floating island. “And I got just the place to hit 'em hard.”

“Hit them with what?” challenged Cardinal Mazarin. “We have lost significant support from our own people no thanks to your insistence on 'cleaning house.'”

“Ah, see, that's where you're mixin' it all up, ole Julio,” said Count De Hainault who produced another bottle of brandy from inside his greatcoat. “We only, ah—how'd you say this—ironed out them sum'bitches who'd damn right gon' done refuse somethin' the Crown's gon' ask 'em to damn right well do.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Henrietta wished she had a cup with her right now as she watched her familiar pop off the cork and take a long swig.

“If we hadn't whipped this kingdom into shape, there would've been hell to pay on the home front if we even tried to get this thing off the ground,” her familiar reasoned.

“Get what off the ground?” Agnès interjected. “This mission that you're suggesting? Striking somewhere deep in Albion with whatever meager resources we could spare? Without even informing the Cour Royale or anyone outside this room for that matter?”

“If there's a will, there's a way, Angie. Y'see, the only folks with significant pull who'll actually back Henny up when it comes to, say ah, intervenin' on behalf of a foreign country by way of black operations are, well... I can count 'em on one hand.”

The archduke frowned. “Who exactly?”

The Courier held up four fingers. “Houses Maillart, Vallière, Gramont, Grandpre. Everyone else's either on the fence or would downright done gon' demand for a session o' the Cour Royale to fuckin' stonewall everythin' else the Crown'd want to do. Hell, they would've even downright bitched and moaned just for enforcin' dormant public service laws and that kind o' shit.”

“What about House Montmorency?” the princess asked. “They have significant influence within the kingdom and they have so far remained neutral in almost all affairs.”

“That's cause they've got a big slice o' sweet, sweet Gallian pie, Henny. An' them playin' safe is basically them keepin' themselves from gettin' right shanked far up the ass by our dear ole pal Joseph. They ain't worth stringin' up though, if you ask me. I'm workin' on gettin' 'em on board but so far they're more scared o' Uncle Joe than they are of us.”

“And what of the various mercenaries you have in your employ?” prodded Mazarin.

To which Six waved him off. “Extra hands for extra work.”

Henrietta raised her hand to stop any more inquiries into her familiar's management of his county—that was not the issue at hand. “Sixième, what do you have in mind this time? Why Wiltshire? What is there that is so important to the Reconquista?”

He pulled out a tin cup from one of the pouches strapped to his chest and filled it halfway before handing it to her. “A bee sting right in their gonads, Henny.”

“But Wiltshire doesn't seem to have much strategic value as far as I can see.”

“Seems like it, huh,” her familiar drawled.

With a narrow glare, the princess downed her drink in one gulp before gruffly commanding the Courier to explain in detail what this new operation was going to be. Suffice to say, the other three were apprehensive to both the proposed operation and the offer for a drink. After all, Six had been as reliable with his 'sources' as he was unpredictable with his metaphorical gambling. The risk seemed too great for a dubious reward. And yet he insisted that there was something in Wiltshire that could be used to salvage the civil war for House Tudor given that the last major battle had very recently ended with Prince Wales gravely injured and retreating to Newcastle with a fraction of Albion's now decimated loyalist forces.

Henrietta ended up drinking much of the brandy he brought before coming to a decision. Goodness knows, she was not going to lose sleep over this since she had something very important scheduled for tomorrow.

The past few weeks were full of surprises, most of which felt unwelcome.

A new royal messenger, a trimming of the Cour Royale, hordes of mercenaries pouring into Tristain, and the inability of the Crown or the Church to do anything about it. And that was not to mention the reality of a human familiar being summoned by the worst mage in the history of the school. It had troubled many of the students and the staff.

But Académie sophomore Tabitha D'Orléans had enough experience not to let the problems of the world get to her. She had seen and done her fair share to know the consequences of folding to pressure. Even now, as she accompanied an increasingly melancholic Kirche Von Anhalt-Zerbst on an evening stroll after dinner, the diminutive Gallian remained firmly stoic despite the infectious mood of her best friend.

After all, these changes sweeping across Tristain were nothing new compared to the bloody intrigues constantly gripping Gallia.

“Vom Gründer,” Kirche hissed, coming to an abrupt halt. “They're here. Verdammt.”

Indeed, Tabitha could see the bright colors and polished cuirasses of a group of Germanian mercenaries conversing with Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert. The fact that they were allowed inside the Acadèmie walls meant that they were here on something serious.

“We should go,” her companion muttered.

Tabitha could not agree more. She knew more than enough about Kirche to be wary of her kinsmen. Before either of them could turn on their heels, they were spotted by Professor Colbert who called out to them.

Hesitantly, the two students complied, returning the inquisitive looks of the foreigners with curt bows. Already, the Gallian felt the tension suddenly rise and she gripped her staff tightly. Kirche's neutral mien cracked upon seeing the faces of her kinsmen.

“Guten abend, Fräulein Kirche Von Anhalt-Zerbst,” greeted the unit captain.

The redhead stiffened. “Guten abend, Herr Hauptmann.”

Tabitha remained unnoticeable as she paid attention to the conversation, which was a veiled interrogation of her friend. Even Professor Colbert had discerned that these men were here solely for Kirche and were trying their best to 'amicably' extract from her information that she was never willing to share. Perhaps they should have just called upon Director Osmond to mediate this. Better yet, might as well invoke the old wizard's name to get them to cease harassing—

“Herr Graf Von Hainault would not mind your personal presence at his estate.”

Was that an invitation?

“In fact, I believe he is eager to meet with you in person as he wishes to discuss trade, culture, and academia with someone who is more refined in those matters.”

That sounded much close to an invitation.

“If I were you, fräulein,” grunted the landsknecht officer in a low hoarse voice, “I would not keep him waiting. His patience can be short at times and it would do no good to offend him during this season.”

That was more than invitation; that was an order for Kirche to visit the count. And judging by the stern disapproval on the face of Professor Colbert, it seemed the school was against this yet powerless to counter such a veiled demand.

“That will be all, fräulein. Thank you for your time.”

Finally. That seemed to settle it. That was until the captain turned his attention to Tabitha with an undeniable glint in his eye. Immediately, she knew that he knew.

“Herr Graf Von Hainault sends his regards, Dame Hélène D'Orléans. You need not fear any reprisals from your uncle or any of his rabid dogs.”

The world stopped.

“You are in the demesne of a powerful Tristainian lord, after all, and he does not take kindly to trespassers...”

Charlotte Hélène 'Tabitha' D'Orléans dropped the book she had tucked under her arm as she tightly held onto her staff with both hands.

They knew...

The count knew...

But they claimed they were protecting her from...? Could they really? After purging half the Cour Royale and reigning with impunity, how could she trust her life to the care of a man who so blatantly behaved like a heathen warlord worse than those she had to deal with back home?

“...bitha!”

She was being cornered; there was no mistaking it. The magistrate had to be informing on her to her uncle. She had to act quickly to keep from being used again. She did not want to put Kirche or anyone else at risk! But how? Count Bazaine De Hainault was an enigma!

“Tabitha, snap out of it!”

That man had the princess, and perhaps even the queen and the entirety of the royal palace, at his fingertips; there was no doubting that! Maybe she could bargain with his lackeys? Surely they were not as faithful to him as believed. They were only here for the coin after all. Or maybe she could—

“Charlotte!”

Tabitha blinked wide-eyed at the mention of her birth name. She found herself digging her staff into the soil with a very worried Kirche planting her hands on her shoulders. The redhead immediately wrapped her up in her arms. The Gallian glanced around to see that the men were gone along with Professor Colbert.

“I guess we both have something to hide, don't we,” Kirche mewled.

“Where...?”

“They left. Finally.”

Tabitha then allowed herself to break apart in her best friend's embrace.

Later that evening, in the privacy of the pool they shared in the Académie baths, Kirche finally admitted to Tabitha one of the main reasons she came here to Tristain. Afterward, the latter confessed to the former who she really was and why she also preferred to avoid any business with Gallia. Both then immediately tackled a panicked Montmorency hiding behind one of the cubicles.

“You really have a problem with eavesdropping, don't you?” the Germanian hissed.

“I wouldn't if you two weren't so liberal with your secrets in a public space!” the blonde protested. “I was having a nice solitary bath here in my little corner when you two decided to be more open about things that might get us all hanged!”

“Tell Guiche?” Tabitha queried.

Montmorency sighed. “... As much as I don't like keeping secrets from him, he has been keeping secrets from me. He may be a charlatan but he is no ignorant fool. For sure, he will discern my distress and will be stubbornly persistent.”

“In that case, I wouldn't mind making a eunuch out of him,” Kirche remarked icily.

“Don't you dare!”

Tabitha gripped the blonde's wrist hard enough to make her wince. “Trust?”

Try as she might, the water mage had no chance of fighting back against two girls who she very recently found out had been holding back all this time. “Ow, ow, ow! Alright, alright! I won't tell! Par les Fondateur, why must everyone be involved in some nasty political scheme?”

The redhead shrugged. “Wasn't by choice, mind you.”

“Born into it,” the other said.

Montmorency massaged her hand which was now red and probably going to be sore for a little while. “A chevalier avoiding her liege and a betrothed running from her suitor. Let me guess: the count is involved in this somehow?”

The other two shared a glance.

The blonde pinched the bridge of her nose. “I shouldn't have opened my mouth.”

“A group of his men showed up earlier looking for me,” Kirche said. “Turns out they knew about Tabitha as well. More than either of us are comfortable with. I wonder how they found all that out.”

“Surely it was coincidental?”

“There was nothing coincidental about what they said.”

The blonde sat on the edge of the pool. “So they were really here for you, hein? I thought they had business with one of the staff seeing as they actually didn't keep them outside the gates like they usually do.”

“And it's best if they thought of it that way. I'd rather not have that monster Berlichingen stir up trouble to spite me and I'm sure Tabitha would not want her dear mad king of an uncle make another attempt at her with his agents here in Tristain.”

“Very well. What about Professor Colbert?”

“Even if he wanted to help, I doubt he would be allowed to. Besides, he could be too busy with his experiments to bother with this. I still think he knows more than he lets on.”

The water mage scoffed tiredly. “We're all full of secrets, aren't we?”

The fire mage dipped beside her with her chin on her hands and a curious glint in her eyes. “What's yours then?”

“Nothing too outlandish or deleterious. Just that we regularly commune with the water spirit of Lagdorian Lake for her blessing upon us water mages.”

“Really? That's it?”

“I don't pay much attention to scandals and politicking, thank you very much!”

“That was up until Monsieur De Hainault started making waves, don't you think?”

Montmorency frowned. “We got into enough trouble for that. Frankly, I've had enough nosing around in these kinds of affairs. I mean, we are essentially ill-prepared to handle something like this on our own.”

Kirche and Tabitha shared another glance before the former rounded the blonde and pressed herself against her back, her lips hovering close to her ear. “Do you have any plans tomorrow, cher Monmon?”

“A date with Guiche!” she blurted out nervously.

“Good. We could always use a nice, strong, chivalrous young man.”

“Wh-what are y-you—”

“His valkyries could be useful fodder—”

“Fodder!?”

“Nothing too serious. You know, just in case.”

“In case of what!?”

Tabitha wrapped herself in her towel, gathered up her toiletries, and flicked the ears of the other two on her way out. “Too loud. Quieter in my room.”

Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert was glad Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond was becoming more proactive with matters concerning the county and the provincial governor. After all, with the rapid proscriptions sweeping the kingdom and the Count De Hainault's mercenaries influencing local Tristainian politics, there seemed no better time for Old Osmond to remind everyone why he was a man who should not be provoked.

“I have not entirely dulled,” quipped the centenarian wizard. “I may be long past my prime but I am not yet devoid of my magic.”

“I never said you were,” Colbert said, watching his superior diligently finish his day's worth of paperwork. Lady Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha retired early for the night and with how docile the she had become recently, there was not much concern towards leaving her to her own devices. Then again, a disavowed thief was still a thief and the Académie secretary was constantly watched by the school's regiment of Line-class guardsmen.

“Much more so, you, Jean,” Osmond returned. “Am I to witness the return of the formidable Serpent De Soufre?”

The professor sighed, inwardly wincing at his nom de guerre. “Not today. Not at this time. Hopefully not at all.”

“Now that's a little unfair towards me, don't you think? Here I am, a senile old man being compelled to, ah—how does Monsieur De Hainault say it?—'come out of retirement.'”

“I do not yet see the need for my case.”

Osmond rolled up the missive and returned his quill and inkwell back into his drawer. “So you do wish to rekindle the old fire?”

Colbert sighed exasperatedly. “I am not entirely averse to the call. But only when there is absolutely no other alternative. Brimir knows I've done more than enough in the service.”

The centenarian wizard rose from his chair, waved his staff, and stood aside as the pile of books, scrolls, and sealed letters on his desk levitated back into their slots on the shelves around his office.

“I still feel the need to assign a chaperone to Ma'amselle Zerbst and Ma'amselle D'Orléans,” the professor reiterated. “Their altruism is greatly admired but their deeds... They're too excitable, spontaneous. They are in need of proper guidance.”

One by one, Osmond snuffed out the balls of mage-light hovering over the sconces. “There is only so much we can do towards those two.”

“You do know that Monsieur De Hainault's men came here specifically asking for both of them, insisting that their master was eager to meet them in person.”

“I have seen through my mirror but of course my hearing has gone with the years. Did they offer hints as to why?”

“'Sharing of ideals with likeminded enthusiasts of the younger generation.' Or so they claim.”

“Or so they claim,” the director echoed. “I can sense your eagerness to intervene.”

Colbert groaned. “And I am aware that we are not allowed to. We have much to lose simply by antagonizing Monsieur De Hainault.”

“And if that were not the case, you would be in your study preparing for your trip to his estate along with those two young ladies as their guardian.” Osmond leaned close enough for the cracks in his dry, glowering eyes to show. “Tell me, Jean, what exactly do you expect me to do?”

The professor backed away in defeat. “Anything I suggest would be fruitless anyway. At worst, they would ruin us.”

The old wizard snorted. “Likewise. Our hands are bound by chains tethered to a boulder sunk at the bottom of the sea. I despise having to trust that man. He may be the Right Hand Of God but nothing in the prophecies mention any of the Divine familiars to be morally upright. Regardless of how much I agree with his judgment, I still disapprove of his methods.”

“Antoine, I hope you did not approve of Ma'amselle Vallière and Monsieur Walker departing for a visit to—”

“If I had to the power to revoke it, I would have,” came the angry retort. “Instead, I was handed a letter of invitation that I personally delivered to Ma'amselle Louise.”

“You know how volatile she can get.”

“And you forget how much self-control she is capable of exerting upon herself especially when in the presence of those she considers far greater than her. Karin raised her daughters well; she raised them to fear those who are much like herself.”

“That is Louise. But what of Leon?”

“I am sure he would be wary of those who are much like himself.” Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond strode to the threshold of his office, gesturing at his subordinate to follow. His office was bathed in darkness with only the light of the stars outside shimmering through the windows.

Colbert found the silhouette of his superior unnerving, almost akin to staring at the fabled slayer of a thousand mages than the senile old man running a prestigious school. “Pardon, Antoine, but other than their land of origin, their language, and their unorthodox methodologies, I do not think Monsieur Walker and Monsieur De Hainault have much else in common.”

“Don't they? Jean, the boy does not necessarily fear those who are greater than him. Rather, he fears what he is loathe to become.”

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 20, 2021

LAST EDITED: May 15, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: May 11, 2021

Chapter Text

Day LVII

Louise woke up in a cold sweat.

Another nightmare, this one more vivid than the last.

Her room was still dark and the sun had yet to crest over the horizon. She felt around for her tinderbox which she used to light up the half-melted candle by her bedside. Checking herself by her dresser showed how intense her dreams must have been given how disheveled she looked, her nightgown sticking to her skin. She blinked and for a moment, her reflection was replaced by Leon at his worst—skin blistered, face marred, hands burnt, blood and dirt spattered over his foreign armor as he held a flaming sword and a bulky, smoking musket.

The pink-haired girl rubbed her eyes. "Par les Fondateur, that was too much..."

Knocking. "Louise?"

She nearly jumped. "Leon?"

"Oh," he grunted behind the door to her room. "You're already awake?"

"What are you doing here!?" The sun had yet to rise!

"What are you talking about? Aren't you getting ready?"

"For what?"

"Um, visiting the count?"

Oh. Oh holy gonads. Louise leapt into action, wiping herself dry with her towel and rummaging through her wardrobe for her school uniform as fast as she could, caring not that her bed was still a mess and she had yet to bathe, much less properly groom herself. She noticed the invitation laying open over her study, her heart racing faster upon being reminded that a carriage would be arriving early to pick them up. Early dawn, to be precise.

More knocking. "Uh, Louise?"

"What!?" she screamed.

"Can I come in or...do I have to wait for you outside?"

This ignorant buffoon. "I'm changing!"

"Oh! … Oh. Right. Um, okay. I'll, uh, I'll just wait for you out here then."

Ten minutes later, Louise furiously opened the door to her room, not minding that she was partially-dressed and still haggard, and gracelessly dragged her familiar inside after hearing Kirche flirting with him.

Henrietta regretted drinking all that brandy last night. This was not her first hangover but it was definitely the worst one so far and it made her morning routine near impossible to go through. Regardless, she forced herself to get out of bed at dawn, deal with the nausea, and make herself presentable with the help of her concerned chambermaids. Needless to say, her mother was not pleased and the cardinal was quite cross. The princess blamed Six and they could not really be mad at her for that; they still reprimanded her though.

Shortly thereafter, Her Royal Highness Princess Henrietta De Tristain seated herself on her throne next to Her Majesty Queen Marianne De Tristain to formally receive the Germanian delegation now entering into the grand hall of the royal palace in all their finery. Unlike before, there was not much of the Cour Royale present to greet them. Not even the Vallières were able to attend due to matters concerning stubborn foreigners invoking disputable transit rights on their duchy.

Pleasantries were quick and the head of the delegation, the stout but stern-faced Margrave Joachim Nestor of Brandenburg, immediately brought forth the issue that had been a constant headache to the Tristainian royals for a long time.

"His Imperial Majesty Kaiser Albrecht the Third wishes you good health and ceaseless prosperity, Madame Royale," he relayed. "Recently, he has been reconsidering the matter of your marital union and has come to a more pragmatic resolution."

That did not bode well. Inwardly, Henrietta was relieved that she may not have to sell her heart and soul to a man she did not love in order to save her kingdom. But she was also very concerned with the already delicate relations her kingdom had with the most militarily powerful entity on the continent.

"And what are His Imperial Majesty's concerns?" queried her mother.

Margrave De Brandenburg showed no emotion with his response. "Madame la Reine, with regards to the marital union, His Imperial Majesty wishes to issue a separate verdict. However, he is the midst of a second, more thorough review of the proposal and has postponed his consideration until a more suitable time."

So a delayed response. How long would Tristain have to wait? Until Albion fell to the Reconquista and whatever was resurrected would be hounding on their doors? Or until her kingdom was devoured piecemeal by Cromwell's lackeys (or King Joseph's malevolent agents) and the Germanians would step in 'salvage' what was left? Henrietta did her best to remain outwardly unmoved despite the throbbing in her temples. Damn it, she knew she should have abstained from drinking last night...but she really wanted a taste... No. Not now. No getting thirsty this early in the day!

"In place of this, however, after much deliberation with the Bundestag, it has been decided by both His Imperial Majesty and his confederate subjects to extend to Tristain an offer of a pact of mutual assistance."

The entire Tristanian palace raised their brows at this, with the Cour Royale breaking into hoarse whispers and the guards shifting curious glances to the royals seated on their thrones.

Marianne raised her hand and stilled the hall before she spoke. "Please explain this pact, Monsieur De Brandenburg."

"A simple agreement, Madame la Reine. Our people will provide material support to your people in exchange for your people likewise providing us with material support. However, the conditions are strictly limited being that the free exchange of aid could only be invoked during times of famine, pestilence, or war."

This was an interesting and most welcome development.

"Monsieur le Marquis De Brandenburg," Henrietta intoned, "Would it be accurate to assume that this pact would serve as an alternative to the marital union between myself and His Imperial Majesty?"

The margrave smiled from ear to ear. "A very accurate assumption, Madame Royale. The Bundestag has long recognized Tristain's need for assistance during these trying times. His Imperial Majesty most sincerely and most willingly would extend direct aid to Tristain for the sake of preserving peace throughout Halkeginia and furthering man's ultimate goal of repossession of the Holy Lands. Yet, the domestic duties of His Imperial Majesty has to take utmost precedence and thus, as we are all human with our limitations, he has considered it most pragmatic that this pact be made, hopefully, in place of marriage."

In other words, signing a treaty of mutual assistance was easier than putting a ring on someone's finger for the sake of an alliance. While the latter option had stronger grounds and was less easily repealed, the former did not have such heavy compromises on both parties involved. Henrietta knew that Mazarin would vehemently disagree with the latter option but with her mother now reasserting herself, the princess was willing to pursue the option that would not sacrifice her personal happiness. Brimir knows, she did not have much of it growing up.

The princess glanced to her mother and for the first time in a very long time, she caught the hint of a smile creaking at the edge of her lips.

Queen Marianne De Tristain would later declare, after an insightful discussion and deliberation with the Germanian delegation and the remaining members and representatives of the Cour Royale followed by the signing of a freshly written document, that Tristain and Germania were now bound by treaty to provide each other with mutual aid during times of crisis. While technically the two entities did not enter into an alliance, in Henrietta's mind, this pact sure spelled out like one.

And that was good enough for her.

Louise had been to Chateau Hainault once or twice and the last time was when she was barely half a decade old. It was clear that much had changed since then. The budding villa she remembered as a child was transformed into a massive, majestic manor surrounded by thick, enchanted fortress walls with towers manned by well-disciplined guards. And that was not to mention the small town that was rising around the chateau. Never had she expected to see so many foreigners—mostly Germanian—residing in one place.

She turned to see Leon gawking up at the statues of vicious mythical beasts mounted on the trusses of the manor itself; each visage crafted in fine detail to fulfill the illusion of being guardians to the property. A part of her wondered if they would come alive like in the stories...

"Look at those gargoyles," her familiar whistled. "Never thought I'd see something like that in a long while. I wonder how much the sculptors charged for that 'cause that's some pretty damn fine detail there."

"County Hainault is home to some of the most skilled artisans in the kingdom," boasted Chevalier Michel Ney, the man sent to fetch them from the Acadèmie. Louise had heard about him from her mother: a gifted Triangle-class mage who had fought alongside the Heavy Wind in the last war. He seemed to fit almost every description she could recall of him, though the ugly scar marring his chiseled face was almost never mentioned.

"Best hands money can buy, huh, sir," Leon mused.

"I'd like to think we provide work to those who strive wholeheartedly with their craft, monsieur."

"Uh-huh. I hope you don't mind me asking, sir. How much are you paying them compared to the other counties?"

The Triangle-class mage thinned his lips. "I do mind your inquiry, Monsieur Walker, though my answers may be insufficient. To be frank, I handle only the military matters, not the administrative affairs."

"I'm okay with an educated guess."

"I do not indulge in presumptions, monsieur."

Louise pinched Leon in the arm before he could keep pressing. She glared back at his scowl before nudging him to silently keep walking until they reached the portico where another recognizable face welcomed them. Head Butler Louis-Alexandre Berthier, skilled administrator that her mother thrice commended in passing conversation, welcomed them to the estate and ushered them inside.

And the first person they saw upon setting foot into the lavish reception hall was none other than that blasted maid that her own familiar spent more time with than her.

Suffice to say, Louise had no idea how to react. A part of her was relieved that Siesta appeared well and not ill-treated as they had feared. Yet, another part of her dreaded what was lying underneath that wide smile.

Neither Chevalier Ney nor Monsieur Berthier made any effort to stop her familiar and the maid from hasting across the marble floor and embracing each other. Most ungraceful but not frowned upon. Though seeing that happen so boldly, so publicly, and in front of her of all people...

… It made Louise feel...

...for some reason, she felt slighted. No. She was offended. It stung, to be precise. And the pink-haired mage did not want to acknowledge the reason why. What she did acknowledge though was Count Bazaine De Hainault sniggering atop the mezzanine overlooking the grand hall, his steel pistols glistening over his black cuirass as he rested his hand on the railing while the other held up a goblet.

"Ain't that sweet," he echoed.

Leon detached from Siesta who immediately composed herself as modestly as a servant should in the presence of her betters.

"Nice place you got here, sir," her familiar echoed back.

"Got it for a steal. Like what you see, son?"

"Not gonna lie, I do. Though, I wonder why you need Siesta here since you, ahem, 'got way too many maids' running around here."

Louise pinched her familiar again. "Behave."

"Sorry."

"A most gracious welcome to you, Ma'amselle Vallière," Siesta meekly greeted.

The pink-haired sophomore regarded her with a raised chin. "Likewise. It is good to see you again, Siesta. I see you are fairing well here."

The maid smiled. "Most certainly, ma'amselle. I have never been in better graces."

Leon whirled on his heels. "Wait, what?"

Louise raised her brow. "Pardon? You...have no qualms working here?"

Siesta nodded. "None at all, ma'amselle."

The two guests shared a quick glance before regarding the maid with suspicion. The sophomore felt something amiss; while, she did not know Siesta enough to be able to tell whether or not she was lying, her expression of happiness appeared far too genuine. Did...did she really not dislike working here? If that were the case, then...all those things they heard about this place...about how the staff were treated...about the malicious events transpiring here...about the vile deeds in the dungeons and the many virtues so violently besmirched...were they all lies? Or have such claims since lost their value upon the territory's transition to a new lord?

"Is there...something wrong, ma'amselle?" prodded the now confused maid.

Leon shook his head. "No, no, no. It's just...I don't know. Feels like we're missing something here."

"How 'bout I fill you in?" chimed Count De Hainault as he gestured at Chevalier Ney and the dozen or so armed and armored landsknechts filing in through the various entry points to stand down. "Leon, son, how 'bout you done right leave your gear at the door an' we'll have a nice long talk over some o' the best diced lamb you'll ever find this side o' the kingdom."

Louise stiffened when her familiar dropped his hand on the hilt of his short sword while the other hovered close enough to reach the first of three loaded crossbows slung over his shoulder.

"I don't like feeling naked, old man."

"Old man?" The magistrate laughed. "I like your spunk, boy. Be seein' some o' myself in you. An' that's why I asked you to come through my front door instead o' crashin' through the windows guns blazin' or sneakin' in through the tunnels, waist-deep in shit-water."

The sophomore harshly tugged at her familiar. "Leon, please, stop this!"

"Louise, get behind me," he ordered.

"No! You are going to stand down!"

"Louise, I'm not joking around here."

"I don't want a scandal to my name!"

"I'm trying not to make one."

"You are!" she screamed, pulling him down by the collar so she could glare into his eyes. "You assured me that you were not going to ruin everything. Yet here you are, causing a scene! You are threatening to destroy me by virtue of controversy!"

"Louise," he hissed back, "This is for your safety! I'm trying to—"

She did not know what came over her but she realized after her palm sent his face snapping away from hers that she was already close to crying. And this in the presence of the provincial governor, his servants, and his many intrigued mercenary guardsmen. Not to mention Siesta hesitantly offering her a napkin.

"Mademoiselle Louise?" the maid stammered.

Louise did not say a word until Leon recovered enough to flash her a look that made her blood run cold. Then he shifted his gaze to the floor, the shame snuffing out the burning fury that faded behind the red handprint on his cheek.

"... Sorry. I...got a little out of it, there," he apologized morosely.

Count De Hainault descended from the mezzanine. "You good, son?"

The pink-haired mage saw her familiar eying her pleadingly. She glowered fiercely back and that was enough for him.

Slowly and with a defeated sigh, Leon withdrew his scabbarded blade from his belt and surrendered it to Chevalier Ney. This was followed by the bollock knife on his hip, a smaller dagger concealed in his boot, the three crossbows and their respective bolts, as well as a short cudgel wrapped in cloth that he had expertly hidden behind the small of his back.

"Packin' serious heat there," whistled the governor. "What were you expectin'?"

Leon shrugged, now completely disarmed. "Something fierce."

"That so? Guess I ain't one to pick at you for done showin' up the way you did."

"Yeah, well...you know me. Trust issues."

"Uh-huh. Some things you just can't right be damn rid of, eh?" The count clapped her familiar on the shoulder. "Come on. We got the rest o' the day to relax an' I got the best view in the whole county. You, too, Miss Siesta. You've got a finger in this pie anyway."

"Of course, monsieur."

And that seemed to be the end of it. That was until Louise heard footfalls rapping against the marble floor. All of them were barely out of the grand hall when another landsknecht burst in, panting and covered in sweat. He quickly dropped to a knee before the governor, pleading with an irritated Chevalier Ney that he bore news so urgent that he had no time to follow decorum.

"Apologies, millourt!" the young Germanian wheezed, "But there is a dragon hovering over the canton!"

Louise stilled, eyes going wide. A dragon? No. No, that couldn't be. It could not be. It better not be!

"A dragon?" The count quickly shifted his gait, gesturing at Head Butler Berthier who wordlessly departed to fetch something. "What dragon are we talkin' 'bout here, son?"

"Large, blue, with scales, millourt. Carrying multiple riders. Mages! They've been circling overhead and ignoring our orders to leave. It was flying closer as I was running here."

A blue dragon...carrying several riders...? The pink-haired sophomore paled. No, this cannot be happening! Her idiotic classmates could not have...

"Did they do anythin'?"

"Nothing serious, millourt. So far, they have kept to the skies and have refused to heel to us."

"And that's why I pack a lot of heat, sir," Leon quipped.

"An' I don't know you enough to have you walkin' 'round willy-nilly all over my property with a whole goddamn armory on you, son," retorted Count De Hainault.

"Apologies in advance, Monsieur," Louise tried. "But I believe we can negotiate with them. I may know who they are and—"

Their host ignored her, instead conversing with the landsknecht. "Did one of 'em riders have red hair and dark skin?"

"Yes, millourt. We have ascertained that one of them is of our kin."

The pink-haired mage wanted to scream. Damn Kirche and her insatiable desire to ruin her at every turn!

"Uh-huh," the magistrate grunted, gesturing at Louise. "And is another one o' them riders, ah, short an' flat like this pipsqueak?"

She stood rigid and appalled towards the magistrate, biting her lip to stop from howling at the insult.

"Ah, y-yes, millourt. We believe she is the most capable among them as we have seen her wielding a staff."

"Well, shit." Count De Hainault regarded his retinue of mercenaries with a small smile. "Alright, boys. Looks like we got some extra company. Let's give 'em a good ole welcome Hainault-style, shall we?"

Most of the troop vocally agreed, some raising their fists in enthusiasm while others rattled their sheathed swords, then ushered themselves outside alongside their master. Chevalier Ney, on the other hand, was instructed to stay behind along with two guardsmen.

"Mitch, keep an eye on our guests here," the count issued. "Make sure they ain't done gon' break anything while I'm out. This won't take long."

"Wait!" the sophomore pleaded, pale as a sheet. "Monsieur, please, I think those are—"

A blast resonated from outside, strong enough to send shockwaves throughout the property. Before the dust from the ceiling landed on the floor, Chevalier Michel 'Mitch' Ney muscled Louise, Leon, and Siesta down the corridor towards the library. Along the way, they encountered Head Butler Louis-Alexandre 'Lex' Berthier marching past them while carrying a bulky musket mostly wrapped in sackcloth with a pair of large feathers stuck on a beaded cross embedded into the stock.

Shortly after the luncheon, Henrietta retreated to the planning chamber with Agnès, Cardinal Mazarin, and Archduke De Poitiers. Her mother, showcasing an unusual charismatic energy, stayed behind to entertain the delegation, much to the surprise of the Cour Royale who largely believed that she was still in mourning.

"That went better than I thought it would," the princess remarked as soon as the doors closed.

"I don't know much about Germanian politics but I can tell from the looks on their faces that this was a surprise development even for them," the musketeer captain replied.

"How so?"

The marshal of Tristain massaged his mustache. "Monsieur De Brandenburg was one of the more vocal proponents for your marriage to the Kaiser, Madame Royale. I have known Joachim for some time now so to see him embrace such an abrupt departure from his most favored policy with almost little resistance is unlike him."

"So he was overruled," Henrietta mused. "Someone must have changed the Kaiser's mind then."

Cardinal Mazarin coughed into his palms. "There has been a shift in the winds of the Bundestag. Save for the Holy See, no other assembly can so influence the will of the Kaiser."

"Their own council shifted his perspective?"

"Madame Royale, the Bundestag is more than a council. You do know that the Germanian Confederate Diet functions as much the same as our Cour Royale."

That was as much as she could recall given how difficult it was to interact with their gargantuan non-Brimiric neighbor. "Oui, bien sûr. Did they...?"

"The Bundestag is much larger than any of the royal courts on Halkeginia, larger even than the Holy See," the cardinal lectured morosely. "Most certainly, they have powerful factions within capable of compelling the Kaiser to reconsider his decisions, in some cases without the need for a vote from the other members."

Much how the Cour Royale could have controlled Henrietta or her mother had they not been rapidly set to rights by her familiar. "So which factions decided that marriage was not the only option?"

"If I may speculate, Madame Royale, those with strong merchant ties. Most likely the Germanian merchant houses hosting lucrative trade either with us or with our subjects."

"But we don't have much trade with Germania." And given the performance of a certain Tristainian duchess during the last war, any attempt at anything with Tristain was always approached with caution.

The archduke hummed. "Don't we, Madame Royale?"

Henrietta looked up to the atlas pinned to the wall. Immediately, her attention focused on County Hainault and how distant it was from the Germanian border. "... That can't be the only factor. Sixième's deals alone cannot be that significant to sway members of the Diet, can they?"

"That does seem implausible but not entirely impossible," mused Mazarin. "Knowing Monsieur De Hainault, he must have established ties with some of the more prominent members through proxies. The amount of goods and resources being exchanged between his county and the various other provinces in Germania is telling of how many he has befriended."

"Wow," Agnès hummed. "He's achieved more diplomacy with those people than anyone else on this continent...if you don't mind me saying."

The cardinal sighed. "Not at all, Chevalier De Milan. You're right in that regard. He speaks the merchant's tongue well and he has used that to his advantage."

"You're saying that Sixième is using the money taken from those who have been proscribed to influence matters in Germania?" Henrietta said.

"Not exactly, Madame Royale. Rather, Monsieur De Hainault chose who to befriend...or bribe...and he chose well."

De Poitiers hummed. "He could not have enough coin to make many allies in the Diet. Though, from all the reports that we've been receiving, I can think of someone he most certainly had impressed enough to earn a working relationship. House Anhalt-Zerbst alone could not provide the vast amounts of pitch and saltpeter he so constantly needs for his clandestine 'projects.'"

Mazarin nodded. "Dealing with Anhalt-Zerbst means having to deal with their associates, including their greatest proprietor. And that particular client does not take kindly to others buying off the stock from his own farm."

Agnès furrowed her brow. "Excuse me, monsieurs, but who are we referring to here?"

The archduke and the cardinal exchanged glances before the former spoke. "A certain powerful Germanian lord whose standing in the Diet is greater than the sum of his peers. Chevalier De Milan, I will not insult your intelligence by assuming that you have not been properly informed of Monsieur le Archiduc Gottfried Berlichingen De Württemberg?"

The was a vaguely familiar name. Henrietta asked them, "Who is he?"

"The infamous archduke of Württemberg, Madame Royale," echoed the marshal, pointing to the demarcated duchy in the heart of the Germanian Confederation. "He is otherwise known by his nom de guerre 'le Main de Fer.'"

The musketeer captain blinked several times. "Wait. You mean Götz le Main de Fer? That Berlichingen? The one with the literal hand made of metal?"

"The one and only," De Poitiers grunted. "Knighted, landed, and invested of the highest honors by the last Kaiser yet still lives and breathes and fights like the most savage of mercenaries. Uncouth, arrogant, belligerent, arguably heathen for a follower of the faith. And now he dominates half the Diet with both influence, affluence, and martial supremacy."

"That man only listens to those who are like him," Mazarin bemoaned. "And these days, there are very few in the world who Monsieur De Württemberg would willingly lend his ear to without being commanded by the Kaiser to do so."

Henrietta sat down on her chair, looking back up at the atlas. A part of her regretted sanctioning the planned mission into Wiltshire. Of course, that netted proper (and rather extensive) preparation and one such stage of that preparation was a trip to the town of Talbes on the northern coast if Tristain. The fishing community was largely unassuming if not for its strategic value as a branching point for any invading force. And if the Courier was going to settle some matters there, that most likely meant he was going to use that as his staging point for infiltrating into Albion. After all, leaving port from any of the larger towns and cities would have roused suspicion and alerted Reconquista sympathizers.

The princess idly wondered what exactly her familiar was up to now given that he was absent today.

"This could have gone smoother."

"Leon, shut up."

"Just saying. Not like I volunteered to come along, don't you think?"

Louise glared at her battered and bruised familiar lounging on a mound of hay in his cell across from hers. Filthy and moist as the dungeons under Chateau Hainault were, they were not devoid of comforts. Such as a warm straw bed and a waste bucket in the corner. Compared to most anywhere, it could have been worse.

"Besides, I wasn't expecting to onboard some extra people for the weekender," Leon continued unabashedly, scratching at the scabs forming on his ravaged knuckles. "Not my fault they showed up, you know, without an invite. Funny how that went."

Despite being locked in separate cells, both mistress and familiar could feel the glares from Kirche, Tabitha, Montmorency, and Guiche—each caged separately and deprived of their foci while their familiars were contained in the bestiary on the other side of the estate. Count De Hainault's hired mercenaries had proven to be quite capable of containing Sylphid and Flame, two awesome beasts with powerful offensive capabilities. How terrifying though that the provincial governor himself was able to down a dragon with a single shot from his musket.

"Look, guys," prattled the human familiar. "On the bright side...at least we all have each other."

"Leon," Louise growled. "For the love of all that is holy. Shut. Your. Mouth."

"Geez. Cranky much?"

The sophomore opted to ignore him.

After all, it was his fault they were in this predicament in the first place. Though she did heft some of the blame to her infuriating schoolmates (who, despite being told off earlier that morning, followed them all the way to the estate regardless), she still held Leon with great contempt. What was supposed to be a cordial visit had effectively turned into her worst nightmare with a handful of injured noblemen (how in the world was she supposed to know that Monsieur Berthier was himself a distinguished Triangle-class mage!?) and a potential scandal that would certainly go unignored by her mother.

And to think that things were going so well at the beginning...

"There's a spider in my cell!" Montmorency suddenly shrieked.

"Worry not, Monmon!" Guiche declared. "I'll, uh, I'll support you, ah, from here! Um, verbally."

"It's so big! Ew, ew, ew!"

"Step on it! See if you can step on it!"

"I'm not touching that thing!"

"Can you throw something at it?"

"My waste bucket!"

"That's right! You can use it to—"

"No, you idiot! It's in my waste bucket!"

Louise rolled her eyes at their antics (though she was grateful that her cell was devoid of any such pestilent intruders). She heard Kirche's loud sigh echo off the dungeon walls though.

"What a day, eh, Louise?" the Germanian said.

Wow. That harlot addressed her by her name instead of her damned monicker. It was not the first time but it had been a long time since that happened. Endearing as it was, Louise ignored her too.

Time passed rather quickly and Louise was grateful to be rid of Montmorency's hysterics (as well as Leon ceaselessly whistling a 'merry' tune that was egregiously off-key). The estate guards escorted them out of the dungeons and upstairs into the clinical ward where a few medicinal sisters were waiting with their basins and washcloths. Half of the chateau's interior still bore much of the damage from the melee between the Académie guests and Count De Hainault's household lackeys whom they had all severely underestimated.

Louise stiffened when she saw the magistrate seated on one of the chairs calmly sipping on his tankard of heavy spirits despite the mended cut above his brow courtesy of her familiar. She expected a scowl, a glower, or—at worst—a physical lashing for what had transpired. Instead, to her greater alarm, the man was smiling even as Siesta was profusely apologizing to him on their behalf...and to them on the count's behalf...and to everyone else on her own behalf.

"Siesta, you don't have to—" Leon started only to be interrupted by the tearful and despondent maid.

"Non! Non, this is all my fault! Désolé, Leon! Désolé, Ma'amselle Vallière! I...I shouldn't have...I shouldn't have gotten you all involved in this."

"Involved in what, woman?" the count piped. "Would you have said 'no' even after I got your contract? Signed, sealed, an' delivered?"

Siesta bit her lip, her face puffed and moist. "I...I didn't mean for this to happen, monsieurs. I sincerely apologize, Monsieur De Hainault!"

He handed her a napkin. "Dry your cheeks. I already heard you the last fifteen times an' I ain't gon' tell you another ten times that none o' this ain't your damn fault."

Monsieur Walker painfully straightened himself when he was approached by their host.

"And you, boy..."

The pink-haired mage gulped. A glance to her right showed how pale the others were—she would have relished the absolute fear on Kirche's face if not for the fact that they were all without their foci and were at the mercy of the rather well-equipped, well-trained, and surprisingly well-disciplined foreign mercenaries surrounding them. And most were commoners!

"... You were one hell of a twister."

Leon blinked. "Huh?"

Louise gawked. "What?"

Siesta tilted her head. "Pardon?"

And Count De Hainault snickered. "Really don' know when to give up, eh, son? Confiscated most o' your gear on entry but that ain't stoppin' you from usin' your fists. My boys were gon' run you through an' through an' you still keep at it, hell bent on goin' down swingin'. All for your friends. All for Miss Louise and Miss Siesta over here. Hell, even for these other kids who done showed up 'cause they thought I was some goddamn terrorist. Heh, really did see some o' myself in you there for a while."

"I...I don't get what you mean, sir," the younger man started.

"I'm sayin' that I haven't seen a good roughin' up like that in a long time." The provincial governor tapped the cut above his brow. "Got me good with this'un."

Louise exchanged glances with those around her. Was that a compliment? … For causing injury to a high nobleman of such (controversial) stature?

"Um, you, too, sir," her familiar cautiously replied, "I gotta admit I've still got a lot to learn in the takedown department and all that so, uh..."

"They don' teach them techniques over at the East Coast?"

"More shoot-to-kill than 'hands-up-and-get-on-the-ground,' y'know?"

"Thought you're more the type to run in screamin' an' wavin' a nine iron."

"Yeah but guns work, too. Though when the bullets run out, the old lead pipe you pick up from somewhere would really come in handy."

"Ain't wrong there." The count looked him over. "Still hurtin'?"

Leon grimaced. "Not much. Sore all over but I can still walk. Haven't been this messed up in a long while, though."

"Tough cookie. Well, least them boiled leather did you some good. Saved you from gettin' right skewered by my boys."

"It was a good investment."

The pink-haired mage quickly noticed the minute downward curl on the edge of the magistrate's bearded lip. "Really now? That cost you a pretty penny?"

Her familiar glanced shamefully at her before replying. "... Ah, yeah. You could say that."

"Right. Would hate to have some good coin go down the shitter 'cause the damn thing you paid for ain't done it's job right, don't you think?"

"I'd be pretty ticked, yeah." The young man painfully gestured at his mistress. "Though, it'd be Louise who'll be really mad 'cause it was actually her money."

"Uh-huh. And I'm sure you'd be right mad if someone done try an' take away that good investment, wouldn't you agree?"

Leon regarded him guardedly. "You could say anyone would be pretty cross."

Count De Hainault suddenly scowled. "An' you wouldn't think I'd be done right stringin' you up right now for tryin' to take away someone whose services I damn right well paid good money for?"

To this, Monsieur Walker matched him with a glower. "I'd rather Siesta be held above property, sir. With all due respect, I don't want her treated as a slave."

"That so?" The magistrate turned to the maid in question who was now trying to make herself smaller under the mass of eyes suddenly upon her. "Miss Siesta, be honest. Are you bein' treated like a slave in my household?"

To her credit, the maid appeared genuinely surprised by the insinuation. "N-non, monsieur."

"You sure you ain't lyin', sweetheart?"

Siesta shook her head. "I'm telling the truth! I have never been abused or neglected since my arrival. On the contrary, I've been treated rather well. Very well."

"Siesta," Leon started only to be interrupted by the maid.

"Leon, I'm not lying! Please, listen to me. I may have been here for a few days but I really am being treated well. I still have the same duties yet my accommodations have been nothing short of luxurious. I...I'm being paid three times my wages from the Acadèmie!"

Louise and her classmates blinked wide-eyed. Their jaws collectively dropped the more they heard Siesta regale them with the luxuries that she—a commoner servant—was enjoying. It seemed almost unfair that the plebes here were being rewarded for labor that, although more intensive than most, felt undeserving of such rewards. But then again, Brimir himself had ordered his followers to care for those less fortunate. And, come to think of it, there had been no direct written record of the divine Void mage mentioning anything more specific than the general command to be the guardians of those born out of arcane blood.

"Leon," the maid concluded, clasping Monsieur Walker's bruised hands, a sad smile on her lips, "This place is not as terrible as others say it is. In fact, I believe...I believe I'm better off working here. For the sake of my family. For financial reasons, I would prefer it here. And...I understand if you want me to return but...I..."

Leon sighed. "It's okay. I get it. I guess...I guess I'm the asshole in this one, huh. Didn't do enough of my homework, ended up following the wrong leads, and took the wrong course of action. Almost hurt the people I care the most, too."

Louise cynically wondered who her familiar 'cared the most:' her or that maid.

"Yeah, you almost done fucked up, son," chirped the amused Count De Hainault. "I mean, really? You actually bought into the bullshit about me? I thought you were smarter than that."

He frowned. "As I said, I didn't do enough of my own homework. There's only so much you can figure out when you're broke, running errands, doing chores, and living in a school whose books aren't even written in English."

Chuckle. "Heh, yeah, you'd think with all them translation spells, you'd expect one that'll actually jumble letters on paper into somethin' legible."

Shrug. "They're still working on it, I've been assured."

"They've been workin' on that shit for centuries, son."

"Score one for magical innovation then." Leon bit his lip and exhaled. "Look, ah... Shit, I'm not good with this. I'm sorry, sir. I...I guess I got carried away. Let the easy life soften me up too much. Still a little paranoid and I, uh... Fuck, I actually let that get to me."

The count raised his brow. "You don't go out much, don't you?"

"Only when Louise goes. You know how the arrangement is. Besides, that doesn't offer much fo a window to really fact-check the news, y'know? Especially since the folks around here aren't too trusting of strangers."

"Right. Eh, it happens. I was just like that when I was your age, anyway." The magistrate turned to the students. "How 'bout you, kids? Anyone feelin' sore? I mean, none o' y'all got seriously injured and I'm pretty sure most o' them's just scrapes that you can right walk off."

Louise wanted to debate that given that they had yet to receive any treatment. Most of their injuries were far from grievous, though; if anything, they would have been more concerned with their now sullied Acadèmie uniforms. Alas, dirty clothes were the least of their worries. She eyed her fellow sophomores who were looking at her as though she was their mouthpiece. Even the medicinal sisters were waiting on her word. How vexing.

"We could be in better shape, monsieur," she answered diplomatically, "thank you for asking."

"Uh-huh, sure." The count then gestured at the sisters who began ushering his guests to separate beds to have themselves treated. "See y'all at dinner."

"Sylphid," Tabitha echoed.

Louise winced at that. She had seen the damage done to the dragon and, despite what the best healers could do, she doubted that the majestic creature could soar back to the skies in less than a week. A whole wing nearly ripped in two by a musket... Was the musket enchanted? Was their magic in those two feathers embedded into the stock or was it that beaded cross? Or perhaps it was the ball it fired? Such a dishonorable weapon augmented by magic... Could it have been elven magic?

"She'll live," the governor dismissed, snapping her out of her musings. He was on his way out by then. "See y'all later at dinner."

The next few hours passed with little incident.

Little incident in this case being that Louise continued to ignore her classmates while throwing back glares whenever she had to look at any one of them.

No, she did not want to hear their excuses.

No, she did not want to believe their concerns that she was in danger.

No, she absolutely refused to comprehend their ridiculous notion that they were asked to come here by the count's men and hence were not intending to ruin a perfectly normal weekend with the third-most powerful man in the kingdom.

"Guys, I think Louise really doesn't want to talk to any of you," Leon quipped.

Finally! Her familiar actually was siding with her for once.

"Maybe you can speak to her?" Kirche raised.

He snorted. "Did you see any of that when we were down there?"

"Louise, we're sorry, okay?" Montmorency whinnied. "It wasn't my idea but...but...but we're just...we're just scared."

Scared of what, you dried-up well-spring? The pink-haired mage tuned out whatever the blonde was going to say until she heard Leon finally convince her peers to that she was most disinterested in them and hence was not to be bothered. And bother her, they did not.

Come dusk, the magistrate had them all brought to the dining hall where the staff were already preparing a banquet despite the fact that there had been a destructive battle on the premises against their own hosts not too long ago. Chevalier Michel Ney was still holding up ice wrapped in cloth over his bruised forehead while Head Butler Berthier had foregone changing out of his tattered garments in favor of continuing to administer his duties. Both men, however, were not very jovial and chanced glares upon Leon who sheepishly sat down in front of a large plate of roasted ham, steamed lentils, and salmon broth.

"What're y'all standin' 'round for?" barked the count, lounging on his ornate cushioned chair at the far end of the table. "Pull up a chair an' dig in."

Louise glanced around, finding the same hesitation on her classmates.

"Food's gon' get cold."

One by one, they allowed themselves to be seated before their own laden plates. They still refused to touch any of the cutlery much to the growing annoyance of their host.

"Jesus Christ Almighty," he groaned. "Y'all still need to pray or what?"

Louise found herself the center of attention. She exhaled, clasping her hands together. "Holy Founder above, we offer to our daily bread..."

"... So let me get this straight: y'all thought that I was the head o' some crazy conspiracy to somehow take control of the entire kingdom an' maybe even the rest o' the continent, right?"

Neither Louise nor any of her classmates could look their host in the eye.

Except for Leon who shrugged and shamelessly spoke with his mouth full. "That's pretty wild, not gonna lie."

To which the count laughed. "Holy shit, that's rich! Damn, you kids just believe whatever the fuck y'all come up with, eh? Got to hand to y'all 'cause that's some really good imagination. Ain't easy to make that shit up an' I'm impressed how realistic that almost sounds. But nothin' like that ain't ever real now, in'it?"

The pink-haired sophomore wanted to laugh as well now that her arguments had been vindicated and her classmates were so greatly shamed by their foolishness. Yet, the look the magistrate was giving her...was giving them... There was something nefarious behind that bearded smile. His grin did not convey comfort but heralded a sinister foreboding.

"I sincerely apologize, monsieur—" Louise started only to be interrupted.

"Apologize for what, little missy? Y'all just done right gave me somethin' new to think about."

Heads turned. Including Siesta, Chevalier Ney, Head Butler Berthier, and some of the serving staff.

"P-pardon, monsieur?"

The magistrate refilled his chalice with more of her family's famous heavy spirits. "Tell me, Miss Louise. You ever got a right inklin' o' what's goin' on outside your fancy old school?"

The Académie students glanced around, each silently asking the other for answers or wondering who among them should speak up. All the while, Leon continued to feast on his meal. Ultimately, it once again fell back to Louise to continue the conversation.

"We cannot sufficiently say for sure, monsieur," she replied. "We are still students and hence are more concerned with our own studies and...various ventures...to concern ourselves with most matters outside the Académie."

"Do you, now?" Shrug, sip, sigh. "Well, at least, you're smart enough to know you ain't right smart enough."

"Wh-what do we not know, monsieur?"

"Do you know why I invited you two here? Louise, Leon?"

She shook her head. "Non, monsieur."

Her familiar shrugged. "I've got a few ideas but I don't think you might like them, sir."

"You're right," the count remarked. "I pro'lly wouldn't."

He then eyed the other students. Guiche and Montmorency shrunk in their seats while Kirche presented herself with the puffed-out confidence she was most known for. Tabitha, though, gave him a narrow glare that made Louise wonder what it was that got the normally silent Gallian to be coming off as so uncharacteristically belligerent.

"I don' recall ever askin' for you two lovebirds," the magistrate drawled.

The pink-haired mage almost felt bad for the betrothed pair who were now sweating gracelessly in their seats. As much as she genuinely enjoyed their discomfort, she still could not hold them any further beyond contempt...no matter how much they tormented her. Guiche and Montmorency were not ones whose company she fancied but even she had to admit that they were still young (as was she), excitable (as she was not), and not deserving of any punishment meted out to senior adults.

"Then again, you're papi's a pretty famous general 'round these parts. Got skill and clout. An' you, young lady, are supposed to have a pact with some ancient water nymph down in Lake Lagdorian."

Once again, the students gawked back wide-eyed.

"As for you, Miss Kirche and Miss Tabitha... I wan't right expectin' you two so soon. Maybe next week or on holiday break or somethin' but I guess you two were just right excited to see little ole me, eh? Could'a just saved the trouble and hitched a ride with Louise but I reckon there ain't no room in a rickety ole four-seater for a dragon."

Louise furrowed her brow. Were Kirche and Tabitha invited as well? How did she not know this?

"We...were informed by your men," the Germanian started slowly, "that you were eager to see us...and we thought it would be imprudent to keep you waiting."

"How thoughtful o' you," the count grunted. "A'ight. Now as some o' you may have heard with a bit too much embellishment, I've been runnin' 'round this kingdom fixin' messes that neither Her Royal Highness nor His Eminence got the time an' energy for. And let me tell you, kids: things ain't really lookin' up."

An uncomfortable silence fell upon the dining hall...occasionally punctuated by Leon loudly chewing on his slices of roasted ham.

"... There's a war goin' on in Albion. Ever heard o' that?"

Nods followed across the table...except for Leon who set aside the bones on his plate and regarded their host with a serious face. "Civil war between the disenfranchised masses and the ruling nobility. Unless I'm wrong, sir?"

"You ain't wrong, son. You'd think that with their divine right and magical prowess, they'd wipe the floor with them peasants. Half a year o' the rebels runnin' 'round like chickens with their heads cut off with the royalists ready to grant 'em the coup de grace. Then suddenly, the war starts goin' badly for 'em Tudors. So bad, in fact, that Prince Wales Tudor is holdin' down the fort in Newcastle with a broken arm, a broken leg, and barely a fraction of his already broken army."

The collective shock at the news was so palpable that Leon felt too awkward to keep eating.

"King James is dead. So's half the Albian Royal Court. Well, most o' 'em are dead, dyin', missin', or done gone fled the country. The rest turned traitor but we ain't here to talk about 'em, now, ain't we?"

"Pardon, Monsieur," Kirche started slowly. "But this does not seem like news that should be so freely discussed with, ah, students?"

"It ain't, Miss Kirche."

"So, if you don't mind the inquiry, monsieur, why are you telling us of all...all this?"

Count De Hainault gestured at Chevalier Ney and quietly issued an order to Head Butler Berthier. The former dismissed the other guards while himself remaining guard by the exit while the latter accompanied the serving staff out of the hall.

"The reason I'm tellin' y'all this stuff that ain't hit the presses yet is 'cause I know."

The air around the table suddenly felt stiff, effectively ending their appetite.

"It's a good thing your families got more people with actual brains than a bunch o' backstabbin' yellow-bellies. Ain't that many noble houses that are actually damn noble as far as I can see."

The mention of families jolted them all into stiff attention. Louise, of course, was most concerned with what her mother would think (would do) should she hear of what had transpired here. Guiche for sure was pale from the thought of dragging his family legacy through the mud—House Gramont had just barely survived a scandal that nearly ruined them. Montmorency likewise looked like she was about to cry. Even Kirche's facade betrayed her shock; everyone knew that House Anhalt-Zerbst was profiting lucratively with its delivery of raw materials to County Hainault and to have such lucrative trade compromised by something like this...

Yet it was Tabitha who showed the most hostility. Her lips stretched tight into a thin line while something fierce burned behind her monocles. It was brief but everyone else around the table caught it. And Louise was unnerved at such aggression coming from someone so stoic.

The governor rose from his chair. "Y'all need to watch yourselves. It's a wild world out there an' you never know what kind o' horse-shit's gon' come flyin' right into your face."

"Pardon for speaking out of line, monsieur, but we are not entirely ignorant," the Germanian protested.

"That so, Miss Kirche? You certainly proved it with your conspiracy theories 'bout me."

"We were concerned, monsieur," voiced Guiche. "Doubly so after the troubling news that we have been, um, receiving about our friends and their families."

Shrug. "Guess I can't blame you for that, son. But still, you're young. Young an' stupid. Sometimes, it'd be best to leave certain things to your elders. Especially if y'all can't understand exactly what the flyin' fuck is actually goin' on. Misunderstandings like this can cause accidents, you know. Very tragic accidents."

"Threat?" Tabitha hissed.

"Reminder," he growled.

Louise felt her blood run cold at the ice in the man's voice. He wordlessly paced over to where Tabitha was seated, looming over her.

"You can't keep pullin' the wool over their eyes, Dame D'Orléans. Or would you rather I go with Charlotte? Or Hélène? Or should I just stick to 'Tabby?'"

And to the others' surprise, Tabitha's went wide-eyed with pure, wide-eyed, slack-jawed fear.

"What did you say?" Kirche snarled.

Louise snapped her head at the redhead next to her. Gone was the shameless harlot pining to have every boy in her bed before the end of the academic year. Instead, she bore witness to a furious Germanian fire mage whose hands were bending the cutlery in her grip. Frankly, it was terrifying. In the corner of her vision, Leon was slowly wrapping his hand around a butter knife.

Count De Hainault was unfazed. "I don't know what ole Uncle Joe wants with you, kid. But let me tell you this: you're in my county. My territory. Inside my borders. I di'n't right give him permission to have his dogs pissin' 'round in my backyard. But somehow, for some asinine reason, I keep findin' a lot o' mangy mutts diggin' ditches in places they shouldn't."

The blue-haired girl slowly craned her up to meet his glare.

"Bad dogs get strung up, Miss Charlotte." He tapped her twice before proceeding his walk around the table. "And lately, I've been runnin' out o' rope."

"Are you saying that there are Gallian spies here?" demanded Kirche.

"I'm sayin' that our neighbors out west ain't bein' very neighborly. Ain't that right, Miss Charlotte?"

"Charlotte?" Louise mouthed. She barely knew Tabitha but she had heard the vague rumors of the mysteries surrounding her. Now, she wished she would have learned that bit about Gallian at a better time because the girl in question was now past anger and coming close to tears.

And Kirche did not like that. In fact, she indignantly slammed her hands on the table. "I think that's enough—"

"Kirche, please," Montmorency pleaded.

The Germanian bared her teeth, her eyes glowing with her fire. Chevalier Ney quickly paced behind her chair, his hand hovering close to his wand tucked beside the hilt of his blade.

"With all due respect, sir," Leon said sternly. "I think that's enough pestering Tabitha with something that's a little too personal for her."

Their host snickered. "Me bein' right pushy's just me doin' my job, son."

"You're a messenger," the Germanian seethed.

"I'm a royal messenger, woman. Deliverin' mail's just part o' the job." He then leveled a heavier glare on her. "And it ain't easy when you're dealin' with sneaky bastards slinkin' 'round, complicatin' things. Keepin' Uncle Joe on the other side o' the fence ain't easy when ole Iron-hand Götz is cuttin' through the hedges across the yard 'cause he ain't right forgivin' o' folks stiffin' him out o' some good deals."

And much like how Tabitha broke down, so did Kirche. Her flame evaporated and she slumped back into her chair with her jaw slack, her lips quivering, and her glassy eyes boring holes into the drapery.

"Albion's just the tip o' the iceberg, kids," the count orated, rounding the table. "Whether you like it or not, each one o' you's now a part o' somethin' big that's goin' to make a mess out o' this nice little continent you call home."

"Getting roped into some shit that no one needs? Feels almost like home," Leon grunted.

Chuckle. "At least you an' I ain't no strangers to intrigue, eh, son?"

Snort. "I was hoping there'd be less of that here, sir."

"Yeah, well, you figure out that the shit-hole you leave behind was actually caused by this type o' politickin' in the first place."

Louise felt unnerved at the implications of such devious plots that would have led to the creation of Leon's 'waste-lands.' Then she realized that they were now somehow drawn into the tangled mess that could possibly lead to Tristain suffering the same fate...as her familiar and the count seemed to be hinting at.

So she asked, "H-how are we involved, monsieur?"

Count De Hainault swaggered back to his chair just as the door opened and Head Butler Berthier led a procession of servers with wine glasses and unopened bottles of fine spirits. Among them was Siesta who was carrying a bottle of Vallière fruit wine.

"I'd tell you," he said, "but I think Miss Charlotte over there's got a better explanation."

Meanwhile, Montmorency tried to deny one of the servants filling her cup with spirits. "Pardon, monsieur, but—"

The count raised his chalice. "The Good Book said to drink a little wine for your ills. Or, at least, the version I read said somethin' along those lines."

Louise begged to differ. She could vaguely recall any verses in the Holy Texts or any statements in any of the theological papers she read that advocated for anyone to carelessly partake in strong drink. Not to mention, a young noble was not to recklessly indulge in intoxicating debauchery. Brimir himself preached against careless consumption of such spirits!

Then again, Count De Hainault was not very devout, much less, having any faith. And still, they were guests in his household. After their rough welcome, who were they to refuse?

"Monsieur," Guiche piped, "As a son of House Gramont, I must protest—"

"Can it, blondie." The count personally filled up a glass and handed it to the blond. "Take a chance. Ain't like your own brothers don' sample a bit o' this sweet, sweet poison anyway."

"B-but..."

"It ain't that strong. Besides, you look like you ain't gon' tip over like this whiny-ass featherweight over here."

"Hey," Leon barked before shamefully dipping his head. "... I'm not that much of a lightweight, okay?'

"Sure thing, big boy," the count snorted, personally filling his cup with what looked (and smelled) to be the strongest variety of the bunch.

Louise herself could not really decline the offer. Her family did produce half of the fine spirits in Tristain but that did not mean that she had a high tolerance for such drinks. Even then, she had to allow the server to fill her cup...the server being Siesta herself.

"That would be enough, Siesta."

"Nah, nah, fill 'er up to the brim," countermanded the count. "We got a long talk ahead of us an' it'd be a waste not to spice things up with the same stuff Henny likes."

The pink-haired mage blinked back startled. Henrietta drinks!? And she drinks Vallière wine?

Louise held her goblet close to her lips, noticing her classmates likewise taking up their cups with the same hesitation. Leon held his glass away from his face, though, having grimaced at the powerfully pungent odor coming from whatever concoction he was served. Interestingly, Siesta was ordered to stay after the servers were dismissed with the count himself pulling up an extra chair for the maid to sit next to him. Then he filled her cup halfway before refilling his own.

"I'm sure I don' need to explain to y'all who or what Reconquista is," the magistrate announced. "So I'm gon' get to brass tacks an' say that if Albion falls, you can bet your asses Reconquista's gon' start preppin' for an invasion o' the mainland...starting with Tristain."

"Wh-why is that, monsieur?" asked an incredulous Montmorency.

"Because Gallia's givin' 'em support. Lots o' support. Men, money, material. Ain't that right, Miss Charlotte?"

Tabitha did not dignify him with any discernible response, instead ignoring their stares to nurse her drink.

"Germania's still on the fence 'bout helpin' Tristain out 'cause of...reasons. An' Romalia's got too big a stick up its ass to give anythin' but a token effort. So that leaves this kingdom on its own two legs. Hence why I called you here, today, to try an' fix that. Wasn't expectin' some extra guests but the more, the merrier, eh?"

Grinning, he took a long swig off his chalice.

Louise and Siesta exchanged unsure glances before following with small sips. Kirche sighed and downed her share in one action, nearly slamming her glass down on the table like some commoner at a tavern. Montmorency grimaced at the taste while Guiche kept his bravado by gorging down half his share. Leon, on the other hand, had yet to touch his drink...as did Tabitha.

"Now, you're wonderin' what a bunch o' school kids in fancy cloaks can pull off against something this big. Well, y'all ain't going to Albion or Gallia or Germania or anywhere outside o' Tristain's borders. Not yet, at least."

"Not yet?" Leon raised.

"Nope. 'Cause the first order o' business is diggin' up some hidden treasure that's gon' help us in the long run."

"Treasure?" mouthed Louise.

"That's right, sweetheart. Treasure. Just up north in Flanders. Siesta here will fill you in on who to ask and where to look."

The maid question shrunk in her seat with her master's hand clapping down on her shoulder.

To which Louise's familiar found upsetting as he reworded the task they were being given. "So you're saying that there's a stash in the next county over. I'm guessing this'll help pay for all the extra troops and equipment that'll be coming in? Am I right on that one, sir?"

Everyone thought so too.

Then the count laughed. "You could think of it that way. I just want you to find it, dig it up, and bring it back here to my estate."

"Basically a retrieval mission."

"Basically."

Leon twirled his finger over the rim of his cup before dipping it in and flicking a few drops towards their host. "With all due respect, sir, I feel like you're not telling us everything."

Count De Hainault snickered. "I'm not. Don' worry. I'll fill you in on everythin' else after you get me that treasure."

The younger man rubbed his stubble. "... Can we decline?"

"You could."

They could not! Louise nervously eyed her familiar, silently pleading with him and praying to Brimir that he was diplomatically wise enough not to steer them into any more trouble with one of the most powerful and influential men in the kingdom. Declining such an offer was tantamount to defiance and could be interpreted negatively! And Brimir knows, she was desperate not to let this situation get any worse.

"I ain't gon' stop you from walkin' out o' here after sayin' 'no' to this," the count continued, his gravelly voice dipping low. "But there ain't no guarantee that y'all will be havin' it easy from now on."

Leon scowled. "We're no pushovers. Besides, I doubt Old Osmond would appreciate you harassing us for exercising a bit of liberty."

"You think the liberty you know exists in this world?"

"No. But I think the brainchild of it is living strong in the minds of the folks who don't have much of a voice."

Snort. "That kind o' idealism don' sit well here, son. Best you keep that in mind."

Sneer. "I do, sir. That doesn't mean I'm giving up on it."

"Leon, son. Someday, you're gon' start askin' questions. You're gon' be askin' the same questions you thought you answered long ago. You gon' be askin' 'em again an' again 'til you realize the answers you got the first time weren't the answers you were seein' right now. You start seein' how things are and how things could'a been different if you walked down the other road."

"I've walked some dangerous roads, sir."

"And you an' I are still walkin' em. There ain't no end to it. No matter where you are, you're on the same goddamn highway. Only took a detour that leads you to places you'd never thought you'd visit...lead you to folks you'd never want to meet. Yet here you are, back on the same track, after all that."

Louise wanted to inject herself into the conversation, to deescalate what was becoming a very tense exchange. She may not understand much of the metaphors but she recognized the tones being used. But she could tell that this was something beyond her comprehension, a dialogue between two veterans hailing from different walks of life yet drawing on experiences that were no different to each other. To insert herself into this discussion with her own thoughts...

…the Vallière daughter had since learned her place among these types of people. She was not old enough nor had any skill or experience to have any merit to what she was going to say. So she opted to listen and understand what she would inevitably be dragged into, hoping this wound end badly.

"Call me an idealist but I was raised that way," her familiar solemnly declared to their host. "I was taught to be an altruist. Even after all that I've been through, the things I've done, the things I've seen, I just can't shake off that side of me that still has hope."

"An' I'm guessin' the change in scenery didn't right make a dent in that conviction o' yours," challenged the count.

"Same shit, different world."

"An' that just made you more valuable than you already are. This is a big game we're playin' an' the pieces can talk all they want. They still end up gettin' moved by the player."

As far as the pink-haired sophomore could discern, that was the language of an éminence grise. Apparently, Leon understood it too and he eased back into his seat, his fire dimmed and his expression flattening. They both now understood who were the pieces in this game.

"... So that's how it is then," her familiar croaked.

"That's how it's always been, son."

Leon glared at their host before taking his cup and taking a long swig. A few coughs later, he growled, "You're a real show-runner, old man."

"And you're my best actor," snickered Count De Hainault.

"Oh? And my co-stars?"

"Three leading ladies and three useful extras." The magistrate refilled his chalice before continuing. "So are you up for it, son?"

Her familiar dwelled on it for a bit before toying with his empty cup with his right hand where the Brimiric runes were burned into his skin. "... I'd have to defer to Louise on that one, sir."

Louise, for her part, had never felt so much pressure dumped onto her since the day she summoned her familiar. She stuttered and stammered for a good minute before she found herself in the scrutiny of the bear of the man Count François Achille Bazaine De Hainault. His weighted, bloodshot eyes and bearded visage marred with ugly scars running down from his forehead served to drive out what little mettle she had left in her. But she was a Vallière and, by the grace of Brimir, she was going to act like one! For a Vallière would never refuse an offer to help the kingdom of Tristain!

"I... We will fulfill your task as you have asked, monsieur."

Also, a Vallière was not going to disregard the assistance provided by her human familiar who was himself a fellow nobleman, albeit without any landed titles.

Count De Hainault smiled. "Good girl. Think of this as having some decent practical applications for all them explosions o' yours."

Right. Her explosions. They were...not useless? That felt quite uplifting coming from a man of such high stature.

"Besides, with the help of Miss Kirche and Miss Charlotte, I'm sure you could pull this off without a hitch."

Louise almost coughed. Kirche and Tabitha!? She never meant them; she meant Leon!

"Miss Montmorency'll do her part to patch anyone o' y'all up in case you get any scrapes an' scratches. As for Mister Guiche, well, havin' some extra hands never hurt, dun'it? Fightin' ain't the only thing them valkyries o' yours are good at, eh, son?"

The betrothed pair hesitantly nodded.

"Well, I guess we're doing this," Leon slurred. "What kind of treasure are we looking for, sir?"

"The kind o' treasure that I don' trust my own boys with."

"Pardon, monsieur," Kirche interjected. "Why us? Why not your landsknechts or any of your more capable servants?"

"I have the most capable lot right here in front o' me."

"We cannot be that good—"

"Yes, you are," he deadpanned sternly. "I can't be in two places at once, woman. I'll be dealin' with somethin' really important that's gon' take up half my timetable an' that don' leave me any window for this. Lex and Mitch got their hands full runnin' the county an', frankly, other than them, you're more trustworthy and more capable than most of the goddamn professionals I've been bringin' in."

"What does Siesta have to do with all this then?" Leon asked.

To which Count De Hainault turned to the maid. "Why don't we ask her?"

Siesta took a long moment to compose herself before regaling them with what Louise and her classmates initially considered to be the most ridiculous tale they had ever heard. But the shock, awe, and horror (?) on Leon's (alcoholically flustered) face convinced them that this was real and that the small, unassuming fishing town of Talbes had been fiercely protecting something that could have been easily abused by petty nobles.

And in the back of her mind, Louise was starting to wonder whether or not Count De Hainault's goals were benevolent when it came to being tasked with retrieving a cache of weapons enchanted with some kind of indiscernible energy and a set of armor powered by mysterious magic.

Then Siesta mentioned a giant steel wasp that had been laying dormant, keeping a silent vigil in the sarcophagus of the fabled knight-errant who commanded it. Her descriptions of the creature prompted Leon to (drunkenly and aggressively) press her for more details until she had been exhausted of everything she knew (and the young man in question blacked out after his third cup).

At the end of the affair, Louise could barely make heads or tails of most of what was said. But by then, she had indulged in so much of her family's famous fruit wine that she had become too lethargic to walk. At least Kirche was there to help her to the room that she would be sharing with Tabitha and Montmorency.

How nice of her arch-nemesis...

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 20, 2021

LAST EDITED: June 7, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: May 31, 2021

Chapter Text

Day LVIII

Louise felt absolutely dreadful.

If this is what it was like to come to after an evening of alcoholic overindulgence then she wondered why people still continue to imbibe so much only to be so morally and mentally impaired for a night. Then again, her family's fortune was based around fermented spirits (vineyards, winepresses, and all) and it would be ironically hypocritical of her to abstain from a few cups. After all, it was only a sin if one consumed too many and allowed themselves to behave uninhibited.

That did not make her day any better though. Being the devout ducal daughter that she was, Louise was mortified at missing mass. Compounding her guilt was the fact that she missed it because she got so drunk and woke up a scant few hours before midday—long after the liturgy had begun. She learned rather quickly that being shocked into sobriety does entirely cure inebriety and she had to surrender to her body's demands to rest a bit more before getting to her feet.

Still, she could take in the comfort that she was not alone in her penance. Across from her, Montmorency massaged her temples over a cup of water. So far, the two of them were the only ones present in one of the three overdecorated parlors of Chateau Hainault. Shortly after their modest breakfast (lunch), Kirche and Tabitha, being the more tolerant of spirits within their group, had gone to the bestiary to check upon their familiars. Guiche followed after them, having been sternly instructed by his fiancé to do so.

Head Butler Berthier had informed them as such: having been 'skillfully contained' by the count's guardsmen, the familiars were receiving the utmost treatment provided only by skilled specialists. Robin, Verđandi, and Flame were largely unscathed when they were intercepted. Sylphid, on the other hand...

Louise shuddered. Brimir above, what a terrifying weapon. She wondered who could have crafted such a musket. Where could it have been made? How did the count get his hands on it? Then again, her own familiar had appeared with an armory of unusual weapons and armor on his person when she summoned him. Speaking of whom...

“Where's Leon?” queried the blonde water mage.

Good point. The pink-haired mage had yet to see her own familiar since the previous evening. Goodness knows he was weak to drink (astounding given his martial prowess and battle-hardened disposition) and she hoped that he had not gotten himself into any serious trouble.

“I...don't know,” Louise finally answered. “... I really should go find him.”

“I'm coming with,” Montmorency announced.

Please do not. Alas, her classmate was dragging her up to stand so they could start their search. “Why don't...why don't you just go and see Guiche instead?”

Interestingly, the blonde took a long moment to respond. “... I needed some time alone.”

She pulled away from her. “You're certainly not alone at this time.”

This time, Montmorency opted not to meet Louise's stare. “I think Monsieur Walker might be in the library.”

“Montmorency, look at me.”

She did not.

“Montmorency.”

She did.

And Louise saw it. The fear, the insecurity, the worry—all the emotions she saw in herself through windows and mirrors before receiving a 'scolding' from her mother. To see these things on one of her tormentors was...sweet? No. She should not delight in the pains of others...even if they bullied her so? Gah! Did it even matter? The count had lumped them together into some adventuring party with a task that they were now bound to obey. Might as well settle any issues before they would grow to become serious hindrances in the future—an important lesson she learned from her veteran parents.

“I am not going to pretend here,” the pink-haired mage started. “I still don't like you. But since we're going to be on this journey together, I find it prudent that we acknowledge our faults and let bygones be bygones.”

“Y-you're right...um...” Montmorency twiddled her thumbs. “... Louise, I...”

“What?”

“I'm sorry.”

Sorry, huh. Louise felt so unconvinced. “And you expect me to forgive you.”

“No,” sighed the water mage. “I don't. Not today or tomorrow or the next few years, I suppose.”

“Quaint.” The pink-haired mage brushed past her. “If you expect to win back my graces, then you have much to strive for.”

“I am!” the blonde pleaded. “I am. Really, I am. Louise, I...I'm sorry. I...I can't take back all that I have said about you and I know it will be a long time before I can be deserving of your forgiveness...”

“Yet you're now groveling,” Louise sneered with her arms folded. Brimir above, this air of vindication felt so good.

Montmorency's head dipped in shame. “I-if that's what it takes t-to earn back your—”

“Earn back what?” fumed the young Vallière. “One year, Montmorency. One whole year. I've tried to be friendly, I've tried to be amicable, I've tried to be appeasing. You could see that I was trying so hard to do my part as a mage-in-training and not be such a burden to everyone. Every explosion, I tried to make up for it. Every failure, I labored tirelessly to rectify. I knew ridicule was coming but did I really deserve such torment!?”

“Louise, please, I'm sorry!”

“Are you really!? You never made it easy for me!”

“You never made it easy for us either!” the blonde reasoned. “Louise, I didn't want to antagonize you from the start.”

Louise scoffed. How could she be expected to believe that? “I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe what you want. If you weren't so stubborn, then maybe we could have found common ground from the beginning.”

Stubborn? Stubborn!? “Responding to insults was being stubborn? Defending myself from your constant attacks was being stubborn!? The unending mockery, the damn monicker—”

“I didn't start them! Kirche did!”

“You were complicit!”

“Because you were so aggravating!”

“I was only trying to be better!” The pink-haired mage had inched close enough to her classmate's face to see globs of tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Then again, she could feel her cheeks getting moist as well, her throat sore from how much she had raised her voice. “... You don't know what it's like to grow up the way I did. My family barely tolerates me now and the very few people left in the world who have given me a chance are losing their patience. Do you know how much pressure that is? Do you even know how much sleep I've lost, how much tears I've shed, how much physical pain I had to endure, how countless times I almost thought of just abandoning this life entirely!?”

Montmorency stepped back wide-eyed. “Wh-what?”

“I'm a pariah by birth! And now the only proof of my birthright, my only success in my whole life, favors some scullery maid over his own mistress! How would you feel if Robin starts talking back, starts disrespecting you, threatens to kill you—”

“K-kill!?”

“Leon punched a hole in the wall of my room on the first day,” Louise recounted bitterly. “It was enough to break stone, wood, protective enchantments, and even his own bones. Had his fist met my head...as he intended to...”

“H-he t-tried to...?”

“I could tell by the look he gave me. He wanted so much to kill me...and he had no qualms of doing so. He doesn't care about the consequences. And that's just him. He's a warrior in his heart, that I'm sure of, tempered only by Brimir's grace and, dare I say, the count as well. And what can I do? A failure of a mage trying to tame a haughty, hardened, hardheaded soldier from Brimir knows how many battles?”

“Monsieur Walker...nearly killed you...?”

She snorted. “Oh, so you actually care about my life as well?”

To which Montmorency balked. “I'm not that kind of person, Louise! I would never wish for anyone's death!”

“Then what about all the times that you said that I should just blow myself up instead of the classroom? Or the times you said that I should just borrow some rope from the quartermaster and—”

“I never meant any of that!”

“You sounded very sincere.”

“And I regret it!” the water mage all but wailed. “I regret everything I've ever said and did to you! I want to start anew, I'll stop calling you 'Zero,' I'll stop mocking your explosions, I'll even put you above than me!”

Louise backed away before Montmorency could grab her arms. “Why are you so desperate!?”

“Because I'm scared!” the latter bawled, her knees wobbling. “I'm scared of the count, I'm scared of what he's been doing, I'm scared of what he's having us do, and I'm scared of losing Guiche, losing my family, losing my life! I'm scared of losing everything because of a madman thirsty for war!”

Fear. So that's what it was. She was being approached for rapprochement not out of guilt but fear. “... You're mending ties because you're scared. Not because you really are sorry.”

Montmorency backpedaled. “No. No! Louise, no, that's not what I meant!”

“Just...just leave me be. Go back to Guiche. Don't bother me.”

With that, the pink-haired mage ignored her classmate, shoving her away as hard as she could, and kept walking until she no longer heard her sobbing voice...and eventually wandered into the company of someone else.

Siesta was expecting either a scolding, additional chores, or an outright reduction of her pay. For waking up so late in the day, missing mass, and being severely late to her shift, she was expecting with great dread some form of punishment. Instead, to her surprise and great relief, Monsieur Berthier forgave her tardiness and reassigned her with less taxing tasks...given that Count De Hainault had personally taken responsibility for affecting her work.

And that was rare behavior among the nobility.

Still, and despite the governor's utmost care for his retinue, that did not assuage her inner turmoil over the fact that Talbes's secret had been exposed and that a powerful noble was making an effort to retrieve that which no one was supposed to have. Then again, with the current affairs of the world, Tristain was going to need anything and everything it can get to avoid being wiped off the map.

“Siesta?”

The maid nearly yelped and almost dropped the vase she was polishing. “Oui, Ma'amselle Vallière?”

Louise quirked a brow at her. “Have you seen Leon?”

Come to think of it, she had not. “Non, ma'amselle.”

“Oh. I thought he was with you,” she replied morosely. “Since he values your company more than mine.”

Siesta caught that but held her tongue.

“Perhaps, he's with the count. Have you seen your master as well?”

The maid shook her head. “Non, ma'amselle. I have not seen either of them since...the previous evening.”

Miss Vallière regarded her with a narrow look. “... You woke up late, didn't you?”

Siesta could not lie now, could she? Best not to lie. “... Oui, ma'amselle.”

Sigh. “Figures. You missed mass as well?”

“Oui, ma'amselle.”

“... You do not have much tolerance for heavy spirits, don't you?”

On the contrary, she could actually hold her own better than most of the students since she grew up with a rowdy lot of heavy drinkers (a nice quirk of growing up in a household of hardworking journeymen). But these nobles did not need to know that; no prissy aristocrat liked to have their pride insulted by the superior sobriety of commoners.

“... I could not last throughout the night, ma'amselle,” she offered with false shame.

Another sigh. “At least Monsieur De Hainault is not the sort to...ah, make any unwanted advances.”

Quite the opposite, in fact. Siesta learned very early on that the magistrate abhorred the notion of his drunkenness leading to adulterous philandering or anything even remotely salacious. In his own (vulgar) words, he was 'too damn old for that bullshit.'

“He is averse to such misdeeds,” the maid said.

“But not the killing,” muttered the noble girl. She glanced around and, assured that they were the only persons in this hallway, instructed Siesta to lead her to the most secluded area of the manor.

A few minutes later, they were in one of the storage rooms in the rear annex of the estate, a place that was the least visited by anyone on the property and where most of the junk stored here were largely forgotten. Siesta hastily swept away any dust to allow for both of them to have a modicum of comfort in here.

“Good,” Miss Vallière started quietly. “I have a few questions and I expect clear and concise answers. Am I clear?”

“Oui, ma'amselle.”

“First of all, who exactly are you?”

Siesta blinked. “... I am Siesta of Talbes. I am a maid.”

The noble girl shook her head in irritation. “Stop being coy! You know that that's not what I'm asking for. Tell me who exactly you are. You can't be just some commoner servant. The fact that you, your family, and your entire town are going to such great lengths to conceal some secret treasure for generations warrants answers. And I need those answers now that you're going to be accompanying us on our task.”

And, as much as the maid did not like this, the noble had a point. There was no turning back now that the count had cleverly muscled them all into this.

“Very well,” Siesta sighed. “I will not be redundant by repeating what I have told you last night...assuming that you have not forgotten, ma'amselle.”

“I recall,” Louise affirmed. “Continue.”

“For years, my family has strived to honor my grandfather's wishes to seal away everything he owned. And this was because he feared they could be abused by those who lacked a conscience...in the same way that he once did.”

“I see. How did he change?”

Siesta smiled at the floor. “He fell in love.”

“... Oh.”

“And now blessed with a family, he strove to dedicate himself to protecting them and helping those less fortunate...starting with the insignificant village that we all know today is Talbes. You could say that my grandmother 'restored his faith in humanity' as my grandfather often put it.”

“... He was broken by his martial ways.”

The maid shook her head. “He was broken by the men he once served, fighting punitive battles that...he made it sound like they weren't considered 'battles' even by their own standards. This so-called 'common-wealth of nation-states' that advocated the restoration of a long dead empire. In doing so, they needed to 'purify the wastes.' And the methods they employed to do so...it would take more than the Pope's pity to forgive such sins.”

Louise was quiet for a long moment. “... It was the Enclave, wasn't it?”

Siesta nodded slowly. “... Oui, ma'amselle. My grandfather was a middling officer, having served in their ranks as soon as he was of age.”

“... I see. And did he partake in battles against...against a certain group of scribes and paladins?”

“Many groups.” The maid scrunched her brow, recalling some of the more macabre tales that sometimes robbed her of sleep. “... I do recall his frequent mention of this particular faction. An order of knights clad in heavy steel and following a sophisticated codex. The Enclave did their best to root them out but these knights displayed such tenacity, skill, and general hardiness that it became near impossible to destroy them, much less subdue them. My grandfather was convinced that the Enclave had finally met their match. Like two rams locking horns.”

“Knights against enforcers,” the sophomore echoed. “Did Leon ever tell you...of his, ah, previous services?”

A shake of the head. “Non, ma'amselle. He has been quite vague about his origins and I respect him enough not to prod any further. I only know that he was a knight-errant much like Monsieur De Hainault, wandering Germania and the far eastern lands looking for work. I believe that he will tell me the rest of his own tales in his own time...whenever he will decide to entrust me with his own secrets...as I have mine to him.”

To which Louise stiffened. Her pink eyes went wide while she did her best not to slacken her jaw. The way she regarded the maid was initially unnerving but a moment later, it seemed Mademoiselle Vallière had suddenly become oddly radiant. A little smug, too.

“... He didn't tell you,” she started quietly, her lip quivering into a small, shaky smile. “He didn't tell you yet. But he told me. He told me before you. He trusts me with this more than you...!”

Trust her with what? “... Ma'amselle?”

Immediately, Louise righted herself. Once again donning her stern mask, she said, “Siesta, how much did Leon tell you of himself.”

“Not much, to be honest. Though, one would think that after spending so much time together, both parties would understand each other more.” Siesta twiddled a lock of her hair. “... I can see the reasons why he would keep such things closer to his chest...despite our us being, um, rather close.”

“Apparently not close enough,” the mage muttered pridefully.

And the maid caught that. She remained impassive while studying the noble girl before her who was now beaming with pride. “... I still value what I have with him.”

“And that is?”

“Friendship.” As much as the word seemed so unfit to describe what she felt towards Monsieur Walker, the fact of the matter could be that it defined exactly what he thought of her.

“Friends. Of course.”

Siesta felt a small breeze rustle through her hair and ripple across Mademoiselle Vallière's sleeves. She made to close the small window in the room but decided against it. It was just the wind after all and she doubted there was anyone nearby who had ears sharp enough to pick out a yell coming from in here. Apparently, Louise thought so too and she pressed her to explain herself more to the noble girl that the maid was starting to feel a little antagonistic towards.

Guiche followed Kirche and Tabitha from the bestiary into the library.

While immensely relieving to see their familiars being cared for, it was still jarring to bear witness to the damage done to the wind dragon. All from a single musket. And definitely not one that the blond scion of House Gramont had ever seen before. It had to be of Germanian make; the Confederation fielded the most advanced non-magical weaponry on the continent, supposedly standing on par with whatever the elves in the Holy Land possessed.

If a single musket could bring down a dragon, then how much could an entire division of soldiers trained and equipped with such advanced weapons could accomplish on the battlefield? Magic may triumph but the cost would be too great. But what did Guiche know? He still had much to learn from his father and he had yet to taste actual battle (not that he was eager to do so).

“Aren't you going back to your fiancé?” Kirche asked him as they past their first bookshelf.

Guiche cleared his throat; Montmorency made it frighteningly clear that she was busy making reparations with Louise for their sake. “... She's busy.”

“Oh? I thought commanders were the negotiators instead of their wives.”

The blond gave the redhead a flat look. “Okay, first of all, thank you for acknowledging that Montmorency and I will ultimately be wed in faithful union.”

Kirche snorted at that.

“Second, I admit that she surpasses me in matters of diplomacy as I have been raised to lift my wand over a quill. Hence, I found it best to let her win back Louise's favor for all of us.”

“Wow. Never thought I'd actually hear you being so openly craven.”

The blonde recoiled. “C-craven!? Excuse me but I am—”

“Shhh!” hissed the librarian, a bespectacled elderly man whose skin stuck to his bones. Though, for sure, there was a wand tucked in his belt and he was probably an experienced Line- or Triangle-class mage. In fact, who knew how many servants here were themselves competent mages cleverly disguised as unassuming commoners?

Kirche, Tabitha, and Guiche bowed in apology before quietly making their way through the maze of bookshelves, eventually squeezing around a table in the far back with a stack of books that the Gallian handpicked.

“Tell me again what are we looking for here?” the blond whispered.

“Anything to help us understand what exactly is going on,” the redhead answered sternly. “Nothing suspicious about three students poring through old tomes in the governor's personal library, eh?”

Guiche leafed through the pages of a book on the history of Halkeginia's holy orders. Nothing new to him but he could not really recall much from the various military works he had to read back home.

“I already know this.”

“If you do, then you know about Talbes's one-time sole guardian. Because none of us have certainly heard of him.”

“Footnote,” Tabitha said.

Kirche. “Okay, so maybe that maid's grandfather was relevant enough to ruffle feathers in Gallia and Tristain but there was almost little to no mention of him back home.”

“Probably because you were busy fighting amongst yourselves,” jabbed the blond.

“I concede that.”

Knowing this harlot, she probably did not. “Do you really?”

“No.” She then promptly shoved the book into his face. “But I suggest you start reading. We can get back to bickering later.”

Guiche grumbled while reading through the text. While the topic was something he had learned growing up, he did find a few details to be new to him. Certainly there were many things that were omitted by the official records but retained by those scribes who were too stubborn to hide whatever truths they believed in.

So while he did not find any mention of a mysterious, foreign, steel-clad knight-errant from Talbes, he did notice several sentences sprinkled throughout the book he had that recorded unusual relics being recovered and housed in vaults and reliquaries across by the ancient holy orders; most were later requisitioned by the Pope or distributed to the magic academies across Halkeginia.

And that well-endowed maid had explained to them what kind of relics her grandfather carried with him from...wherever he came from. Perhaps those relics were of the same kind then? Not that Guiche could say for sure; though he was apt, he was no scholar.

“Didn't think I'd find you guys here.”

The blond earth mage would adamantly claim not to have shrieked like a frightened maiden. No, no, no, no, no. He was simply startled. Monsieur Walker should have announced his presence more properly lest they incur the wrath of the librarian who was now regarding them from the far end of the library with an irritated frown.

Kirche chuckled. “What a lovely voice, le petit cochon.”

Guiche fumed. “I was not—”

“Be quiet,” Tabitha ordered.

Louise's familiar prodded around their table, eying the mess of books laid open. “Brushing up on military history?”

“Research.”

“Thought you already knew a lot of that, Dame D'Orléans.”

The blond kept his head down when his fellow sophomores flashed the landless noble hard glares. That and the haunting scar on his neck was starting to itch.

“I wouldn't be using that name publicly, mon chéri,” the Germanian solemnly warned, her smile lacking any playfulness or lust.

“And I wouldn't threaten a favored guest of the count, Kirche,” Monsieur Walker returned smugly. “Besides, we're all in the same boat being rowed by someone else. Might as well get comfy with each other unless you fancy a long swim back to shore...if you can hack it.”

“It's fine,” Tabitha worded coolly. “Feeling better?”

The landless nobleman pulled up a chair. “Pretty much. Shook off the hangover thanks to some really good tea. So good in fact that the princess herself recommends it.”

It was then that Guiche noticed a glaring difference with the young man. He was sporting a large, strange, bejeweled bracer on his left hand. With how bulky and cumbersome it looked, one could almost class it as an overcomplicated gauntlet. An enchanted one too since the many gems on it were alight with the large emerald slab showcasing some of the oddest runes and hieroglyphs he had ever seen.

“Odd trinket you have there on your wrist,” Kirche noted.

“Oh, this one? It's just my Pip-boy.”

Peep...boy? What on earth was a Peep-boy? And why was it even called that?

“Artifact?” Tabitha queried.

Monsieur Walker hefted his arm. “Device. Very useful and something that I really missed having on me every since popping up here. Never felt so naked without it.”

“That gauntlet. You were wearing it when Louise summoned you,” quipped the redhead. “Where is the rest of your armor then?”

“Downstairs,” he dismissed with a wave. “Maintenance, you understand.”

“Monsieur De Hainault confiscated your equipment, did he not?”

Monsieur Walker did not hide his disapproval. “Safety precautions. Looking back on it, I understand why. I mean, I'm the last person I'd trust with all that stuff in a place like this, after all. Especially with my state of mind at the time, yeesh.”

The Germanian traced her finger over his arm. “Oh? You doubt yourself?”

He pulled back. “I doubt my self-control.”

Kirche flashed one of her signature leers. “Oh-hoh, is that so? Why oh why the lack of confidence in yourself, mon chéri?”

Monsieur Walker responded with a rather unnerving smirk. “Because I wouldn't be able to stop myself if I decided to put you on the next carriage to Württemberg.”

Guiche slid away on his chair when every pretense of warmth and ardor evaporated and Kirche was once more fuming past her grin with that dangerous fire in her eyes. And not the fire of ardent burning passion that she was known for, either.

“How bold of you to assume you could dispatch me so easily,” she seethed through her teeth.

“How cocky of you to think I wouldn't do my own homework on the people causing trouble to Louise,” the landless noble retorted. “Just because I couldn't read some dusty old scrawls doesn't mean I'd stop there. You see, lady, people talk. And sometimes, you only need to show them what happens if they don't cooperate. But you know those tricks, too, except your playbook is, ah, a bit more on the wild side.”

“Too smart,” Tabitha echoed testily.

“Was only being observant, princess.”

Kirche huffed, backing down with her arms folded over her bosom. “You're a wily one, Herr Walker. What truly brings you here then?”

Monsieur Walker shrugged. “Oh, nothing really. On a walk to clear my head and take in the sights, y'know? Thought I'd drop by the library to do a bit of reading...assuming I'd find some books here that were written in a language I can actually understand. Maybe hoping to run into Louise along the way but I haven't seen here around. Not surprising really since this place is huge, holy fuck.”

“As befitting of a very wealthy nobleman whose influence outshines those of dukes and princes. I assume you have had a fruitful discussion with Monsieur De Hainault?”

“You could say that.” Leon withdrew a neatly-folded and unopened missive from his pocket. “The old man's pretty high up the food chain.”

Guiche recognized the sigil pressed into the resin. “That's the seal of Her Royal Highness!”

“That's right, buddy. We got official clearance from the government. Hopefully this fancy slip will get rid of any resistance we might run into.”

“That puts this into greater perspective,” Kirche mused. “I never expected Her Royal Highness to actually approve of this.”

“No qualms,” Tabitha said, passing him the book she had been skimming through.

“You know, I wouldn't think to trust you on your word,” muttered Monsieur Walker. “But now that we know you're the 'missing' niece of the King of Gallia, and potentially next-in-line to the throne assuming your succession laws hold up, that explains a lot.”

The Germanian squeezed his arm with a belligerent smile. “Treading on thin ice there, darling.”

He squeezed back (harder, it seemed) on her hand with an equally cold grin. “I can swim, sweetie.”

Guiche cautiously prodded his other classmate. “Um, Tabitha?”

The Gallian took off her glasses for a quick polishing. “No secret now. What do you want to know, Monsieur Walker?”

“A bit of everything, Miss D'Orléans,” Leon said, shrugging Kirche off of him. “Keeping secrets during a high-stakes job like this one is dangerous, you know. Been there, done that. And I'm not dumb enough to buy into the bullshit that you haven't been in the same boat as I have. You damn well know why we have to be honest with each other from now on.”

Tabitha donned her monocles and folded her hands over her lap while regarding the landless nobleman with the most neutral, if not resigned, expression on her face. “Very well.”

And that was how Guiche managed to become one of the very few people in the world to hear quietest girl he had ever encountered in his life speak more than three sentences. At the end of her tale, he had gained great respect for (and immense pity towards) his classmate. Additionally, he also gained greater respect for (and heightened wariness towards) Monsieur Leon Walker who he never expected to have been through such horrid experiences at the onset of his own coming-of-age. And, after seeing Kirche's facade break many times in less than a day, he had learned that there were more to his fellow sophomores than he ever took them for.

This all made him wary of what secrets Montmorency or Louise were hiding...and how potentially dangerous they might be in the grand scheme of things. But, alas, there was only so much young Guiche De Grammont could do in light of his now broadened perspectives regarding himself, his friends, and the world he thought he knew.

For being a confessed traitor, Viscount Jean-Jacques Francis De Wardes was surprisingly devout. Though cynical, his faith remained steadfast and grounded in doctrine, meriting him a modicum of moral authority...despite his beliefs being largely in contravention to what most people believed in. Regardless of his extreme conservatism, his immense prestige augmented the already great respect he commanded from both his peers and his loyal subordinates in the Corps De Chevalier Griffons.

Yet Henrietta was far from trusting the man completely, no matter what the Courier had done to ensure his total loyalty to the Crown. Treason was in itself a grave sin in the eyes of Brimir as it was a serious crime in the eyes of the law and the princess was not going to be so forgiving of the viscount no matter his efforts at restitution so far. He remained, however, immensely useful. Such as this afternoon after mass when he met with her, Agnès, and Cardinal Mazarin in the vacant training yard of the barracks of the Corps Royal Des Mousquetaires with a detailed report on the Reconquista's most recent activities and current plans.

“Cromwell continues to confide in me in full confidence and completely ignorant of my allegiance to you, Madame Royale,” Francis concluded without the posh typically associated with high aristocracy.

“Good,” Henrietta returned. “On the matter of his succession. Should we be concerned?”

“In my personal view, not too much. Cromwell has yet to define his immediate successors and his inner circle is unsupportive of any of his likely candidates. Those who are technically eligible as of today are not as competent or capable as his lieutenants.”

“So if he were to suddenly pass, and at such an inopportune time, the leadership of the Reconquista would fracture.” She ignored the raised brows of her retainer and her adviser.

“Rapidly and dramatically.”

The princess then wordlessly paced around the training yard until she stopped in front of the quintain that her familiar had practiced on not too long ago. She leaned close to study the nasty hole punched into the target's head. So much damage from a single ball of molded iron...or lead as Six explained what his 'bullets' were made of. She withdrew her hand with a course of action in her mind that she never thought she would ever willfully consider.

“The roads of Albion are not safe these days, that you have made clear,” she started. “Surely even the most guarded of carriages could lose a wheel, or the horse clatters on lose soil, or a piece of the road breaks and the unfortunate travelers tumble uncontrollably into a ditch. I wonder how many poor souls were lost in such cases.”

“Madame Royale,” Mazarin interjected. “Are you considering—”

“I am not asking you, L'Éminence,” came the stern rebuke. Henrietta pretended not to be concerned by the surprise on their faces before gesturing at the viscount. “Monsieur De Wardes?”

Francis recomposed himself quickly. “Such an accident cannot be avoided no matter the precautions taken, Madame Royale. Unfortunately, fate does not care what station one is in life.”

“That much is true.” Very true, given how the Courier had constantly drilled that into her head since the day she summoned him. “What are the chances?”

“I cannot accurately say. But he is aware of the amount of danger he is in hence he constantly surrounds himself with the elite of his forces atop enough fodder to buy time to escape.”

Henrietta almost snorted at that. “One cannot be completely safe.”

The other three regarded her.

Eventually, the viscount broke the stiff silence. “Madame Royale?”

She shook her head. “Thank you for your diligence, Monsieur De Wardes.”

-~oOo~-

Day LIX

Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond trusted Count Bazaine De Hainault.

He trusted him to care for Mademoiselle Vallière and Monsieur Walker over the weekend given that he had no power to refuse without consequences. He trusted him to return in good health Mademoiselles Anhalt-Zerbst and De Gallia as well as their familiars when they suddenly took off to his estate without prior notice. He also trusted him to forgive their follies as well as those of Mademoiselle Montmorency and Monsieur Guiche who also accompanied their classmates on their excursion.

So when he was confronted during his midday stroll across the Académie grounds by Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert on his confidence in the provincial governor, he responded with an emotionless affirmative.

To which the balding professor exhaled exasperatedly. “Given the accounts of what had transpired at Chateau Hainault and the state of two of our own students' familiars, I find it hard to share your view.”

“Only Ma'amselle Vallière and Monsieur Walker were officially invited. The others came of their own accord, spurred by vague assurances of hospitality by the governor's lackeys, and were reasonably treated with hostility upon their unannounced arrival.”

“They were thrown into the dungeons for half a day.”

“And they were released and treated very well afterwards.”

Colbert gestured at the Académie bestiary where the only known wind dragon to appear in recent history was recuperating from an injury that could have ended its ability to fly. “Look at Sylphid. Look at the poor creature's right wing! The count could have re-exterminated a long-considered extinct species!”

“He was merciful,” Osmond replied patiently.

“We should be grateful that he was! Especially after what Monsieur Walker had, allegedly, instigated shortly afterward.”

The director gave a dismissive wave. “A scuffle among men.”

“Quite a 'scuffle' with all those bruises and cuts he sports. In case you were not aware, I had the young man immediately confined to the infirmary to be treated for his injuries.”

“And he is still breathing and very much capable.”

The balding professor frowned deeper than he had already been for the past several minutes. “To do what exactly, Antoine? Continue serving as an extension of the Académie staff until he finally acquires land to back his title or until his services are lent to someone else?”

“His services have been acquired by Monsieur De Hainault. As have been the services of our own pupils. To which I applaud his confidence in the abilities of a band of sophomores.”

“He is contracting children to work as mercenaries!”

“They are tasked with unearthing relics, not spilling blood. And, need I remind you, it has been endorsed by the Crown.”

“I saw the seal.” Colbert shook his head. “I find it difficult to comprehend that the Crown is backing this...this... This should be an assignment for the royal specialists corps, not to teenagers who could barely temper their excitement.”

“The Crown has done worse. You and I both know that.”

“The past monarchs, yes. But Her Majesty Marianne? Her Royal Highness Henrietta? I do not know them personally but it puzzles me why they would agree to this.”

“You forget that His Eminence Mazarin is in the regency. I would not put it past him to agree to something like this if it meant the betterment of the kingdom.” The director yearned for his pipe—he could use a few puffs right now. He turned on his heel to head back upstairs to his office; levitating up there was only cheating him out of some good exercise. “We are in no position to oppose a royal sanction.”

His subordinate swiveled on his heels with the same militaristic grace he was trained in and caught up with him. “Royal sanction or not, we will have to answer to these students' parents. How are we going to explain to these noble houses that their children are not going to be returning home for their semestral break? Are we going to tell them the truth? Are we going to tell them that their kin will be gallivanting about somewhere north searching for treasure?”

“We have the royal seal—”

“That can only go so far! Perhaps with Houses Gramont and Montmorency. But what of House Anhalt-Zerbst? Or House D'Orléans? Or worse...House Vallière?”

Osmond paused in his step. “Then we mire them in bureaucracy.”

Colbert nearly recoiled. “You cannot be serious.”

The centenarian wizard stroked his long, white beard. “Monsieur Walker will be taking the royal seal with him so we cannot show them that. Yet we have due process. We have checks and balances. We have convoluted rules and regulations that have existed for centuries yet are often ignored.”

“Bureaucracy has not stopped Karin,” choked the professor.

“No. But royalty has. She may hang us for standing in our way but that would put her in the ire of the Crown. And you know how staunchly loyal she is to Her Majesty.”

“I served under her for five years, Antoine.” Colbert almost looked panicked as he dropped his voice to a whisper. “She will find a way around the rules. Knowing her now... She will pursue the count.”

Osmond smiled. “Wouldn't that be an interesting conversation to listen to.”

“I would rather be miles away.”

“I trust Madame le Duchesse De La Vallière will be civil with her dealings with Monsieur De Hainault. Now allow me to my work, Jean. You have your classes to teach and your projects to pursue.” The old wizard gestured at the serene emptiness of the Académie grounds, dotted only by the guarded carriage from Chateau Hainault that was now preparing to return home. “The day is still young.”

“It is noon and neither of has eaten,” his subordinate grunted. “Louise and her friends have missed their morning classes and we have two wounded familiars who are inspiring more ridiculous rumors among the student body.”

Osmond cracked a wide yet uninspiring smile. “Do not concern yourself too much with these matters, Jean. These are for me to fret over.”

“And that worries me.”

He chuckled, turning circles with his hand as he resumed his stroll with his grand staff. “Oui, oui. I've heard it all before. Is it for my lack of aggression or my age or...?”

“I'd like to be assured that you know what you are doing.”

“D'accord.”

A few steps later, his subordinate echoed back. “... Do you really?”

To which the director paused in his stride to regard this doubtful old soldier with the glistening monocles. “I'm keeping this Académie from being plunged into any more trouble than we've already been through. Even if that means lending a few eager cubs to a grizzled bear.”

Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert hardened his look. “Antoine—”

Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond glowered back. “I've done it before, Jean. I have been and always will be willing to pay for the consequences. Karin can have my head; it's a fitting end for one such as I, don't you think? After all, it is the least I could do for sacrificing her daughter on the altar of peace.”

“I don't mean this as an offense but I seriously think you've gone deleteriously senile.”

“On most days, I think I am. Proves that I'm getting too old for this shit.” With that, he began his ascent up the long, winding staircase to his office, having once more suppressed his concerns as easily as they were roused by his overly anxious subordinate.

-~oOo~-

Day LXII

This was becoming a concern and Agnès had every right to be concerned.

Unfortunately, Henrietta was busy rummaging through the dusty, unopened bottles in the often neglected corners of the palace cellars to even acknowledge the worries of her own chief bodyguard and close confidant. While it had been a long, tiring day filled with arguments and headaches that would disturb even the grey eminence that was Cardinal Mazarin, nothing could excuse such...behavior unbecoming of a virtuous royal. That ultimately prompted the musketeer captain to randomly pull out a corked Bourbon off the closest shelf and hold it up in front of the princess.

“Madame Royale, I believe this is would suffice for tonight.”

Henrietta sighed, disappointed in her friend's apparent choice of spirits, before cupping the bottle. “I suppose so. Thank you.”

Agnès followed her charge back upstairs to the parlor where she stood to the side while the princess gracelessly struggled to undo the cork...and making no effort to hide her pent-up frustrations.

“Stupid, little piece of... Why don't you...just do something right for once... Is it so hard to fucking ask...that something go right for once... After all that Sixième has put me through...making everything so difficult...because he can and I can't... No one's ever happy, no one's ever just satisfied... Always have to...do this, do that, do everything right... Gah! Just. Come. Off! Connard! Merde de putain!”

After several moments of this verbal abuse, the musketeer captain stepped in and easily undid the top. However, instead of handing the Bourbon back to her, she held it close to her chest, waiting for the frustration to appear. And it did appear quicker than she expected; Henrietta's momentary joy at a drink collapsed into a deepening frown as she began twiddling her fingers, itching to rip the bottle off her grasp.

“Madame Royale, I am deeply concerned.”

“I'm fine!” Henrietta straightened herself as much as she could. “I'm fine.”

The blonde sighed. “I most humbly and most honestly disagree.”

The princess was about to retort. Only to slump defeated against the cushion of the lounge she had been gracelessly reclining on. “... It's been a long day, Agnès. I only need a drink to...calm myself.”

“You've handled worse without needing a sip.” And one bottle a day was more than enough.

“I did, didn't I?” Mirthless chuckle. “Nowadays, I can't seem to resist having some of that ichor on my lips. They tasted better in my dreams, though.”

The musketeer captain sat down on the cushioned chair across from her with the bottle on her lap. Brimir above, she was not good at this; she was a soldier, for Founder's sake! However, she was more than just the elite bodyguard of the princess—she was a close friend, one of the many few who enjoyed the luxury of being Her Royal Majesty's treasured confidants by virtue of simply being their true and honest selves, status and obligations be damned. And goddamn it, tonight she was going to be her friend.

“How has your day been...Henrietta?”

Henrietta sighed into her hand. “Tumultuous. My court is a messy ironclad. Or an ironclad mess. Ugh, somewhere around there. Regardless, I have a more devoted and loyal court yet I keep getting reports of their underhandedness towards each other. I seem to have replaced all the snakes with wolves. I...I can't trust them...not fully...”

Agnès wordlessly prodded her liege to continue.

“... Don't get me wrong. Sixième has done so much to the point that I fear that all these new faces in the Cour Royale...are more loyal to him than they are to me. And that is not to mention all these expenses. At best, we're breaking even! If it were not for our gold reserves, we would have been in debt far sooner than we would have realized.”

“Taxation?”

The princess scoffed. “You know me, Agnès. It's bad enough with the rates we have been levying lately. Besides, at this point, anything I would propose would have to go through the Cour Royale. And that is on top of L'Éminence and my own mother.”

“What about trade?”

“I could barely contest putting my marital future on the market. How much more bartering with the merchant houses and their guilds?”

“Investments, perhaps?”

“If we have anything sizable left to invest anything with.”

The musketeer captain bit her lower lip. This was not the first time Henrietta confided her in matters of administration and policy. But Agnès always limited herself to suggestions, never outwardly encouraging any changes herself—she was a soldier, after all. Alas, Cardinal Mazarin was not present and Her Majesty was tending to other matters elsewhere. There really was no harm in...implying other measures...that were not exactly solutions but probable courses of action?

“Is there...not a famous tavern here in the capital...that is frequented by the high nobility?” worded the blonde.

“... Yes. I believe there is. It is where Sixième apprehended Vicomte De Wardes. He invested a large sum to the proprietor with the agreement that the money would go into renovating the entire district and...” Her Royal Highness furrowed her brow, her weighted eyes steadily growing larger by the phrase. “... Yes, yes! There have been significant efforts there, construction and all...bringing in better business...increasing revenue...bringing in more tax...”

“Henrietta?”

“Agnès, you have keen foresight! That is...that is brilliant!”

The musketeer captain would have preened at the praise if not for how haggard and mildly intoxicated her liege was.

“We should have done this a long time ago when we had more money! I think we can borrow what we need from local bankers...or even some of the larger merchant houses here in the capital. Then we will invest in some of the larger businesses in my demesne,” the princess rambled excitably. “In exchange for our support, they will be compelled to provide us with a cut of their earnings! We reap the profits, pay off our debts, and steadily fill up the treasury. And how could they say no to the Crown? They are doing business on royal land!”

To which the blonde realized she may have released a powerful spirit from the kettle. “Pardon but perhaps we should discuss this with Son Éminence.”

“D'accord. And the new finance minister as well.”

“Sixième had him replaced, yes. Though he has been the one diverting the money instead of—”

“Oui, oui, d'accord! We only need to mention Sixième and any resistance would crumble,” Henrietta declared animatedly. “By now, everyone knows what he's done and what he's capable of. Yes, using his name would be more than enough in enforcing Crown laws. Son Éminence is busy enough as he is and the new finance minister does not have much influence to enforce his authority so Sixième is perfect for what we need now.”

Agnès, now unnerved, breathed deep before politely interjecting again, “With regards to current affairs, I humbly believe the bankers and the merchant houses would only be burdened by, ah, this sudden 'obligation' to supply the Crown with, um, incentives on top of the taxes levied upon them. After all, we are not as wealthy as Gallia or Germania.”

The princess reined herself in. “I suppose so. Yet I do not believe they are honest. Even the most righteous merchant has, at least once, succumbed to their own greed.”

“Henrietta, please consider—”

Henrietta swept Agnès up in a hug...much to the latter's bewilderment. “Merci beaucoup, Agnès! I don't know how I could have come up with these solutions without your help.”

“De rien, Madame Royale,” stammered the musketeer captain, realizing with growing horror what she had done. “B-but you must understand, I w-was only making suggestions. Y-you should not take my word into a-action l-like this! We should consult with—”

The princess withdrew with a smirk. “Nonsense. You are my friend, after all. A very close friend. And I value your opinion. Think of this as me giving back to you for protecting me and, of course, lending your ear to all my complaints throughout the years.”

The blond shook her head feverishly. This was not what she expected; this was not what she wanted! She only wanted to alleviate the burden of her liege, her dear friend! Not fan the flames of dissent among the princess's subjects and be the cause for a potential rebellion as was the case in Albion. She was trying to help her liege by mouthing ideas that she hoped were harmless and—

Wait...

Was that the...?

Glug, glug, glug.

Henrietta pulled the bottle of Bourbon off her lips with a satisfied sigh. With a giggle, she (playfully?) quipped, “My, my, Agnès... Sixième was right. You tend to lose your grip on things when you get confused and lost in thought. Thank you all the same for your ideas. I truly cherish them.”

Chevalier Agnès De Milan could only gawk in horror at the kind of person the meek, humble, and righteously devout Princess Henrietta De Tristain was turning into.

-~oOo~-

Day LXIV

Cardinal Jules Mazarin had seen much worse monarchs in his long tenure in the service of both the Church and the Kingdom of Tristain. Hence, he was not at all surprised when he was greeted by an unkempt Princess Henreitta De Tristain slumped over a table on the patio of the conservatory nursing a goblet of water to suppress her hangover. Quite the turn from such a timid young woman who initially did her best to exemplify the virtues of a righteous and benevolent ruler. Alas, such timidity lasted as much as the excitement of youth; this indulgence into the vices of adulthood was not uncommon. Her father, grandfather, and great grandfather (as well as her many uncles and cousins) were, to be frank, far worse with their struggles with avarice, temperance, petulance, and, in some unspoken cases, fidelity.

“Good morning, Madame Royale,” the elderly advisor greeted.

Henrietta raised her head to give him the sourest early morning look he had ever seen on her. Unsurprisingly, her voice was hoarse. “A good...a good morning... Ugh, I take it you have news for me, L'Éminence?”

Mazarin kept from frowning. “Madame Royale, have you made preparations for the Exposition Familière?”

Blink, blink. Jaw hanging. Rapid blinking. “Pardon, the what now?”

“The Exposition Familière.”

Henrietta furrowed her brow.

The cardinal resisted the urge to rub his temples. “The annual event held at the Académie Royale? The one where you insisted you wished to attend personally this year regardless of all arguments against such a measure as raised by myself, Chevalier De Milan, and countless others?”

The princess rapidly sobered up. “... Oh. Oh, merde. Is that...? Is that today?”

This time, Mazarin cupped his wrinkled forehead with his wrinkled fingers. “Non, Madame Royale. It is within the next week.”

Henrietta rose to her feet and hastily paced past him. “I should make myself more presentable. I should—”

“As I have said, the Exposition is not until next week.”

She paused in the corridor. “Oh. I guess...I shouldn't worry then.”

“Regardless, I must ask if you have made preparations ahead of time...ahead of your visit,” he intoned deeply. “Or should I start drafting letters?”

“Yes, that, ah, that would be prudent. I...I should start making plans now. Merci, L'Éminence for...for, uh, reminding me,” the princess returned awkwardly, not even bothering to meet his gaze. Instead, she bounced her attention elsewhere—the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the décor—until she turned on her heel and walked as briskly as she could to her personal quarters.

Later in the day, Mazarin burned a basketful of letters addressed to him by petty nobles who were begging for leniency in a desperate attempt to contest the charges of treason, corruption, and various other crimes levied against them by Courier Six. Henrietta had since stopped inquiring about these charges to her subjects; instead, she was content to leave fifteen aristocrats of questionable loyalty to hang.

And to think, five years ago, he was tutoring a hopeful young girl who wanted to change the world for the better by being the kindest, most just, and most benevolent ruler she could be. But alas, that was nature of man and he had seen enough monarchs in his lifetime to know what kind of person Henrietta De Tristain was going to have to become to get what she dreamed of for her kingdom.

-~oOo~-

Day LXV

Osmond took a long drag from his pipe before tucking away the royal missive into the upper drawer of his desk. Delivering the morning briefing with the entirety of the Académie staff was a normal part of his day but the affairs of the past few months had been so taxing that announcing the personal attendance of Her Royal Highness in this year's Exposition Familière felt like depositing a sack of clay bricks onto the shoulders of his subordinates just so he could carry more bricks.

“It's barely the ninth hour and already you're burning through a whole pouch of your special herbs,” groused Miss Longueville.

The director grunted back. “Helps me think.”

She rolled her eyes and continued sifting through the lists that were drafted in preparation for the princess's arrival next week. “Indeed. Blurs your senses in the same way that ale from the Charming Fairies helps you focus.”

Osmond chuckled. “Spiritual guidance of the fermented kind. You know how it is.”

Longueville shook her head. “Go ahead and get drunk first thing in the morning then. I'm the one laboring here anyway.”

Her superior snickered. “Labor, eh? Indulge me, Ma'ame Longueville. Her Royal Highness will be in attendance for Exposition Familière. Such a public and high-profile event. Surely a tempting opportunity for a skilled thief.”

The secretary paused to take in deep breaths. She was getting fed up with the director frequently questioning her on how she would have conducted her heists across various scenarios. In this case, she was being prodded if the infamous thief Fouquet would have taken interest in making a score during the annual Familiar Exhibition. Ironically, that plan had been in the works before being unceremoniously shelved along with her allegiance to the Reconquista.

“Her Royal Highness's personal purse, perhaps? That would be a tempting target,” Osmond mused. “Or her personal effects...say the rings on her fingers or her own tiara?”

Longueville groaned. Best to get this out of the way so she can concentrate on her work. “Big golem to the central tower. Cause enough of a ruckus to distract the guards. Instill fear and chaos, disorganize the defense. Sweep through the masses in the mayhem, pilfering away. For the princess herself? That depends.”

The director snickered. “Does it now?”

She rolled her eyes. “I know very little of Princess Henrietta's capabilities. All I know is that she's a water mage, Triangle-class. No doubts as to the quality of her wand and her other trinkets, enchanted as I'm sure a lot of them are. A single ring from her own hand would be enough to feed an entire village for a month. But that's just my personal appraisal.”

“If given the chance, Fouquet, would you do it?”

She loudly planted her hands firmly on top of her own desk. “Are you trying to provoke me again?”

Puff, puff, grunt. “I am only curious.”

“Consider your curiosity sated. That is as much as I could hypothesis. Most especially now that I have a sword hanging over my head.”

“Our heads, Ma'ame Longueville.”

“Yes,” she drawled acidly. “Because I'm your responsibility.”

Osmond took a long drag on his pipe and spent the next few moments quietly admiring the large, round cloud hovering over his head.

“If you'll excuse me, I will be returning these books to the library now,” Longeville announced tersely, rising to her feet with a stack of old tomes in her arms. Without her wand or any other foci, she had in essence become the harmless secretary that she initially passed herself off as months ago.

“Is it difficult to purchase food in Albion?”

The former thief stopped under the doorframe. “Why do you want to know?”

“With the difficulties of the civil war, I doubt a loaf of bread would weigh the same on the scales they have there. Unless you are either being compensated for by the Reconquista or Albian vendors are being suicidally generous.”

Longueville paused to gather her thoughts. “... When I left, most basic commodities were worth a whole cottage here in Tristain. That was a month before I began my tenure here.”

“And that is not a lie?”

Scoff. “What do I have to gain from lying you at this point?”

“Spite.”

Bitter huff. “I think I've had my full now. I do not want to risk having my other leg ripped apart simply to vex you.”

Osmond grunted. He then tucked away his pipe, drew his quill, unrolled some unused parchment, and began writing. “... You may resume your duties.”

She did not budge. Without facing him, she asked shakily, “How much are you going to send in the next shipment?”

“Enough to purchase a townhouse here in Tristain,” the director replied humorlessly.

-~oOo~-

Day LXVI

“Busy month ahead of us, huh,” Leon quipped as he fiddled with his so-called 'Pip-Boy' gauntlet, a fantastical yet amazing device that made Professor Colbert suspend half his classes for the week so he could study it. “Funny how we'll be going treasure hunting right after a big pageant.”

Louise scowled at him. The annual Exposition Familière was more than just pageantry—it was a public declaration of a mage's official status in society by virtue of his or her familiars. And already it had been quite stressful with all the preparations. All of a sudden, Director Osmond announced that the princess herself was going to be in attendance; that alone made the pink-haired sophomore momentarily lightheaded. It had been a long time since she had personally engaged with Her Royal Highness and...and much has changed since then.

They were no longer children playing together amidst the butterflies and ladybugs in the trimmed verdure of the royal palace while their parents prattled under the shade of the gazebos over cups of steaming tea and sweetened biscuits. Louise was a sophomore here at the Acadèmie and while she had officially disproven her infuriating monicker of being a talentless fraud of a mage, she was still incapable of doing anything outside of explosions. And Leon's attempts at 'helping' her were not exactly helping.

Then again, what did she expect from a magically inept knight-errant whose specialty was in cutting open his foes with a bastard sword and blasting holes in them with hideous muskets?

“I remember a lot of songs from back home,” her familiar intoned as he laid back on the chair pressed against the wall of the sophomore's dorm room. He started humming. “O~oh, I don't want to set the world o~on fi~ire...”

“Please be quiet,” Louise ordered.

“Not a fan of that one, huh. Alright. Hmm. Oh, how 'bout this.” He cleared his throat. “And a-one, and a-two...”

“Leon—”

“Who~oa! I'm a mighty, mighty man, I'm young and I'm in my prime! Ye~es! I'm a mighty, mighty man, I'm young and I'm in my prime—”

Louise tossed her pillow at him. “Shut up!”

He caught it effortlessly. “Aww, that was one of the good ones too.”

“If I may?” politely interjected Siesta who had so far remained ignored in her little corner next to the vanity mirror.

Her presence was admittedly not wholly unwelcome; the count had granted her permission to visit her friends at the Académie for the day. As to how she had come to be 'trapped' in the pink-haired mage's dorm room was more a case of Leon insisting on her staying a bit longer after delivering a tray of snacks. Because she was 'good company.' Louise argued with him for awhile on that but her familiar proved to be as stubborn as ever. If anything, that Pip-Boy of his emboldened him—he almost never took it off.

“Shoot,” the young nobleman said.

The two girls eyed him.

“I meant go ahead, Siesta. What's on your mind?”

“Right,” the maid returned timidly. “Perhaps Leon can perform, ah, acrobatic performances with his skills?”

Leon tilted his head. “What like juggling swords while on a tightrope or something?”

“Too dangerous,” dismissed the sophomore.

Siesta hummed. “Oh. Then perhaps...a dance?”

Louise planted her hands on her hips. “I'm not having my familiar perform any of those risqué tavern acts.”

And so the process repeated for the next hour with her familiar and the maid bouncing ridiculous ideas off of each other until the pink-haired mage decided she had heard enough.

“Maybe I can negotiate an exception since you are not a beast by any definition.”

“Depends if you're technical with that,” Leon grunted. “Done more than my fair share to be called a beast. Hell, I was collared like one for a time. Fucking hell, that was...that was a fucking mess.”

The two girls once more eyed him.

“... Right,” Louise drawled, not wanting to unearth another wasteland story that might rob her of any sleep tonight. Goodness knows, her familiar could fill an entire volume with them. “I think it would be best if I...I avoid participation.”

“Pardon, Ma'amselle,” Siesta interjected. “Is participation not mandatory?”

Sigh. Thank you, well-endowed servant, for reminding her of that rule. “Yes, it is. But...I think it best if I were to avoid any unnecessary attention unless...warranted, I guess.”

“Really, Louise?” Leon droned, planting his boots on her study desk like some brute while he crossed his arms behind his head. “You don't trust me to put on an act?”

Louise, having long since given up on yelling at him to behave, twiddled her fingers. “I trust you...in other matters. Most especially beyond the arts.”

“I get it. I'm not an actor. Not in the theatrical sense. But hell if I didn't bullshit my way out of sticky situations before then I don't know if what I pulled off back in the wasteland could pass as a show on stage.”

“Having you cite your horrid tavern poetry while dressed as a woman only make things worse,” groused the pink-haired mage. “Look, I'm going to talk to Director Osmond and hopefully convince him to let me sit this one through. He understands our predicament.”

“You really don't want to disappoint the princess, huh,” her familiar remarked.

Louise bit her lip. He was right; she really did not want to embarrass herself in front of her only remaining friend in the world...who was also the royal and heir-apparent to the throne. It was bad enough all she could pull off with her spell-casting were explosions. And while she did have a blessed familiar, she was well aware of the many complications that would arise should they attempt to put on a show when all the other contestants were nothing more than intelligent and savage beasts.

“In the meantime, maybe we can discuss how to prepare for our journey to Talbes,” Siesta began.

“I was supposed to spend my semestral break back home,” the sophomore groaned. Then she gasped. “Does Mother know?”

Leon and Siesta shared a look.

The former eased his legs off the table and cautiously edged closer to the pink-haired mage. “Louise, have you been writing about me...to your parents?”

To which she slowly creaked her head towards him with a rare show of shame. “I...may have left...some important details out.”

“That's...okay. Um, you didn't embellish anything?”

“... I was vague.”

“We're not going to have trouble with your family because of this, are we?”

“Assuming the count...discussed this with my parents. He knows Father. As for Mother...”

“I'm guessing the old geezer never really met with your mom, huh.”

In fact, she hardly recalled any such instance. It was expected that she would be spending the next few weeks at Chateau Vallière with her family—for all their faults, she still missed them, Cattleya most especially. But now that her plans had been molded by a man who stood on equal footing with royalty...

“I should write a letter,” Louise croaked, easing down onto her bed with a haunted expression.

Leon sat beside her. “What are you going to say?”

If she was going to simply tell them that she would not be coming home, they would send a letter back asking why. If she lied...no. Mother could sniff out a lie faster than anyone else in the Vallière household. If she stalled, they would inquire with Director Osmond. Yes, that could work. Though she felt guilty for considering the notion of putting the esteemed centenarian wizard at the mercies of her family.

Or she could reveal a bit of the truth. Yet, the mention of the provincial governor would undoubtedly rile up her parents and Mother, especially, would...

“Louise?”

“Ma'amselle Vallière?”

She blinked out of her reverie. “Huh?”

“You were spacing out there for a bit,” her familiar informed her, his calloused hands on her shoulders, piercing orbs meeting hers with worry. “You need help with this letter of yours or...?”

“I... I might need a drink.”

“I will fetch you some water,” Siesta declared, rising to her feet and hurrying out the door.

Louise grabbed Leon's hand before he had a chance to go after the maid. “You. Stay here. I...I need your help in...in...”

“In what?”

“In...in, ah...” Brimir above, why did she have to have summoned a calloused familiar? “I need your...your skill in...”

“What is it?”

“In bull...in bull, erm...”

To which, the concern in his eyes evaporated and his lips curled in understanding. “Oh. I see.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He then pulled out a roll of parchment, a jar of ink, and one of her decorated quills from her desk drawer. “I'm not saying I'm good at bullshitting. It just so happened to work back where I'm from. Sometimes. Err, most of the time. Ah, I'm no expert is what I'm saying.”

She scrunched her brow. “But I thought you lied your way out of trouble.”

He shook his head. “I wasn't technically lying...most of the time. And it didn't always work. Hence why I pack a lot of brass, iron, and steel.”

“Maybe I should defer with Director Osmond.”

“Yeah, that's actually a better idea. I'll go tell Siesta.”

Louise immediately scowled. “Excuse me, why?”

Leon, infuriatingly, regarded her as though she had committed a faux pas. “Wouldn't want to leave her in the dark. Besides, I'm sure Guiche and Montmorency are writing home about this stuff and Kirche and Tabitha are...um, well...”

“I suppose so. But I don't see why Siesta has to factor into my family affairs.”

“She's got a big family back in Talbes. I'm sure she could help you out with your relationship with your parents.”

“What could a commoner know of—”

“Louise.” Leon sighed. “We've been through this before. Give her a chance. Enough with this social standing crap. We're on a team now and it's better for everyone if we treat Siesta more on what she can do for us than what she was born as.”

The pink-haired mage sagged her shoulders. So far, the maid had proven to be a reasonable acquaintance. She did not have to tolerate her (much) and she knew when and when not to speak. And she was a good listener as well and Leon cherished her friendship more than the relationship he had with the person who summoned him so...

“... Fine,” Louise surrendered. “Give me grace as well. It is hard to do away with some of my habits that you so despise.”

“Eh, not really despise. You just rub me the wrong way at times.” He beamed at her. “Besides, I'm seeing some, ah, behavioral improvement so that's a plus.”

“Are you saying I'm ill-mannered?”

“Nope. Just saying that you're getting better. And I mean it. Really.” And with that big, stupid, infuriating smile of his, he reached over her back and cupped her shoulder, rubbing it while dragging her close in a half-hug.

She froze up at the gesture—this was first time she had ever been physically touched (and in such an intimate way!) by someone since...since... And by her own familiar as well! “... Leon, I... I...”

“Hmm?”

Gulp. Why was she so warm? “Th-thank you...f-for the compliment.”

He let go. “You're welcome. Feeling better now?”

Be still, beating heart! “O-oui. M-merci.”

“Man, I could use a drink.” Leon went for the door. “I'll go check up on Siesta. She's probably getting mobbed by the staff. They really missed her, huh.”

And just like that, he once again left her alone in her room feeling this way and Louise hated it.

This was the fifth instance this month and Duchess Karin Désirée De La Vallière had run out of patience. As much as she loved her husband and trusted his judgment, she could no longer believe his constant assurances that these were no serious matters (or entertain his veiled pleas for her to rein in her rising anger). The people living in her duchy were being trampled upon by these Germanian intruders 'passing through' and it was about time to remind them why no one dared tread on the lands of Le Grande Tempête.

“Ma chérie, please...”

She ignored the man she married as she saddled atop Martel. Her mighty, weathered, battle-hardened, loyal manticore of a familiar fluttered his massive wings in preparation for ascending.

“... I know you do not agree with me but I beg for your ear, mon amour...”

The duchess adjusted her purple mantle draping over half her body while she caressed Martel's bronze mane.

“Karin, pour l'amour du Brimir, please listen to me!”

Karin slowly creaked her gaze back to her husband who had now dropped all facades of grace and was desperately begging for her attention.

“You do not know who you are dealing with,” Centurion warned, his monocle hanging off his weary face.

“That is true,” she echoed back with that metallic tone that defined her fearsome character and reinforced her ironclad influence across Tristain. “However, you forget that I am no ignorant fool. It is about time we address the concerns of our people regarding the deeds of our most highly-regarded peer in the Cour Royale.”

“We will address the matter together,” the duke insisted more firmly. “But not today!”

Karin turned her attention to the verdant knolls rolling over the fertile meadows upon which the finest of Vallière spirits were cultivated. “You were always the cautious one, Centurion.”

The duke stiffened at the mention of his name. Or rather, the cold voice that came from his wife's mouth.

“There is only so much I can tolerate,” she continued. “Monsieur De Hainault has demonstrated his lack of regard in the discipline of his own lackeys. Her Majesty will surely understand why I must do what I do.”

“And what of Her Royal Highness then?”

“In time, she will understand.”

Centurion paced towards the manticore as it began to flap its massive wings for its ascent. “Karin, you are endangering the existing peace within the kingdom!”

“Have we not always, mon amour?” she retorted icily before Martel finally took flight.

Interestingly, instead of heading to County Hainault as the duke feared, the duchess instead directed Martel towards the capital. If she could not clarify matters with Marianne or Henrietta beforehand, then that would leave her with no other option but to face the man who was widely believed to be the puppeteer ensnaring the Tristainian royal family.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 20, 2021

LAST EDITED: September 16, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: August 25, 2021

Chapter Text

Day LXVII

The Académie had facilities that catered to the staff and among them were the Dot- and Line-class mages contracted as guardsmen for the school. They were quartered in their barracks near the Void Tower and were afforded their own armory, smithy, and training yard—places that were, for the most part, off-limits to the students (unless they were interested in the martial ways). And it was here where Louise found her familiar Leon spending his idle hours now that his 'oh-so-dearest-platonic-friend' Siesta was working at Chateau Hainault.

And by Brimir, was he putting on a show for the masses. Given that the masses here were the other amused guardsmen resting from their shifts and some of the other flustered maids chancing glances while doing their chores.

The sophomore could hardly blame them because she herself was having a hard time taking her eyes off of Leon repeatedly striking at a quintain with a wooden claymore. It was neither his impeccable speed nor his athletic prowess that mesmerized her—it was just that...why in the name of Brimir was he shirtless!? His skin was dripping with sweat, accentuating the bulges of his muscles and the toned reliefs on his abdomen that were marred with innumerable ugly scars and battle wounds.

Oh dear. Was it always this warm out here?

"Oh, hey, Louise," greeted her familiar, hefting the thoroughly chipped longsword waster over his broad shoulders.

Brimir above, the chiseled masonry of his upper body would have been more charming were it not for the long-healed cuts, bruises, and burns... Her eyes traced his hands as they reached for a towel that was then dragged so satisfyingly over his skin...

"Louise? Hello~o?"

Those dreams she had been having of him bore more truth to them than she took them for. All those bloody duels with riffraff, mindless skirmishes against filthy ogres, and that massive battle of steel clashing against steel... Those war wounds drew out her pity more than annoyance (and dare she say arousal) at the partial nudity so shamelessly displayed before her.

"Louise," Leon echoed, his calloused hands gripping her arms. "Do...you need something?"

"I, ah, I came t-to, um," she stammered, regaining control of herself as she now took in his odorous musk. "I came to, ah, check on you since I could not find you in your usual haunts."

He raised a brow at her, letting go and once more regarding her with that pose that was so reminiscent of those glamorous ancient Romalian statues. "That so. I'm always here, you know. Not like I got that much reason to leave, after all."

"Th-that's good! Don't leave. Don't ever leave."

He playfully huffed. "Yeah, I got that. Anything else you need? Classes are done?"

Professor Colbert postponed his classes to focus on his innovations again so Louise had the rest of the afternoon to herself...which was why she was here to begin with. "Do you remember...our agreement about...assisting me in mastering my magic?"

"Oh. You mean that?"

"Yes. That."

He nodded. "Sure, we can get to that. Where do you want to start?"

She took a while to compose a response. "... Put on something first. You're...causing a scene."

Leon appeared confused for a moment before regarding himself...and giving off that vexing smirk. "Heh. I guess I should. Give me a half hour to dry off and get ready. I'll meet you back out here?"

Louise did her best not to linger on his (scarred) skin. "Yes. Please. Go. Now."

His laughter as he jogged off made it very difficult to keep her composure so much so that she spent the next several minutes seated on a chair outside the barracks trying to dismiss all those uncouth thoughts that were constantly plaguing her mind.

Several meters back, behind some bushes, Kirche and Tabitha shared a look. The former licked her lips with that seductive gleam in her eyes while the latter shook her head and dragged her friend away before she could suggest following after the pair to see what Louise and Leon meant by 'that.'

An hour later, explosions rang out in a glen not too far from the Académie. The intensity ranged from ignorable to vexing with the noise of the blasts and the shockwaves largely contained by the dense forest.

From his office, Osmond smoked rings over his head with his pipe. He did not need to turn around to see past his window the smoke rising from a good mile away. Louise's attempts to contain her 'errant' magic had so far been fruitful with the young girl exercising more and more control over her explosions. And with the assistance of her familiar—who had initially suggested taking her as far from the school as possible so she could safely 'practice'—he trusted that no further trouble would come out of young Miss Vallière.

That was until a series of rapid explosions—each with mounting magnitude—ripped through the air. The pace of the blasts gave the director pause and this time, he turned his head to the horizon. More and more discharges tore through the trees, ripping up earth, mighty gusts sweeping over the trees, and...

"Ma'ame Longueville," he called. "Would you mind checking if Ma'amselle Zerbst or Ma'amselle D'Orléans are still on school grounds?"

With a sigh, his secretary departed to do as he asked. All the while, he paced the uneven staccato of the explosions until they eventually ceased after the last one went off dangerously close to the Académie's outer walls.

Eventually, Miss Longueville reported back, "According to the students, both of those girls had gone off into the woods for on a walk or something of the sort." She then turned to the plumes of smoke clouding the horizon. "If I may venture a guess, apparently towards where Miss Vallière must have been practicing."

Osmond pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh putain de merde..."

Siesta could barely tell if her actions constituted a sin or a convoluted act of grace in the guise of sin. Regardless, she felt awful about herself even as she stood before the count who was busy nibbling on some mid-afternoon biscuits she delivered to him. The air was cleaner up here in her master's remarkably spacious study—the smell of books and dried parchment was far more appealing than the dry moldy ether that permeated the (dungeon) underground workshop that she had been cleaning by herself.

"So they're really done gon' push through with this whole pissing contest, eh?" he concluded after a brief but tense questioning.

"... Oui, monsieur."

"An' after that, a damn prissy ball with fancy suits, dresses, music, an' a whole lotta boot-lickin' and ass-kissin'. Jesus Christ, if it weren't for makin' connections an' keepin' the peace, I'd be down at the Charming Fairies havin' a better time than sittin' through any more pompous bullshit."

She bit her lip to keep from asking why he despised such luxurious, high-class events as the Exposition Familière or the subsequent Bal De Frigg. Instead, she kept her head bowed and her hands clasped neatly over her apron.

The magistrate mumbled out of his musings and regarded her whilst he leaned against the wall by the window sill, the vast expanse of his territory stretching beyond the glass. "Siesta, you're doin' a good thing. Come on now, darlin'. You ain't hurtin' your friends, you're simply lookin' out for 'em by spottin' details that nobody thinks is important to national security an' all."

Essentially spying on them. "Of course, monsieur."

"Remember that you're in this from the start. You an' your folks done consigned yourselves to where you are right now in this whole grand scheme o' things. It ain't your grand-papi's fault he ended up here in the first place with all that gear on him an' then some but I doubt he'd ever regret what he did for the rest o' his life." He turned to her with those paralyzing green eyes. "Wouldn't you think so?"

Perhaps? The maid simply nodded quietly along. She doubted her grandfather would have wanted any of his relics to fall into anyone else's hands, though.

"Back to your duties now. An' thanks for the snacks."

Siesta curtsied before hastening away to preoccupy herself with her chores. Better to throw herself at her work lest her guilt at informing on Leon, Louise, and the Académie be the cause of her termination from one of the best jobs in the entire kingdom.

Later that night, before blowing out the candles and after making sure that all her other co-workers in her shared dormitory were asleep, she got on her knees against her bed and prayed for forgiveness from Brimir if only to ease her conscience.

-~oOo~-

Day LXVIII

Duchess Karin Désirée 'La Grande Tempête' De La Vallière née Maillart was one of the very few mages in Halkeginia whose reputation carried so much before her that one only needed to mention her name to force even a whole army to stand aside. However, that was not always the case. And she was reminded of the limits of her fame (or infamy) when she was meticulously screened by the palace guard prior to her meeting with the queen the day before. Her name could only carry her so far and she refused to abuse her prestige for an audience with the Crown.

Thankfully, Marianne was far from the worst case scenario she had dreaded to come across. On the contrary, to her surprise, her closest friend was in better spirits since the king's passing. Genuinely in better spirits and not due to being under the influence of any spirits. Unfortunately, such was the case with Henrietta, the timid princess unfortunately resting in her chambers because of a nasty hangover.

Karin pressed for answers as any concerned friend and aunt would. And Marianne's responses shocked her:

"... I've never felt better. It's largely thanks to Monsieur De Hainault."

"... I do hope you forgive him. His flaws often overshadow the goodness in him."

"... Karin, I understand your concerns. Truly, I do. However, I must insist that you grant him grace inasmuch as you when you first regarded Centurion when we were in the flowers of our youth."

For a moment, the duchess doubted the sincerity of the queen. There was no question to her loyalty but her sensibilities demanded scrutiny and she had to filter through the muck to the get to the nuggets of truth buried under what she believed to be layers of the count's hypnotic influence. So she kept prodding...and received even more concerning responses:

"... It is in his nature to be as he is. But then again, there is often a hefty cost for a boon. You remember that the Church admits to Brimir's cruel sense of humor at times."

"... He is not entirely cruel. It is just that Monsieur De Hainault has not always been afforded the luxury or found any reason to behave mercifully."

"... Karin, you should be wary of where you tread. I am not jesting."

And Karin could see that clear as day. Marianne was devoted to protecting Count Bazaine De Hainault knowing full well of everything he has said, done, and is alleged to be responsible for. The queen was still her dearest friend but something had clearly changed. She pressed for answers only, to her horror, to be rebuffed:

"... I cannot argue with you further on this. I have much to do."

"... You are testing my patience."

"... Karin, if you so much as harm a single hair on his head,  then I swear in the name of Brimir that I will bring you to heel. Personally, if I have to . You are my friend, you are my confidant, but you are my subject and I am your liege. You'd do well to remember that."

It was clear from then on that the duchess had worn out her welcome. With grace and humility, she retired from the queen's presence and departed the palace. However, she kept Martel stabled at the royal bestiary before strolling down to the opulently refurbished Charming Fairies Inn. There was no difficulty in concealing her identity (a nondescript polished cuirass under a long dark cloak was more than enough and she made sure to have the hilt of her wand be seen to any would-be pickpocket) and there certainly was nothing hindering her from coaxing out the information out of the people she found there.

And after today, she still found herself with more questions than answers. Maybe she was getting dull though it was surely not because of her lack of tolerance for the spirits she was offered at here at the most popular tavern in the whole capital.

"One more pint, madame?" beckoned the inn's proprietor, a charming and effeminate gentleman named Scarron.

Karin nodded, hefting up her empty tankard which was graciously refilled with watered down mead. She would have deigned to sample the infamous hard-hitters that were the favorites of the gentry but she had too much on her mind tonight. And besides, La Grande Tempète indulging in hard ale in one of the most indulgent venues in Tristain? Surely, she would not tarnish her name by folding to temptation.

And despite her impeccable tolerance for spirits, she needed to be as sober as possible to discern whether or not the distinctive creaks of boots on the floorboards behind her were a threat. After all, compared to the drunken revelry of the other patrons, this particular staccato of steel on timbre echoing behind her was even and pronounced. In the next moment, the vacant stool beside her was occupied by a familiar face.

"What a pleasant surprise to see you here, Madame le Duchesse," quietly greeted Viscount Jean-Jacques Francis De Wardes. He held up a finger to Scarron who was withdrawing more drinks from the shelves. "The usual, mon vieux!"

"Likewise, Jean," the duchess quietly replied, her tone expressing a lack of patience for any games tonight.

"I never took you to frequent such places," he mutedly resumed, keeping his attention elsewhere.

"I don't."

"This is the first time then that I've graced you here if you don't mind me saying." Wardes paused to politely thank Scarron with a nod and a quick smile when he received his cup, topped with trimmed froth. "... Here on business?"

Karin almost smiled at the astuteness of her former pupil, an attribute that was expected of her former pupil. "Does my presence alarm you?"

"Initially. Am I to assume that you intend to shut this place down for its sinful nature?"

"I would have done that years ago." But that would be bad for business. Besides, she had seen bottles marked with the Vallière brand lining the shelves.

"Then might I venture that my mentor, widely known for her Rule of Steel and ironclad virtues, is here for a relaxing drink and nothing more?"

"I am human as is everyone here."

"D'accord. In that case, I recommend the wines on the top shelves—"

Karin turned to him with a sharp eye under hood. "I came from the palace."

Immediately, Wardes's smile melted into a fragile mask. "... I see."

She hardened her frown into a glare, her voice colder than ice. "Do you really intend to pursue that which I have heard?"

He took a long, slow sip from his tankard before setting it down to meet her eyes with the most controlled expression he could muster. "... Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere."

"Upstairs. Third floor. Last door at the end of the hall." With that, the duchess rose from the bar and led the way, the viscount obediently following suit, and no one else in the Charming Fairies Inn none the wiser.

Several minutes later, Viscount Francis De Wardes departed the tavern steel-faced and pale. At around midnight, during the height of the inn's raucous inebriated revelry, Duchess Karin De La Vallière, her silent fury contained, once again slipped into the streets determined to follow up on the new leads she had squeezed out from her former pupil. And while she was no longer in the flower of her youth, she was still a very capable mage (arch-mage by some standards) and she would dare admit this to her husband or Marianne but she hoped that uncovering this conspiracy would provide her with that excitement she had been quietly yearning for in the years since her retirement.

-~oOo~-

Day LXIX

From a distance, Chateau Hainault appeared to have transformed almost entirely overnight from a lavish walled estate on an isolated hill to a castle overlooking the bustling town sprouting around it. By the time Karin was close enough to discern the faces of the guards manning the outermost perimeter towers, she was intercepted by a former member of the Corps De Chevaliers Griffons. She could tell because the rider still carried his service blade complete with the ornate hilt and cross-guard exclusive only to Tristain's griffon knights. That and he immediately recognized her and was cowed so much by her approach that he immediately volunteered himself as her escort until they reached the heavily-guarded and heavily-fortified manor.

Martel had barely landed when the duchess spotted Chevalier Michel Ney standing on the threshold—a man she respected to a tee for his valor in the last war against the Germanian Confederation. Surprised by her sudden arrival, he immediately ordered the other guards to form up on the flanks with great elan as he personally took over as her escort inside the property. Karin noted the ugly scar running across the man's face; that was clearly a fresh addition.

Ney was not one for idle talk but it was obvious to her by his stiff gait that he was wary of her presence here. The duchess was welcomed on the steps to the portico by another old associate: Monsieur Louis-Alexandre Berthier, a man obsessed with perfection. He was a masterful organizer, helping to keep the structure of Tristain's military intact alongside De Poitiers and De Gramont many years ago.

Alas, she could not wax nostalgic with old comrades. They were good men but they were in the service of someone who was not in her good graces.

"I apologize, madame, but Monsieur De Hainault is away on business," Berthier reasoned.

Yes, she was aware of that. The duties of the royal messenger entailed constant travel and appeasement on behalf of the Crown.

But a man the likes of Francçoise Achille Bazaine heralding messages across the continent? Karin doubted the Crown's reputation would hold up if such a thunderous buffoon were to continue in the behavior unbecoming of his station. If anything, Tristain only replaced a venomous rapist with a manipulative drunkard. And that was atop the mountain of malicious reports detailing how he was spearheading the rather bloody vetting of Tristain's nobility.

"Very well," the duchess issued neutrally. "I will remain here until his return."

"I'm afraid Monsieur De Hainault would be arriving late as he has not been made aware of your visit, madame."

"He should be expecting me."

Berthier, to his credit, retained masterful control of his emotions, keeping stone-faced all the way through. "Ah, very good. We will make the arrangements for your stay. This way, please."

"We hope you enjoy your visit here, madame," Ney crowed, giving her the old salute on his way out. "It is good to see you again."

She nodded in return before following the head butler across the manor. While parts of the interior remained the same—the frescoes, reliefs, busts, and statues appeared almost entirely ignored by the sweeping changes occurring in this household—she did confirm that there were major renovations taking place elsewhere. Namely, a conservatory had been constructed on the roof alongside a few other annexes that the head butler explained were intended to accommodate more staff as well as house Count De Hainault's 'extensive collection accumulated over his many years of service to various lieges.'

As to what that crass herald collected, the duchess could guess. After all, from what she was hearing, the man carried himself in the manner of those veterans who had spent more than half their lives in the brutality of war. She surmised he harbored relics from his past or trophies he acquired along the way before his service to the Crown.

Karin sighed internally. She cared very deeply for Marianne in the same way her youngest daughter cared for the princess. For such a man to enter the Cour Royale at a fragile period of the queen's life meant either an opportunist taking advantage of a grieving monarch or cruel happenstance that brought about mixed blessings.

"We are almost there, madame," Berthier reminded her during their stroll past luxuriant rooms and wide halls that hosted balls and concertos and various other exuberant social affairs that the late Jules Mott was known to partake in.

The duchess ascended the mezzanine leading to the second floor where, strolling through the corridor, she could see through the windows the laborers toiling ceaselessly down below, churning up earth in the same way they were piling chiseled stone in the pits they were digging.

"Round-the-clock shifts?" she queried.

Her escort replied guardedly. "An urgent project that needs to be completed as soon as possible, madame. Monsieur Bazaine has seen fit to rework the cellars and underground chambers of the late Monsieur Mott."

Including the dungeons and sewers? "Oh? For what purpose."

"Structural integrity. Monsieur Bazaine holds little taste for aesthetics and has insisted the foundations be reinforced with steel, bedrock, and concrete."

A sound reason but one that was not what she was after. "Is that really all?"

Berthier momentarily addressed her with a quick bow. "I apologize, madame, but I am not allowed to disclose any more of such matters so freely. I hope you understand."

Of course. All the more reason La Grande Tempête needed to have a personal chat with Her Royal Highness's herald. She could only push her old comrades so far...given how (regretfully) distant they already were despite all that they had been through together in the past.

The guest quarters were sequestered far enough from the noise of the laborers toiling well into the night. Dinner was modest and largely quiet without the presence of the royal messenger. But Karin was patient and she could wait here until the next week if she had to. More than enough to scour the grounds for evidence of the man's purported anomalous endeavors.

Thankfully, she did not have to wait that long. In the hour that followed, Berthier escorted her to the antechamber where Count François Achille Bazaine De Hainault was handing his distinctive weathered hat and brown cloak to a servant. And the first thing the duchess noticed were his signature quartet of oddly-designed pistols holstered across the harness draped over his black cuirass. Interestingly, on his hips were four more pistols of similar make, two on each side. Belts lined with brass vials were wrapped over his waist twice fold with a third carrying small satchels. And there could be even more surprises hidden underneath his garments.

The man truly carried an armory on his person and judging by the dust, dirt, and grime, he had been on quite an extended trip. An exhaustive one, it seemed, for when he finally saw her standing next to the head butler, she was graced with a look that gave her pause.

"Who's this?" the count most ungraciously demanded.

Despite her fearsome reputation, Duchess De La Vallière was a noblewoman who held herself to the highest standards of Tristainian aristocracy and adhered to the chivalric codes preached by Brimir himself. With supreme poise and a slight bow, she introduced herself.

To which Count Bazaine offered an impartial, almost unwelcoming, smile. "Lady Vallière, eh? The Heavy Wind herself is finally here right in front o' me, flesh an' bone. Well, I guess it's about right time we finally meet. Been hearin' a lot about you, ma'am duchess. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Business," Karin replied tersely. "The increased traffic in our lands has been cause for some concern."

"That so? How 'bout we carry on with this discussion over in the parlor."

"By all means, monsieur."

The magistrate regarded her as a bear coming from a long hunt would regard a lioness prowling in the tall grass. Without shifting his gaze, he gestured at Berthier. "Lex, how long she been here?"

The duchess raised her brow when the head butler responded amicably to such a rather disrespectful monicker. "She has been awaiting your arrival since the fifteenth hour, monsieur."

He then turned to her, his uncompromising green eyes boring into hers, before trudging further indoors. "O' course she did."

She chose to remain silent, having discerned that he was a sharper bloodhound than she had anticipated. And, amazingly, for the first time in a long time, that made her intensely wary.

Karin contrasted her host in almost every sense of aristocratic decorum. Her back was straight, her legs were closed, and her hands were occupied with the warm tea she was served. Opposite her, Count De Hainault slouched against his chair with his legs spread apart, his hands loose with one dangling over the side and the other clasping a goblet of hard ale, and all his guns still remaining on his person. Well, he was not the only one in the entire parlor who was armed.

"So how is it that my boys are inconveniencin' you?" he asked.

"The behavior of some of your ferrymen crossing our lands have been largely abhorrent," the duchess began. "My subjects lodged several complaints to the lower magistrates yet, within the bounds of the law, there is little to nothing they could do. The last few cases have become so severe that, in lieu of punishing your ruffians, I felt the need to personally address these matters with you seeing as you willingly bear responsibility for their actions."

"Really now," came the even response. "Hope you don' mind me askin' if that's the reason why some o' my deliveries have been comin' in late. And in case you di'n't done right know, the last three ain't done come in at all."

Karin nearly smirked. Those deliveries of newly-forged military equipment from House Anhalt-Zerbst had been duly confiscated after the Germanians forced their way through an outpost, inflicting grievous injuries to the guards stationed there, prompting Centurion to intervene. "I doubt you deeply concern yourself with minor tardiness."

Huff. "Well, wasn't one for bein' punctual myself so I ain't one to say anythin' against that but until them missin' packages ain't comin' right through, that's a pretty significant net loss for me."

"They will be returned to you in due time. However, you are aware of the bureaucratic pains that dog every transaction, no?"

"Now I'd say you're thievin' from me."

She raised her brow. Three hundred muskets, three hundred flintlocks, several barrels of gunpowder, saltpeter, pitch, and various other assorted utilities for the maintenance of such crude but effective weapons were currently held in the Vallière storehouses. Not much of a bargaining chip but enough to get him to listen and so far, she had his ear.

"Monsieur De Hainault," the duchess started sternly, "there have been concerns raised by our fellow peers regarding your investments, some of which were made with royal coin. Of course, this was allowed by the Crown for reasons that so far have eluded me but the point stands that you have been frivolous and unnecessary with your spending."

He raised a brow. "That so? Exactly how frivolous an' unnecessary?"

"I need not elaborate further," she bit back, "given the manner of your duties and your frequent interactions with citizens and foreign delegates."

Chuckle. "Smart woman. Well, as the ole sayin' goes, I neither confirm nor deny anything."

"Gambling with secrecy is not a healthy habit, monsieur."

"Yeah, but I got a lot o' unhealthy habits. Besides, I really like to gamble and so far, I've been winnin' more than I've been losin'."

Karin narrowed her eyes at him. "Is that so? Well, if you must know, House Vallière has suffered a significant net loss. Potentially at your benefit. In your words, that is a winning gamble that you've made at our expense. And I prefer it if anything done at the expense of my family name or anything within my domain should be made known to be beforehand so as to mitigate the losses."

Bazaine almost snickered. "Did I now? I don' recall placin' bets with Ken over somethin' or other."

"His name is Centurion De La Vallière," the duchess corrected testily. She let the moment pass in silence so she could study his reaction. And his lack thereof convinced her that, for the first time since the end of the last war with the Germanian Confederation all those years ago, she had met someone who fearlessly defied her. "... Yesterday, I was informed by Monsieur le Vicomte Jean-Jacques Francis De Wardes of his decision to abrogate his betrothal to my youngest daughter Louise. He has meticulously outlined his reasons and expressed both his sincerest apologies and sympathies for any emotional pain and financial disruption this would bring."

The count remained silent, almost bored, before soullessly grunting back. "... Sorry to hear that."

"Yes, of course, you are," she sneered. "Monsieur De Wardes was my pupil. Among the finest. A superb swordsman, masterful of his element, and tactically gifted as a commander. I've known him long enough to consider him a close family friend and I was prepared to induct him into my family as my own son. But to have this sudden development... It is most unlike him."

"People change."

"Francis? Of all people, Francis acting like this out of the blue? No. There is something amiss and I am determined to uncover it."

Bazaine remained insultingly flippant. "More power to you then."

"I wouldn't wish that on the person who regards you most suspect in these cases, Monsieur De Hainault," Karin warned coolly. "Your footprint is discernible and the web you've been weaving in this kingdom is not that difficult to untangle."

That seemed to have broken his facade. His eyes flashed for a moment before he reined himself back with a snort. "Seems like you done right did your homework, Lady Vallière. I'm impressed. So what is it that I've been accused of this time?"

The duchess scowled. "Let us drop this play, monsieur. I know for a fact that you have had a direct hand in influencing Francis's very abrupt and uncharacteristic decision to appeal for the annulment of his engagement to my daughter Louise."

"What do you take me for? A matchmaker?" he growled, weighted green eyes angrily bulging in that bare moment.

"Malcontent, agitator, demagogue," she hissed back. "You forced yourself into my family's personal affairs. Whatever you are seeking to gain from it, I will destroy."

He gestured furiously at the burning glare hardening over his bearded face. "Look at me, woman. Look at this face. Do you see it? Do you see any fucks given? Do I look like I give a flyin' cockamamie fuck for your goddamn 'personal affairs?'"

It had been a long time since Karin had been so brazenly insulted. And, despite her bubbling anger at such vulgar disrespect, she found the expression nostalgic, almost humorous to an extent. The last time someone had said something so vulgar to her like that was...

"And here comes the butcher block acting like she has a bratwurst. Hah! Put down that needle, little girl, before you cut yourself. In fact, why don't you polish my sword instead?"

"This ends now, Berlichingen!"

"Barks more than she bites, eh? Well, little Karin, did they not teach you to respect your betters? Or is it that Tristainian education is any more pathetically inferior than it already is? It is time for you to learn your place."

No. No need to dredge up old memories. Conflict did bring about the excitement in life but she had long since committed herself to a more modest life with her husband and children. To pick up arms again for the sake of sating an old itch was not something she was willing to entertain today, no matter how much the count provoked her.

Hence with utmost discipline (and painful humility), she raised her chin and, her voice cold, calmly replied, "Very much so, Monsieur Bazaine De Hainault. I do see that you fancy meddling in the personal affairs of others for your own personal gain."

"If that's how you see it then I don' see how I can change your mind 'bout that."

"So you admit to—"

"Even if I did, what the fuck are you gon' do 'bout it?" retorted Bazaine. "You're a smart woman, Lady Vallière. Ain't as impulsive as back then when you were done right carvin' up them Germanians. Since then, you've been a duchess. Goin' on twenty-some years now, too. Got a husband, three kids, whole plots o' land to your name. That's a lot o' responsibilities. Consequences to worry 'bout. You can't just do whatever you want across the kingdom willy-nilly without pissin' off the people whose ass you're kissin' on a daily. So tell me, what are you gon' do about it?"

The duchess twitched. Barring his insulting vocabulary, the man had a point; how painful this irony of having this much power only to be strangled by the consequences of using it. But that did not entirely deny her any options.

"I will suffocate you," she started coldly. "I have traced your network within the kingdom. I know their names, I know their contacts, I know where and how they can easily be dispatched with no one none the wiser. I will dismantle your foundation brick by brick until you have nothing left to stand on. I will sour your dealings and ruin what influence you have. All this is well within my power. You cannot hide behind the Crown inasmuch as I cannot go against it. Marianne has strictly forbidden me from challenging you in strength or magic but I have free reign to suppress you with coin and jurisprudence. You know me well enough to see how many graves I have left in my wake. Now tell me, Monsieur De Hainault. Are you willing to risk my wrath?"

The magistrate dipped his chin, his sharp green eyes furiously burning holes into hers with such intensity that if there was magic behind those orbs, her head would be nothing but ash on the stump of her neck. The moment passed in stiff silence until he echoed back with a voice that rooted her to her seat.

"Louise is a good girl," he started icily, chilling Karin to the bone at the way he mentioned her daughter's name. "Very good girl. Studies hard. Does her best. Ne'er gives up even when the odds're stacked against her. All-in-all, she's one o' the finest students I've ever come across an' I've met a lot in my time. Be a shame if she done right suddenly stops, though. Especially not right now when she's doin' so good with her classes an' all. An' that's on top of, ah, the gift that the good ole Brimir up above done right gave her weeks ago."

"You dare threaten my daughter?" the duchess all but hissed, her hands clamping on the armrests.

"She's got that fire o' yours burnin' in her," Bazaine continued, "and while she don' right know how to channel that in her magickin', she's as headstrong an' stubborn as you are in gettin' her way if it meant doin' what she thinks is right."

"You do not know my daughter."

He simpered. "Not as much as you."

"How dare you—"

"I do dare an' I will dare say that you're gettin' in the way o' some really important business for the Crown," the count barked angrily. "Lives are at stake here, woman. An' if you're fine with havin' innocents die by the droves for your goddamn pride, then so be it. Ain't my conscience that'll be hurtin' real hard, anyway."

Did this godless monster even have a conscience!? "Whose lives at the cost of whose?"

"The ones who matter over the ones who don't." He uncrossed his legs, readjusting himself on his chair, the polished steel of his many guns glistening under the chandeliers. His coarse, gravelly voice roared quietly back at her. "Her Royal Highness asked me to help her save her kingdom from comin' apart at the seams. And that's what I'm damn right doin'. I know you don' approve—as with a lot o' you strung-up, pansy-ass, holier-than-thou folk on this goddamn continent—but that's my job an' I'm gon' keep doin' it no matter what. Come hell o' high water an' even the great tempest, I'm still gon' do my job. An' if you're gon' keep gettin' in the way, then I swear to whatever's still out there that I'll damn right run you over. Even if it kills me."

Tick-tock, tick-tock. Silence.

"Petulant child! You are nothing! I will run you through until you are nothing but entrails off my zweihänder!"

"I'd deign see you try, bâtard barbare."

"Respektlose sockenschläfer! I am Gottfried Berlichingen, Das Stahlherz, breaker of men, conqueror-king of Swabia, and I will not be forced to heel by a spoiled little brat!"

"Come then and taste your blood on my steel for I am Karin Désirée De Maillart, La Grande Tempête, faithful daughter of Tristain and I will put you down, flea-ridden dog!"

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick...

"Who are you that you sit there before me, knowing who you face, yet still insist on standing against them?" Karin slowly demanded, easing back against the cushion while reining in her bubbling temper.

Bazaine turned his head, his eyes glazing over as he took in the cloudy skies beyond the windows of the parlor. He chuckled quietly to himself before regarding her with a face full of conviction, pride, and resolution to one's fate. "You want to know who I am? You really want to know who I am?"

She kept silent and waited.

"Let me put it in that fancy-ass, poetic language that you gentry folk love so goddamn much. Lady Vallière, I'm a courier, the sixth o' my kind. I was born in Tartary, roamed her desert wastes, ate her poisoned food, drank her poisoned water, cut down her poisoned kin. I served men fightin' monsters alongside monsters made out o' men. Together, we purified the wastes...and damned ourselves in the process. We were the folk who crawled on our bellies over the searin' hot sand while our backs were bakin' under the sun, preachin' our truth while killin' those who went against us...because that was who we were. That's who I was. That's who I goddamn am."

"... You are an abomination," the duchess hissed, her jaw slacking.

He laughed that wicked laugh. "I'm you, madame duchess. I'm who you would've become had you walked down the wrong roads. I'm the creature that God abandoned 'cause He favored prissy, peachy, Bible-thumpin' folk like you instead."

"You are nothing like me."

"Yeah. Keep tellin' yourself that. You think you're all pure an' holy an' redeemed 'cause you pray three times a day an' go to church every weekend an' confess all your dirty sins to the priest." His smile vanished and his lips curled into a condescending glower. "You're human just like me. Magic, skill, coin—all that don' make you any different 'cause you still sin at the end o' the day."

Karin glowered back. This madman's ramblings were a poison on her mind. However, he echoed the same truth that she, and many others like her, often ignored. That she, a high noblewoman, was not anymore fallible than the crude gong farmers toiling in the dregs. And that alone was enough to throw her mind into turmoil.

"That answer your question, Lady Vallière?"

"... For now," she acquiesced.

"Good. Now we can move on," he said. He then called upon Berthier who immediately entered the parlor as though he had been standing outside the entire time. "Lex, would you mind gettin' us a refill?"

"Of course, monsieur."

"Right an', ah, more o' the same tea for Lady Vallière," he added, before eying her with that smugness that reminded her of whose household she was in. "Unless she prefers otherwise?"

She plastered on a quick, false smile. "I do not mind. More of the same, please. Thank you."

"Very good," Berthier echoed, dismissing himself and shutting the doors on his way out.

The next moment passed quietly with both of them scrutinizing the other. Knowing more of the kind of person she was speaking to, the duchess decided to broach her concern from another angle.

"Indulge me, monsieur," she started on a more benevolent tone. "Francis's engagement with Louise was the best response we could muster towards issues regarding the kingdom's security in the east. His sudden abrogation disrupts this effort at regional stability."

"That so? Well, I ain't known Frankie more than you but all I can say's that he's got some serious commitments right now," the count replied lackadaisically. "Man has to be at his best, y'know. Can't be bogged down by love or marriage or any o' that. Maybe a few years down the line but not today. Not now. Not when there's more important things that need to be taken care of right an' right quick."

More details on this conspiracy? The duchess quirked her brow, eager not to be left out in the dark any longer. "And, pray tell, what are these matters of grave importance?"

Once more, he chuckled. "Lady Vallière, I ain't got the liberty to, ah, disclose such matters. Her Royal Highness ain't gon' allow it."

Henrietta? Henrietta 'ordered' Viscount De Wardes to end his betrothal to Louise? "... Choose your words carefully, monsieur. To falsely implicate the Crown—"

"—is to court a death sentence," Bazaine retorted, planting his now empty goblet on the table. "I ain't gon' be givin' you answers that I don' right have."

"It is unwise to lie to me," Karin hissed icily.

He growled back. "It ain't wise to threaten me in my own home either."

"Uniting the Viscounty of Wardes—and everything within its domain—with our duchy would have resolved a litany of prevalent issues regarding territory, security, commerce, and border rights with the Germanian Confederation. This would have solidified Tristain's eastern marches, opened more desirable avenues for vendors, and encouraged greater cooperation amongst the local mayors."

"And that would'a placed the highly-prized Corps De Chevalier Griffons under your 'indirect' control," he snarled. "Ain't that convenient."

"I am only acting on my honor as a noblewoman and my duty as a duchess on pressing matters involving you and the Crown."

Bazaine had the audacity to roll his eyes. "How noble o' you."

Karin clenched and unclenched her fists. "Are you even aware of how despised you are?"

"I do. And I don' give a rat's ass 'cause they ain't gon' do anythin'. An' if they do, they'd more or less hang...either by the Crown or by my hand."

"Marianne would never sanction such ruthlessness."

"No, she wouldn't. But her daughter would."

There again; implicating Her Royal Highness in this tomfoolery. The duchess's fingers dug into the varnished mahogany, her teeth clenching behind her taut, thinning lips. "Since when?"

The count responded with another chuckle. This one more mirthless and malevolent. "Since I came along. I came an' showed her how the world really works. I showed her how harsh, how ruthless, how unforgivin' the real world works. I showed her through blood, powder, steel, an' even a little bit o' coin out o' her own damn purse just how cold you have to get to be one step ahead o' the rest."

"By spilling the blood of other Tristainians?" she snarled.

He met her fury with his own. "You gotta weed the garden for the fruit to grow, in'it? You gotta prune the chaff off the vine to keep growin' 'em fine spirits. You ain't in no place to condemn me for bein' who I am and doin' what I do 'cause if our roles were reversed an' you were in my boots, you'd a damn right done exactly the same thing."

"I will never stoop to your level," Karin declared.

"That so? Our ole friends east o' the Rhine would disagree."

The duchess fumed. She had been young and foolish, hotheaded and stubborn, selfish to a detrimental degree. And she had learned much since then—Karin De Maillart had matured significantly into Karin De La Vallière; there were clear differences. "I have done my duty in the name of the Crown and for the sake of Tristain. Many mistakes I've made but never again repeated in the wake of that dreadful war."

"Sure." He gestured at her with his goblet. "Cuttin' off ole Götz's hand was somethin', though. I'll give you that."

For a moment, she basked pridefully in that achievement. "Yes, I did. A shame I only maimed him."

"Yeah. That'd be a real shame if you really done him in back then. Otherwise, he wouldn't'a flipped his lid and went ape-shit on his own people, forcin' his Germanian cohorts to get their shit together, y'know, and elect an emperor who's got the steel an' grit to whip the Confederation into the shape it's in now. Stable, rich, prosperin', and busy shootin' themselves in the foot to bother with the rest o' the continent."

Karin blinked. What?

"You can't change the past and Frankie's made his peace with that," Bazaine grunted. "I suggest you do the same an' let things be. For the time bein', at the very least."

"Do you expect me to fold so simply? To let my daughter's heart be broken because of 'reasons' beyond her understanding?"

He shook his head. "No. I don't. An' I doubt she done understood them 'reasons' for her engagement to that wily sum'bitch in the first place, don't you think?"

This old fool knew nothing, she mentally seethed. She herself was engaged to young Centurion when she was but out of her fifteenth summer. Even then, it took her five seasons more to come to truly love her husband. "Time would have vindicated our decision."

"But time ain't always on your side."

"Certain things must come to pass for the good of all."

"An' Louise's personal happiness is a price to pay for all that 'good' you're preachin', eh? I guess I can get behind that mindset since I'm already practically doin' the same thing for the 'good of all' as you'd so right put it."

The duchess found herself stumped. This man was good at twisting her words and philosophies against her. And, try as she might to refute him, he was right on many accounts. "... It is a grave insult to the nobility to allow you to continue in your deeds with such vile and reprehensible behavior."

Snort. "Tell me somethin' I ain't ever heard before."

Karin shook her head. "Be careful where you tread, monsieur. One day, you will find yourself paying for those mistakes dearly."

"Ain't the first time and ain't ever gon' be the last. I mean, there ain't no reason for you to be here in front o' me under my own roof tellin' me to watch myself unless I done crossed a line somewhere." He tapped the hilt of one of his pistols before pointing to the fold under her blouse. "You come in here, turn in your fancy wand to Lex while strollin' 'round my property with a bunch o' hold-outs on your person. Two back-up wands under your belt and a dagger with a polished ivory grip. You honestly think I ain't gon' see that?"

She honestly did not. She hid them very well. And she was not even in her armor (she left that back home, confident that she would have need of it...until now). His discernment was impressively masterful. Then again, so was hers.

"Sharp eyes, monsieur," she commended. "Likewise. I would say the same for Chevalier Ney standing guard outside with your retinue of mercenaries ready to burst into this very room at the faintest hint of violence. And that is aside Monsieur Berthier and his cadre of well-dressed 'gentlemen' in reserve should Ney fail to subdue me."

He laughed haughtily. "Well, I'll be...you're real sharp as I am."

The duchess sipped at her tea. "We are at a draw then."

"Back home, we called it mutually-assured destruction. First strike gets the ball rollin' an' in the blink of an eye, it's all over. For everyone."

And Karin was eager to make that first strike. Alas, Marianne's order chained her wrists to her lap. "Very well. I will surrender my remaining wands if you order your servants to stand down. I will keep my dagger, however, in exchange for you holding onto your guns. Is that a fair deal?"

"Fair enough for me." The count paced over to the door and knocked three times. The noises of armors clinking, hushed voices, and boots pounding on carpet and marble echoed behind the walls and even the windows.

In response, the duchess rose from her chair and placed a pair of ornate wands on the end table closest to her.

That left the two aristocrats standing apart from each other. Bazaine faced her with his octuplet of glistening, steel, large-bore, and oddly-designed pistols strapped in holsters across his chest and thighs. Karin rested a hand atop the pommel of her dagger, still in its sheath, the blade sharpened to near perfection by her personal blacksmith. Dodging projectiles was part of her training and she has had years of experience in the battlefield to be able to easily avoid hits from mages and volleys of musket fire from trained commoners.

That did not put her at ease, however. She was not present when the late Jules Mott was killed in that duel but she knew her husband well enough to tell that he had been rattled to the core by what he had witnessed that day. She later pieced together the details from her peers in the Cour Royale: a formidable Triangle-class mage had been torn apart in the quarter of a minute by a repeating flintlock-type pistol framed in glistening steel whose mechanism was that of a rotating barrel that fired like a small cannon.

And there were four to six of them on the count right now. The other two were Germanian flintlock pistols yet those paled in comparison to whatever models the other guns were.

"As I said before; there's a lot goin' on in the world right now and it's all hands on deck. Crown's orders," Bazaine intoned, folding his arms...and putting his large hands in a position to rapidly draw on any of the four guns holstered across his chest.

"You mean Her Royal Highness's orders," Karin replied evenly, her fingers slipping around the grip of her dagger.

"Her Royal Highness, Her Majesty, and His Eminence's orders. Ain't gon' say no to all that."

She tilted her head. "Neither can they refuse you?"

He shrugged. "I only make recommendations here an' there. Just so happens that they like 'em enough to take me up on 'em. And it's been workin' right well so far, don't you think?"

"At heavy cost, no doubt. And that is where I will exercise my right to enforcing the right of law and declare that this is where this tomfoolery ends."

"And how're you gon' convince me?"

The duchess grit her teeth at the challenge. Marianne's warning echoed clearly in her mind and she would never defy an order from her closest friend. However, there were other ways to make a man bleed without so much as touching him directly. "Remember, monsieur. The roads of my duchy are the safest in Tristain, that is a fact. Would your ferrymen seek other highways, however..."

He frowned. "Really goin' my supply line, huh. You know there'd be consequences for that."

"An incursion into my lands in response for a few delayed shipment? I doubt that Her Royal Highness could forgive that."

Snicker. "Oh, you'd be surprised."

She scowled. "Know that any man daring to cause harm in my lands has sealed his fate."

"And the men and women I've hired are more than damn right willin' to earn that extra bonus to their pay, come hell or high water."

Karin stilled, her gaze narrowing. Her memories fighting landsknechts as a young knight came to the fore and she had to suppress the images of Germanian pikemen rushing to their deaths in exchange for a doubling of their salaries. "Are you willing to risk the lives of your own subjects to spite me?"

To which he gave her a grin that unnerved her so much so that she almost felt the hairs on the back of her head rise. "Unlike you, Lady Vallière, or any of your pissant peers from your pissant lordships with your pissant laws and your pissant religion, I'd be happy to throw my wolves into the cave o' the leviathan to get damn right done what needs to be damn right fuckin' done."

This heartless monster... "... And if those wolves fail?"

"Then I step in an' do the job," he hummed. "As the ole sayin' goes, 'if you want somethin' done right, you gotta do it yourself.' Who else is gon' do the job when all the others are dead, dyin', or downright turned tail? I mean, you should know the feelin', right? Losin' whole divisions o' your own troops in a fortnight then blowin' away entire divisions o' enemy soldiers with a single flick o' your wand? Raising the tempest in the middle of a warm, sunny day, as they say?"

"I did what I had to do to win that war and save my people."

"And those same people hated you for it. Ain't that why they fear you to this day?"

Karin De Maillart never wanted to be feared. Karin De La Vallière, however, saw the power in fear so long as the goal was noble and true. "If fear is what it takes to tame a rebellious land, then so be it. Let me be vilified. It is an insignificant price to pay for security and stability. All for the good of the kingdom."

"Patriotic," he snorted. "I wouldn't call fear 'insignificant,' Lady Vallière. It's why Albion's the way it is now. Fear, terrorism, desperation. It ain't always the best option when there're other alternatives. I'm sure Louise would attest to that."

Karin flared. "You do not know my daughter!"

"No, I don't." The count stepped close, the odor of so many bottles assaulting her nose while his weighted, bloodshot green eyes bore furiously into hers. "But neither do you. Either you're too goddamn deluded to see who your own daughter is or you're just as goddamn selfish an' goddamn heartless as them boneheaded bastards burnin' Albion to the ground—"

Whip. Flash. Thump.

In an instant, the duchess had her dagger against the count's neck as she felt the cold barrel of his pistol against her temple. Her hand had seized the hilt of one of her spare wands on the end table only to find that he also gripped the other end of it.

Tick, tock, tick, tock...

"You're quick," he grunted, holding her wand down on the table.

"Likewise," she returned, focusing a bit of her magic into it.

"My point still stands, Lady Vallière."

"Who are you to make such judgment, Monsieur De Hainault?"

He laughed, slowly withdrawing his gun from her head as a faint indoor breeze tickled his beard. "Who're you that you don' know your own history?"

Karin froze. And winds gathering inside the parlor died.

That question...

That single query that had robbed her of sleep for a fortnight. Several days and nights spent pondering its meaning and finding no sufficient answer...save for one that greatly disturbed her. So she left it ignored and moved on with her life, seeing no sense in resolving the philosophical tangent of that visiting dark-skinned Romalian cardinal with the twisted hairs and the golden-eagled staff. She forgot his name but the newest Papal legate was an eccentric, his hypnotic baritone charming her into silence for long hours.

Yet here she was again. Stunned into wordlessness by the same question...uttered by the unholiest man she had ever met.

Slowly, the duchess retracted her dagger and released her hold on her spare wand. "... Where did you hear that?"

For a brief moment, whatever smug satisfaction from the count suddenly evaporated as he furrowed his brow and thinned his lips. It seemed he was about to ask her the same thing.

Knock, knock.

"It is your refreshments as you have requested, monsieur," Berthier's voice echoed from behind the varnished mahogany.

Karin stepped aside to allow the head butler space to set down a tray of biscuits, a kettle of steaming tea, and an unopened bottle of that famed hard ale from the Charming Fairies Inn.

"Thanks, Lex." Bazaine uncorked the bottle while gesturing at the kettle. "Lady Vallière?"

The duchess offered her cup which was filled to the brim. "Merci, Monsieur Berthier."

No words were spoken until long after the head butler left the parlor, shutting the doors behind him.

"... You've heard o' that question before, haven't you?" asked the magistrate, his mood now dour.

"From a Papal legate." For sure, Karin could sense that he was as disturbed as she was. "You lack an answer to that as well?"

"I've done gon' answered that...not too long ago, now that I done think 'bout it. But some nights, I wonder if...if I even had the right answer." For the first time since meeting her, he turned his back towards her and paced towards the window, his head angling up at the evening sky. "We ain't gettin' anywhere like this."

He had a point. So far, there was nothing beyond this mudslinging between them. Karin took long sips of her steaming tea. Just the right amount of tastelessness; only a purist the likes of Louis-Alexandre Berthier could make an art out of the absence of flavor and perfect it.

"You know, Lady Vallière," Bazaine echoed morosely. "You're one of a kind. If you don' mind me sayin', I'd say you're one o' the few noble folk I've ever met in this kingdom who's worth more than their own name. No woman can remind a man o' his mortality the way you did me with them Medusa eyes o' yours...and your resolve that I swear is tougher than steel."

Was that a genuine compliment or was that flattery veiling an impending favor.

"You have my utmost respect," he continued, turning to face her now, a different royal messenger than who she initially encountered. Beneath the malice and maleficence was an equal. Her equal. "... I'll have my boys behave when they're passin' through your territory. They won' be botherin' your folk so long as they don' bother me and mine."

"That is much appreciated, monsieur."

Slow nod. "I trust that we ain't gon' be steppin' on each other's toes from now on, Lady Vallière?"

"Francis."

"Again, I'm only a courier. An overhyped, glorified mailman, you'd say. I only done delivered the message from the palace that Frankie should 'bout right get his act together or risk losin' more than his own head off his shoulders."

Karin shook her head. Marianne and Henrietta were truly behind this? Impossible...yet people change. And the royals she met at the palace were completely unlike the royals she knew a bare few months ago. Something must have changed significantly and in such a short amount of time. Whatever that was, she would find out at a later time...seeing as the man she thought had the answers was about as frustrating as he could very well be ignorant. Yet her gut gnawed at her that there was more to this. For now, however, she would back down inasmuch as Bazaine was giving ground tonight.

"This will not be the end of my inquiry, monsieur," the duchess concluded.

"There's gon' be a reckoning, I can see that. But either hang up your cross or pin someone else to it 'cause there's more important things on the line. As I said, it's all hands on deck this season an' pro'lly the next couple years, too. The continent's goin' to implode soon, I know it. What with Albion goin' to hell in a hand-basket an' the other countries gettin' swamped with their own problems... We're on our own."

"Against what?"

Sigh. "... Against the Reconquista."

There it was. The coalition formed by that heretical reformer Lord Oliver Cromwell. "What does purging half of Tristain have to do with those rebels?"

He regarded her for a moment before shaking his head and muttering to himself about her being retired and not properly informed of the goings on in the world. "Them rebels ain't no dumb, dirty folk that you an' your high-and-mighty buddies think they are. Nah, they got more organization than them messy synods in Romalia and more grit than the whole Germanian army."

"If you think I am that ignorant of world affairs—"

"I ain't said you were. I just think you ain't been right informed o' the more intricate details." He set down his now empty goblet. "Crommy's commies ain't gon' stop once they got Albion under a red flag. No, they're gon' build up their army and send it to the mainland. You know why? 'Cause ole Ollie up north and his commies or psuedo-commies or heathens or whatever it is you want to call 'em...they want to change the world. For the better, they say."

"How do you know this?"

"You'd be surprised how many wolves you got runnin' round here dressed up like sheep."

Karin frowned. "So you hanged our fellow Tristainians because they are spies?"

"I was only doin' my job. Some messages ain't just pen an' paper, y'know."

"That does not justify your actions."

"Maybe not today. Maybe not ever. I'm still gon' do my job however I see fit. And what I've been doin' is sending a clear message to them rebels up north that Tristain ain't gon' make it easy for 'em when they come a-knockin'."

The duchess set down her empty cup on the end table next to her spare wands. "I am not entirely convinced."

Bazaine snorted. "I ain't gon' argue with you anymore on this. What stands now is that I ain't goin' to be causin' trouble on your turf so long as you ain't gon' cause trouble to me or mine. An' that includes turnin' over them missing shipments that I know you don' been keepin' somewhere 'cause they were last seen passin' through your lands."

Karin breathed deep. There was no point in further antagonizing him. She had been futilely pushing against a stubborn mountain long enough. "Very well. They will be returned to you within the week along with their escorts."

"Good. I think we're done here."

"Yes, we are." She retrieved her wands. "Thank you for hosting me, monsieur. It has been a pleasure."

He grunted back. "Pleasure's all mine."

Chevalier Michel Ney was idling in the bestiary where Martel was stabled. It was dimly lit with only the candles on the sconces. Save for the famed manticore, there was no one else was present, man or beast. And Karin thought that immediately suspect given the hospitality she had experienced so far.

"Ma'ame Vallière?"

She regarded her old comrade. "Oui, Chevalier Ney?"

Once the captain of a decorated Tristainian cavalry unit distinguished in many hard-fought battles, Ney was a formidable soldier with a trimmed mane of red hair, broad shoulders honed from rigorous training, and poise that reinforced his monicker of 'Bravest of the Brave' and 'the Red Paladin.' She quickly saw through his facade, however. Instead being graced by an unassuming senior mercenary commandant long-discharged from military and standing nervously at attention in her presence.

"How was your meeting with Monsieur Bazaine?" he asked.

Distressing. "Fruitful."

He nodded. "Je vois. I would wish to wax nostalgic. Alas, I have little time to spare. Would you indulge me?"

Karin raised her brow. "Go ahead."

Ney breathed deep, chancing many glances to the windows and doors before clearing his throat, his voice dipping to a near whisper. "... Let things be as they are. Please. Not for your sake. But for ours and our kin."

She frowned. She had no more patience for this. "If there is something amiss, I strictly implore you to speak clearly—"

"You demand honesty," came the hasty reply. "I cannot give you that. Je suis vraiment désolé."

The duchess hardened her glare. "Michel. What. Is going. On?"

He exhaled shakily. "I have lost much of myself already. I am risking losing what little I have left to help you."

"That scar?"

The senior commandant grimaced. "A price for loyalty to my liege. He is a good man at heart...or whatever it is that he has for a heart. I doubt that he is of flesh and bone; his veins are filled with iron and his eyes move like lightning. He is more than a skilled commoner; he uses some unseen magic that...that is near unfamiliar with what is known."

"Michel," she hissed.

He snapped out of his musings. "Ma'ame Vallière, please, do not make this difficult for everyone. Things are already bad enough as it is and I pray that you do not worsen this...these conditions we are in. Much greater actors are at play and I am afraid for myself and all who I care about. Including you and your whole house."

"You are being vague and I tire of it. If you will continue to waste my time with tales of 'mysterious forces,' then you—"

Ney stepped in close, his composure slipping and his voice dragging hoarse. "The Crown is behind this! Brimir save my soul, it is the truth. Monsieur Bazaine's arrival into our realm was abrupt but the changes he has heralded... A walking omen of something good or bad, I do not know. In weeks, many, high and low, have fallen and"—he pointed to his newest scar—"I have barely survived."

"Monsieur Bazaine arrived from where?"

"I cannot say for certain. No one truly knows but himself...or maybe even the Crown. If I conjecture on this, I speak blasphemy." He took a moment to harden his resolve though the minute trembling in his fingers gave betrayed his complete lack of self-control. "... He is at the center...of something that would shatter the core tenets of our faith. The Romalian Synod, the Holy See, the Pope himself...they would declare a crusade against us if this were to get out."

Karin stilled. "What?"

"Anymore and I blaspheme."

"What is not blasphemy then? Tell me," she all but demanded.

Ney, the 'Bravest of the Brave,' was now consumed with great fear as he struggled to compose his response. "... The count...is bound by powers beyond us...to Her Royal Highness...in the same way...that your daughter Louise...is bound by those same powers to...someone of similar stature as my master...yet young in years."

The duchess felt her blood run cold. Louise was 'bound' to a stranger? "Who?"

"That is where reasoning ends and blasphemy begins." He once more straightened himself, his chin held up, his chest out, and his hands rigid by his sides. "Old Osmond knows. I doubt he will have the liberty to reveal the rest to you as he is shackled by both the count and the Crown."

"Then I will melt those shackles myself," Karin declared quietly. "Thank you, Michel. It is good to know that he moral good still prevails within you."

"In truth, I am acting more on self-preservation."

"Steel yourself then. I doubt your master would forgive you for this."

For the first time in a long time, she heard him laugh. Albeit a bitter, cynical laugh. "... The irony here is that Monsieur Bazaine, ah, 'reeducated' me in loyalty to the Crown and doing all that is necessary for the good of the kingdom. Good or bad, no matter the cost."

She paused. "Why is that, I suppose?"

His chuckles grew louder. "I have committed many grave sins that I thought myself irredeemable. That was until Monsieur Bazaine reminded me of what I cherished more than anything in the world. And among those are the people who helped me become who I am today. I would not have become the 'Red Paladin' or the 'Bravest of the Brave' if it were not for you, Ma'ame Vallière."

"And so you are willing to risk your head to warn me."

"It is the least I could do. I know that I am, in essence, acting against Monsieur Bazaine by enabling your, ah, inquisition of him. Alas, I believe that keeping you informed is for the good of the kingdom. I hope that by enlightening you a bit more, you will not aggravate him...and, in turn, make things more difficult than they already are."

"As you have a duty to your master, so do I have a duty to the Crown," sternly intoned the duchess. "At the end of the day, we are both acting to preserve this kingdom and protect her people."

The senior commandant's smile was fragile. "As we have sworn to do so many years ago."

"Adieu, Michel."

With that, La Grande Tempête mounted her familiar Martel, the creature pacing out into the open. She gave her former comrade-in-arms the old salute before taking flight. No one escorted her during her departure but she could feel the glares of the many foreign mercenaries—most of whom were Germanian—tracking her silhouette against the starry night sky.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January 20, 2021

LAST EDITED: October 19, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 25, 2021

Chapter Text

Day LXX

Siesta's first chore of the day—as had been since she began working here—was delivering herbal tea to the count at dawn. That was, of course, if her master was home and that often entailed the mildly vexing addendum of finding out where exactly on the premises he was. He could be anywhere—from his personal quarters to his private study to the parlor to the outside gardens to his secret underground workshop or even out in the training fields surveying his troops.

On this early morning, she found him seated on a bench in the recently constructed conservatory, facing the orange sun peeking over the rugged horizon. She was about make her presence known when, without so much as turning around to acknowledge her, he waved his hand and instructed her to leave the tray on the table beside him.

Okay, that particular 'skill' of his—sensing people like that—was rather discomforting. But who was she, a mere commoner with special privileges, to comprehend the skillset of a powerful (magic-less?) warrior the likes of Count Bazaine De Hainault?

"Is there anything else you need, monsieur?" Siesta asked after pouring him a cup of steaming herbal tea.

"You a church-goer?"

She blinked. How should she answer this? So far, most of his questions were straightforward and mostly entailed mundane topics such as the weather, daily life, a bit of local gossip. But often these inquiries came with a tint of something...underneath. Neither malicious nor malignant but not entirely benevolent either. Like some subtle prodding at wisdom beyond her comprehension... Not like she had anything else to hide from him, though.

"Oui, monsieur. The seventh day of the week is one of rest and worship. I keep strongly to the faith and the Church's teachings as best I could."

He snickered. He sounded bitter. "D'you know who your priests are?"

Not really. She remembered their names but that was it. It was not like she personally knew them. In fact, most anyone—even the high nobility—would rather do their dues with the Church as quickly and cleanly as possible and that often meant doing as little business with the clergy (unless they actually had significant investments with them).

"Non, monsieur. I only know of Mon Père Stephen from the Académie and Monsieur l'Abbé Charron who has been ministering to the soldiers here."

Another chuckle. "Yeah. Ole Perry's got a good head on his shoulders, I'll give him that. Can smell bullshit and got the cojones to rag on them horny, two-faced, fuck-wit friars that done give pure-hearted priests like him a bad name. Damn good preacher, too."

So 'Perry' was Father Charron's first name? Siesta wanted to ask but held her tongue when the count resumed talking.

"You ever get any news from the Church down in Romalia? Or is that just for them privileged nobles?"

"We get the news like everyone else."

He turned his head halfway. "There's a 'but' in there."

Siesta sighed. His discernment was as great as it was terrifying. Unlike many nobles, he was kind enough to lend an ear to otherwise distasteful opinions (since he spewed so much of it himself on a daily basis). "There are...matters of the Church that are not meant for commoners and even the low nobility to ponder on."

He laughed. "There it is."

"Is...is there something, ah, specific you would like to know about the Church, monsieur? I cannot tell you much other than what I know."

The count fiddled with his cup for a while before facing her with a look that was most unlike him. His gaze seemed unfocused and the bags under his green eyes... "Know anythin' 'bout them Papal legates?"

"That they are representatives of the Pope. They are mostly sent throughout Halkeginia on his behalf to settle matters of the Church. I hear it is a most honorable position and one that is highly sought after by clergymen in the upper echelons."

"Say it ain't so? Say, like...Inquisition?"

That word alone sent shivers down her spine. To the best of her knowledge, the Papal Inquisition was established centuries ago as an instrument of correction against heresies and errant misinterpretations of the core Brimiric faith. But they were more popularly known for their brutal methods of extracting information in their quest for truth...whatever truth that may be. Siesta relayed these thoughts as clearly and concisely as her limited vocabulary could. Though she held her tongue on the many crusades that followed because of the Inquisition's findings—she would wait until he would ask for that.

Eventually, Monsieur De Hainault let loose a bellowing laugh. "... Holy shit, if that's how it is then I'm damn right fucked."

Siesta almost gave him a flat look. Honestly, she was more baffled that the Inquisition had not yet to come in light of her master's reputation that, in recent memory, had spread like wildfire past Tristain's borders.

His laughter died down and he composed himself to ask her another question. "Have you seen any o' them Papal legates in person before?"

"A few times," she answered. "The last time was when I was still a child...in Talbes."

He quirked a brow. "Really now? And what were they doin' over there?"

Certainly not inquiring about her grandfather's closely-guarded secret. "They were passing through."

The count regarded her with that paralyzing look. Heavy green eyes piercing sharp into her soul. Siesta even swore that, with the flecks of sunlight reflecting against his face, those orbs were shrinking and growing—as if he was studying her like a physician analyzing the desiccated carcass stretched over a table.

One long, agonizing moment later, he turned away and resumed gazing at the verdure. "... Siesta, how well do you know your history?"

The maid blinked. "Pardon, monsieur?"

He tapped the vacant space next to him on the bench.

Siesta was quite nervous when she shuffled over to sit next to him. To be fair, he allowed her to keep her distance owing to his odor (he did not bathe as often as a nobleman should) and the fact that it was most uncommon for a plebe such as herself to be so casually conversing with a prominent aristocrat in this manner. However, despite his flaws, Count Bazaine De Hainault was a trusted friend to commoners and Siesta trusted him...though not as much as she trusted Leon and, by extension, Mademoiselle Louise.

"Do you know your own history?" he repeated.

"I...do not understand, monsieur."

"You're the granddaughter of an Enclave officer. A veteran who'd been through enough hell to fill a bookshelf with. But that's his history, not yours."

Siesta hid the grimace that formed when she recalled some of her grandfather's more grisly tales of his past. "He...was not fond of regaling us with...those more distant memories."

"Sparin' you the details, huh." The count refilled his cup. Being a maid, Siesta was supposed to have done that for him but on many occasions, he dispensed with his servants and insisted on doing half these tasks himself. "This tea tastes like shit but damn is it perfect for startin' the day. Want some?"

She had a taste once, out of curiosity. Never again. "No thank you, monsieur."

"Yeah, I get you. This really does taste like shit."

The maid waited, opting instead to observe the trimmed gardens landscaped and beautified behind glass walls and a glass ceiling while the sun continued to rise and bring more color to the world. In essence, the conservatory was a greenhouse for some of the most beautiful flowers she had ever seen. She would have taken a stroll here, savoring the serenity and indulging in the natural scents...if she was not a commoner servant who had to sit through her noble master's half-drunken ramblings.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" he remarked, pointing to a rare pink butterfly fluttering over some tulips.

She nodded, refraining from smiling. "Yes, they are."

"Don' be shy, woman. Go on and rake in this eye candy. Di'n't just have this whole extension built for myself, y'know."

'Eye candy.' That was a term he used a lot. Supposed to mean something beautiful to look at. Or a pleasant sight. Like sweets to a tongue, this was...sugar to the...eye? What an odd expression. "It is...a very beautiful sight."

"Look, y'all can take your breaks here if you want. I already told y'all. It's part o' the perks here, remember? You enjoy what I enjoy so long as you do your job right, keep to the ground rules, and don't fuck with me and mine."

Siesta finally allowed herself to smile. "Yes, I understand. It is...the privileges here are...unlike anywhere and I...I, uh... Ah... Monsieur, th-thank you for granting me this opportunity to work here."

He laughed softly. "You're welcome, kid."

The maid watched the pink butterfly mingle with the other blue, yellow, and red butterflies, thoroughly enjoying the beauty of the conservatory and letting her thoughts wander at the warmer memories of her childhood back in Talbes. Growing up on a farm, helping to toil the fields, playing games with her cousins, running free and without a care in the world across the verdant meadows...then retiring to the docks during the weekend to enjoy fish cooked over a fire...while watching the silhouettes of fishing boats sail past a bright, orange sunset over the sea.

"Siesta."

She blinked and found herself back here in Chateau Hainault. She straightened her back and quickly folded her hands over her lap, snapping her head to the count. "Monsieur?"

He observed her with that lazy yet scrutinizing stare. "... Do you know your own history?"

Again with that question. Her tongue dried up and she stuttered for a bit. "... I, um, do not know h-how to answer that, monsieur."

His face did not change. "Do you know your own history?"

"Y-you said it yourself, monsieur. I...I am the, ah, granddaughter of—"

"Not his. Yours. You."

Siesta struggled to find the right words to say. Ultimately, her shoulders sagged and she bowed, wondering if it was okay to share what it was like growing up with that childlike innocence that long-since faded when she was faced with the grim realities of working away from home, enduring the coldness of strangers, just to help feed her family.

The silence stretched for what felt like an hour before she croaked out, "I'm a commoner girl...born in a humble fishing town by the north sea...who traveled far away...to find better work...to support my family because...because of difficult times...wh-when food and amenities a-are hard to come by...a-and people like me...have to go so far to...t-to..."

Brimir above, why did she feel like crying? It was improper for her to shed tears before a noble! She turned away.

"Apologies, monsieur. I sh-should not—"

Something draped over her hands and she looked down to see one of the napkins she delivered covering her wrist. She looked up and saw her master regarding her with those dry, weighted, old, green eyes. "Go on."

Siesta was about to refuse before she realized...this was Count Bazaine De Hainault. He cared not for rules or the social order. He treated his staff more like nobles than disposable commoners. He was fair and sensible, harsh with his justice, irreverent but only to those who were cruel. So who cared about crying in front of him?

She dabbed her face dry before continuing. "... I...I miss my home. If...if there was any history of mine...that is worth telling...it would have been the days I've spent...with my family...when things were easier and...and I did not have to travel far away...for their sake."

The maid did not know for how long she rambled. And she would have stopped herself if it not for the fact that the count—the third most powerful man in the entire kingdom—was actually listening to her in the same way that Leon did.

"You can't stay mad at them forever, you know."

Louise ignored her familiar and continued brushing her hair in front of her vanity mirror.

"Grudges aren't healthy, Louise. Take it from me."

She took deep breaths to help shutter some of more visceral recollections of her dreams about Leon's past.

"Louise. I think you should talk to your friends—"

"What lovely friends, I have, don't you think?" snapped the pink-haired mage.

Leon was unfazed and, with folded arms, leaned back against the wall of her dorm room. "Birds of the same feather..."

"Excuse me?"

"...are birds."

She wanted to throw her hairbrush into his face. But then she would have nothing to distract her from her familiar's constant pestering (or the noise coming from the commoners toiling outside). "I have no further quarrel with anyone, especially them."

"Just 'cause you're not stepping on each other's toes anymore doesn't mean you haven't gotten over them," her familiar countered flatly. "That priest had a point."

Louise slumped over her desk. The young priest assigned to the Académie, the charismatic and somewhat mildly eccentric Father Stephen, had offered her unrequited advice when they crossed paths late last night shortly before she retired to her quarters. She could still hear his voice echoing in her ear.

"I can sense your distress, young lady. This bitterness within you...it is too great. The darkness in your heart...it screams at me, blinding my path when I think. I pray, in the name of the Founder, that you will release that darkness before it will consume you and lead you to ruin."

How could a newly-ordained clergyman no older than Leon know of her own struggles? She had been through a lot in her life! He couldn't know. No one could know. Man of the cloth or not, he should not have acted like he knew the pain that she went through, speaking like he could literally read her mind or her heart and...and...and...

"Louise."

She blinked up at the wall and felt something dry trickle down her cheek.

Leon offered her a napkin. "It's hard to let go. Even I got things that I still carry with me that...well, take your pick. But...most of them...it's...it's all water under the bridge at this point, you know?"

"I'm sure you've forgiven your dear friend Amata for discarding you like a used rag," Louise snorted. Only to immediately snap her hands over her mouth and look back up at her familiar with wide, horrified, apologetic eyes. Too late to take back those words now.

He did not show any anger, however. Instead, he nodded and slouched away to sit on her bed, gazing forlornly at the carpet.

"Leon, I— I didn't mean to... That was... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"She knew what she was doing. Amata...was always the smarter one," he echoed back, all the warmth in his voice gone as he struggled to even say the name of that girl he grew up with. A childhood friend who, for the sake of an entire community of people who hated him, banished him after soliciting his services in the name of friendship and the moral good.

Louise wondered what moral good there was to betraying one's own dearest childhood friend after essentially using him as a tool to bloodily usurp their own father. Then again, despite Leon's recollecting, she was sure there was more to that particular tale and the dreams she had been having as a result of this familiar bonding were so disjointed that it was hard for her to piece together what exactly happened. But regardless of the details, it was clear that Leon had spilled the blood of his own kin to ensure that someone he cared about would take the reins and make the proper choices...the first being to exile him from his own home.

"She made her choice," her familiar continued. "I understand that. I get it. Took me a long while to get over it. But I completely get the reasons for why she did what she had to do."

"Leon—"

He looked up at her. "Still hurts to think about it though so thanks for reminding me."

Louise nearly leapt out of her chair. "No, no! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—"

He waved her off. "It's okay. I get it. You're all strung up because of what your friends did to you. I mean, hey. I don't hold anything against Butch these days since he showed up when it mattered and did his dues like everyone else. Come to think of it, I haven't seen him since...damn. It's getting close to a year now, I guess."

"You...you hold nothing against your...your tormentors?"

"Butch and his buddies were jackasses but they're saints compared to what I found on the surface. Called themselves Tunnel Snakes and sure as hell acted like it. Eventually, shit happened and they had to crawl out of the tunnels and...well... Butch held his own, I'll give him that. Come to think of it, I honestly haven't seen much of him since the, uh...never mind."

She found herself sitting beside him. "But...you said that Butch was a ruffian who constantly tried to make you his step-stool."

"Because his mom was a deadbeat drunk who got knocked up when her squeeze forgot to use protection." He shook his head and sighed. "There's a reason he was being an ass. Butch was scared and had no one better to turn to. When Amata...when she kickstarted her little uprising...didn't have to ask Butch. He signed up right on the spot and kicked some ass. That's a barber for you. Can cut you clean at the jugular with the same blade that he uses to cut your hair."

Louise would have snickered alongside her familiar if it were not for the fact that the punchline involved killing other people.

"Goes to show you that people change," he continued. "And Butch...wasn't that bad of a guy. Still was a bit of an ass though but he knew where the line was and knew not to cross it."

"He tormented you."

He nodded. "And I got over it. I, ah, yeah. You could say I...forgave him. And...her, too. Even though she, well... Others have done worse. Just so happened revenge came way earlier than the whole forgive and forget part, know what I mean?"

The pink-haired mage almost tapped him on his shoulder but retracted her hand before her fingers could grace the threads of his tunic. "I don't think...it will be easy for me to simply...pretend that there was nothing bothersome that Kirche and Montmorency and all the others did to me since I enrolled here."

"Louise, don't pretend."

"I... I..." Before she knew it, she was already crying. Brimir above, why was she being so emotional? She had cried away her anguish in her freshman year and had endured the torment in her sophomore year with the Rule Of Steel. Why was she breaking again? Why now? Why...?

Leon wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close. He smelled a little pungent because of the summer heat and his breath reeked a little of this morning's breakfast. Yet those did not stop her from melting into his embrace, whimpering and finally weeping. After a while, he let go and offered her the napkin from earlier to dry her cheeks, not caring that his tunic was now damp.

"Feeling better?"

Perhaps so. "... I can't believe it took the local magistrate muscling us into an adventuring party to get me to address my grievances with Kirche of all people."

He shrugged. "It's working, so far."

"But if she's going to just laugh in my face and be so insincere, treating this like another one of her dirty games—"

"I don't think she's dumb enough to act that way more than she already has."

"How would you know?"

"Because there's a reason why Kirche's who she is. The same way Tabitha's who she is. Or why Montmorency and Guiche are who they are. For the same reasons Butch and Amata...did what they did. You can blame them all you want but there's some things that you really can't fault them for."

Louise bit her lip. She recalled how the Germanian behaved back at Chateau Hainault. For once, the lustful redhead had manifested into a rightfully intimidating Triangle-class prodigy...because the magistrate had mentioned things that slighted Tabitha and her. Because he threatened her with the name of some Germanian lord...

"Kirche was betrothed to an archduke in Germania," the sophomore mumbled. "And Tabitha was the right hand hand of her uncle, the Mad King of Gallia."

"Pretty nasty histories that made them come here to study magic when they could have gone anywhere else. If anything, they're running from them and part of that escape is keeping it all a secret from all the new friends they were going to make here in Tristain."

"It's no longer a secret to me."

"Because they trust us with those secrets. Granted, there wasn't much of a choice there but we can't unlearn that stuff now. I'm sure they trust you enough not to share these with anyone...no matter how much they know you despise them."

Louise dapped her cheeks dry. "And Montmorency was terrified. As was Guiche. It was more than their pride and family legacy that was at stake."

"Well, the old man did give us all a big reality check when we paid him a visit, huh," Leon crowed, stretching his arms over his head. "I don't know about you but I think they want to start on a clean slate...with you. And they looked like they'd give everything for you to give them another chance."

"I suppose...I should not be so cold towards them as I have."

"Exactly. Wouldn't want to let old grudges get the best of you."

She looked up at him, at his goofy smile that always made her feel things she did not want to feel. "Did...did you ever, uh, forgive the man who killed your father?"

That smile vanished. But neither did a frown come on. "Like I said. Revenge got there first. Was only after I took a long hard look at the craters we left behind that I realized just how much...anger...that I let get the best of me. Best of us, really. Anger's a great high, powerful motivator...gets you riled up better than any drug...a damn poison that kills you from the inside and turns you into something worse than..."

He took a long, deep breath.

"... Louise, you and I have had dreams of each other's lives. You kinda know what I mean when I say that the day I killed Autumn...it was both the best and worst day of my life."

The sophomore angled her head. "Why do you say it was the worst? You killed the man who brutally murdered your father before your very eyes and instituted so many reprehensible crimes."

He half-laughed, half-snorted. "Guess this familiar bonding thing is really sparing you some of the details, huh."

"Leon. Did you regret killing that commandant Autumn?"

Her familiar sighed again. "... When I looked into his eyes...while I squeezed my hands around his neck...I saw...I saw myself."

Louise eased back, wide-eyed and blinking. "... Oh."

"I actually turned into him... The whole journey to destroy the Enclave, every raid against their outposts, every attack on their logistics, every Enclave soldier I killed... All of that transformed me into a fucking monster that was no different to the Enclave leadership—to men like Autumn. Since then, I promised myself to never stoop so low again."

Silence.

Then Leon regarded her. "That's why I want you to talk to your friends. Otherwise, you'll end up hurting them more than you'd like...and hurting yourself more than you can handle."

And turning into the monster that haunted her nightmares, Louise did not say. Rather, she allowed her lips to curl upward slightly. "You're right. I do still have some grievances. I admit, it's not going to be easy...releasing them. Though, that does not inhibit me from trying."

He stood from her bed and held out his hand. "Milady, I think I can help you with that."

Ignoring the fluttering in her chest and the warmth in her cheeks, young Miss Vallière took him up on his offer of assistance. Then trumpets echoed across the Académie grounds and she remembered what today was.

Today was the day.

It was the fifth day of the week and the final day of the first semester at the Académie Royale Tristain Des Arcanes. A day of festivities complete with bazaars, confectioneries, spiced wines, colorful regalia, and the highlight of the school: the Exposition Familière.

And Her Royal Highness Henrietta De Tristain, the guest of honor for this year's show, was secretly hungover and regretting last night's concoction mixed from a bottle of hard Bourbon clear, her favorite Vallière fruit wine, and some special important Germanian juniper berry mead made by a someone named Vilod. Alas, she had to endure the bright sunlight flashing down on her face—caked in enough cosmetics to hide her haggardness—and plaster on this wide Brimir-damned smile while she waved at her subjects.

Thank goodness for royal etiquette. Gestures and postures drilled into her since her youth kicked in and she carried herself as a widely-beloved princess should (though a cynical part of her wondered how 'beloved' she was in light of what she allowed Sixieme to do). She did genuinely care for her people and she would do anything to preserve her kingdom. But today was not shaping up to be the day that she had once been so excited for.

Regardless, Henrietta was the Princess and the Princess should be presentable. So she regally mounted her special seat next to the panel of judges, flanked by Agnès and her bodyguards. Before her was the wide, lavish stage...where she would have to watch act after act until someone was declared this year's winner.

Why again did she insist on this?

Oh, right.

The biggest excuse (atop escaping the migraine-inducing issues that came with running the kingdom) was to personally visit Louise, her childhood friend.

Goodness knows it was a long time. And with the more damning revelations that she, too, was a Void mage like her, this would mean hopefully bringing the pink-haired girl into the fold and unite their prophetic destinies for the betterment of the kingdom and the rest of Halkeginia as well. It was not like Sixieme was completely against it (despite voicing his vulgar opinions towards the matter, she still got her way; such was the authority of the princess over her subjects). Besides, Henrietta was curious who Louise summoned. This 'Leon Walker' sounded very similar to Sixieme and she wanted to grace the young man with her own eyes.

But so far, as she scanned the crowds and the fair grounds, she could find neither her childhood friend nor her prophetic familiar. However, she did take notice of a few prominent guests in today's event. And one of them looked back at her from across the field. Those sharp piercing eyes were enough to sober her up as the attendee in question crossed the yard to have a few words with her.

Today was the day.

It was the day of the dreaded Exposition Familière, the most anticipated day in the entire school (apart from graduation), the event in which newly-minted mages declared their birthright to the world. Guests from across the kingdom would be in attendance along with foreign delegates representing the noble houses of the Académie's students. Yes, this was the biggest event of the entire school year.

And Louise was panicking.

Because of all the guests to arrive, the most celebrated was Her Royal Highness. Princess Henrietta De Tristain, her childhood friend and the heir-apparent to the throne, was here. The arrival of the royal entourage had caused enough fanfare so much so that the pink-haired sophomore had forgotten about the other person who had arrived earlier that day. And after bending her knee (and forcing Leon to behave in the presence of the Princess), she recalled seeing Martel being stabled at the Académie bestiary. So she hastened to double check and nearly lost her footing upon seeing the great manticore being attended to by members of the Académie staff.

Mother was here.

And Louise had nothing to show for...aside from a stubborn, skilled swordsman of a familiar who would get severely embarrass her in front of the biggest audience of her life because of his choices of entertainment.

"Do you have any other better acts than...than...than jester jokes?" she begged Leon who so far remained nonplussed about her predicament after frantically dragging him into one of the vacant classrooms room right as the Exposition was about to begin.

"You wouldn't let me do anything else," he grunted back.

Maybe she should have let him walk that tightrope. Or juggle flaming swords. Or dress up as a tavern wench and sing and dance those risqué tavern songs of his as that well-endowed maid had suggested. Brimir above, why was participation even mandatory to begin with!? Could she not sit this one out?

But then Mother would ask why her own daughter was not out there boasting of her great and powerful familiar. And Her Royal Highness would be wondering too! She must be expecting her as well. How could she disappoint!? House Vallière would be embarrassed! Humiliated! Disgraced because of her failure!

"Hey, relax," Leon hummed, startling her out of her musings. "You keep pacing around like that, you'll dig a hole through the floor."

Louise stopped pacing. And pointed at him. "You...you have to...you have to perform. I have to risk it. Otherwise, the embarrassment would be too great!"

"Geez, how much is on the line? Relax, Louise. I've been practicing all night for this."

"Practicing? You've been practicing? Wha...what in the world have you been practicing!?"

He shrugged. "My act."

Her eyes slowly grew wide. "Your 'act'? You...you mean y-your..."

He nodded smugly. "Yep."

Yes, his 'jaw-dropping' act of sword tricks. As if no one in the entire kingdom had seen enough of those. Might as well hire a full circus to complete the set. "They're going to laugh you off the stage. They're going to laugh me off the stage. They'll boo us off!"

"Come on, Louise. They couldn't be that bad. Besides." He whipped out one of his many bollock knives that he began twirling at terrifying speeds between his fingers. "Who wouldn't be impressed by this?"

She gave him a flat look. "Adults."

"Hey, I got some good compliments from the staff when I was practicing."

"You clearly do not know Tristainian high society. Or much of our society in general. Do you honestly think that tossing around blades would impress an entire assembly of older, senior, more experienced mages including former soldiers armed with sword-wands?"

"It sure as hell is better than nothing."

And having nothing to show for was not as unbearable as this? "I've seen performances so atrocious that when the plebes ran out of tomatoes to throw, the nobles in attendance conjured mud golems that gave the commoners mud that they slung at the stage."

Leon shrugged, whipping the blade back into its sheath with finesse with nary a fresh cut on his calloused, battle-scarred hand. "Could be worse. I mean...you could get shot for making a bad joke."

Louise was about to retort. Then she paused. Thought it through in her mind. And nodded disconcertingly back. "Knowing you and where you come from, I take it that that is the more merciful way to express displeasure at an unsatisfactory performance."

"Yep. You could get sold off to slavery, too. And believe me, the black market back in the Capital Wasteland sure as hell was something. Chems, guns, whores, and the extremely rare goodies that you don't see anywhere else weren't just the only merchandise. You got slaves, slavers, slave-robots, slaver-robots, you know... Got to give the underground credit though. Cheapest place to buy human, ghoul, mutant, and super-mutant parts. And they were well-preserved too, real high quality. I'm talking padlocked ice boxes and massive formaldehyde jars packed with—"

"Okay, I get it! You sell entrails to the highest bidder."

"I mean, if you can't get the guy alive, might as well—"

"Enough, Leon." She dipped her head in her hands. "Just...just do your best then. I'll...I'll stand by you and...and we'll both get pelted with tomatoes together."

She felt his long, heavy arm wrap around her shoulder and pull her into another half-hug. "Aww, cheer up, Louise. Doesn't matter if we win, so long as we put a smile on their faces and give them something great to remember."

She melted into his side. "I suppose. At least we'll be able to put this day behind us as quickly as possible."

Today was the day.

And Karin had little time for the pomp and pageantry. She was here to continue her mission and Director Osmond fully understood the urgency despite his clear hesitation to engage with her. Goodness knows, the old wizard wanted to be out there with Her Royal Highness (who had been clearly hungover for some reason), enjoying the festivities as a good host would, especially with regards to royalty.

But that was what deputies were for.

So while Professor Colbert and his fellow teachers engaged with the Princess down upon the fair grounds, Director Osmond entertained the duchess up in his tower. Or rather, the old wizard stalled and stalled behind his varnished wooden desk until Karin reminded him of her lack of patience for any games and her willingness to 'retire' him.

"You are well in years, Osmond," the duchess thrummed icily, sipping at her tea cup while seated primly across from him, his wrinkled hands tightly clasped over his varnished yew desk. "Getting far too old for your job, don't you think?"

He chuckled sourly. "That is what I tell myself every day. With my age, I should know more yet I find myself constantly at odds with these children's wits. They are very creative and I seem to be running out of ideas."

"Or running out of time. It has been a long academic year with the Exposition inviting royalty and all the fanfare that includes. People would be too busy enjoying the show to bother with the Académie director's sudden yet understandable retirement after decades of dutiful service."

Whatever Osmond had for a smile completely vanished. "Are you threatening me, Madame la Duchesse?"

"How daring of you to accuse me of threatening you, Monsieur Directeur," Karin cheekily threw back. "I am only reminding you that you are on borrowed time."

"And you are not? Today is the Exposition. The students would be proudly displaying their familiars for the world to see. Are you not eager to witness your daughter's...summon?"

"Why put a young man among a roster of beasts?"

The old wizard frowned. "He is still her familiar."

"A person? A human being? A young man no older than any of the manservants here was summoned by my own daughter to be her familiar?" Karin had to pause to ask herself just how disconnected she was from the rest of the world since her retirement that she had only learned of this fact now. "... Only beasts have been brought out of the aether to serve as familiars to their masters. I have heard scant tales of persons taking the place of beasts but that is after the beasts were slain or had fallen ill or some ludicrous agreement with their master has been made."

"That agreement was the Invocation Familière Sanctifiée," Osmond sternly remarked. "The most sacred of rituals. A ritual that your daughter Louise executed flawlessly and spectacularly."

The duchess set down her teacup. "Do you expect me to believe that the cosmos gifted my daughter with a man?"

Surprisingly, the director glared back, for once in a long time not showing any visible fear towards her. "Tout à fait, Madame la Duchesse."

Karin measured her response. "... Do you know what this implies."

"I am very well aware. Hence why news of this has been strictly limited to the Académie."

"And the Académie legally falls under the jurisdiction of Monsieur le Comte De Hainault. We both know that man is no bumbling fool."

Osmond leaned back and kneaded his fingers together. "So you have spoken to him."

"We have spoken."

He nodded slowly. Almost smugly. "How was he?"

She huffed. "Quite the interesting fellow."

He chuckled. "A grizzled bear, that one. His fangs and claws are marked with years but they are as sharp as ever."

"You think highly of him?"

"I rarely meet men so fluent in the languages of warriors, academicians, and diplomats."

"A natural polyglot, you say." Karin almost laughed at that. The count was clearly deficient—if not devoid—of any magic. Yet he was one of the very few in the world whose wits and tenacity more than made up for his arcane ineptitude. It had been many years since anyone outright laughed at her authority and had chipped away at her Rule Of Steel...coming close to exposing the vulnerable, weary woman underneath. "I understood his warrior tongue. I was likewise impressed by his intelligence. However, I am more interested in how he managed to establish a sort of concert between nobles whose natural animosity towards each other made cooperation nigh impossible."

"That's his magic, don't you think? He suppresses bitter rivalries by providing the bickering houses with a common threat."

That threat being the royal messenger himself, Karin did not say. "He wields the Crown like a weapon."

Osmond nodded. "More the Crown's absolute power and capability to prosecute those who have been sinning against the kingdom unopposed for years."

"Including you."

"All of us have sinned and continue to sin in many ways. Most often, we would like to think that Brimir would forgive us, grant us leniency, cleanse our blackened hearts. And the Crown understands that. The Crown knows that our souls are saved by providence. And the Crown has been very willing to liberate our pure souls from our sinful bodies."

"They were not so willing before."

"Now they are." With that, the old wizard withdrew his pipe from his drawer. He sprinkled in his exotic crushed herbs, sparked a small flame with a tinderbox, and puffed out a few clouds.

Karin knew he was calming himself down. A nasty vice, those burnt leaves. But one that she had seen work wonders for mighty men burdened by the stresses of their work...or trepidation. "... My daughter's familiar. Who is he?"

"Monsieur Leon Walker De Tartarie," came the immediate response followed by a few more puffs. "Sharp tongue, sharp wit, exceptionally sharp for his age. And he is barely half-way through his twenties. Youths, these days, eh?"

Tartary? "Osmond. Do not jest."

"Then cut me down right here, right now," the director suddenly declared. "I've long since made peace with myself. So take your wand and squeeze all the air out of my lungs until I have been set free from this insufferable life."

The duchess, for the second time within the week, was taken aback. Never had this ancient white mouse roared with the voice of a leviathan. "... Have you finally gone senile, old man?"

Osmond maintained his glower, keeping his weighted eyes on hers while he kept dragging on his ornate pipe. "You terrify me, Karin. But not as much as the potential future of this continent if I am hindered from doing what I must do to save it."

"And that is cavorting with godless heathens the likes of Bazaine De Hainault and allowing some charlatan to deceive my daughter into thinking she has a familiar."

"Are you implying that your own flesh and blood falsified the Invocation?" he growled with an almost righteous fury. "Desecrated it by way of fakery and lies? Or have you surrendered to the falsehoods of her inability to cast magic?"

"Do not test me, Antoine," Karin nearly flared. "Contrary to what you have heard about me, I do not disbelieve Louise's ability to cast magic. Her explosions have to come from somewhere and I have spent years searching for the source, searching for the reasons why she has been plagued by nothing but unfettered blasts."

Osmond grinned. "Then perhaps you need not search anymore."

Down below, the frenzy from the Exposition reached a crescendo with the shadow of a dragon sweeping past the windows. Neither the duchess nor the director had the time to enjoy the sight of an extremely rare beast of legend flapping its wings with its liege on its back.

Instead, the former stood from his chair and hummed a chant towards the tall mirror between the bookshelves. The glass glowed, then shimmered, before flashing with a bright light that dissipated to reveal...an unobstructed view of the stage where a young Tabitha D'Orléans slid off the bandaged wing of her familiar Sylphid after the creature landed gracefully on the dirt before the stage.

"What are you showing me, Osmond?"

The centenarian wizard simpered as the excited crowds died down and the final performer for the Exposition was called upon the stage by Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert. "Why, Karin, I am showing you one of the greatest students to have come from this very school."

Louise shuddered at the mention of her name, amplified by wind magic for the rest of the audience to hear. But the addendum thrown in by Professor Colbert nearly kept her from heading up to the stage.

'Special performance?'

What in Brimir's name did he mean by 'special performance?' Did he mean that she was segregated from the rest as a sort of intermission while the judges tallied scores? Had she been blindsided by the school to save face? So Tabitha was the final contestant and Louise was more the palate cleanser before the dessert that was the awarding ceremonies? Had she been made a specialty to spare her disgrace!?

Already, she could hear the snickers in the crowd. They were waiting for her now. Whatever Leon had prepared better be damn worth it—he had so far kept his preparations from her, insisting that she bask in the surprise as well. Steeling herself, the pink-haired sophomore marched up onto the stage with him, her face masked with that iron facade that she wore to challenge her detractors. Taking in a deep breath, she greeted the crowd (why were there mirrors scattered between the audience and why were they all glowing?) and introduced the young, noble man strapped with blades standing next to her.

"...and this is my familiar, Monsieur Leon Walker De Tartarie!"

Gasps echoed from the assembly at the mention of the great, mysterious, uncharted lands to the east. After all, most anyone or anything to come out of Tartary (alive) either had to be a slave to the Elves or a slave to the Germanians.

Louise scanned the crowd (she had to squint her eyes because of the glare coming from the mirrors) and had to calm herself when she saw Her Royal Highness smiling at her from her seat beside the judges' table. The pink-haired girl plastered on a smile of her own but kept from waving. It would be too inappropriate.

It was also this same moment when her familiar suddenly raised his voice and hollered, "Hello~o, wo~orld! I'm Leon Walker, I'm Louise's familiar, and prepare to be dazzled!"

With wide, horrified eyes, Louise could only stand to the side and mutedly stare as the young man she had summoned began tossing sharpened swords in the air as though they were fruits to be juggled. Her heart skipped a beat at the images of the blades landing on top of him, cutting him open, blood spilling on the wooden stage, and—

None of that happened.

Instead, the crowd began hooting and cheering. The judges—who had been bedazzled by Tabitha's dragon doing tricks in the air and Kirche's salamander doing tricks with fire—were watching with rapt attention. The Princess, most especially, was itching to join the jubilee.

For who wouldn't be?

Because, Louise later realized, sword tricks were fun to watch. And they were very fun to watch in the hands of someone as masterful, mind-blowing, and majestically talented as Leon Walker.

Karin was aside herself at the display.

Sword tricks seemed so underwhelming—she had seen so much in her storied youth all the way through her much-more illustrious military career—yet the show that she and the director were watching through his magic mirror...

This Leon Walker of Tartary was very, very skilled with his hands. And while she could discern hints of magic surrounding his act, not a single spec came from him. Rather, he was using the magical talents of others to augment his performance. Such a trick was against the rules but, as Professor Colbert had announced, Louise was assigned the intermission role due to her 'special case.'

Swords spinning rapidly in the air (faster than any man could spin them with his bare hands), daggers twirling and dancing between his fingers (like steel butterflies fluttering around his palms), a pair of heavy claymores dipped in oil, set alight, and tossed at a pair of expendable earthen golems with such finesse that one would have almost thought that were was some wind magic trickery to it (because there was)... All these served to capture the crowd and build up excitement until the denouement which came in the form of this young man leaping into the air, twisting his body with flair, and landing with finesse in front of the stage to engage a taller flaming earthen construct in the middle of a small ankle-high marsh.

Karin almost smiled at the effort it took to prepare for this.

Some earth mage had folded the earth before the stage while a water mage filled it. Then that earth mage summoned a golem that was set alight by a fire mage. And Monsieur Leon Walker rode the air currents conjured by a wind mage into this quagmire that was, in reality, a nightmare for any form of close combat...

...and dispatched the golem with such acrobatic panache that one would think he was a veteran of a hundred battles.

Or a prodigy.

After all, the duchess herself was barely out of her twelfth summer when she mantled her family cloak and passed herself off as a boy to enlist in Tristain's military. From then followed years upon years of brutal combat, in bloody skirmishes and dangerous missions for the Crown to that damned continental war with the Germanian Confederation. Monsieur Walker appeared truly just a bare few summers out of his twentieth yet his skill spoke volumes of his experience. He was no grandmaster, though—she could see a bit of sloppiness and caught a few bare moments where his weapons nearly slipped from his hands.

But at the end of it, when he planted his boots in the mud with elegance and poise, the flaming mounds crumbling behind him after being parceled so cleanly...

Old Osmond snickered behind his pipe. "That, Madame la Duchesse, is a son of Tartary."

Karin nodded silently. Monsieur Leon Walker truly was a son of Tartary...just like Count Françoise Achille Bazaine De Hainault.

Louise had lost track of time but the sudden uproar from the audience snapped her back to reality. She had been watching, slack-jawed and in complete awe, at the show put on by her familiar. Such acts...such speed, versatility, agility, strength and cunning...and creative displays as well...

Amid the ovation, she heard someone panting heavily and heard noises behind the stage. Seeing as Leon was still basking in the glory, the pink-haired mage took the moment to disappear from her corner and take a peek behind the curtains at...

Guiche? Not just him. He was seated on a stool next to several empty buckets, sweating and drinking gracelessly from a cup. Montmorency was rubbing his shoulder, soothing him while her free hand clasped her wand. Kirche and Tabitha both stood to the side, the former smirking pridefully. She too, had her wand in her grasp. The latter remained rooted to the ground, clutching her staff. Have they been casting...magic...?

Louise girl looked back to the stage where her familiar was flexing his bulging muscles (oh dear Brimir above) while twirling those swords between his fingers as though they were child's play. Then she looked behind the stage and listened in as Kirche jokingly remarked to Guiche about stamina while Montmorency bit back saying that he had nearly depleted his willpower.

Depleted his willpower?

All those earthen constructs, the ground shifting to form a small pit, water suddenly filling it from a stream that came from behind the stage, the fires that engulfed the blades, and the winds that swept Leon through the air as he performed his death-defying tricks... They were all smoke and mirrors...illusions put up by her peers...

"That was amazing!"

"C'est incroyable!"

"More, more, more!"

The cheers of the crowd once again stirred Louise out of her stupor. She glanced back to her classmates cracking smiles and relaxing behind the stage, clearly having spent some of their willpower to...prop her up...even after putting in the effort to their own performances...

Why?

Was it because they were on a team together now?

Camaraderie? No, there had to be something here. Leverage? Possibly. But that would mean Leon would have gone behind her back (like he almost always did) and asked for favors from them, putting him (and, by extension, her) in their debt...

"Awesome work, guys!" bellowed her familiar.

Louise nearly jumped (he should stop sneaking up behind her like that!) as Guiche, Montmorency, Kirche, and Tabitha finally took notice of her.

"Judging by the noise, I think they loved it," the Germanian started, proudly waving her wand. "Though I think le petit cochon here has tuckered himself out."

"I've had to do most of the work, mind you," the blond earth mage retorted with a small grin. "Still, it was worth it, I suppose."

"Leon," Louise stammered, pointing her finger from one person to the next. "Did you...did they...did you really...ah, g-go through all the trouble j-just to..."

Her familiar shrugged, taking the towel Tabitha offered to him to wipe off his sweat. "All I had to do was ask. And they were completely on board with it. I mean, you're not part of the roster of contestants anyway so no competition working against you."

Rather, the competition worked for her. She honestly did not know what to feel about that.

"How were my golems?" Guiche asked.

"Did as they were supposed to." Leon clapped the blond on the shoulder. "Honestly, you did great, man. Really nice flair and I dig the nice little touches you added. Made them look more intimidating, you know?"

"Louise?" Montmorency inquired nervously. "How...how did we do?"

Frankly, very well. She enjoyed it. She just was not expecting their help. "You...you all...did very well. I don't know what else to say."

Kirche simpered. "You're welcome, Louise."

Leon suddenly draped his arm around the pink-haired girl's shoulder. "What great friends you have, huh."

"Yes," Louise replied. A small smile crept on the edge of her lips as she recalled the fact that for the past few weeks, none of her friends had called her 'Zero' at all. "Great friends indeed."

The Exposition came to a spectacular end with the awards being personally conveyed by Her Royal Highness herself. Tabitha obviously came in first with Kirche following a close second (for who else could surpass the creativity and majesty of the only two Triangle-class student mages in the whole Académie). There was talk though that had Louise not been an intermission, she might have been a serious contender.

But fame was fleeting and the pink-haired mage was more satisfied with the long-awaited recognition she deserved. She was considered a proper mage in the eyes of the world despite the hesitant inquiries regarding a person serving as her familiar. Though it was not an impossible case, it was supposedly very, very, very rare. So extremely rare that the last recorded legitimate non-bestial summoning was during time of Brimir himself thousands of years ago.

Alas, Louise would rather bask in the moment than study theories on her case.

For tonight was the Bal Du Frigg, a formal ball made all the more special with the attendance of Her Royal Highness herself alongside some other high-standing nobles, most of whom were parents, guardians, or chaperones. The student body was still larger than the number of guests tonight and since this was mainly an event for the students, the adults were more out of place.

Not that they minded—the aristocrats crowded around royalty like flies to honey. And Louise felt bad for the Princess. Standing out with her royal diadem, glittered regal gown, and deep royal purple cloak, she was clearly putting on false smiles as she entertained sycophant after sycophant until her royal bodyguard, a rather intimidating woman clad in polished steel plate and brandishing flintlocks in addition to her sheathed sword, reminded those pesky high nobles of their place.

The pink-haired mage shook her head. Loyal as she was to the Crown, she would not stoop so low as to curry influence like that. Mother raised her to be above such petty behavior. Be direct, succinct, respectable, and dignified. These attributes were embodied in the simplicity of her attire tonight: a modest pleat topped with the Vallière crest pinned to her waist.

And to compliment her style, Leon had been garbed in an ornamented doublet tucked under a deep blue long-sleeve waistcoat that hung low to his military-style breeches and polished coal-colored boots. Perfect for a young nobleman whose landlessness and uncouth behavior were overshadowed by the finest garments the Académie could provide.

"Holy shit, how do you breathe in this thing?"

Said young nobleman also despised his new clothes. Apparently, they were too tight.

"Seriously, Louise, can I loosen this up a bit? My stomach's pushing up my diaphragm."

"It's not that bad," Louise chastised, her hands planted on her hips. She was not in the mood to be so animated tonight. Flailing around might undo the work into making her long, pink hair presentable to high noble standards. "With how graceful you moved about today, I would have thought you had no issue with formfitting garments."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, as if that corset isn't strangling the life out of you."

She smirked. "Actually, I have no need for a corset."

"Why? Because you're small?"

Louise unashamedly stomped her heel on his foot.

"Ow! Quit it! Even the shoes are way too tight."

"Your clothes are formfitting as they should be."

Leon pulled on his sleeves. "My vault suit had more air than this."

"Oh, enough complaining. At least you have good form." She swatted at his hands. "Stop that! You'll ruin your attire."

"I can't help it. I don't have the body of a child, you know. Unlike you..."

"Leon? Shut up and behave."

Karin had no intention of mingling with the crowds tonight. She did not bring anything fancy to wear but her current garments were more than passable for a formal event such as the Bal Du Frigg. And as much as she wanted to engage with her daughter, so much as showing her face in front of so many people would be cause for unneeded attention despite the attendance of Her Royal Highness.

No. She would rather conduct her business quickly and quietly. Then, when she was sure, she could spare whatever time left to privately meet with Louise.

For now, she remained out of sight and out of mind, lingering on one of the empty balconies, keeping to the dimness of the night and waiting for her quarry to extricate himself from her daughter. Minutes later, he did. He was not that hard to pick apart from the crowd—this wild wolf struggled to move in his lamb coat, tugging at his collar and pulling at his sleeves while scowling at the formalities.

Much how the royal messenger blatantly disregarded decorum and proper form. Monsieur Walker and Monsieur De Hainault were showcasing similarities past their differences in age. Both men carried themselves almost identically.

She watched as the young man ignored the offered drinks from the serving staff and instead poured himself a glass of water from the buffet table. Then he made his way outside towards the same balcony she was on where he planted himself on the bannister on the far side, guzzling his drink as though he was dying of thirst.

A moment later, he turned his head towards her. "Pardon me for saying but you kinda look out of place."

What an introduction. Karin played along. "And you would rather be elsewhere."

He chuckled dryly. "Wasn't one for balls and all that fancy-shmansy crap. But my, uh, boss is and I can't really say no."

Boss, eh? "Are you a retainer?"

"You could say that."

"Contracted?"

Shrug. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"How did you come to such an agreement?"

Monsieur Walker chortled again. "How do I know I'm not talking to an uninvited guest what with you all hooded up like that."

The duchess pulled down her hood and nearly smiled at his startled and confused reaction. "How do I know you are not playing my daughter for a fool?"

"Daughter?" His jaw hung slack as he studied her. It seemed he was aware of who she was...or had heard enough about her to know who he was dealing with. "Oh. You...you're Louise's mom, huh."

"Yes, I am Louise's mother, Madame la Duchesse Karin Désirée De La Vallière. And you must be Monsieur Leon Walker De Tartarie."

His face hardened and his eyes flashed with that somewhat animalistic rabidity. There was fear there, yes, but an intrepid fear. He shifted off the railing and straightened his waistcoat, his bewilderment morphing into a slight frown. "A pleasure to meet you, Madame Duchess. Louise speaks highly of you."

"Indeed. And I have heard much about you, Monsieur Walker. You are supposedly the man summoned by my daughter to be her familiar."

"Signed, sealed, and delivered."

And he spoke like the count as well. Interesting. Concerning. "As you know, familiars are marked by the Invocation. The brand is very much the same with minor alterations here and there. Yours, however, I was informed were unique. May I see them?"

He paused, studying her. Then, hesitantly, he raised his right arm and twisted his wrist to show her the back of his hand. And there the runes were.

Karin walked closer. The light from the twin moons were bright enough to illuminate the markings on his skin. Her eyes did not deceive her. Osmond's claims, Colbert's notes, her own learnings into the Invocation and the histories behind it; all seemed to reveal no heresy or falsehood to these letters. This man was truly a familiar brought forth by the cosmos, sealed by divinity, and contracted by the Invocation into servitude to her daughter.

"... The count...is bound by powers beyond us...to Her Royal Highness...in the same way...that your daughter Louise...is bound by those same powers to...someone of similar stature as my master...yet young in years."

A mage cannot be bound to their familiar. That was the rule. Unless circumvented, bent, or rewritten and...

"That is where reasoning ends and blasphemy begins."

A myriad of possibilities swirled in her mind and she banished them all to vet this young man. His masterful swordplay could very well mirror his actual martial prowess. A distant voice began echoing theories that she had read a long time ago; a person had once been a familiar to someone else, bound and contracted by the Invocation. Yet such a person entailed something prophetic, something grand, or something else completely. Could this young man be...?

"Who are you, son of Tartary?"

He withdrew his hand. "My name is Leon Walker and I come from...back east. Way back east. From...different places."

She folded her hands over her waist while she leveled him with the glare she often gave to her subordinates in the military. "Explain."

Louise did not find herself isolated as much as she had expected. After all, who would want to hang out with Louise the Zero, inglorious failure of a mage to grace Halkeginia?

More than half the school, apparently.

Inundated with other students—from freshmen all the way to the seniors—and some of their invited friends, the young pink-haired mage was so overwhelmed with social interaction that she could barely form coherent sentences. A few disjointed phrases here and there revealed her inexperience as she drowned in flattery and compliments.

Clap, clap.

"Alright, that's enough," Kirche barked, swooping in with her signature charm. Her black, silken gown wrapped around her shape quite nicely, accentuating her assets while her red mane had been neatly wrapped in buns that twirled down to her shoulders in clean swirls.

"Why not a round of drinks, everyone?" Guiche announced, flaunting his glass of heavily watered down spirits. "You all look rather thirsty, if I may say so."

Montmorency had her arm wrapped around his with the other nursing a half-filled cup. "How impertinent of you all! Have you no shame? Her Royal Highness has been meaning to speak to Louise for quite some time now and you have the audacity to rob the Princess of her time with a person of her own choosing?"

That diatribe convinced the mob to disperse, some muttering apologies as they shuffled away. Louise then turned to see her friends, feeling more glad than annoyed at seeing them beaming back at her.

"M-merci, les gars," she stammered. "I d-didn't expect you t-to invoke Her Royal Highness to get me some breathing room."

"No, really," Tabitha intoned, gesturing towards the Princess herself smiling at them from across the hall, flanked by her retinue of elite musketeer guardswomen.

"Her Royal Highness really wants to speak with you," the Germanian cooed, planting her hands on the pink-haired girl's shoulders and lightly pushing her forward. "Go on. Wouldn't want to keep her waiting."

Louise stuttered and nearly tripped. Thankfully, she recomposed herself to curtsey before the royal right as the latter left her escorts and crossed the hall. "Madame Royale, it is an honor to be in your presence."

"The honor is mine, Ma'amselle Vallière," Her Royal Highness replied. "Arise. You need not be so formal. This is a school, not the royal palace."

The pink-haired sophomore straightened. "What do you wish to speak of?"

The Princess scoffed playfully. "Come now, Louise. Don't be so formal. Loosen up. Live a little."

The pink-haired mage glanced to her fellow sophomores who were all just as lost as she was. "Madame Royale, I—"

Her Royal Highness waved her hand. "The air is a little stiff in here. I would really savor the cool evening breeze right about now. And a drink as well. Come along, Louise. You four, you can come along too."

The Princess then sauntered over to wine table and fish out a bottle of Vallière fruit wine (one of the strongest varieties according to the label). Instead of mixing it in with water, she instead poured filled up an entire goblet. She even took the bottle with her to one of the vacant balconies. Louise turned to her classmates. Kirche was amused while Tabitha was intrigued. Guiche and Montmorency were nervous but played along, sipping uneasily at their glasses. The group meandered across the hall to one of the vacant balconies and were blasted by the evening chill rippling through their garments.

"Allez, Louise," invited the royal now leaning against the bannister. "Don't be shy. We have a lot of catching up to do."

"Mais bien sûr, Madame Royale!"

"Oh, don't call me that. I came here to get away from all that posh. Remember, it's Henrietta."

"B-but—"

"Really. Just let it go for tonight. We're friends, remember? Or have you forgotten the innocence of our youth." She chuckled. "When we didn't have to worry about our studies, or learning spell-craft and noble etiquette, or getting married off to some prince who doesn't give a damn about us."

Louise was taken aback. It had been a very long time since she last heard Henrietta speak this way. Then again, it had been years since they last met when the late King Henri De Tristain was still holding the kingdom together in the face of severe factional division within the Cour Royale. Ah, two children playing in the royal gardens, shielded from the storm of politics by neatly-trimmed hedges and enchanted, stone walls...

"I didn't know you were this close to Her Royal Highness, Louise. Color me impressed," Kirche whispered.

"Oh, just admit that you're jealous," Montmorency jabbed quietly. "I know I am. Good-naturedly, of course."

The Princess chuckled. "I see you've made some good friends here, Louise."

The girl in question eyed her (former bullies) companions. "Yes. They're...they have been...good friends to me. I wonder if I have been to them."

"Of course you have, Louise," Guiche declared with that flair of his. Really, if Her Royal Highness were not present and someone lesser had asked, he would have turned around and pretended not to hear. Or he would begrudgingly admit it. Still, at least he sounded honest. "It is us who...have had immense shortcomings. Though, they are but water under the bridge now. I believe. I hope."

"I suppose so," Louise said. "There have been lots of ups and downs. Mostly downs."

"But that's the nature of the wave, is it not?" Henrietta added. "You've been in the trough for so long that you're finally ascending to the crest. Don't think I didn't discern the magic at play when your familiar took to the stage. Any mage with sharp senses could tell that someone had been pulling tricks backstage to make the show livelier than it was."

"Oh, y-you saw that. Madame Royale—"

"Just Henrietta. Come on, Louise."

"Right. Um, Henrietta." Brimir above, that sounded so wrong to say. "My friends, they...they lent me a hand and...well, since I was more of an intermission, no rules were broken."

"A few were bent. And that's what makes things exciting," Henrietta downed her cup and filled it up again. "I commend your friends for their initiative. You have very talented people looking out for you."

Louise turned to her classmates and shrugged. "I couldn't have asked for anyone more talented. Kirche and Tabitha both rank Triangle, besting the seniors and the even half the Académie staff. I'd say they could have graduated by the end of last year if circumstances would have permitted. Guiche and Montmorency are betrothed and, honestly, you wouldn't find any other pair as stormy and as devoted to each other as those two."

Chuckles followed and after a toast and a round of drinks, the group of students found themselves comfortably laughing along with the Princess. At her insistence, they dropped the formalities and swapped anecdotes, reminiscing tales of the past, and sniggering at misdeeds of the present.

Karin could hardly believe what she was hearing. Such barbarism born in the ashes of a great war and an eternal poison that rotted a man from the inside and transformed harmless farm animals into monstrous beasts—it all sounded so ludicrous, so unbelievable. Yet Monsieur Walker spoke with conviction, his eyes staring at empty spaces while he described the land of Tartary in a way that no one else had.

"... I was born in Tartary, roamed her desert wastes, ate her poisoned food, drank her poisoned water, cut down her poisoned kin. I served men fightin' monsters alongside monsters made out o' men. Together, we purified the wastes...and damned ourselves in the process. We were the folk who crawled on our bellies over the searin' hot sand while our backs were bakin' under the sun, preachin' our truth while killin' those who went against us...because that was who we were. That's who I was..."

"... And that, Madame Duchess, is who I am," concluded the young man.

The duchess regarded him, now knowing who she was facing. "How well do you know Monsieur le Comte Françoise Achille Bazaine De Hainault?"

"Not as well as you think I do. He didn't really talk much about himself and neither did I."

"But you know of him?"

"We...met a few times. Established sort of a rapport. We're not too close, though, even though we, um...have a lot in common."

"He claims to be from Tartary."

He tittered. "He was from the other side of Tartary. The...drier side, you could say, where there was barely any water. Regardless, we're both cut from the same cloth. It's just that he got way more notches under his belt than me. The old man's been fighting way before I was even a thought in my parents' brains, I can tell you that."

"So says the wolf about the bear."

"At the request of the lioness if you don't mind me saying."

The duchess was so far both impressed and bothered by this person. It was like she was speaking to a much younger Bazaine De Hainault. At least he was not an extensively vulgar drunkard. "Your runes are unmistakeable. They have been etched into your skin, perhaps seared all the way to the bone by the Invocation."

He squared his shoulders. "It hurt like hell when it happened. I almost thought I was dying right then and there."

Karin reflected on the runes she had seen. Colbert's notes indicated that they were unique among the rest. In fact, her former subordinate had a transcription: 'Gandalfr.' When translated, it meant 'the Left Hand of God.' His books and sources confirmed his thesis. That served to corroborate the cryptic warnings of Chevalier Michel Ney...as well as her own fears.

"Do you know what those markings mean?"

He hesitated. "... One of the professors called me the 'Left Hand of God.'"

"And do you know what that entails?"

"That I'm a prophetic son or something. I don't honestly know. I don't mean to offend, Madame Duchess, but I'm not very particularly religious. Up until I saw those moons in the sky and drank clean water, I thought God was dead."

The duchess sighed. "You are much, much more, Monsieur Walker."

He narrowed his gaze at her. "I've been told that before and I'm starting to think I'm involved in something way over my head. Wasn't the first time that happened though."

"Do you have a basic idea of the Church's teachings?"

"I've been reading up lately so yeah, a little bit."

"Well, then do you know about the Inquisition?"

He answered slowly. "I've...heard stories about them."

"Do you know...that you are basically evidence of what the Church today calls heresy?"

Monsieur Walker stiffened. "That...does not sound like a good thing."

Brimir above, it was not. And with the recent stormy investitures reshaping much of the structure and doctrines of the Church, her daughter could very well be burnt at the stake should the more radical elements of the Inquisition come to investigate. At the very least, she would be defrocked, disowned, banished. And the fallout from such a scandal... Dear Founder, this was more than a conspiracy involving the Crown and a mysterious royal messenger. This was a powder keg waiting to go off!

"... Much greater actors are at play and I am afraid for myself and all who I care about. Including you and your whole house."

"Monsieur Walker, I assume you have plans for this semestral break. Would you care to enlighten me?"

He looked away, his eyes bouncing from the floor to the wall to the moons above until he eventually settled on hers. "... I'm sorry, Madame Duchess. I...I can't really say."

Karin glared at him. "What is prohibiting you from doing so?"

"The powers that be."

The duchess felt a pang of pain in her heart. It all tied back to the Crown. The Crown was protecting him in the same way they were protecting the count. Marianne was protecting Louise. The queen, her best friend, was protecting the duchess and her family. And no one else had to know of the efforts being made to keep this all a secret. But that was soon to be undone.

Because of the damn Exposition.

Louise had shown the world that she had summoned a person, effectively challenging the centuries-old Church law that only beasts were brought forth from the aether. To have something else emerge was a defiance to doctrine and would inevitably place Louise, her friends, her whole house, and anyone she associated with under the mercies of the Inquisition. And if by some miracle she was found innocent, the stain of heresy would forever remain and diminish the power and influence of House Vallière to the point of insignificance.

Karin and her family would be powerless to help the Crown, much less themselves, when problems would arise. If she were to act out of her purview, even only to protect her family, she would be branded a rebel and hunted down and destroyed. So much was on the line, so much was about to come apart, because providence fated Louise to summon a man instead of a mere beast.

Had their prayers that she be proven a true mage been so effective that Brimir decided to bless them with a curse?

No. There was no time for future postulations. Right now, the milieu had changed and she shifted accordingly.

"Monsieur Walker, since you are not allowed to answer my queries on certain matters, grant me then this request."

He nodded. "Sure."

"Please take care of my daughter. As her familiar, you know what your duties are to her."

He nodded again. "I do. I promise you, Madame Duchess, that as long as I live, no harm would ever come to Louise."

The duchess smiled. Briefly. "That is all I ask of you. Now, if you don't mind me, I would like to meet with my daughter. Would you care to join me?"

Monsieur Walker raised his brow at her before shrugging and falling in stride with her. "When it comes to someone like you, I don't think I'm in a position to refuse anything you suggest."

"Come to think of it, where is your familiar?" Henrietta asked, her cup now empty and her hand wrapped around the neck of the near empty bottle.

"You're right. I haven't seen Leon in a while," Louise agreed, her speech a little slurry after indulging a bit too much with her own family's brand of spirits, watered down as it was. "I should go get him."

The Princess shook her head. "No need to hurry on my account. I'm sure he'll come around later in his own time."

"But you'll be gone by tomorrow."

"We have all night."

Kirche chuckled. "Say, didn't anyone of you notice how his collar was wrapped a little too tight around his neck? He seemed quite irritated about it."

"Formal wear tends to be uncomfortable at times," Guiche argued. "I take pride in Tristainian needlework but sometimes, the measurements can get a bit too precise for my liking."

Montmorency huffed. "You can't run with those breeches tied around your legs and you can't easily slither off to other dames now that you're all buttoned up in that nice waistcoat that I had tailored for you."

"And this is a wonderful gift, ma chérie! Though, you could have told the tailor to loosen up a bit?"

"I like to be very precise."

"Bien sûr, Monmon."

"Quite the pair," Henrietta snickered, taking a swig straight off the bottle.

"You have...a fondness for spirits, Madame Royale," the Germanian noted.

The Princess shrugged. "My job is stressful and I tend to spend my time with those who indulge in spirits to alleviate their burdens. So it couldn't be helped."

"Monsieur De Hainault?" Tabitha echoed, speaking for the first time tonight.

This plunged the group into silence until Henrietta belted out a hoarse laugh, one unbefitting of a royal.

After calming herself down, she flashed the Gallian a knowing smile. "Chevalier D'Orléans, your uncle has no power here. Relax. You're on land belonging to someone close to me and I trust he has taken every measure to ensure that he is in control of this entire province."

To this, the others felt the air squeezed out of their lungs and gawked incredulously at Her Royal Highness.

"Henrietta," Louise choked out. "Y-you knew?"

"Of course. Monsieur De Hainault told me as much. And I have done all I can to make sure that none of you are harassed by foreign agents or any of the sort. That and maybe keeping all this hush-hush but not to you lot."

Montmorency backed away, her jaw agape. "So it is true. This whole time...the count has had you wrapped around his finger..."

The Princess snickered. "Calm yourself, Ma'amselle Montmorency. Au contrare, it is the count who is wrapped around my finger. He is subservient to me and nothing but the Founder could sway him from my control."

The pink-haired mage forced out a laugh. "Henrietta, you're...you're scaring me. Us."

"Am I? Apologies. I tend to have a habit of making others uneasy from time to time."

"Not as often as I have," intoned Duchess Karin De La Vallière. Her sudden presence froze all but the Princess in their spots. The appearance of Leon trudging close by did little to ease the tension. "Bonsoir, Madame Royale. I apologize for intruding but may I have a word with my daughter?"

Henrietta chortled. "I see no reason not to allow you that, Madame la Duchesse. By all means, join us. Both of you. We were having a lovely conversation."

Mother smiled back. "I will be brief as I do not intend to rob you of your time with Louise."

Louise straightened herself, adopting the Rule Of Steel before the very woman who drilled it into her since she learned how to walk. "Mother! I am glad you came. It is very nice to see you again."

The duchess beamed warmly at her, not appearing too different from the rest of the adults milling about tonight. Her mantle simply came with her attire as it was customary of high nobility to travel with their honorary cloaks. "I have seen your familiar's performance earlier today."

The pink-haired mage forced a wide smile while she inwardly screamed. Did Mother like it? She sounded like she liked it. Or maybe this was the calm before the storm and she would bear the weight of the tempest once they were far enough away from prying eyes. "Yes, Mother. However, I must admit that not very much of what you have seen bore any of my creative input."

"That makes it all the better."

Huh? "Pardon?"

Mother gestured to Leon who stood inelastic like a palace guardsman beside the pillar. "Your familiar here, Monsieur Leon Walker De Tartarie, revealed to me as much how he executed such an entertaining show. For that, I thank your friends for their willing contribution to your intermission."

Kirche bowed. "You're welcome, Madame la Duchesse."

"You must be Ma'amselle Kirche Von Anhalt-Zerbst, are you not?"

The Germanian stilled, her smile getting more fragile by the second. "Yes, I am."

Louise wondered if Mother knew about Kirche's part in her torment. She never once mentioned any of it in her letters to home as Mother would have thought such things petty, childish, and not worth mentioning. Though, it felt a little nice to see that redheaded harlot squirm under the gaze of La Grande Tempête.

"A Zerbst propping up a Vallière. A rare occurrence yet one that I am grateful for."

The pink-haired sophomore nearly sputtered. "Mother?"

Mother turned to her. "Amid the bitter histories between our two houses, we often neglect the tender moments when both sides would give each other aid."

Louise barely recalled any. But that was probably because they were left out by her tutors for convenience. No one wanted to remind anyone of any nasty rivalries that everyone already knew. "I see."

The duchess studied the other students faces before quietly chuckling to herself. "It is unwise to forget the past when trudging onwards to the future."

"I think I've heard that before," quipped a smug Henrietta. The wine bottle she had been drinking from was now completely empty. "Non-verbatim but, eh, close enough to that."

"You do, have you, Madame Royale?"

"Madame la Duchesse, you are not the first to quote Tartaric proverbs in my presence."

"Oh? And may I ask what could be this Tartaric proverb you recognize?"

The Princess beamed pridefully, clearly drunk but not entirely devoid of her faculties. "Who are we to not know our own histories? Something like that, yes."

Louise pondered that. That was a good proverb, now that she thought about it. And it came from Tartary? Or rather, it originated from the peoples of the Wastelands. She would have to ask Leon about that later but now she had to contend with Mother playing coy with Her Royal Highness in front of her peers, neither of whom were behaving how she thought they would. Maybe it was the liquor?

"Indeed, Madame Royale. Indeed." The duchess turned to Leon. "Have you heard of that phrase before, Monsieur Walker?"

"Honestly, no, Madame Duchess. That probably must've come from another part of Tartary. Ah, somewhere...further west, I believe."

Henrietta chuckled, slouching a little gracelessly against the bannister, her cheeks red. "Eastern and western Tartary. If east is full of poisoned rivers and west is nothing but poisoned sand, I wonder what northern and southern Tartary is like then. Poisoned snow perhaps? Ooh, do they glow as well? Ooh! That would be interesting to see."

"Lots of that poison going around, that's for sure," quipped Louise's familiar.

"Louise."

To which the pink-haired sophomore bit her tongue to keep from squeaking and hastily recomposed herself in front of the duchess. "Mother?"

"How have you been?"

"I've been doing very well, Mother. I have been rigorous with my studies and I never failed to miss a single class."

"I did not doubt that about you. However, I am curious about other aspects of your schooling here. Such as present company."

"I admittedly have not been very sociable. My lessons take priority, after all. But as you can see, I have"—Louise paused while gesturing at her classmates, particularly towards Kirche who seemed more unnerved than amused—"ah, I have made some friends."

The duchess raised her brow at them. "To think I would not see the rift between the Vallières and the Anhalt-Zerbsts being mended here at the Académie of all places. Then again, serendipity and peacetime tend to make for a blessing from providence. I have to say, Louise. Well done."

The world stood still at that moment as the words echoed in her mind. She had done well. Mother had said it from her own lips towards her with a genuine, non-punitive smile; a sight rare even within the Vallière household. Louise had done well and it took a long moment for the elation in her heart to manifest in how much she preened at the compliment.

"Merci, Mother."

"Monsieur Grammont, I see you have exerted much effort with your golems."

Guiche, to his credit, conducted himself humbly. "Thank you for the compliment, Madame la Duchesse. I only did what was asked of me."

"I am likewise impressed by your manipulation of water, Ma'amselle Montmorency."

Montmorency curtsied. "Merci beaucoup, Madame la Duchesse."

"Ah, yes. How could I forget? Congratulations on winning this year's Exposition, Chevalier D'Orléans."

Was Tabitha's past an open secret now? Louise digressed and remained tightlipped while Tabitha stoically returned the compliment.

"I would wish to remain ever longer. However, I must depart immediately. I have my duties to attend to and with the current events, I have taken on more engaging tasks." Mother immediately turned to leave before pausing in front of Leon who so far kept to his stern vigil with his arms locked rigidly to his sides, his legs pressed together, his chest puffed out, and his chin raised.

"Leaving so soon, Madame la Duchesse?" the Princess purred. "The night is still young."

"There is much for me to do, Madame Royale. I do cherish the spare moments I can have with my daughter and circle of friends." The duchess drew up her hood. "Louise, you have summoned a good man. I am assured that he will serve you well."

"Yes, Mother," Louise replied, smirking a little at her familiar's discomfort. "He has done nothing but that."

It was dim out here but the lips of La Grande Tempête curled into a smile. "Bonne soirée."

Louise waited until she was absolutely sure that Mother was out of earshot before gesturing at her companions. "You can breathe now."

Leon slackened, his puffed chest folding while he slackened against the pillar gasping for air. "Holy shit, that woman scares the bejeezus out of me! Fuck, it looked like she was going to castrate me for not sucking in my stomach."

"I agree, Louise," Guiche added. "Your mother terrifies us all."

The pink-haired sophomore sighed. "She has that effect on people."

"She knows her facts," Kirche commended. "Teasing you has never become anymore difficult."

"That is if you dare tease me again. Be grateful I did not inform Mother of how you actually behaved towards me over the past year."

Montmorency squeaked. "No need for that, Louise! Honestly, the past is the past and we are all enlightened to be better towards each other. Right?"

"I doubt Madame la Duchesse would go out of her way to break any such laws to punish any of you," Henrietta loosely interjected before sauntering over to Leon. "Monsieur Walker, you have put on quite the show today."

Louise caught her familiar glancing over to her. She shrugged.

And he smoothly eased out of the Princess's bubble. "Thanks. And, uh, Your Royal Highness, I think you've had a bit too much to drink."

She waved him off. "Nonsense. It would take more than a single bottle to knock me off my feet. Now, I have heard so much about you. Care to confirm what I have heard?"

Monsieur Walker exhaled into his palm. "What have you heard, Your Royal Highness?"

"Just Henrietta would suffice. Honestly, I tire of titles and suffixes. It grates on my ears."

The pink-haired sophomore once again caught her familiar's pleading stare. Once more, she shrugged. With how the night was going, Henrietta's increasing intoxication was the least of her concerns. They had already thrown decorum and etiquette out the window with the Princess herself swaying and acting much unlike a royal...and in front of Mother, too. And it was not like she was being flirtatious with him. Not at all. Just leaning in close and giggling against the nape of his neck, stretching the limits of decency and absolutely not making her feel envious in any shape or form.

After all, what chances could she, a ducal daughter, have against a royal heir-apparent? Not that she considered that thought so she kept convincing herself that Henrietta was only drunk and definitely not sensually running her finger down her familiar's waistcoat.

"Okay, uh, H-H-Henrietta," he stammered. "Wh-what, ah, exactly have you, um, heard?"

Beneath Her Royal Highness's laughter and Leon's attempts to clarify the more ridiculous rumors about him, Guiche eased over to Louise and whispered, "We're not going to get in trouble for this, are we?"

"Why would we be?"

Montmorency huddled in close. "Because Her Royal Highness is clearly inebriated, we have just survived an encounter with your mother, and I can see the royal bodyguards and some of the staff watching us from across the hall."

"Calm down, you two," Kirche muttered, regaining some of her flare. "I doubt Directeur Osmond would punish us for entertaining Her Royal Highness."

"She ordered it," Tabitha echoed.

"Exactly."

Louise shook her head. "Look, it seems we have all been overwhelmed by the Princess being so, um...informal with us. Probably because of me. But that's a good thing. And Mother came as well and...that had honestly gone better than I expected."

The others nodded and they all peeked over their shoulders to see Henrietta pushing Leon back inside the hall...directly towards the table where the bottles of unopened spirits were still sitting on display in buckets of ice.

"Did not expect Her Royal Highness to be so into drink, however," the pink-haired mage noted. "But other than that, I doubt anything else is going to happen tonight. Leon knows when to keep things from getting out of hand and I trust Henrietta to be very responsible for herself since she is the Princess, after all."

"You're right, Louise," affirmed the Germanian. "We are just a little excited. It is a night of celebration after all. And we are out here to celebrate Tabitha's win, are we not?"

The monocled Gallian blinked impassively.

"But what if—"

"Oh hush now, le petit cochon. Have a drink. Relax. In fact, you wait here and I'll get something to loosen you up."

Kirche then went back inside to fetch more drinks while Guiche and Montmorency anxiously shuffled around, their apprehension making their small talk rather awkward. It was an interesting scenario that made Louise smile a bit more. To think that not too long ago, these people were the bane of her existence (except for Tabitha whose apathy was legendary) in the whole school. Now they behaved like a closely-knit clique.

Eventually, the redhead returned with Leon carrying a laden tray. She assured them that despite the pungent tang, their drinks were all watered down before passing each one their own glass and leading the toast.

"Tomorrow is the start of our adventure," Kirche hooted. "How exciting!"

Guiche coughed while Montmorency rubbed his back. "I thought you said this was watered down!"

Louise turned to her familiar, the alcoholic aftertaste still lingering in her tongue. "Leon?"

He shrugged. "I only had water."

"Come now, let us enjoy the night before it ends," sang the Germanian. "I can hear the orchestra playing a lovely melody that would be perfect for a dance with those handsome young lads over there."

The pink-haired mage snickered. "Of course, you do. Go on then, have fun."

"Now, now, Louise. I think you owe Leon a dance, don't you?"

To which she stuttered and nearly lost her footing while her familiar timidly confessed that he did not know how to dance. That did not stop Kirche from dragging both of them to the ballroom and getting the two to waltz in front of all the others. Fortunately, Louise avoided embarrassing herself thanks to all the lessons she took when she was four. And to Leon's credit, he learned quickly where to step and where to put his hands. She later apologized to him though for constantly stepping on his toes but he did not seem to mind.

Cardinal Jules Mazarin made himself as presentable as he could when the delegation arrived at the royal palace. It was very late in the evening but the journey from Romalia to Tristainia was long and grueling. The fact that they were bringing with them a sacred artifact from the Papal reliquaries was enough of a reason to include a detachment of elite Papal guardsmen to accompany the already formidable party of Papal Inquisitors who were now disembarking from their carriages.

With balls of mage-light hovering over sconces to illuminate their path, the delegation carried themselves with reverence up the grand steps where Mazarin was poised to receive them.

Greetings were loud and quick and the cardinal recognized the face of the Papal legate leading the group. The dark-skinned giant of a man with the twisted hairs smiled homely back at him, carrying his golden eagled staff with him.

"I trust your journey has been without incident," Mazarin said as he led them to their quarters for the night.

"There have been minor bumps but nothing too serious," the legate replied in that haunting baritone. "Has Her Majesty retired for the evening?"

"I'm afraid so, Monsieur Chesare. It is, after all, close to midnight."

"That is understandable. Our assignment here does not begin until morning when, I hope, Her Majesty and Her Royal Highness will be present to receive us."

The cardinal nodded. "Yes, of course. However, Her Royal Highness is not on the premises at this time and may not be arriving until midday tomorrow."

"Oh? Is it because of the Exposition Familière? Did she personally attend?"

Mazarin hid his surprise. The legate was well informed, albeit too much to his liking. "Yes, she has. You understand how much Her Royal Highness feels the need to personally connect with the people. Her heart aches for them and she has felt stifled being unable to do much from within the palace."

Legate Julio Chesare let out a short, deep laugh. "Her compassion is most commendable. A rare trait amongst many leaders I have seen."

"Truly." The cardinal stopped before a set of double doors that led to the annex that housed the guest quarters. "Before we proceed, I must ask of the relic you have brought with you. Should we house it in the palace vault?"

"That would not be necessary, monsieur. The relic shall rest with us. We Inquisitors can become a vault of our own when necessary. And I doubt the relic would appreciate being separate from us."

Mazarin nodded, smiling as always while keeping his eyes at the other members of the Papal delegation, all of whom were dressed in the gold-rimmed Papal robes. Between them was a large, gold-rimmed, steel chest suspended from a steel pole resting on the shoulders of a pair of inquisitors. While appearing modest and morose, these men were undoubtedly Triangle-class at the very least with years of experience hidden under their sleeves. There was no question to the martial prowess of a Papal Inquisitor who was as capable of bringing a man back from the brink of death as much as sending him to it in the most efficient way possible.

To think the Inquisition alone could have formed a stalwart fighting force in times of war but Romalia had seen fit to avoid entangling itself with armed conflict unless the sovereignty of the Church was threatened or a crusade had been called. Alas, they were more suited to rooting out heresies and quelling armed resistance to the Church's doctrines. And tonight, these powerful holy men and their equally martially adept escorts were here to confirm whether or not Princess Henrietta De Tristain was the fulfillment of an ancient Brimiric prophecy.

"Very well. Once more, welcome to Tristain, Monsieur Chesare. Until tomorrow shall we speak again."

Shortly afterward, Cardinal Jules Mazarin prayed in his room that providence favor the Crown in the face of the Inquisition.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 1, 2021

LAST EDITED: October 22, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 19, 2021

Chapter Text

Day LXXI

Agnès stood dutifully by the door as Her Royal Highness slumped against the table in her guest quarters here at the Académie. The latter massaged her temples, taking in the steam from her early morning tea sitting under her nose.

"Tell me I didn't cause a scandal last night," she groaned.

"No, Madame Royale. You behaved yourself rather well," the musketeer captain assured her.

Henrietta raised her head and leveled her with a pointed stare. "Don't lie to me."

Chevalier De Milan shrugged, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. It was the truth; Her Royal Highness was the most behaved compared to the antics of the nobility she had seen in her life (and she had seen much in her two decades of existence). "I'm not going to. I told you. You did nothing wrong."

"I've known you long enough to see that you're being too kind. I mean, look at those bags under your eyes. I know I've put you through so much trouble." The Princess tapped the table. "Come on, say it. What did I do?"

Agnès stared back for a long while. There was a lot that had happened in the late hours the previous night. How much of it she was willing to disclose... Well, she could summarize everything. That way, she was not lying and technically was not hiding anything from her. Besides, it was only the two of them here in the room with the rest of the halls empty (save for a few of her subordinates lingering about) and the annex of the guest quarters locked down by the rest of the royal retinue. And it was early in the morning when half the student body were asleep and the other half packing up to leave for home. That was atop the long-standing protective enchantments that covered the walls, further augmented last week by Director Osmond in preparation for Henrietta's visit.

Ultimately, the musketeer captain shrugged and bluntly relayed how her liege nearly made a fool of herself in front of a group of students, including Mademoiselle Louise De La Vallière and her familiar Monsieur Leon De Tartarie and (she inwardly shuddered) Duchess Karin De La Vallière.

The Princess dropped her head into her hands. "Merde. J'ai fait chier la duchesse."

That was a crude way of saying it. "I wouldn't put it that way. You managed to hold your own and Madame la Duchesse De La Vallière departed in good spirits."

"'In good spirits?'"

"She did not...seem unhappy when she withdrew. That and you were starting to stagger a bit when you forced Monsieur De Tartarie to get you another bottle." Honestly, she understood why they provided spirits given the festiveness of the Bal Du Frigg but why the strong ones? A lot of the students here did not look like they could hold their liquor!

"Putain. It's just getting worse and worse..."

"From there, we stepped in to 'encourage' you to retire early."

Her liege sighed. "Oh Brimir merci! Please tell me I was not much trouble afterward."

Chevalier De Milan grimaced a little. "... You managed to sneak away another bottle."

Groan. "And I drank it, oui?"

She nodded. "After that, you began regaling us with your latest dream...about the Wastela—erm—Tartary...and how you helped Sixième cut down a herd of golden bulls through the use of repeating muskets and heavy flintlocks loaded with cannon shot."

"Is that really what I said?"

"I paraphrased."

"Right. Um, what else did I do?"

Dear Founder, reporting something like this was a getting little uncomfortable. Agnès, her cheeks getting a little warm, had to mentally strain her vocabulary for the right words to say. "Afterwards, you...began taking off your clothes...in the middle of the hall...in front of us. We had to, ah, restrain you and, uh, direct you with haste back here to your quarters. As our prerogative, of course."

Henrietta sagged. "I...apologize for that. You were...you were simply doing your duty."

"It is nothing, Madame Royale. Really, it isn't." This was part of their job, after all.

"Is that all? Please tell me that that was all."

Chevalier De Milan breathed deep to silence her consternation. "On the way here, you...ah...slipped free of our grasp and...unfortunately left some of your garments in our hands...which rendered you, um..."

"What? Say it. What is it? What did I do then?"

Despite her rigorous discipline and self-control, she fidgeted and glanced away. "... You slapped me on my breast and yelled, 'tag, you are thine'... Then you ran down the corridor...partially clothed...laughing and, ah, 'colorfully' cajoling us to chase after you and say 'tag, thou art it.'"

The Princess planted her head on the table to muffle the loud groan that followed. "Extend my deepest apologies to the others."

"They are very understanding of your, ah, circumstance, Madame Royale. Truly, there was no ill will borne from this."

"And that was the end of it. That has to be the end of it."

Unfortunately, no. The child's game that they inevitably had to play led to a chase around the school grounds (and chance encounters with staff and some mildly intoxicated students who were sternly ordered to forget what they had witnessed). One of the staff, the head chef Marteau, even complained to them about someone raiding their wine and liquor stocks and causing a whole mess of it. A good thing he blamed 'rowdy students.' The missing bottles, however, ended up...somewhere...

Agnès settled for paraphrasing again. "We kept up with you and retrieved you...in the scullery...trying to make wine out of water."

Henrietta's face twisted into horror, then confusion, then anger, then curiosity. It took her a while to gather her words. "... How...how exactly was I trying to make wine out of water?"

"You were drawing water from a pail into an empty glass bottle with your wand and chanting, 'moon-shine, moon-shine, come forth and be mine.'"

"And...did I actually make moon-shine?"

Agnès blinked. What the hell was moon-shine? "No, you did not."

"Oh." The disappointment was palpable.

"We convinced you to stop and come with us," the musketeer captain continued.

Though, she left out the part where they told the Princess that 'moon-shine' was a water spirit that lived in a pond somewhere in the nearby forest and that disturbing it would render unto her a curse that would forbade her from drinking any more liquor. Or something like that. It was all horse dung but it worked and Her Royal Highness was so horrified that she begged the non-existent water spirit to forgive her for trying to drink it.

"You were cooperative from then on and we escorted you back here where you finally retired for the night." That last bit was troublesome as well but nothing that Chevalier De Milan felt she needed to tell her liege.

Henrietta grasped her cup and, instead of sipping it, took a big gulp. With a grimace and a shake of her head, she asked, "Is the carriage ready? I think I should go. I've embarrassed myself enough here."

Oh, right. The carriage. Yeah. About that. "I believe you scheduled a meeting with Directeur Osmond this morning? He was not present to receive you yesterday and wishes to personally engage with you."

"Yes, yes! I didn't see him at all yesterday. You're right. I should meet with him." The Princess laughed weakly. "There is a lot that we should discuss. Though, I doubt he was ignorant of...last night's mess. Yes, I will go have a talk with him later. At what time?"

"Within a few hours."

Henrietta nodded. "Good. Merci, Agnès. You may...you may leave now."

"I will be nearby should you have need of me," bade Chevalier De Milan. She stepped out into the corridor where she was greeted by the other musketeers. As soon as the door closed, she sent one of them up to the Director's office to inform him that the Princess was coming up to personally discuss some matters of importance with him.

Hopefully, that would buy time until the horses recovered and would be in proper condition to travel. They could have punished the stablehands who were supposed to be managing the stables but Agnès decided on leniency; she could hardly blame them. After all, these commoners could not really turn down an offer of several bottles of spirits from a royal and ordered to share the boon with the horses. At least they had gotten so drunk that they barely remembered any more details.

"Ma'ame Capitaine," whispered a mousy-haired musketeer, Elaine. "If I may, is this going to be a common occurrence?"

Chevalier De Milan sighed. "Pray that it wouldn't be. Goodness knows, Her Royal Highness was not supposed to be like this."

"I blame Monsieur De Hainault," quipped Jeannette, her lieutenant.

The rest of the retinue hummed in agreement. And Agnès could not really argue with them on that.

"Spare clothes?"

"Already packed along with toiletries and other essentials."

"Spending money?"

"Reserved enough for that. No frivolities."

"Secret weapons?"

"No, we don't—excuse me?"

Leon looked up from their equipment list as Chef Marteau helped the coach drivers load their accumulated luggage onto the pair of carriages chartered by the Count De Hainault. The stablehands were busy with the royal entourage—something involving missing drinks and stubborn horses—so the party had to pack up outside the Académie walls with the rest of the other students. At least it was much less constricting out here.

"Louise, did you make room for extra gear?"

Louise furrowed her brow. "Extra...? You're a walking armory, for Brimir's sake!"

He shrugged, the satchels containing all his assortment of concealed weaponry and all other inane baubles juggling around his hip. "True. But I got to limit myself to around seven stone. Legroom, y'know?"

"You packed all of your bollock knives?"

He nodded, tapping the hilt of his main sword sheathed against his hip. "Uh-huh. Don't worry, I had the crossbows and the bolts moved inside, right above the seat cushions for easy access in case we get jumped on the roads."

There was a thump in one of the two carriages followed by Guiche moaning in pain and Verðandi whimpering loudly for its master. Montmorency stuck her head out and, after bleating that it was already cramped inside with their own respective familiars taking up room, demanded why there were weapons stacked above the seat cushions because a crossbow that was hooked to the ceiling had come loose and fell directly onto her fiancé's head.

The pink-haired mage turned to her familiar. "Why don't you just give Tabitha your excess equipment? Sylphid can carry a great load with her wing now fully recovered."

"I was going to but Tabitha had already packed her stuff. There's no room."

"There's no room? Are you serious?" Louise angled her head so she could see the other side of the carriages where Tabitha was reading a book atop Sylphid. A single suitcase, smaller than even Louise's, was tightly saddled behind the Gallian. "Wha...? There's obviously more room!"

As if hearing her, Tabitha shook her head. "No room."

Louise was about to argue before Kirche showed up, practically skipping out the gantry, with Flame in tow. An attendant trailed after her, carrying her two leather-bound and steel-rimmed cases of her luggage which Tabitha levitated over to the space behind her own travel pack.

"So which one am I going to be riding in?" the Germanian asked.

Without looking up from his list, Leon pointed to the fore carriage. "In there with us. Let's see... Bare essentials covered..."

The pink-haired mage whipped her head towards him then to the redhead who giggled excitably while her fire salamander waddled into the vacant coach. Normally, Louise would have refused to share a ride with Kirche. Then again, why would she be so averse? It was not like she would make the trip unbearable. Besides, she was not flirting with Leon as much as she used to and the barbs she would throw her way were not as insulting or infuriating as before.

"You might want to check the interior," Louise told the Germanian. "Leon may have stacked some more of his junk in the corners or something."

"Is that so?" she replied, sizing the young nobleman up. "He looks like he's traveling light."

"Don't be deceived. He...likes to, ah, pack reserves. Just in case, he says."

"I suppose that makes sense. This seems like a long trip and we might be spending our entire vacation in a town that does not have the much of any of the usual amenities."

"We're going to be digging around for treasure."

Kirche smugly poked her finger on Louise's nose, vexing her. "That doesn't mean we won't run into any resistance. We are, after all, uncovering a secret that a whole town strove to keep buried for decades. You may never know what lengths they would pursue to keep it a secret."

The pink-haired mage huffed and folded her arms. "Let's just hope the royal seal will be more than enough to convince those commoners."

The redhead hummed. "I would not always rely on that."

"It's the royal seal. It's the symbol of Crown authority. Absolute. You would have to be suicidal to try to go against it."

Kirche shook her head. "Louise, liebling, I would not underestimate the determination of the plebes if I were you. Especially if they are protecting something they consider near sacred."

Louise bit her lip to keep her from harking on about the redhead's cultural barbarianism with regards to the people of her homeland. Surely, the invocation of Crown authority would force any resistance to stand down. Then again, the plebes have demonstrated time and time again their tenacity and willingness to face noble wrath (and risk near total annihilation) over something that may seem petty to an aristocrat like her.

"... Don't...don't be so negative about that," she hissed. "We will have Siesta accompanying us. Her word should carry enough weight that we hopefully would not have to use the royal seal."

"Again. Not always the case."

"You know what? Just get in." With that, the smaller girl began pushing her bigger companion into the fore carriage.

"I spy with my little eye...something blue!"

"The sky," Louise droned.

"Sylphid," Leon chirped.

Kirche snickered and pointed out the window of their carriage. "Wrong. It's the tulips over there."

The pink-haired mage squinted her eyes. "... How can you see them all the way from here?"

"You tend to develop a sharp eye for certain things," the Germanian sallied with a not-so-subtle wink to the landless nobleman seated across from her.

He chuckled, looking back out the window as Sylphid flew overhead. "Yeah, a lot of eye-catchers out here."

Louise frowned. "My turn. I spy with my little eye...um...a dolphin-shaped cloud."

The other two stared at her. Even Flame, curled up next to Kirche with its lit tail hanging out the other window, tilted its head at her.

"Louise, you're not supposed to say exactly what you're looking at," Leon said.

She folded her arms. "This game is dumb."

"Nah, you're just not good at it."

And thus, their fifth round of banter commenced with Kirche taking the opportunity to poke at the nature of the pink-haired mage's relationship with her familiar. It was quite vexing but not entirely unwelcome. Then Leon mentioned how her temperament reminded him of the time he was nearly banished from a fortified canton...by a foul-mouthed, temperamental child.

Kirche coughed. "Wie bitte?"

Louise raised her brow. "Oh... You mean I sound that rude boy from that underground settlement—what was it's name again?"

"Little Lamplight."

"Yes. I remember now. What an interesting comparison you've made of me. I am not vulgar, by the way."

"Unless provoked."

The Germanian glanced between them, her mouth hanging open. "Am I missing something here?"

The pink-haired girl waved her off. "Just another tale from his homeland. One of the more bearable ones, at least."

"Really." The redhead leaned close. "Do tell."

Louise looked to her familiar and shrugged. "Go on. Tell her."

He scratched the back of his head. "Alright. So yeah... I nearly got kicked out of an underground commune full of kids by...a kid...with a rifle. And he actually knew how to use it."

Kirche raised her brow. "You were threatened and nearly banished by a child? What about the adults?"

"Ah, they, ah...either died or were kicked out."

The mirth left her face and she was stared back in shocked curiosity. "Oh. They either perished or were exiled?"

"Pretty much. I mean, I remember...the rule was if you turned sixteen...or eighteen? Either way, you reach a certain age, you either get kicked out or you bite the bullet. Pretty nasty which way you go about it."

The Germanian blinked several times. "How could they thrive then? Who grows the crops? Do they even have crops? What about trade? What happens if there's a plague?"

Leon shrugged. "Hey, those kids made it work. One of them even tried to sell me actual, working weapons. They even got a pretty nifty system of government."

"What, like proclaim yourself king and everyone obeys you?"

"Ah...something like that kinda happened, I was told. You see, when I showed up, the kid with the rifle was the one in charge. He was thirteen and he was the mayor."

"Because he was armed."

"Not only that but because he was actually the only one capable of protecting the settlement. I'm serious. He's a good shot. Not to mention they were literally between a rock and a hard place. Go any deeper into the caves and you'll run into...some really nasty things. Go outside and...well...it's much worse."

Kirche tilted her head, incredulous much to Louise's amusement. "Can the boy lead though?"

"Oh yeah. Most of the other kids respected his authority. Of course, there was an opposition but...ah...they were a minority."

The redhead narrowed her eyes at him. "You didn't...kill any children. Did you?"

"Fuck, no!" Leon proceeded to lecture her on his convictions and the rationale behind his decision to help and protect Little Lamplight at all costs.

Louise had heard it all before and even shuddered a bit at the images from her more macabre dreams. She shook her head and returned to gazing at miles of the Tristainian countryside. They were still a good distance away from their first destination and that meant long boring hours in a carriage. Then she was dragged into a ridiculous exchange between her familiar and Kirche over the mysteries of his Pip-Boy. Though she had to admit that the two of them badgering him over it made the tedious trip to Mons a bit livelier.

Mons was a beautiful town with marvelous architecture, exquisite goods, and sumptuous food. It all paled in comparison to Tristainia but Siesta regarded the provincial capital of Hainault to be one of the finest urban locales she had ever visited. And she rarely was able to visit such places outside of her work.

"Your food is getting cold," echoed Chevalier Michel Ney.

The maid snapped out of her daze and hurried to finish her meal—an expensive dish paid for by her escort seated across from her. His plate was littered with scraps and bones while his tankard was nearly empty. From his build, it looked like he could have eaten more but he mostly kept his attention to the rest of the patrons here at the largest inn in Mons, situated at the town square.

"Assuming your companions did not dally, they should be here before I would have to leave," the commandant said, exchanging nods with some men drinking in a corner.

Siesta hoped they did. Ney was a busy man, almost as busy as Head Butler Berthier or the count himself. Hence, they could not linger any further than the late afternoon at best. If that were to happen, she would be left to her lonesome here in Mons while her escort rode off to...wherever he was needed. Judging by how most of the people here were looking to him more than they were to her, it was evident he was a common face in a majority of the province's affairs.

Her knapsack nearly slipped off her lap and she snatched it back up. In it was her purse which held a substantially large amount of money. A fraction came from her savings with the rest being the allowance given by Count De Hainault to help her in their mission. So far, she had yet to spend a single coin.

Ney must have traced where her hand had gone and repeated the instructions relayed to her by the count the previous evening. "Remember, ma'amselle, you are on a limited budget. You are allowed to ask for more but only when there is sufficient reason for additional expenses..."

Yes, yes, that was all clear and understood. Siesta could not blame him though for constantly reminding her of that. As a commoner, she was a vulnerable target for anyone and everyone. And she was carrying a lot of money, having been entrusted with much confidence by the provincial governor (though virtually no one else outside of the manor knew that).

"... Am I clear?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Good. Bear with me. I feel the need to ensure you are efficient. You're not a soldier but it sometimes is hard to do away with certain habits." Ney waved to one of the barmaids for a refill. "You spend most of your day with troops lacking in proper discipline and, well, you tend to forget that you're with ordinary people in an ordinary town..."

Siesta nodded silently. The commandant had already established that facet of himself early on—a military man through and through. Then she learned about his past: the famed 'Red Paladin', the 'Bravest of the Brave' who fought back the Germanians and their allies in that bloody war that almost spelled the undoing of Tristain. There were many heroes that were born from that conflict and she had no idea she had been talking freely to one for over a week now.

Minutes later, and after another round from the bar, Ney leaned across the table and asked, "How is your family, by the way?"

The maid straightened in surprise. That was unexpected of him. "From my last correspondence, they were doing well for themselves."

"Not scraping to get by?"

Close enough. "They are living off of meager wages. There is not much wealth in Talbes itself outside of the...usual trades."

He nodded. "I suppose so. What about your, ah, parents? How is their health?"

Siesta was hesitant to answer that one. She had only ever opened up about this to the other servants back at the Académie, to Leon, a little bit to Mademoiselle Louise, and recently to Count De Hainault. But Chevalier Ney? She barely knew him outside of their daily routines. "... They are in good health, much more in good spirits. Thank you for asking, monsieur."

He nodded again. "Your siblings?"

She really did not want to answer despite the kindness she was receiving so far. "... I have seven. Three brothers and four sisters. I am the oldest."

He smiled briefly. "And the most capable hence you working so far from home."

Out of necessity. "There were better opportunities elsewhere...so I took the opportunity while it was still there."

"Don't hold yourself so modestly, ma'amselle. You are a sublime servant. It is no wonder you were accepted at the Académie. Such earnest diligence is often found lacking in many others and given the school's standards, you have done well to earn your place there. Exceptionally well now that you are with us."

Siesta beamed at the praise. "Thank you, monsieur. I strive to do my best."

He downed his tankard. "For your family or for yourself?"

"For my family, of course."

"And nothing for yourself?" Ney raised his brow. "Surely, you have at least some desires of your own apart from the needs of those whom you care for."

The maid bit her lip. This was getting a little uncomfortable but she could not really back out of this conversation so abruptly. "... I do have wants of my own but...they are irrelevant at this time."

"Irrelevance does not often hinder personal ambition." The commandant once again framed his attention to the rest of the inn, laughing quietly to himself. "I had ambitions of my own when I was a child. To be a hero of great renown. I imagined myself riding on horseback, leading the charge, delivering the pivotal strike that would turn the tide of battle. I dreamt fantasies of being rewarded for my valor with knighthood, land, money, fame...infamy..."

"But you are!" Siesta held her tongue and was glad no one else had heard her raise her voice. "You are, monsieur. You are Le Rouge Palaisin, les Brave des Braves. You are a living hero who helped save Tristain in its darkest times."

"So the stories go." The proud smile on his face began to falter. "I am a 'hero,' yes. But it was not of my own strength. I became who I was because of other, greater heroes. Leaders and mentors, brothers and sisters in arms... I wonder what they would think of me now if they knew what I have been doing since then."

Some of the other patrons got up to leave and on the way out, they passed brief nods to the commandant.

"People know me for my contributions to the battlefield," he continued. "Even today, regardless of my service to Monsieur De Hainault...despite all that I have done...the things that I still do that may damn me...I am still celebrated as a hero."

"Are you not...happy with that?"

The next laugh sounded pained. "... I am happy. Happy as can be..."

Siesta held her tongue as he dipped his head to stare at his empty tankard. He then shook his head, hardened his mien, and resumed his vigilance. She was about to ask more about him when the doors to the inn opened and a gaggle of young mages strolled in with the oldest among them hefting satchels and pouches on his person alongside a sword sheathed by his hip.

Ney waved them over and their reunion was boisterous with Mademoiselle Zerbst ordering a round of drinks much to the protestations of the other students. An hour later, before Siesta boarded the rear carriage, she walked up to the commandant and gave him her thanks, wishing him a safe trip and good health.

He patted her on the shoulder then asked, "You did not bring anything else with you other than your belongings and your coin?"

"No. This is all I have with me."

"And Monsieur De Hainault provided you with nothing more."

"Non."

Ney studied her, looking her up and down. He shook his head and turned away, muttering to himself. A while later, he unclasped the straps to the dagger he carried beside his sword-wand and handed it to her, sheath and all.

"Take it," he ordered. "You're going to need it, I'm sure."

Siesta hesitated. "Monsieur, I...I don't know how to fight!"

"I know Monsieur Walker has an assortment of weapons on his person and even more packed in the coaches but I want you to have this for yourself. It is for your personal protection when you find yourself in the most unfavorable of circumstances. Lend it to no one; this for you and you alone to use."

"Monsieur Commandant, I cannot—"

He shoved it into her hands and folded her fingers over it. "This now belongs to you. It has served me well and I believe it will to you."

The maid stepped away, holding tightly onto the dagger with an ornate hilt sheathed into a lacquered scabbard and wrapped in the leather straps meant to hold it to her waist or her thigh. It was not the first time she had held onto a blade. This was no farmyard tool, however. This had been used to draw blood and the feeling of it pressed to her chest made her feel a little afraid.

"Go now," the Red Paladin said.

"I...this..." Siesta sighed. "Merci beaucoup, monsieur."

He smiled very briefly at her. "You are a good woman, ma'amselle. Je vous souhaite bonne chance."

She stepped back as he saddled on his horse and galloped off. She remained rooted to where she stood, watching him ride away, until was called back to the carriages where she asked Leon to help her fit the dagger around her waist which annoyed Mademoiselle Louise. All the while Mademoiselle Zerbst asked the maid if she had a more personal relationship with the commandant. Siesta firmly denied any such notion.

Henrietta felt her heart stop.

There he was. The man in her dreams. The tall, dark-skinned herald with the twisted hairs and the golden eagled-staff who would sometimes morph out of the darkness, sometimes rising from the sand or emerging out of those red clouds, sometimes walking out of the umbra of Sixième's shadow to echo cryptic messages. Now he stood there before her in golden tasseled Papal robes—vestal sashes and all—with neatly-braided, obsidian locks hung down to his shoulders with his hand around the shaft of that magnificent staff.

"Bonjour, Madame Royale," greeted the man whose true name evaded her. "I am Julio Chesare, Cardinal of Romalia and Supreme Legate to His Holiness Aegis the Thirty-Second. I come with the Inquisition."

It took her quite a moment to find her voice. "... Welcome to Tristain, Monsieur le Cardinal Chesare. Please accept my apologies for arriving rather late. I was not made aware of your visit."

The legate chuckled. "That is of no consequence. The sun may be retiring but our business here has yet to properly begin."

The Princess smiled along while Cardinal Mazarin handled the rest of the pleasantries. She walked alongside them, chancing glances at Agnès to her right and the Queen to her left. They all gathered at the congregational hall where the rest of the inquisitors had been waiting, some of whom were standing guard around a large, golden-rimmed, steel chest. When the doors clicked shut and they had seated themselves around the long table, Henrietta knew her own inquisition had begun.

"Madame Royale," Legate Chesare echoed, his baritone carrying an evocative charm, "we have come here to investigate widespread reports regarding the nature of your conduct as regent and the conduct of your subordinates as servants of the Crown and enforcers of the law in recent months. Of particular interest is the appointment of a new royal messenger who allegedly has been largely instrumental in bringing about drastic changes throughout this kingdom. From there, we have been inundated with a deluge of hearsay and questionable accounts regarding his behavior and manner of conduct that has been widely claimed to go against the laws of the Church..."

Henrietta breathed deep as the litany of accusations continued. She held her composure while chancing glances at the others in the hall. The rest of the inquisitors were largely stoic and unmoved. Agnès, however, was showing hints of disdain that mixed with her stern facade. Her mother and the cardinal remained nonchalant and the Princess wished she had their mastery in false faces given how she was struggling to appear unmoved.

"...and that is the preamble of our investigation," the legate concluded.

Henrietta turned to her mother who only nodded.

"Monsieur Chesare, I believe you will find many of those accusations baseless," the Queen said. "While we have sponsored the efforts of our royal messenger in fulfilling his duties, we were not aware that he would pursue such hasty methods to the achieve the goal of rectifying the many issues plaguing our aristocracy here. Alas, by the time we were able to ascertain the nature of his work, it was too late to effect any changes to his methodology."

"Madame la Reine, are you saying that you cannot command your servants to behave?" Legate Chesare gestured at the Princess and the cardinal. "Surely, the Crown's authority holds strongly here unlike in Gallia or Germania."

Henrietta almost shrunk as her mother continued to argue Tristain's case against the Inquisition. All this was her fault, after all. She had summoned a man who had no qualms of breaking the social order to achieve his aims. She had brought forth a monster willing to cross boundaries for the sake of his objectives. However, a small voice argued, his objectives were noble and he was not acting only for his own interests but in the overall interests of the Crown. His deeds were questionable at the very least and abhorrent at best yet the end result benefited the kingdom and led to greater stability and more centralized control over Tristain's subjects.

At least, that was where the argument went when Cardinal Mazarin voiced his say in the matter.

So far, the Princess had been spared the inquiry and she remained seated, watching the back-and-forth and the wondering how she could resolve this without implicating her in anymore potential scandals. A part of her wished that this day be over—that this whole Inquisition would be over—so she could get back to drinking and planning on how to run a knife through the belly of Reconquista.

The legate's voice boomed across the table. "Madame Royale, may I ask you to explain how you executed the Invocation Familière Sanctifée?"

This was it. This was the moment that could either vindicate her or lead to her ruin. With a deep breath, she answered, "Monsieur Chesare, I executed the Invocation strictly in accordance with how it was meant to be done. I recited the incantation verbatim to the written record and followed every rule including the exact form of the runes and the specificity of the reagents involved."

The legate motioned for her to continue.

Henrietta mentally apologized to Director Osmond and Professor Colbert. "The Invocation was overseen by Professeur Jean-Baptiste Colbert with the complete endorsement of Directeur Antoine-Laurent Osmond. The director was not present at the time, however, as he was attending to his duties at the Académie Royale Tristain Des Arcanes. Should I to evaluate on my case, I see no difference to how I executed the ritual compared to the students at the Académie."

Legate Chesare fell quiet, studying her, scrutinizing her. He stared deep into her soul while his large, bulging arms rested firmly on the varnish, his calloused fingers intertwined.

"Is there anything more you would like to ask, monsieur?"

"No, Madame Royale. Thank you for your answer." He turned to his colleagues and exchanged nods. "We shall end our inquiries here today. However, before we adjourn, allow me to reveal to you the artifact that we have brought with us."

The inquisitors then levitated the chest to the edge of the legate's seat and undid the four heavy locks. Henrietta did not have to stand in her seat or edge close to see what was inside. When the lid was pulled back, the legate dipped his arms in and withdrew a long black metal box polished to a shine. Another inquisitor stepped forward to magically unseal the pair of locks holding it shut. Legate Chesare placed the box onto the table and opened it to reveal...

...a longsword sheathed in an obsidian-colored, gold-lined scabbard and wrapped in a dark velvet blanket. The hilt was marred with age, bearing chips and scrapes, with the grip covered in tarnish and a crack running through the pommel which was comprised largely of a deep blue gemstone.

All in all, it was an old weapon that was not too dissimilar to any aged sword owned by a noble. Albeit, if Henrietta could discern, it had the appearance more of an antique from a distant time with the simplicity of its design hinting that it was probably forged in the days of the ancient Romalian Empire that once encompassed all of Halkeginia including the entirety of Albion, most of Germania, and nearly all of the Holy Lands up to the Rub' Al Khali. In fact, when the legate raised it, the Princess recognized the inscription on the scabbard: old Mitlan, the language of ancient Romalia.

"A blade forged during the era of Brimir himself, a sword blessed with the ability to consume magic and undo any spell known to man, elf, or beast. Behold, Deufelevorum."

Legate Chesare drew the sword, spread the velvet over the table, and rested the blade atop its sheath on the blanket. The balls of mage-light hovering over the sconces on the walls and the light from the chandeliers reflected against the near-flawless steel, showing very little in the way of damage despite the battles it had seen and subsequent centuries that it lay entombed in the Papal vaults. The Princess could gawk at how beautiful it looked...

"You could have done without the introduction," echoed an ethereally raspy voice.

The royals flinched back in their seats while Agnès shuffled forward with her fingers bracing the grips of her flintlocks. In contrast, the inquisitors remained entirely unmoved with Legate Chesare holding up his hand.

"At ease, everyone," he insisted.

Strange noises followed, as though someone was stretching and pulling on their arms and legs, before the voice rasped again. "Ten thousand years will give you such a crick in the hilt, let me tell you."

"You haven't been gone that long," the legate replied a little mirthfully.

"Monsieur Chesare, who are you speaking to?" asked Cardinal Mazarin.

"Don't you have eyes, old man?" the voice snarled. "I'm right here!"

The Tristainians all turned to the sword on the table.

"Is...is the sword actually...speaking?" Henrietta mouthed.

The sword, for lack of a mouth, grunted back from its...hilt. Or pommel. Or somewhere along the handle. "Oh, right. I'm a rarity. Surprise, girl! Yes, I can speak. What, am I the only one left? How long have I been asleep? A thousand years? Two? I could barely remember."

"About a few hundred years," quipped Legate Chesare.

"H-how," the Queen stammered, "how is this...possible?"

"What? Never seen my kind before? Have they gone extinct? Melted down? Left in someone's gut? Tossed into the sea? Buried with some pagan warlord?" The weapons' voice seemed to get hoarser by the sentence. Or maybe that was how magical swords from a bygone era spoke—as though they had been smoking Director Osmond's pipe five times a day for fifty years.

"This...is something entirely new, I admit," Mazarin intoned.

The sword sighed. Or made a noise that sounded like a sigh. "... It's been a long time then. As you have heard from my handler, I am Deufelevorum. But since ancient Mitlan has fallen out of style, or simplified into pidgin Mitlan that you churchmen so love to use in your rituals, you can just call me Derflinger. Much easier on your tongues, I suppose."

"Ancient Mitlan?" the cardinal remarked, furrowing his brows until his eyes widened. "Truly, you were forged during the age of the Romalian Empire?"

"What, don't I look it?"

"You have the distinct form of an ancient Romalian sword," the Princess quipped. "With all due respect, ah, great Derflinger."

The sword barked out a laugh. "She calls me 'great' Derflinger! Oh, I haven't had that kind of reverence since I was last sealed away. About time someone showed some proper respect."

Henrietta almost scratched the back of her head. "Well, you were made at a time when a mighty empire ruled all of Halkeginia and the Holy Lands. Compared to today, that period in time is seen as the golden age of humanity."

"It's been that long, huh? Last I was up and swinging, Romalia was in more of the dark ages with entire provinces breaking off and forming their own kingdoms. I guess time did its magic and rewrote the history books, eh?"

"Pardon me, Deufelevorum," the Queen interposed.

"Just Derflinger, please. I can tell you're having a hard time saying my Mitlan name."

"Yes, of course. Derflinger. May I ask how old you are?"

The sword was quiet for a moment. Then its mutterings were heard; it was literally counting the years in rapid form. At the end, it grunted in frustration. "... Woman, I don't know. My memories are hazy. You know, sentient weapons like myself are not really blessed with good reminiscence. I've probably forgotten far more than I could even recall. Like the last time I was taken out of that damn box and used as an actual weapon. Since then, I was rolled out every now and then for people to stare at but recently, I've had the chance to actually have a chat with the mortals looking after me. Catch up a bit on current events. Then forget most of them."

"The true age of Deufelevorum is estimated to be between three to six thousand years," rejoined Legate Chesare. "I know it is a wide gap. We simply lack the records or the means to accurately piece together the precise details."

"That is...a lot of untold history packed into a single sword," Henrietta mused, her eyes trailing back to the sword, the sheen still radiating off its polished edges. "Wait, does that mean you predate ancient Romalia?"

"More or less. Mind you, girl, this was not my original form. Though, if I recall correctly—and I could be wrong—I had mantled the gladius of one of the first ever Romalian legionaries to march out into the world and conquer it."

The Princess tilted her head. "How does that makes sense?"

The blade chuckled. "I'm more spirit than sword. When the steel breaks or shatters or is completely destroyed, I simply mantle another weapon."

"You're a spirit?" she choked. "That...that explains much, I suppose. You inhabit inanimate things then."

"What? Do I look like an overpowered lamp-spirit who's going to give you three wishes? That only happens at the Rub' Al Khali. Ever heard the legend of Al Haddin? No? Eh, perhaps another time then. Assuming I don't forget that, too."

The Tristainians shared confused and incredulous looks until Henrietta asked, "You've heard stories from the Rub' Al Khali?"

"Not a lot of them I can regale you with...if you're even willing to spend the time listening. Unfortunately, there's only so much this old mind can remember. Don't try asking me for details because I don't know. Not anymore. Most likely forgot them all."

"So...you possessed other previous swords?"

"Possessed is a strong word. I prefer the term 'mantle.' Much less menacing," it drawled. "Now I don't really choose what I end up in. It...just happens. Happened for centuries before I ended up in this...rusty, old spatha. I'm not even as sharp as I used to be!"

The Princess leaned back on her chair, comprehending the depth of experience boasted by this artifact. "Millennia of stories untold, tales lost to time, past users and owners forgotten. Your blacksmith...do you remember who he was?"

"No, I do not."

"What about your previous, um, forms?"

"Not much. If I wasn't sharp enough to go through someone, I was hard enough to break their bones. It's been a cycle of break, mantle, break, mantle, until I finally ended up in this."

Henrietta nodded slowly. "Do you remember any of your recent wielders?"

"A few. They're all dead now, that's for sure."

"How long ago were you sealed?"

The sword was quiet for a while. "... Legatus, care to answer that?"

The Papal legate shook his head. "I apologize, Madame Royale. I am not within liberty to respond to that inquiry."

Cardinal Mazarin chimed in. "We respect that, Monsieur Chesare. This alone is more than enough for us to take in. Thank you for granting us this opportunity to grace such a...sentient relic."

"You are welcome, Monsieur Mazarin." Legate Chesare nodded again at the inquisitors and they spread out across the entire hall, covering the doors and surrounding the table, their hands folded neatly over their waists but close enough to where their wands were tucked.

This, of course, greatly unnerved the Princess, her bodyguard, the Queen, and the cardinal. Agnès was close to whipping out her pistols as she angrily spun around. All exits were blocked and there was at least one inquisitor for every window. The boots of the elite Papal guardsmen echoed outside the room, no doubt they were also covering the doors.

Marianne was not pleased. "Monsieur Chesare, what is the meaning of this?"

"We are exercising precaution with regards to the relic in the room," the legate calmly replied.

"Why now? Why spread your forces out like this to trap us in here when you could have done that before revealing this artifact?" the Queen nearly hollered.

"The reason is so that we may properly ascertain whether or not Her Royal Highness speaks truthfully of how she executed the Invocation."

Henrietta almost screamed. "I have already told you—"

"Shut up, girl, and make this easy for all of us!" the sword thundered.

And the hall fell silent. For who could argue against an ancient artifact from the Papal vaults? No one expected the Inquisition to show up with it, much less the object to have a mind of its own and to be very vocal about itself. It was almost as if an aspect of Brimir had rebuked them.

"Madame Royale," the legate drummed. "Will you please take hold of the handle of Deufelevorum?"

What? The Princess gawked back at him. Then at the sword. The grooves on the grip looked a little too large for her fingers. However, the power contained within the blade, humming, leaking into the air... She could discern its aura.

"Monsieur Chesare, may I ask why?"

Legate Chesare remained sternly impassive. "Madame Royale, please take the sword. I do not want to have to repeat myself."

"I beg to differ," Agnès growled. "Papal representative or not, you do not speak like that to Her Royal Highness."

"Agnès, stand down," Henrietta ordered.

She then turned to the legate and then to Derflinger. She slowly rose from her chair, rounded the table and took in a deep breath before reaching over and grasping the handle. So far, so good. It felt cold and rough but her fingers slid around the grooves nicely. Then she lifted the blade and Brimir above, this was heavy!

She still persisted and, with both hands, managed to balance her grip and raise it above the table. And she felt something. Magic, definitely. An odd yet warm flow that passed through her hands, almost tingling. It was faint but Henrietta could sense it, descry its movements through her body. A moment later, the foreign magic faded.

The blade spoke. "Well, wasn't expecting this result. This is...both a hit and a miss."

The legate raised his brow. It seemed he was not expecting this response. "How so?"

"This girl...is exactly who you think she is. But she is not who I think she is."

"I do not understand," the Princess said.

Interestingly, the inquisitors all exchanged glances, breaking their stoic facades with how their brows creased in confusion. The Papal legate himself was at a visible loss for words. "... I...see."

"You can put me down, now, girl," the sword ordered. "I don't want to be dropped again. Would hate to break your expensive furniture, you know."

Henrietta eased Derflinger back down onto the velvet.

"Legatus, your theory is both correct and incorrect," it continued. "She is a Void mage but not the one that's right for me."

The Princess stilled, her heart racing and the world around her coming to a noiseless halt. She had been exposed...by a sentient sword! Now the Inquisition knew. Now the consequences would come. She would be taken apart, tried before the Pope, sentenced to burn at the stake, and—

"Pardon," her mother interrupted. "What do you mean that my daughter is 'not the right one?'"

Legate Chesare answered for it, "Madame la Reine, we have just confirmed that your daughter is a Void mage. However, she is not the Void mage we expected her to be."

Henrietta did her best to keep her composure when she opened her mouth, "Who then...were you expecting?"

The dark-skinned man thinned his lips into a disconcerting smile. "Madame Royale, I believe it is time we reveal to you the true reasons for why we are here."

Omake

The night before...

"We should make a decision!" Henrietta declared.

"Par les Fondateur," Agnès groaned, hefting her liege by her shoulder down the corridor.

"A very...a very important deci...decision." The Princess struggled to free herself only to slump against her personal bodyguard. "A decision...that would affect, nay, greatly impact the land! From the mountains to the rivers flowing into the se~ea! The forests will tremble at this decision and...and the whole world in feel the power of change..."

Chevalier De Milan had handled drunks before and the best way to deal with a rambler was to let them ramble until they tired themselves. In this case, she endured Her Royal Highness's slurred oration until she got her back to her quarters on the other side of the Académie.

"Yes, this decision must be made!" With that crescendo, Henrietta turned to her. "And you, my loyal chevalier, will help me make it."

Dear Brimir above, let it not be a royal decree that would have to be carried out one way or the other. "Madame Royale, I think it would be wise if—"

"Silence! It is imperative...that we make this decision and, and, and...make change, yes. Hah!"

Agnès sighed and carried on. That was until the Princess cupped her chin and forcefully turned her head to look at her. Despite the clear intoxication, the seriousness was there. The aura of a sort of life-or-death matter or a peace-or-war dilemma radiated from her expression...atop the odor of hard Vallière spirits.

"We need to make a decision," Henrietta worded sternly, sounding almost sober. She rounded her, stopping them both in their tracks, and clapped her hands on her bodyguard's cheeks so tightly that the latter's lips were puckered.

Might as well get this over with. "What ish thish deshishion?"

"Red or blue?"

What?

"Agnès, red or blue?"

Chevalier De Milan blinked several times before wrestling her head out of her hands. She then stared at her and saw that she was serious. Her Royal Highness was actually very serious about this. Hence, the course of action that Agnès took was to drag Henrietta's arm over her shoulder and resume hauling her back to her quarters.

"You need to make a decision," the latter whinnied.

"A decision has already been made," the former groused.

"Well, which is it?"

Ignore her. Keep walking.

"Red or blue, Chevalier De Milan?"

This corridor feels so long.

"Red or blue!?"

"Please do not yell in my ear."

"RED OR BLUE!?"

She nearly dropped the Princess. Thank goodness she confiscated her wand. She even handed to Jeannette who rushed ahead to their destination. Ignoring the mild ringing in her ears (astounding how a person's shriek could mimic the volume of cannon fire), Agnès stopped, turned her head and finally answered, "White."

Her Royal Highness squinted then tilted her head and slurred, "That's not black. Wrong! So what'll it be? Red...or blue?"

What red or blue!? What did those colors have to do with anything? "Madame Royale, you're drunk."

"No, I'm no~ot. I'm Henrietta!"

"And I'm Agnès. Pleased to meet you," snarked Chevalier De Milan.

She laughed. "Hello~o, Agnie. So what'll it be, hein? Red or blue?"

Brimir above... "Blue."

"Aww, really? I want red."

"Fine. Red then."

"That can't be ri~ight... For that, we need to make a decision!"

Agnès breathed deep and endured Henrietta's ramblings until she had finally reached the guest quarters where Jeannette and Elaine were waiting. With their help, they ushered the royal into her room where she wrested free from their grasp, dropped unceremoniously onto her bed, and...started snoring.

The musketeer captain eyed her equally tired subordinates and shrugged. They then proceeded to turn the Princess over to her side until she was laying on her back with her head raised on a large pillow. That way, she would be more comfortable when she woke up...and hopefully not drown in a pool of her own vomit in case she does vomit while sleeping. The rest of their tasks were accomplished like clockwork, erasing any and all evidence they could find of Henrietta's antics tonight. Finally, they put in an order with Chef Marteau to prepare a cup of steaming bitter-root tea to be delivered to her bedside in the morning.

At the end of it, Chevalier De Milan commended the Corps Royal Des Mousquetaires for a job well done. They kept the Princess from harm, kept her from doing any harm, and—albeit failing to keep her from indulging in heavy spirits—successfully contained her drunken caper before she could cause a scandal. Sixième trained them well.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 1, 2021

LAST EDITED: November 5, 2021

INITIALLY UPLOADED: October 28, 2021

Chapter Text

Day LXXII

Henrietta was nervous.

No, she was anxious.

Actually, she was downright terrified!

Not only had she been exposed as a Void mage by the Inquisition (under mild duress, she would argue), they had uncovered much of the details regarding the bloody proscriptions she allowed within the kingdom. In less than a day, these Papal Inquisitors had compiled a comprehensive list of people who were most likely dead, exiled, defrocked, or in hiding. So far, Legate Chesare insisted on declining any judgment until after 'all the facts had been gathered.'

Sixième's actions alone were enough to damn her ten times over. Agnès and the Corps Royale Des Mousquetaires, who picked up after him and had been conducting themselves in his manner, would also be damned. Archduke De Poitiers would be forced into retirement at best, depriving Tristain of one its finest military minds. Viscount De Wardes would hang, his Reconquista operations exposed, and the knightly corps demoralized. And Henrietta, her mother, Cardinal Mazarin, and—Brimir forbid!—Louise would all be dragged along through the mud and implicated in the furious judgments of the plebes, the aristocracy, and the Church.

Everything was going to come apart!

And it was all because of her. Because she summoned a man...

"Madame Royale," whispered the musketeer captain, reaching down to take her hand. "No matter what comes of this, know that I will stand by you until the very end."

The Princess felt like bursting then and there. At best, she croaked out a hoarse thanks. There was little to nothing she could do to stop these Papal Inquisitors; half were combing through every written record here at the palace while the other half were combing through Tristainia to interrogate 'persons of interest.' His Eminence and Her Majesty had accompanied the inquisitors to the royal annals across the palace, leaving Her Royal Highness alone here in the royal parlor with her loyal bodyguard to have midmorning tea with Legate Chesare and that sentient sword Deufelevorum, sheathed and wrapped, resting against his chair.

"This is good tea, Madame Royale," the legate remarked.

"It is quite bitter," Henrietta said.

"Yes. I have had my share of bitter drinks in the past. They have done wonders." He set down his cup on the table beside him. "I have been recently made aware that you have cultivated a very close friendship to one of the students currently enrolled at the Académie. A ducal daughter. Her parents are quite influential, their names commanding respect and...fear...even outside your borders."

Henrietta breathed deep. She did her best to avoid implicating Louise up to this point. Alas, she did not know how long she could protect anyone else let alone herself. She could not break here, not now. Sixième had shown her very vividly what happens to those who break.

"Ma'amselle Louise De La Vallière, is it?"

"Yes," she choked out.

"I see. Very astute pupil from what I have been told."

She held her tongue. Best to continue keeping timid.

And it seemed the legate was aware of her tactic by the way he was regarding her with those chilling, piercing, brown eyes. "She is well-known among her peers. They even have a name for her in place of a proper runic cognomen. Louise the Zero. Apparently, such a petty monicker was borne from her supposed inability to properly cast any type of magic. Were you aware of any of this?"

Up until recently. "Yes."

"Did you find that strange?"

Verily. "Not significantly."

He raised a brow. "I suppose you have more pressing matters to attend to than juvenile bickering. Did you know that Louise has only been able to cast explosions and nothing else?"

Again, only until recently. "Yes."

"And you see nothing odd about that as well?"

Explosions counted as magic. Louise was a special case in that she...was delayed in finding her element. Blasts were outward eruptions of energy compressed and released through foci. All that energy had to come from somewhere and the source was none other than the pink-haired mage, as Sixième had observed.

"I did not have the time to ponder on that too much," she replied guardedly.

"Yet you spend hours out of your busy week browsing through the tomes here in the palace as well as having your servants retrieve various books specific to certain topics. Very apt of you, Madame Royale."

"I am still learning," the Princess deflected. "As you can see, circumstances have forced my early involvement into matters of administration and the like."

"Humble as well."

"I was being pragmatic."

The legate almost laughed. "Speaks of your maturity."

She frowned. "I am not so juvenile as you would take me for, monsieur."

"Apologies. I was meaning no offense. Merely stating my observations so far. There is a lot going on and it would be remiss of me to ignore even the minutest details."

"You cannot pay attention to everything."

"No. But you can focus your attention to those that matter." He rose from his chair and turned to the closed doors. "Such as our newest visitor who sounds very eager to meet us."

Henrietta strained her ears and, sure enough, she heard the heavy footfalls echoing from the corridor. She slowly eased up with Agnès shuffling close to her.

"He's here," muttered the musketeer captain.

The Princess held her breath as the doors were flung open and Sixième marched in, livid yet silent. He scanned the parlor, furious green eyes glaring into hers then to Agnès...before they went wide—wider than she had ever seen—as they settled upon the Papal legate. Since the day of the Invocation, this was the only time that Henrietta had borne witness to a truly bewildered (and, dare she say, greatly mortified) Courier Six.

"Ulysses," hissed the stunned royal messenger.

Legate Chesare grinned. "Greetings, Courier Six. It has been awhile."

It had been a long time since Duchess Karin De La Vallière had pushed herself to such lengths. All her efforts for the past week were now yielding fruit. Magical disguises, subtle interrogations, veiled threats of castration to those who refused to cooperate—all pointing to the Crown as the heart of this conspiracy.

The sudden intrusion of these Papal Inquisitors did not hinder her. They were an annoyance, yes. However, she had no qualms of keeping track of their progress; they were admittedly working towards similar goals and were hastily making inroads...asking the same people she had deposited so ruthlessly into the canals.

After all, Louise—and by extension the whole of House Vallière—was at risk of being condemned by the Church on grounds of heresy. And that was not to mention the secrets Her Majesty was striving to keep which the duchess was convinced were related to Louise's 'special' condition and her 'unique' familiar. Thus, she hastened to the palace with only a few hours of sleep and a loaf of bread for her breakfast to confront the royal family with her evidences, hopefully uncover the whole truth, rectify the source of the problems causing this conspiracy, and perhaps find a good enough excuse to come out of retirement (so she could relive the riveting excitement that baptized her as La Grande Tempête).

"Madame la Duchesse! Bonjour, I did not expect to see you here," greeted Viscount Francis De Wardes. The timid green-haired woman beside him wordlessly offered grace upon recognizing her ducal title.

Karin kept her chin up and returned the greeting, noting how suffocating the air was here in the wide reception hall of the palace. "Likewise, Jean. I see you are here for an audience with the Crown?"

"I have been summoned." He gestured to his companion. "As with my associate here, Ma'ame Marie Justine Longueville."

Madame Longueville offered her a curt smile, her pale cheeks framed by a neatly polished pair of monocles and strands of her green hair hanging off neatly wrapped buns on the sides of her head. Despite her modesty, the duchess could discern a skilled mage with years of experience. A faint Albian accent bled through the woman's Tristainian greeting and Karin had a mind to inquire of her origins in light of the turmoil in Albion.

"It appears we are not the only guests seeking dialogue with the Crown," the duchess said of the other dignitaries present in the palace.

Wardes chuckled. "I hope you were not inconvenienced by the Inquisition? Such a small group yet they managed to be everywhere at once."

"They were curious and I was curt." Karin liked to think her word was final yet she had to admit that the Inquisition did not fear her as the most of Halkeginia did. "Were you likewise pestered, Jean?"

"Oh, most certainly. Quite vexing but the Inquisition must fulfill their dues at the expense of our comforts, of course."

The two began a slow trod down the long corridor to the largest parlor in the palace.

"You did not haggle for space in the bestiary?" the duchess queried.

Her former pupil hummed mirthfully. "You know I do not ride on horses unless I have to. However, I have seen some familiar steeds being tethered. I have yet to encounter their owners. I surmise that Monsieur le Archiduc De Poitiers has been excused by our Romalian guests."

"And we may follow."

She had a mind to prod the viscount over his business here but decidedly stayed aloof as they were led through the halls until they turned the corner and saw the doors to the royal parlor wide open. No words were said as the three of them hastened their pace, their heels clicking loudly against the marble floor. By the time they crossed the threshold, Her Royal Highness was in a state of shock with her loyal retainer Chevalier Agnès De Milan positioned between her and the two men circling each other like hungry beasts on the prowl.

The duchess immediately recognized Count Bazaine De Hainault, his features set in stone with his weighted green eyes furiously bearing down his quarry. The other guest, an equally tall man of dark complexion adorned in those gold-rimmed vestal garments, his midnight hair tied into neat braids that hung down to his neck, maintained a sort of wry smile as he kept a hand wrapped around the shaft of a golden eagled staff while the other held onto an old scabbarded sword.

"Been a long damn while," growled the royal messenger.

"This is largely unexpected, us meeting once more, much less here of all places," replied the Papal legate.

"Same."

The count planted himself between the Princess and the musketeer captain, his glistening pistols proudly on display on his chest while his hands hovered close to his sides—close enough to the rapidly draw on the pistols holstered on his hips. From where he stood, he had already seen the four other people witnessing this spectacle. And there was no doubt that the Papal legate, although his back was turned to them this whole time, was well aware of their presence.

"You must be Her Majesty's most glorious herald," echoed the legate. "You've made quite an impression from what I've been gathering."

"And you're the Pope's shiny new legate," returned the count. "Risin' star yourself as they all say."

"Serendipity at its finest, this encounter."

"Yeah, well, serendipity's been a run o' bad luck for me a lot o' the time."

With a half-way glance, the Papal legate gestured at the duchess, the viscount, and the Albian to come into their circle. "Oh? And I suppose it is misfortunate that we have three new witnesses to our reunion?"

The royal messenger only grunted, his hands hovering close to two of his polished pistols. "Like I said. A run o' bad luck."

"Gentlemen, please behave yourselves," weakly implored the Her Royal Highness who struggled to appear stern as she turned to address the others with a shaky smile. "Welcome, welcome! Madame la Duchesse De La Vallière, welcome. Monsieur le Vicomte De Wardes, welcome as well. And you, madame, please come in. Would you three be so kind as to join us in here? And, ah, close the doors behind you as well?"

Karin nodded back wordlessly, cautiously eying her surroundings while she strode in, chin up, with Madame Longueville. Francis followed last, stiffly shutting the doors. Even then, no one bothered to take a seat. And for the next moment, no one said a word. Eventually, Henrietta sagged onto the settee. Her stuttered pleasantries held up, at least, despite her poor composure.

The duchess seated herself close to the Princess, her hand resting close to where her wand had been tucked behind her belt. The other two eased down onto their chairs after an assuring nod from Chevalier De Milan.

"We both have questions," the Papal legate said.

"We all got questions," the count retorted.

"But not enough answers." He set the sword to lean against his chair but chose to remain standing, keeping a firm grip on his staff. "Allow me to properly reintroduce myself. I am now Julio Chesare, Cardinal of Romalia, Supreme Legate to His Holiness Aegis the Thirty-Second. I was appointed to this position two years past."

"François Achille Bazaine, Count o' Hainault, royal messenger to the Tristainian Crown. Earned my britches a couple months back."

"To think we would never see each other again and yet here we are under new names and taking on new roles. How have you been?"

The count snickered mirthlessly. "After all this time, still wasn't expectin' you to start off with that."

The legate simpered dryly. "Did we not depart from each other on good terms?"

"Amicable. At best."

"The end of our war and I was defeated. No more allies, no more friends, no one left to care for my demise. Nothing but the sand, the ruins, the storms, and the ghosts. Only the chasms of the Old World waiting to greet me."

"I di'n't push you in an' you damn well know why. You could'a jumped in yourself but you got your own reasons. An' now you're here. Doin' God's will. The irony's gettin' to me now. Thought there was no way o' comin' back to the Old World, that this was the end o' the line. And yet...here we are...farther back than neither one of us ever expected."

Monsieur Chesare chuckled. "Such is the will of providence. Or fate, destiny, serendipity, or happenstance if you disbelieve everything else."

Monsieur De Hainault snickered dryly. "What do you want, legate?"

"The truth." The darker man stepped aside and motioned to the sword. "This weapon. Take it. Hold it for a while."

The other man frowned. "I smell hokey."

"Regardless, I implore you to take the sword."

"Why?"

"To know the truth. That is all."

"What truth?"

"The truth that I was sent here to uncover."

"Uh-huh," grunted the royal messenger, his fingers caressing the polished grips of his own weapons. "You're damn smart enough to know them truths are all hokey-dokey horse-shit cooked up by your pompous, holier-than-thou, Brimir-thumpin', pretty-boy cack down south."

Karin's eyes went wide. And she had the most subdued reaction out of the rest given the loud gasps and guffaws at such a vulgar offense towards the ancient heart of the Brimiric Church.

Interestingly, Monsieur Chesare only laughed. "Still the same, I see."

"Right," snorted Monsieur De Hainault. "An' you're all holy now? Is that what you want me to believe?"

"I could care less what you believe in, Courier. I only want you to hold this sword. Just for a moment."

"No."

The Papal legate's smile hardened while he carried the sword and set it down on the varnished table between them. "Monsieur De Hainault, I must insist."

The scowling royal messenger raised his hand and closed his palm into a fist before pressing it against his own chest. "I sincerely decline."

"Monsieur De Hainault—"

"Kiss my ass, Ulysses."

"Sixième!" burst Her Royal Highness.

Heads turned to her now standing with righteous fury, her fists balled and her reddened cheeks blemished by her furious glare. She slowly pointed to the sword while seething.

"Do. As. He says."

"Henny—"

"Do as he fucking says!"

Karin raised her brow at that one. She had never once heard Henrietta swear in the last ten years. The poor girl must be under immense stress.

"Henny," the count repeated more calmly, "what're you goin' on about?"

"You only have to hold the grip," Her Royal Highness fumed. "That's it. That is all. That is only what is asked of you. You don't have to use it. Please, just do as Monsieur Chesare says."

"Did he do anythin' to you while I was gone?"

Henrietta furiously gripped the hairs on her scalp. "No! For Brimir's sake, just take the damn sword!"

The count was about to retort when someone else spoke. Someone whose voice was so hoarse, they sounded like they had been smoking those damn herbal pipes every day of the week for a hundred years. Karin quickly slipped her grip around her wand tucked behind her belt while she leaned forward to scan the parlor for the intruder. Francis did the same, ready to pounce with an inch of his sword-wand glimmering out of its sheath.

"Salve!" the voice cried again. "For the love of piss, you're all so strung up."

"Alright, show yourself," the count ordered, glancing from corner to corner.

"Why don't you use your damn eyes?"

For some odd reason, neither Her Royal Highness nor Chevalier De Milan nor even the Papal legate himself were alarmed. Rather, they were...vexed? The first two were clearly annoyed while the latter was more bemused.

"Eyes here!" the intruder barked. "Merda, if only I had limbs..."

The entire parlor fell silent as they looked upon the sword repeatedly edging in and out of the scabbard on its own accord.

"Nice fuckin' trick, asshole," goaded the royal messenger. "You can done come on out now so we can see you."

"Caeci fatui! It's me, you old piss-dog!" The blade then leapt a full few inches out of its scabbard then snapped back down hard on it. "You are looking right at me."

The duchess could not help but be dumbfounded. Though none much more than Count De Hainault.

"What the flyin,' cockamamie fuck?"

The sword once again clapped against the sheath. "Are you done gawking, sceleste?"

He inched closer to the blade. "Jesus Christ on a stick. A talkin' sword..."

"Yeah, I talk. Big deal. Got tired of explaining myself the last time. Now do as my handler says and pick me up. Hilt first."

The royal messenger stopped, stared dumbly at the bookshelves, and shook his head. "... Someone spiked my drink."

"If they did, I would have sixteen limbs to hold you down while I turned you into a woman."

Karin blinked. A sentient weapon that was also crude and vulgar.

Count De Hainault raised his brow. "This rusty ole piece o' scrap metal just done called me a eunuch?"

"You'd fit the role if you aren't already one," mockingly droned the sword. "Maybe you miss being a catamite so much that you would want me to pleasure your landica."

The count's features darkened. "I've met better, smarter beings livin' in walkin' tin cans that can right change the goddamn world than some shit-talkin', sock-puppet spirit trapped in some banged-up, useless, ole trinket."

"Caput tuum in culo. Forty years of your life are an ignorable margin compared to all the ancient dynasties that this rusty old trinket has been a glorious part of."

The royal messenger let out a low, chilling snicker. "That so? Iucunda memoria est praeteritorum malorum."

Karin was not surprised that the count could speak Mitlan. Barring any translation spells, he spoke it rather well.

The sword must have been impressed as well given the sudden silence. Then it bellowed an ethereal laugh. "... Tu igitur unus ex illis."

The count tilted his head. "Quomodo?"

"Mitlanum tuum diversum est. Ubi discis?" It was curious where the man had learned his Mitlan. Because it sounded different.

"Multum ex veteribus libris disce." He learned the language through old books.

"Ah," the blade grunted, almost understandably. "Nunc intellego. Tu de Tartaria."

"Nec confirmabo, nec negabo." Neither confirm nor deny. A sneaky answer to the widespread declaration that he was from Tartary.

"Ah, now that's a proper response!" cackled the blade. "I'm starting to like you, boom-stick soldier. Though you're not the first boom-stick soldier I've ever come across, that's for sure. Boom-stick or not, I've seen, spoken to, and struck down a lot of old war dogs of your ilk over the centuries. Legatus, what say you?"

Legate Julio Chesare nodded solemnly. "He has always been like this."

"What?" sneered the royal messenger towards the Papal legate. "Haven't I changed over the years, ole pal?"

"Omnia mutantur, old friend," He then gestured towards the weapon. "Now that we have all been sufficiently acquainted, Monsieur De Hainault, if you please?"

"I trust I ain't gon' get done right shanked or some sneakery-ass bullshit gon' right come out o' the woodwork when I put my fingers 'round this damn thing, in'it?"

"I cannot completely guarantee what will transpire should you do so."

The count huffed and scanned the sword on the table between them, sheathed and laying on the velvet that it was wrapped in.

"Beautiful piece o' work, this'un, I'll give it that," the former muttered.

"Come on. I don't have all day," implored the blade.

"Jus' bein' right cautious. You never know."

With that, Count Bazaine De Hainault clasped his gloved fingers around the hilt of the sentient sword. Then he lifted it up without pulling it out of the sheath. What followed was a strange sight.

Karin could describe it as a man who was suddenly captivated by a powerful spell. He was unmoving, his cold green eyes going wide and his bushy jaw dropping agape while a faint glow began to shimmer over him. His mouth twitched in earnest to speak yet he only managed a raspy gasp akin to being strangled. Underneath the facade though she could sense arcane energy flowing between him and the sword. The man was entranced, was aware of it, and was fighting back with that abject fear that he seemed to lack.

It lasted for a while. And, admittedly, it was entertaining to watch.

Then the sword spoke. "... You can put me down now."

The count began coughing and the immediately dropped the blade onto the table where the weight of it alone caused a crack to form.

"Gently, es stercus!" chastised the weapon. "Now look what you've done."

"Sixième, are you alright?" queried Her Royal Highness. Karin, Wardes, and Madame Longueville all raised their brow at 'Sixième.'

Monsieur De Hainault shook his head, shakily backed up against one of the bookshelves, and glowered at everyone else in the parlor. "... What. The fuck. Was that."

The Princess stammered. "It was..."

"It was a test," Legate Chesare replied, carefully lifting the weapon and laying it gently against the armrest of his chair. "No harm done. No harm intended."

"You lyin' sonovabitch," growled the count. "You did somethin'. That fuckin' sword did something. It, it...the damn thing...it did somethin' to me. Don't you fuckin' deny it."

"Monsieur De Hainault, please, calm yourself," injected a strangely irenic Chevalier De Milan.

"You in on this, too, Angie?"

"Sixième, sit down," ordered Henrietta.

The count was incredulous. Hesitantly, he slouched onto one of the chairs closest to him, his right hand gripping the armrest while the other inched close to one of his holstered pistols.

"This is much to take in, I know," Her Royal Highness tiredly continued. "But bear with me. Please."

"Alright, alright," rasped the royal messenger. "I'm calm. I'm damn fuckin' calm. For now. You better tell me what the hell just happened or I'm gon' to—"

The Princess, exasperated and beyond annoyed, bellowed most inelegantly, "I've been exposed!"

"What?"

"They know," she croaked. "It's over, Sixième. They know."

Karin and the legate were the only people in the room who did not flinch when the armrest suddenly shattered into splinters in Count De Hainault's grip.

Her Royal Highness recovered with a defeated smile. "Honored guests, as Brimir is my witness to this confession, know that your beloved princess is...is a Void mage. And the man you know as Monsieur le Comte François Achille Bazaine De Hainault is my familiar. His Tartaric name is Sixième Courrier, a nom de guerre, and I summoned him three months ago under the supervision of Monsieur le Professeur Jean-Baptiste Colbert and Son Éminence and the full sponsorship of Monsieur le Directeur Antoine-Laurent Osmond..."

Thus Duchess Karin De La Vallière sat in her chair listening in disquiet at the confirmation of her worst fears. Her inner turmoil was further stoked by the return of Her Majesty Marianne De Tristain and His Eminence Jules Mazarin along with the arrival of a very exasperated Archduke Olivier De Poitiers. Half the day had gone and Karin soon found all her questions answered and even more raised.

Louise was overwhelmed when they had finally arrived in Talbes after near two days of travel and an evening stay at a shoddy inn (she had to begrudgingly admit that she and her fellow aristocrats had no right to complain as it was the only building for miles that had good bug-free beds and warm clean food).

It was not the suffocating modesty of the town or the stiff kindness of the villagers—the serenity of such a peaceful place was quite refreshing in a way—or the understandable hostility upon their arrival—not entirely thanks to the majestic rhyme dragon that had landed in the middle of the town right before their carriage rolled up—but rather the extended family that birthed Siesta who had enthusiastically greeted them on the stoop of the large, cobblestone farmhouse near the outskirts. Two doting parents, an elderly matriarch, and seven rambunctious siblings bounded out of that small wooden doorway to sweep up the nearly tearful maid in hugs and cheers.

Such familial warmness felt both endearing and suffocating and Louise kept her mouth shut, taking it all in with a knot in her stomach, until the jubilee subsided into an awkward silence when everyone took notice of the primly-dressed visitors standing not too far behind. Siesta introduced them and, being commoners, they bended their knees...until Leon stepped in and insisted that they dispense with the formalities.

"Monsieur, you are guests! Nobles!" protested Siesta's father, a skinny man whose veined hands and tired eyes expressed years of diligent work in the tilling fields. "Such is the custom."

"In that case, loosen up on it," the human familiar declared with a cheeky smile. "You can just call me Leon. I don't know about the others but I could really do away with the titles. Never really liked 'em to begin with."

"A-as you wish, ah, L-leon." The farmer turned to the Louise and the others. "Ma'amselles, monsieur?"

Kirche sighed, shrugged, and sauntered over. "Custom is custom. And I've grown up with so much custom that I yearn for something different. I'm sure my peers wouldn't mind."

Montmorency and Guiche grimaced (swallowing one's noble pride was truly a difficult thing) and, with pained smiles, they bowed as low as the plebes. The former quickly brushed the dirt from her knee-high socks while the latter winced at the soil stuck to his cream-colored breeches.

"Please forgive our modest abode, monsieurs, ma'amselles," Siesta's mother said.

The Germanian waved playfully. "Forgiven. It's not the first time I've been in such humble hovels and I've definitely been in much worse."

Louise nearly pinched the bridge of her nose. Well, at least Kirche was not being overly insensitive or insulting to these people. Commoners formed the very backbone of society with their industriousness and hardiness to toil under the sun to provide for themselves and their betters. And unlike some people, she at least respected their efforts and saw no reason to unjustly act harshly towards them.

"...and this is Ma'amselle Louise De La Vallière," the maid prattled.

It was no surprise that the other adults stiffened; the Vallière name struck fear, awe, and respect (mostly fear) throughout every echelon of society within Tristain and abroad.

"Do not worry," implored the pink-haired mage. "Yes, I am the daughter of Madame La Duchesse Karin De La Vallière. No, I bear no ill will whatsoever to any of you. Yes, I am mutually acquainted with your daughter Siesta. No, our strictly mutual acquaintance is not based on any existing contract of service between us."

"Siesta's a very sweet girl and a good friend," Leon interjected with that ridiculous grin. "She's helped us out a ton. Louise and the others here probably wouldn't have gotten far with their studies if it weren't for her, um, diligence and, uh, initiative. I think. Er, I mean, she's a good girl who's really, really helpful. Yeah. It's what they're, um, I'm, yeah, uh, we're trying to say so... Yeah."

Leave it to her familiar to atrociously color the truth to win the favor of others. Not that Louise or her contemporaries were complaining. Though they had much to say regarding the interior of the farmhouse and how cramped and smelly and dirty and...

Okay, so Kirche could care less about their surroundings and Leon occasionally flashed them that look...that terrifying, paralyzing look...whenever any one of them felt like making a snide comment. And the pink-haired mage bit down hard on her pride as she endured the rowdy atmosphere of such a noisy, unkempt, irreverent, decent, familial, homely, caring, loving family.

Viscount Jean-Jacques Francis De Wardes rasped his fingers against the table, rubbed his grey beard, exhaled long, and eased away from the array of maps to look up at the ceiling. Eventually, he regarded the others present in the room with mild consternation and cleared his throat.

"Right then. How strange this all is, eh?"

Madame Marie Justine Longueville—oh, pardon the correction, Madame Matilda De Sachsen-Gotha—coughed into her palm and shrunk under the gaze of the others.

Francis breathed deep, doing his best to ignore the awkwardness. "Wiser we are and more knowledgeable of each other. That is a good thing, hein?"

This awkwardness was becoming vexing.

"Adversity makes for strange bedfellows, after all."

"More distasteful circumstance in this regard," echoed the unsmiling Marshal and Archduke Olivier De Poitiers, nursing his goblet of spirits while he leaned next to the end table where three bottles were arrayed.

"Alas, here we all are," clapped Wardes. "We shall work towards each others' strengths and complement our weaknesses. All for the better. With the alternative being far worse..."

Heads turned and eyes shifted.

The viscount nodded and leaned back down onto the table, running his finger across the map of southern Albion. "From my most recent appraisal of county Wiltshire, the Reconquista largely ignores it. Save for the senior leadership, of course, but I digress. It has been quite a while since I was in the personal graces of His Lordship Cromwell."

Duchess Karin De La Vallière mutedly observed the behavior of the others present. Madame Sachsen-Gotha kept anxiously rubbing her palms against her gown, all the more making her more noticeable in her little corner behind the viscount. Meanwhile, Chevalier Agnès De Milan offered little in the way of responses other than wordless nods. Archduke De Poitiers continued sipping at his drink, his age and tiredness showing on his veined hands and sullen mustache. Finally, with his arms folded and his back against the far wall, Count François Achille Bazaine 'Sixième Courrier' De Hainault remained as idle as an enshrined Romalian statue...with heavy green eyes glaring furiously at everyone else.

"...no issues with logistics, seeing as we would be traveling lightly and operating mostly at the fringes," Francis continued. "Of course, to maximize what limited supplies provided us, we would have to resort to local manufactures and thus we would have to acquire them in the field. There is an outpost here at this junction which houses a small armory. Barring the barracks at Leicester, there is very little in the way of organized military presence. At best, a small contingent of between four to six hundred men, assigned to patrolling the roads and keeping order. Mostly levies. Some volunteers. The usual riffraff. Not that many experienced troops in their ranks as they have been largely committed to the front."

So far, a reasonable plan of action as far as Karin could tell. Tactically sound for the most part. Strategically questionable, however.

Neither Her Majesty nor His Eminence nor Her Royal Highness blessed of the Void had yet to properly inform of them of the true value of their targets. Or 'persons of interest,' as the royal messenger insisted on such terminology. Semantics aside, the duchess could not fully grasp the worth of the people they were being sent to Albion to 'retrieve.' Not rescue. Retrieve. Which meant they could either be dead or alive. Hopefully alive, as the Princess liked to believe. Or dead, as her familiar posited so callously.

Whatever the case, she understood the importance of denying another body that the Reconquista could use to further justify their cause and rally any more support outside of the flying country. Brimir knows, there were far too many martyrs for both sides already.

"Any remarks?" raised Marshal Olivier.

Madame Sachsen-Gotha timidly raised her hand. "If I may, monsieurs, what exactly should be done should we encounter any resistance?"

Heads turned and Karin was almost tempted to answer. After all, in her experience conducting operations, resistance was either negotiated away or eliminated as quickly as possible. Mostly the latter.

The count answered for her, "We put 'em down quick and easy. No fuss, no noise. Once we go loud, though, things'll be different. We go loud, we go loud 'til the end."

"Hence why we act with haste and utmost silence," reiterated Chevalier De Milan.

"Pardon, Monsieur Sixième," queried the viscount. "What are the chances of us 'going loud,' as you say?"

The count unfolded his hands and stepped closer to the table, his withering glower locked onto him. "Fifty-fifty. Forty-sixty. Thirty-seventy. As spotty as our intel, Frankie. Besides, you know the territory an' the people more than any of us so half our chances are on you."

Francis frowned. "Given how we all operate, I can see the end result. This will likely open up the entire continent to open war with Albion regardless of success or failure."

"If we succeed within our bounds," Agnès rejoined. "They would never know what hit them."

"They would still know that they were hit," rebutted the archduke. "Do not forget, Chevalier De Milan, that our northern brothers have bloodhounds that will sniff out the culprits before the war's end. Regardless of the outcome of this mission, the Reconquista will claim casus belli against us. You are aware that taking the first steps in this is already a declaration of war."

The musketeer captain did not waver in her reply. "Yes, I know that. That is why we are here being very meticulous with our planning. The Reconquista has been openly denounced by the Church and the other nations but no formal declaration of war has ever been issued. Not even the barest whisper of a crusade from the Church given how many of the rebels are clamoring for widespread religious reform and openly professing their protestant faith."

"And so we light the tar barrel before they do, eh?" Wardes grunted. "Well, it is a foregone conclusion that only a miracle would save the Tudors. After them, reformation. Then, rearmament. Then...well, you all heard Cromwell's fiery speeches."

Archduke De Poitiers choked out a hoarse, grim laugh while glaring at his reflection in his cup. "Transition is a long, arduous process. Interregnums are difficult as they are but abolishing the monarchy in place of a representative government? Might as well make it far more painful and agonizing a process then, hein? Albion will be under a new flag...purchased at a cost so staggering that the next victory might as well be their undoing."

Count De Hainault hummed back. "If they don' back down an' they ain't gon' give us no other damn choice in the matter, no option we could use to put 'em down quietly, then we put 'em down the ole fashioned way. Loud and messy. Send a message to 'em Reconquista bastards that them feathers they ruffled here on the mainland are done puttin' up with their bullshit."

"It will challenge the nerve of His Lordship," Karin intoned, her voice even and resonating with that supreme authority that commanded entire battalions to submit. "The Reconquista will have to reconsider their plans regarding the rest of Halkeginia."

The count nodded, his own voice echoing back with that uncompromising coldheartedness. "If that don' work, then we'll see how much they're willin' to bleed for what they done right believe in."

"They will make everyone bleed," protested Madame Sachsen-Gotha.

He turned to her, the glistening steel of his pistols glinting under the chandeliers. "Then we make 'em bleed faster."

"Attrition then," the duchess said.

"Do you have a suggestion, Madame la Duchesse?" queried the archduke.

"Precision. I do not see how it not impossible to strike at their middling ranks instead of reducing their pawns."

"Pardon, Madame," Francis interjected. "Reconquista's propaganda has enabled them to field a much larger army than ours and it is clear that much of the White Country has been swayed to their cause. Volunteers will gladly enlist before the next call for levies. Granted, these recruits are mostly under-equipped, inexperienced, and poorly-trained but their numbers are—"

"They can be persuaded by lies, they can be turned by the truth."

"An' what truth is that, Madame Duchess?" challenged the royal messenger. "Gon' preach to the crowds that they're goin' against God's will an' all that?"

The duchess scowled. "Honeyed words can turn an army. The less these plebes know, the easier it is for them to accept the better argument."

"We ain't got the better argument."

"We don't have to be right to be convincing. So long as the lies do not dwell into the realm of heresy, we can sow dissent within their ranks. Poison their large army from within. Make them doubt their leaders. After all, magic or no, His Lordship Cromwell and his supporters will inevitably fall once they lose the support of the masses."

"She has a point, Monsieur De Hainault," furthered the viscount. "Cromwell's inner circle is comprised of four senior nobles and seven non-mage aristocrats. The ratio of magic-users and non-magic-users within his forces is to about seven to one. That is my personal assessment, however, and I must admit that I have not seen the Albian rolls in weeks."

"With our circumstances as it is, it is improbable to sway an entire army in one sitting," the archduke contended. "However, as Madame la Duchesse De La Vallière has proposed, you could be more surgical. If I recall, Monsieur De Hainault, you managed to purchase the friendship of our old nemesis Monsieur le Archiduc Berlichingen De Württemberg."

Karin gnarled her fingers together to keep them from balling into fists at the mention of her most memorable foe. She should not have been surprised but it still vexed her that the man who nearly spelled the end of Tristain's existence many years ago had been recently won over through financial diplomacy by someone who was just as bad.

"Albion ain't no Germania. Like it or not, coin ain't gon' do wonders here and them pretty little lies you got brewin' in your head ain't gon' sway no one."

"No one of great influence," Francis worded. "However, the lesser magistrates are as fickle as ever. Some of the communes in rural Albion follow their petty lords like dogs. And vicious dogs they can be, magic be damned. There are far too many mayors and provosts who are deeply entrenched in Reconquista's ideals that any allies we may win may immediately be overwhelmed by their peers."

"Is this justification for attrition?" the duchess interrogated.

The viscount bowed. "Optional, I suppose."

"Necessary," growled the count. "We're sendin' a message loud an' clear to 'em rebels an' we got this one ripe chance to do it right in their own backyard."

Karin scoffed. "The foremost objective is to retrieve persons of interest from rural Albion, is it not?"

"Secondary objective stays, Madame Duchess. Better we hit three birds with one bullet."

"Only if the agents have been compromised."

"It's gon' happen either way. We go loud, we get messy, we send a message."

The duchess turned to the archduke. "Olivier, allow me to confirm whether or not every agent is availed of autonomy once deployed."

"Knowing you, you'll be exercising autonomy regardless," groaned the old marshal who seemed to deflect the furious glare thrown his way by the royal messenger. "We are all stubborn in our way, Sixième. It is Karin's strength, after all. Might I suggest we grant her this?"

"My, that's all well an' good but remember this," Monsieur Sixième growled, pointing his gloved finger at the others. "Y'all are takin' orders from me. Noble hierarchy's out the window once boots are on the ground."

"I would be willing to respect that," Karin intoned icily. "With respect to your knowledge and experience, of course. However, know that I will exercise a degree of autonomy to ensure the survival of our party and to minimize the chances of severe political repercussions towards us."

The bear seethed at the lioness. "You're a smart woman, Madame Duchess. Don't make me think o' you otherwise."

She raised her chin. "Your opinion of me is irrelevant. Completing this mission to the best of our ability for the benefit of Tristain and Her Majesty is paramount."

"A'ight. You'll get your autonomy. So long as you remember our agreement. We ain't gon' step on each other's toes."

"Naturally." She watched him away from her to pour himself another cup from the end table. "Know that I will not immediately consider attrition as the immediate course of action when more sensible options are readily available."

"Uh-huh," he grunted, taking a long sip and staring up at the wall. "... That's all well an' good but it all really don' right matter what you're gon' say to 'em folks right now 'cause the ball's already rollin' an' it ain't gon' stop until it smashes through the wall. Make your speeches to the plebes an' all that, I ain't gon' stop you."

Karin did not respond. She knew what he expected her to say: 'neither would I stop you.'

Yet what kind of noble would allow the wanton massacre of commoners who, while enemy combatants, did not know any better? At the end of the day, they could still remove their jerkins, they could still drop their spears, they could throw away their swords and swear fealty to the true lords.

"Precision and diplomacy, Monsieur Sixième," echoed the archduke. "Are we now settled on these compromises?"

"I done made too many compromises, Ollie." Her Majesty's herald gracelessly downed his entire cup in front of the duchess. "This one's the last."

Before anyone else would raise a protest or speak their mind, Marshal De Poitiers gave his final approval and adjourned the meeting.

Karin had no reason to be here any longer than she had to. Neither had she reason to admire the portraits hanging on the walls in the royal gallery. Paintings of great men and women, past leaders who had carried Tristain through the years, some in good form, others not so. She had no reason to plod about the royal palace long after the others had left. Then again, neither did Courier Six who strode in with purpose.

"I know you're sittin' on the other side o' the fence on this'un," he started. "But now that you're in with us 'cause o' the Inquisition, I expect you not to make things any more difficult than they already damn well are."

"I have no such intentions," the duchess echoed back, sizing up the chiaroscuro of His late Majesty Philippe III De Tristain, adorned in his glorious cuirass as he campaigned through Germania.

"Uh-huh. Not today. At least, not until this is all over an' done with."

She would not deny that. "Out of all the people in the world, out of all that existed in the aether, it had to be you."

The metal heel of his boots tapped loudly against the marble until he was across from her, surely stupefying himself with that vainglorious mural of the last crusade. "... I'm already here. Signed, sealed, delivered. Ain't no changin' that fact."

Signed, sealed, and delivered indeed. At Her Royal Highness's behest, the man removed the glove over his left hand and shown her the unmistakeable Brimiric runes. Truly, only providence would see fit to have this man chosen as be one of the four prophesied apocalyptic horsemen.

"How have you known Monsieur Chesare?" she queried.

"He was on the other side."

"War?"

"Never changes. Ours didn't pan out for either of us an' we ended up with our backs against a nuclear wall with a hundred an' one undyin' sons o' bitches gone mad with nothin' but pure, unfiltered hate."

Karin nodded at the portrait. "Tartaric wars seem so...unfettered...brutal beyond imagination."

She heard a bitter laugh echo back. "You have no idea, Madame Duchess."

"You make it sound like ours are more refined."

"That's 'cause y'all still follow the rules. We didn't. We stopped followin' the rules when we launched them warheads..." Quiet cough. "Them great fire-stones in fire-stones...dropped 'em all o'er the earth an' burned everythin' til kingdom come. Poisoned everythin' for the next thousand years. No more rules, no more civilization. Back to square one, startin' over again. Shot ourselves back into the literal stone age."

The duchess pondered the testimony. And realized what kind of a monster she was now going to have to work with. "You are free to practice your traditions, if you have any, though I must warn you to keep from preaching your Tartaric values. It is bad enough that the Inquisition is here investigating the extent of your influence."

The count chuckled. "Necessary price to pay, I s'ppose. Knew this was gon' happen. Was gon' happen sooner or later..."

"But not anticipating an old friend to be involved as well."

"Heh, his real name's Ulysses and he was the smartest, toughest, most vindictive bull out of 'em golden horde o' bulls. Thought he'd done gone bit the bullet or right ended his'self after the..." Long sigh. "...after the end o' that whole tiff we had. Thought that was the end of it. Turned out God's one hell of a mean, heartless joker an' He liked to play us both for a fiddle. Guess He got tired o' playin' with us an' tossed us here for your Brimir to have fun with."

Karin turned on her heel and reproached him. "Be careful with your blathering, Monsieur De Hainault. Need I remind you of your place among the faithful."

He nodded at the mural, almost laughing at the picturesque landscape memorializing the one glorious victory of mankind over the elves in the Holy Land before it all fell apart again. "I ain't afraid o' your Inquisition. Ain't afraid o' your god neither."

"That much is true. Yet here you are, plotting and scheming out of fear for Her Royal Highness."

This time, he turned around, his grin still there yet his old green eyes burning. "Henny don't deserve this. She don't deserve any o' this. She got dealt a bad hand and she don' know how to damn right play it."

The duchess tilted her head. "Who does she remind you of?"

"She's just a child with a crown on her head."

"Who does she remind you of, Monsieur De Hainault?"

His face twisted and contorted with a twitch on his lip. "A child don' deserve this. A child like her..."

Karin hardened her glare and inwardly beamed at the cracks that were starting to show on the man. "Who does she remind you of, Sixième?"

He raised his finger at her and stopped himself from closing the gap. "You're too curious for your own good."

"So I've been told. I do find curiosity an indispensable trait in my profession."

He bared his teeth at her. "Tell that to the cat."

"And the cat learned the answers. Not from the likes of you, of course."

"Marianne ain't gon' tell you anythin' that she don' even know. Henny neither. Not even ole Julio 'cause that old fart ain't got a damn clue."

"Man, woman, beast. They have their limits. And I know those limits as well as you do." The duchess almost simpered. "You seem to have forgotten that."

The count seethed. Like a scarred bear baring its worn fangs. He withdrew his finger though his hands were beginning to form claws. "... It wasn't cheap an' painless to get this far with Reconquista. Don't fuck it all up 'cause o' your petty bullshit."

"Toy with fire and you will singe yourself."

For a moment, there was nothing but labored breathing with Karin relishing the distress that she had inflicted upon the man who challenged her so brazenly. In the back of her mind, she agreed that this was petty. Still, the voice in her head declared the worth of small victories.

"Woman, remember who you'll be takin' orders from," he growled.

"In the end, we are all equals," she sternly returned.

"Oh, I had thought you had both departed," a new voice crooned.

The duchess turned to beam at her dearest friend Her Majesty Marianne De Tristain. "Some matters had to be discussed."

"As I'm sure it has," the queen replied evenly, strolling over in her less formal regal gown. "Monsieur De Hainault?"

Courier Six breathed deep, composing himself in the presence of Her Majesty, and curtly growled through gritted teeth, "Have a good night."

Then he left.

Marianne sighed. "I see that you two have become better acquainted."

Karin hummed. "For better or for worse."

"His heart is the right place. Most of the time."

"I do not disagree," the duchess admitted begrudgingly. Hearing the double doors at the end of the corridor slam shut, she turned to her friend. "I have pondered on who could possibly unman him. Barring the Invocation, I do not see such a man willingly submit to your daughter's authority."

The queen regarded her. "Underneath his blackened heart, he has a strong conviction. I can only surmise as to why he carries himself to such convictions."

Karin was about to ask only to be silenced by a raised hand.

"I know what you are going with this therefore I will say now that Henrietta is as precious to him as Louise is to you."

The duchess nodded slowly. "Have the fates been that cruel to him?"

Marianne's prolonged silence and the tight curl at the end of her lip was enough of a tragic answer than the words that followed. "... The fates are always cruel to the sons of Tartary."

Louise supposed their plebeian hospitality would not last until nightfall. She was half-right.

The moment the purpose of their presence here was revealed, the warmness in the farmhouse cooled. Siesta tried her best to explain matters, mediate for them. Ultimately, Leon had to bring out the royal seal on the letter to get assuage the trepidations of these commoners and allow them to collect their closely-guarded secret treasure. That did not mean that the rest of their stay here was going to be as jovial as it initially was.

"I hope and pray that your employer is as benevolent as you claim him to be," crowed Siesta's father, Monsieur Kavan.

"Honestly, we can't guarantee that," Leon said on their behalf. "But know that we're don't stoop so low as he does."

The old farmer flashed them a smile. "I do believe that. Tomorrow, you will have to come with me to deliver this matter to Prévôt Gaetan. We have had many people come here throughout the years with the same intensions...but never one bearing the royal seal."

"And the provost will likely give us consent for this?"

"If it were any other matter, he would. But for this...something like this... Non, monsieur. He will convene with the community elders, our older cousins."

"More bureaucracy. Great."

Monsieur Kavan sighed. "I apologize. You have been kind to us since your arrival. Yet so have been those before you who have come here for the same purpose. I trust you understand the precautions."

Leon waved his hands. "No, no, I get it. I didn't mean anything by what I said. I was just...well, there's a lot of that red tape back in the Academy and it had gotten really tiresome after a while, y'know?"

"'Red tape?'"

"Eh, checks and balances."

"Ah, oui, oui, bien sûr."

Siesta rested her hand on her father's palm. "Papa, it is for the best. I trust Monsieur De Hainault as much as I trust Monsieur Leon and Ma'amselle Louise."

He shook his head. "You trust too easily, mon poussin."

"They have been good to me!"

"And I know that is true."

The maid eased back, looking quite hurt. "Then...do you doubt me?"

Louise caught the quiver at the edge of Monsieur Kavan's lip, pushing her to speak. Her mouth moved before she could think. "I don't think he doubts you, Siesta."

The pink-haired mage ignored the surprised looks she got from the few others still awake at this hour.

"He's just concerned for you," she continued. "Very concerned. As any parent would. Knowing what your family has been through across the years and how this may all look, of course... Of course, he would be concerned. Do you understand?"

Siesta nodded. "Ah, you're right. I...I guess I've been a little too excited then, um..."

"Hey, it's late and I think we've been up way past our bedtimes, eh?" Leon said, spreading his arms and resting them on the shoulders of both girls, much to the greater surprise of the rest. "How 'bout we call it a day? I could sure use some shut-eye. Don't you think, folks?"

"Th-that would be s-so," the maid stammered.

"I c-concur," stuttered the sophomore.

Monsieur Kavan smiled and was the first to rise with the oil lamp in his hand. "Very well. Follow me, please. I hope you forgive our humble provisions and your lodgings, ah—"

"It's fine, really. I've slept in worse."

"You are very kind, Monsieur Leon."

Louise followed Siesta upstairs to the attic which this family reserved for their guests. Given where her familiar would be sleeping for the rest of their stay here, she felt it inappropriate to complain about sharing an old bed with Kirche, Tabitha, and Montmorency. At least it was warm and the bed was clean and the cushions fluffed and the quilts warm and there was enough space to accommodate the four of them... Truly, it felt inappropriate to complain.

And since they were young noble ladies, they did not have to endure what Leon had to. Besides, her familiar had indeed slept in worse. Then again, Guiche hadn't but that boy was his problem.

"Hey, man, it's not that bad."

"I most greatly disagree."

Leon snickered, caring not for the strands of hay sticking to his clothes. "Dude, you really got to let go of that noble pride."

Guiche recoiled, hugging his beddings that he had yet to spread out across the mezzanine floor. "Abandon my prestige!? I am the son of a general! My ancestors have led armies that have won great victories, my brothers are proudly serving their commissions as officers—"

"I get it, I get it, you got a legacy to consider." The landless nobleman stretched his cot over the pile of hay in his corner of Siesta's family's barn. "Geez, lighten up on that, will you? Just saying htat you gotta, y'know, learn a little humility every now and then. You've still got a long way to go."

The youngest son of House Gramont puffed up his nose. Mainly to escape the putrid smell of animal gong that still lingered in the nooks and crannies after a hasty clearing to accommodate Sylphid, Flame, Verðandi, and Robin who were all slumbering down on the ground below. With great indignation, he bunched together more of the cleaner bundles of straw he could find to make his own little corner more comfortable. They were at least provided some tanned furs but the prestige of his birthright demanded for some noble comforts. Then again, in times of conflict and strife, even the most august officers slept on muddy ground...

"I'll have you know that as soon as I have graduated," Guiche stated, "I will be given a commission as a junior lieutenant in my duchy."

Leon tilted his head. "I'm pretty sure you have to attend a military academy for that. Not a, um, magic academy for kids and civilians like..."

"But the Académie—"

His only companion in the barn let out a long sigh. "Look, Guiche, buddy, I get that you're trying to live up to your family name. But there's a lot more out there that you still need to figure out. Like logistics for one. How are you going to feed a battalion of troops out in the field?"

"Simple." He had read this in one of the many military treatises back in the Gramont estate. "I will appropriate the nearest farms to provide for my men."

Leon raised an incredulous brow.

"What?"

"What if there are no farms?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Every province has a farm or at least a means to provide for themselves. If there are villagers living there, there is guaranteed to be some sustenance." Just like it said in the book.

The other man was unimpressed. "What if you're fighting in a depopulated province? What if you're fighting in the rocky mountains? Or a barren plain? Or a dry desert? What if the resources you find are all spoiled, poisoned? How will you sustain your boys if you've literally got nothing to take from?"

Guiche blinked several times. "W-well, a good officer plans ahead s-so he has his men pack provision b-beforehand! Yes, the soldiers have provisions prepared before the march!"

"And the provisions spoil. What then?"

"We have magic to preserve them!"

Leon's expression grew flatter and flatter. "What if the mages in-charge of that get killed? Or they're not around? What if some enemy mage somehow manages to hit your supplies in the middle of battle. Ever heard of flanking and skirmishing?"

The books did not mention any of this, did they? Admittedly, he was not very studious when it came to reading but he did try. Maybe he missed something? He would have to review the family library when he got back home. Guiche uneasily scratched at the scar on his neck (courtesy of the man before him).

"I...you...ah... Do not pester me with such questions! I am tired and y-you are tired. L-let us rest!" he stammered.

Leon shook his head as he reclined on his corner close to the wall next to the oil lamp. "Just saying, man. You got a long way to go."

"I...I know that. I am aware of that." He looked down at this beddings and scrunched his face as he laid down on the tanned skins and hay. "How can you stand such, such...such a filthy place of rest?"

"Eh, I've had worse."

"I have been informed. You slept in the canals?"

"Better than the alternatives."

Guiche furrowed his brow. "But were you not a man of influence in Tartary?"

Louise's familiar shrugged with his hands under his head. "Yeah, I suppose you could put it that way. Even had my own house. By Halkeginian standards, it's an absolute shit-hole but back in the wastes, it was a mansion. Of course, barring the castle right across the way that I could've lived in."

"You preferred a gong pit over a castle? Why?"

"The payment was massacring an entire town."

"You jest."

"His favorite past time was hunting other people. You should've seen his trophy room. Got to give it to him, though. Man had taste and etiquette to put even the nobles here to shame."

Crickets.

The youngest son of House Gramont soon realized who exactly he was talking to and was incredulous to accept what he was hearing as fact. "... Par les Fondateur... Who...who could...what barbarism...who could be so, so cruel!?"

"An old bastard named Tenpenny," hissed his companion. "Lived in this tower of paradise and offered me a nice piece of that big, juicy luxury pie...if I just wipe out a thriving little community because it was an eyesore to him. Of course, I declined."

Guiche sat on his beddings, more awake than he was moments ago. "I suppose this Tenpenny fellow did not take it lightly."

"Nope. I mean, after I was so, ah, gracious with my explanation for why I declined..." Leon paused then chuckled as he cast shadows of animals with his fingers against the ceiling. "You could say he preferred we never associate with each other ever again."

The young earth mage glanced at the flickering oil lamp then at the indiscernible shapes morphing against the planks and his imagination began to wander. "... I feel tempted to press you for details."

"Do you really want to?"

He probably would not be able to sleep. "... Never mind. Have a good night then."

"Likewise. Trust me, Guiche, buddy. You'll get used to the smell." Leon blew out the lamp and turned on his side.

Guiche laid back down and stared dumbly at the darkness for the next several minutes before he soon fell asleep to purrs of their slumbering familiars.

Director Antoine-Laurent Osmond was a centenarian with over a hundred achievements to his name. He did not attain this prestigious position at the Académie Royale Tristain Des Arcanes for nothing. Herding scores of noble brats, taming their magic, and crushing their dreams was a chore compared to the storied life he had lived up to that point.

"Are you sure you do not need any more assistance?"

The headmaster turned to Professor Jean-Baptiste Colbert. "I am most certain, Jean-Baptiste. Now, please. Enjoy yourself. This is the break. We have the rest of the season to indulge in our well-deserved respite from these children."

"And not their parents?"

"You and I are long-serving educators, my friend." When one has dealt with the Vallières, they have dealt with them all. That went unsaid.

Colbert ultimately gave in. "So be it, then. I will return now to my projects."

"Yes, yes. Go do that. Build a new engine, perhaps with a more stable component so it does not burn half the classroom again. Maybe the next batch of students would finally see your genius."

"... Antoine, was that an insult?"

Thinly-veiled. "Oh, no, no. I would never insult you so blatantly. Every failure is one more step to success, is it not?"

"Truly. Bonne nuit."

With that, Osmond saw off the last obstacle to his own plans for this semestral break. On the contrary, he no longer harbored desires to indulge in his past pursuits. He was simply too old and handling the sudden appearance of two Void mages within Tristain in quick succession had taken ten more years out of him. Best to spend the next few weeks sharpening his mind against the remaining tasks that befell senior academicians like himself.

A shame she had to be released so early to assist the Vindálfr and the Gandálfr in fulfilling their destinies but then again, such an opportunity to be a part of such journeys was such a great honor that even make apostates envious. Oh well, it was not like she had left him with much to do.

Osmond committed himself to seeing this through and, with confidence and determination, he entered his office and was greeted by the sight of a hill of ledgers and scrolls neatly piled atop his desk. No matter; 'tis but a backlog that came in the aftermath of Count De Hainault incapacitating his secretary that one time. He was about to take a seat whne he looked down and saw more ledgers crammed in the space where his legs would have been.

Well...they could be old accounting records that had been sorted through and left here in a hurry by his secretary. He opened up his drawer to get his pipe...and was greeted by more rolls of letters and petitions.

"Fils de pute, Ma'ame Sachsen-Gotha."

Halfway through the night, Osmond levied the assistance of Colbert who steadfastly refused using some of the rolls as fuel for his experimental engine.

Omake

"I know that look, woman, and I refuse to entertain any more of your deviant desires," Montmorency declared.

Siesta, on the other hand, remained persistent. She did not even have to say a word this time; instead, she regarded her with this look that was so smug and vexing and arrogant and so shrewish that was so infuriating that she couldn't take it any more...

"Par les Fondateur! Fine! I'll make you a damn love potion, you insolent plebe!"

The maid flashed her a wide cheshire grin, fluttering her eyes with that false generosity. "Merci beaucoup, ma'amselle! I will never forget your kindness."

The blonde water mage nearly slapped her on the cheek. "Oh, shut up, you. You know this is illegal."

"Does not seem to be the case, if I may."

Because there was no one to enforce it here in this backwater town, she wanted to scream. Montmorency instead silently pushed the girl out of the guest room and shut the door. She slid down to the floor and glared back at the three other girls she was going to have to share a bed with. Kirche was physically restraining herself from laughing outright while Louise was almost trying not to point and snicker. Tabitha, as usual, kept to herself, indulging in one of the old books lent to her by one of Siesta's more literate sisters.

"How long do we have to be here?" the blonde groaned.

The pink-haired mage shrugged. "Until we find that treasure."

The redhead finally calmed herself down. "Oh, Monmon. Don't you worry. No one will fault you for inspiring great passion thanks to your certain set of skills."

"Shut up. I'm tired and I want to sleep." Montmorency trudged over to the bed. "Scoot. Please."

Surprisingly, with how little space there was, she was able to get a good night's rest...squeezed between a buxom Germanian (who annoyingly snored, by Brimir!), an ill-tempered ducal daughter (who kept twisting and turning in her spot, for the love of...), and a very indifferent Gallian royal-in-hiding (who somehow managed to fall asleep to this madness rather quickly).

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: October 23, 2021

LAST EDITED: January 18, 2022

INITIALLY UPLOADED: January 18, 2022

Chapter Text

Day LXXIII

Siesta had to hold back her mirth when her noble companions had scrambled to appear presentable (without any help) in preparation for their meeting with the provost of Talbes. Mademoiselles Louise and Montmorency looked as though they had been dug straight from the grave and the maid once again scolded her younger siblings for poking fun at the two crabby patrician girls. It did not help that Mademoiselle Kirche joined in the teasing, openly chortling at her peers' distress. Mademoiselle Tabitha preferred to peruse the other books on the shelf as she was wont to do.

"Is this normal?" her father whispered to her as they silently watched the three sophomores loudly bicker amongst themselves.

"More or less," sighed Siesta. "Leon is the usual instigator of these, um, discourses. He tends to treat them like little children."

"That retainer freely treating those nobles as such?"

"It's very much encouraged at this point. Leon is very headstrong and stubborn and...well, he is not one to be pushed down so easily."

"I can see that. Also..." Her father leaned down to her ear. "He wears a Pip-Boy."

Siesta gulped. She supposed there was no reason to keep anymore secrets from her family. "Yes. And so does Monsieur le Comte De Hainault."

"... Is that so?"

"I know what I have seen, Papa," she whispered. "Leon and Monsieur De Hainault both have their own working Pip-Boys. Leon wears his openly as you can see but the count prefers to keep his sealed away unless he is in need of it."

Sigh. "Je vois. The times have changed."

"Papa—"

"The Founder has looked favorably upon us, upon you. Yet I feel that our duty to protect Talbes is...nearing another significant change."

"What do you mean?"

Her father's lips curled into a defeated smile. "Your grandfather always said that only fools would dedicate their whole lives to keeping treasures from the rest of the world. A golden shovel was still a shovel, hein?"

"He always said that." Come to think of it, that would have been something Leon or Monsieur De Hainault would also say. "So...do you think we should open up the Sanctoire Gardien to them?"

"Not just yet." He chuckled quietly. "Though you seem to be the adamant apologist for these students. That and you appear to be very close to that retainer."

"I am." She noticed the blank stares from the rest of her family who were now beginning to congregate around the table. "Not in that way. Really, no! Seriously!"

Her disbelieving siblings kept chaffing until Leon and Monsieur Guiche joined them from the barn (which the former refitted to house the array of armaments—daggers and crossbows and a few extra swords—in his inventory). The two young noblemen carried themselves with a bit more decorum than the noble girls roughly rubbing shoulders against each other with that cranky spite that came with being rudely woken up so early in the morning...and having to dress themselves...and having to share a single washbasin.

They did not complain about the breakfast (given that Siesta and her not-so-poor family were catering to several guests on top of feeding a whole litter) and they were quite patient when they were ceaselessly queried by Siesta's little brothers and sisters about what it was like to be a noble. The maid's only explanation to her bewildered parents was that some friendships sometimes transcended barriers.

Unfortunately, friendships were not enough to convince the obstinate Provost Gillet Gaetan to simply grant them the liberty to uncover the coveted secrets of the Sanctuaire Gardien D'acier De Talbes.

"I apologize, monsieurs, ma'amselles, but once again, I must stress that this is a matter that cannot so freely be addressed with outsiders," he reasoned for the umpteenth time.

"Outsiders?" Louise balked. "We are Tristainian! You are Tristainian. How is—"

Leon held her back, shutting her up with his glare, and allowing Siesta's father to resume bargaining with the provost. That afternoon, the local elders arrived at his office to deliberate on the matter, leaving the rest of the group to wait in the parlor of the provost's modest manor.

At the third hour past midday, they were all brought into the presence of a full table of elderly commoners, some retired low nobles, and the provost himself seated at the far end. Hard stares and harder glares kept the Académie students from so much as saying a single word. It was clear they were going to be refused.

Siesta looked to Mademoiselle Louise who nodded at her familiar who then produced the sealed letter from inside his coat pocket. The elders wearily eyed the royal sigil which was then broken up and given to the pink-haired mage who began to read aloud the contents...

...then stutter to a wide-eyed stop as everyone in the room came to realize that certain details had been left out.

"Could you read that again, Ma'amselle Vallière?" requested the provost.

Increasingly nervous glances were thrown around before Louise started again from the top. Then Mademoiselle Montmorency took the parchment from him and silently read every word with an almost abject disbelief. This was followed by stutters and a loud groan.

"How vague," remarked Monsieur Gaetan with a small curl at the edge of his lips. "It is clear you have royal sanction. Yet there is no elaboration on how you are to conduct your—"

"I know where you're going with this, sir," Leon politely interjected, "and let me tell you right now that a few missing sentences isn't going to stop us from doing our job."

"You may have the royal seal," barked the oldest man in the room, a retired captain boasting thirty years in the service of the Crown. "But you neither have our blessing nor our consent to go about your intended business. We have sufficient grounds to contest your presence here."

"It is one thing to have the Crown's approval," added another elder, the senior-most healer in Talbes, "it is another to have the consent of the Crown's subjects."

A third senior member smugly piped up. "Crown authority or no, Tristainian law allows us liberty to call an assembly of the people and you can put your arguments to them. What better way to practice Académie oratory?"

The rest of the table mouthed their agreements. And Siesta slowly put together the conundrum they found themselves in. In essence, either Her Royal Highness must have overlooked some critical details when penning her sanction or whoever scribe was tasked with writing these types of letters was sloppy. The maid assumed it was the latter; she very much doubted that the benevolent, revered, virtuous, erudite, and uncompromising Princess of Tristain was not so negligent as to forget everything else past a royal decree proclaiming Leon and his companions as royal agents. Surely, she believed that Princess Henrietta did not forget to add specificities directed towards the administration of Talbes to open up shrine to them without any caveats whatsoever.

"I think the Princess fucked up," Leon whispered under the noise of the deliberations.

"Silence your slander," hissed Mademoiselle Louise.

Siesta sighed. "I'm sure Her Royal Highness has a purpose for why she worded it as such... R-right?"

The landless nobleman was about to quip again when his mistress stomped her heel on his boot before angrily declaring her absolute trust in the Princess's diligent and shrewd administrative capabilities. After all, as a descendant of the Founder through the royal line, she took her duties very seriously and thus was not at fault for missing a few key sentences. Right?

Henrietta sneezed. She blinked and rubbed her eyes then looked back down tiredly at the mass of papers littering her desk. This office of hers was not often used due to the itinerary that was often crafted for her by Cardinal Mazarin but even then, she still had to use it for her administrative duties. She was damn well old enough to give out her own orders.

Now what was it that she was doing again? Oh, right. Giving out orders. Writing replies to these petitions that had piled up in front of her. Mostly requests to lower taxes and such, flowery excuses for late payments, a few polite demands for why a family member had been proscribed... Half of these she ended up burning on the brazier set up next to her. Not entirely because she refused to grant such ludicrous requests that went against her goal of improving Tristain but largely because her hand was cramping up from all the writing...and she could care less about all this drivel.

Like Brimir-damn it! Who gives a fuck about who fucked your fucking pigs, you stupid fucking farmer!? How was she supposed to know where to get more piss for these pissant tailors to make more piss-poor cloth!? Why should she be the damn judge for a damn marital dispute when she wasn't even damn fucking married to begin with!? She had far more important matters to deal with than this mind-numbing horse-dung! Brimir's balls, there were Gallian spies still running around in her kingdom corrupting what was left of the Cour Royale not to mention the spillover from the fighting in Albion and what more could be said of the Papal Inquisition breathing down her neck!

Okay, calm down, Henrietta. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. This was all part of the job. This was all part of being the heir-apparent to the throne. Mother has done this countless times before when Father was sick. And His Eminence has had to deal with far worse...hence why these 'lighter requests' were delegated to her to both alleviate the burden of administration and 'help her learn.'

Yes, she was learning. Was it enjoyable, was it fun? Absolutely not. All she wanted to do right now is burn all these letters, burn the rest that were coming in, down another bottle of that brand new brandy they called 'cognac,' and take a visit down to the barracks of the Corps Royale Des Mousquetaires to shoot some muskets. Just like in her magic-induced dreams where Sixième was taking swigs from a glass bottle while coldly shooting down legions of white-legged primitives and staining crystal blue rivers with their bloody, mangled corpses...

Henrietta shook her head. Focus, damn it. Better get this all done lest Legate Chesare (or should she just straight call him 'Ulysses' by now?) might consider her performance unbecoming of a royal.

Huh. She felt like she may have missed something. Something important. What was it again? Ah, never mind. Back to clearing up this backlog of paperwork that was giving her a migraine before half the day had gone. Besides, screw the annoying details; it was not like her subordinates needed specific nuances in their orders.

The Vallière household had been a flurry of activity since this morning when Mother had returned from Tristainia which was not at all unusual given her ducal duties. But today felt rather different and Cattleya Yvette La Baume Le Blanc De La Fontaine sharply discerned that distinct change that heralded something more discomforting.

The foremost was that Mother had unpacked her old armor. After a thorough cleaning, she had it repacked in newer luggage cases which were later tied to the back of the saddle atop Martel who was being hastily groomed. Father refused to explain what was going on but did not even bother lying; he knew that his daughter—ill as she was—had discerned the matter...or most of it.

"You called, Madame?"

Cattleya regarded the family messenger Monsieur Alfonse Lacroix, a retired cavalry officer aligned to Wind and ranking Triangle, standing at attention on the threshold. He had served under Mother during the last war and was as loyal to her as he was to her family. What Mother did not know, however, was that he was willing to obey her daughter more than his own former commandant.

"Do you have any pending deliveries?" she asked him.

"None at the moment."

Cattleya moved away from the window of the parlor and withdrew from one of the drawers a sealed letter. "I would like you to deliver this to Éléonore with utmost haste and urgency. You may sacrifice speed if it means avoiding Mother or anyone else for that matter. I'd rather this be a strictly private correspondence between me and Éléonore."

"Understood, ma'ame."

"Tell me, Alfonse. What did Father mean when he said Mother had 'poked the bear?'"

To this, the messenger stiffened. "I...cannot say, Madame. I apologize. It is not my place to have an opinion on such matters."

She nodded. "That is fine. I understand you do have much to answer me with."

Not too long after, Monsieur Lacroix rode out on his mighty familiar steed north to the Institut Royal De Recherche De Oriz in Middelburg in County Zeeland. Unlike most trips, his journey would take a few hours less thanks to Cattleya's imperativeness and his specialty in potent speed-based Wind augmentation spells.

Cattleya herself spent the rest of the day in her menagerie, catering to her many pets. It was here where she was often left undisturbed even by Mother and Father. And it was also in this solitude, shared with her many loyal beasts, that she pieced together what was happening outside the family estate. From her recent correspondences with Éléonore and the few friends she had outside the estate, there was only one supposed 'bear' in the entirety of Tristain. And what great fortune that this bear had fostered a strong companionship with Father.

Later that evening, Mother brusquely informed the household that she would be attending to exhaustive business in Gallia and that she would not be present for the next few weeks. That was the end of it; her tone left no room for queries or arguments and Cattleya's wily charm ran into its limits with Mother on this one. Cattleya knew better, however, seeing as both Mother and Father had neglected (or silently refused) to address a glaring concern in light of the Académie semester ending not too long ago. That and her last correspondence with little Louise left her in a state of deep concern.

Where was her younger sister and what exactly was going on with her that she would not be spending her summer break here at home?

"You know, that could have gone better."

Louise grit her teeth, counted to three, and let out a painful sigh. "Please stop saying such things. It does not alleviate the frustration I am feeling at this very moment."

Leon shrugged, being so uncouth as to talk with his mouth full. "Fine. What do you want me to say then? Someone at the royal palace fucked up so it wasn't our fault we had to make concessions with the local authorities to give us permission to dig up their secret treasure?"

"Liebling, you are not wrong," Kirche quipped, dabbing her lips dry before her empty bowl. "To be fair, they were willing to compromise."

"We had to compromise," the pink-haired mage retorted, nearly slamming her fist on the dinner table.

"It's not that bad, Louise, really," Montmorency countered. "We only have to fulfill some minor communal duties."

"Define 'minor.'"

The rest around the dinner table fell silent. Louise's foul mood had made it clear that the nobles were not in a playful mood hence Siesta's mother ensured that the maid's rowdy siblings behaved themselves. Mostly.

"Assisting the locals in their daily dues," Guiche hazarded. "It is, after all, our duty as nobles to aid those less fortunate, right?"

"Yeah," Leon chirped, pointing at him with his spoon and flinging bits of soup across the table. "Isn't that why you people have magic to begin with? To use that to help people?"

Louise squirmed. As did Montmorency and Guiche. Kirche sighed while Tabitha continued to dine in silence, her attention as usual glued to another book from the shelf. All the while some of Siesta's younger siblings drooled over the lights glowing off the gem-like 'buttons' on Leon's Pip-Boy.

"O~okay. Awkwardness aside, that's a good thing. Helps build character, build up your reputation here, make some friends, and restore a bit more faith in the nobility. Win-win."

"Most agreeable," the Germanian hooted. "That is what I like about you so much, mein tapferer Wolf. You never fail to remind us of our noble duty."

He rolled his eyes. "I think you guys call it noblesse oblige."

"So repair some fences then?" jabbed the pink-haired mage. "I recall seeing some of the palisades around here were in need of repair and the sections of the stone walls along the highway had wide gaps in them. Guiche could fix them with his earth magic."

To which the blonde earth mage nodded enthusiastically. "There is also the well in the town square. I've heard that it's been drying up lately."

"I cannot replenish a reservoir," corrected the water mage. "But if the apothecaries need help, I would be more than willing to provide my services."

Kirche clapped. "Wundebar! Tabitha and I will assist the town guard in protecting against outside threats."

"Hey! Don't be so overconfident."

"But we're Triangle-class, are we not? It'd be a waste to use our skills on mundane tasks such as heating stoves or herding cattle."

And so the group retired that evening after a hearty debate on who got to do what, all the while mediated by Leon and Monsieur Kavan and even Siesta when she was done with her scullery dues and had tucked her siblings to bed. Louise wished this damnable treasure would be worth the trouble of stooping so low as to pound wheat and sweep floors.

It was late in the evening with rain smattering against the reinforced (and enchanted) glass windows and much of the staff at the Institut Royal De Recherche De Oriz had long since retired for the day. Madame Éléonore Albertine Le Blanc De La Blois De La Vallière was unlike most staff, however, in that she gave her all in her work and frequently labored deep into the night to make as much progress as possible with whatever projects had been assigned to her.

That did not mean she was immune to fatigue and she had to stifle a few yawns until her research assistant Madame Genevieve Eloise De Besarcon left their laboratory in the east wing to return some borrowed tomes. Her fellow blonde quickly returned, however, with a companion.

Éléonore had to readjust her monocles at sight of the Vallière family messenger standing in the doorway. "Monsieur Lacroix?"

The man was drenched and ragged—which was expected for heralds especially one who had ridden through a downpour—but the wisps of arcana still lingered about him. He had exploited his haste-focused magic which meant that he must have something urgent for her. He was still breathing heavily when he handed her Cattleya's letter.

Huh.

So Mother had been recalled into service by the Crown.

And Father was most concerned.

Because not only had Mother been suddenly and inexplicably recalled into service by the Crown but little Louise had yet to come home from the Académie and their parents neither knew why nor they knew why yet were unable (or unwilling) to explain why. That and little Louise herself could barely explain her absence from the family estate for the summer before she, alarmingly, ceased all correspondence.

"Éléonore, is there something...urgent?" asked Genevieve.

The eldest daughter of House Vallière and head researcher for this specific department at the Institut turned away so she could remove her monocles and massage the bridge of her nose. "... Genevieve, has there been any recent news regarding the affairs of the kingdom?"

"I thought you despised hearing about such things."

"I've changed my mind. Please, tell me."

"Very well. Much has happened over the past few months, in this kingdom and outside our borders. What exactly would you like to know?"

"Start with Hainault and if they're still importing their usual orders from Germania. Oh, and Monsieur Lacroix, have a seat over there. And please dry yourself. You're going to get sick..."

By midnight, Éléonore began drafting a letter to her superiors petitioning for the inclusion of samples from rare Germanian minerals. She made sure to leave out the fact that such minerals were also being conveniently used in whatever industries were thriving in County Hainault (she suspected that it was the manufacture of musketry, cannonry, and other sorts of crude powdery weapons that gave commoners an unnerving edge against their betters). It was a good enough excuse as any to investigate whether or not Her Majesty's herald had anything to do with the strange state of affairs that had suddenly enveloped her family...and hopefully disprove her hypothesis that Louise may have been ensnared in a massive bear trap.

-~oOo~-

Day LXXIV

Siesta never thought she would end up in the friendly graces of a noble the likes of Mademoiselle Louise. Albeit quite temperamental and rather sensitive towards her physique, the pink-haired patrician girl held firmly to the core tenets of the nobility as originally dictated by the Founder Brimir and she was more than willing to admonish her betters at the slightest misbehavior (most especially Mademoiselle Kirche). It was very endearing which made her quite pleasant company.

"He's not that bad," the maid reasoned on behalf of the provost. They were plucking flowers along the garden way winding along the edges of the vast, sprawling wheat fields of Talbes. "Many have come before us with the same intentions—"

"I know that," Louise huffed, a few lavenders, tulips, and azaleas bouncing in her basket. "But to be so conniving! Ugh, does that lowly magistrate not know who he is dealing with?"

"Deputized Académie students?"

Pout. "It was the royal scribe who was at fault. He must have misheard Her Royal Highness or had been too sloppy with his work."

"But I thought you said you recognized Her Royal Highness's own handwriting."

"Scribes are chosen for their penmanship skills and their ability to flawlessly mimic the handwriting of their betters," Louise reasoned. "There are whole subsets of spells crafted specifically for penning letters alone. I had to memorize six variations...out of twenty-four...or was it twenty-seven?"

All that magic just to write fancy? Siesta shook her head. "Right, erm...the main point still stands, ma'amselle. We are here with royal authority and carrying a sanctioned order from a high-standing noble. Monsieur Gaetan can not go against that no matter how hard he tries."

"Yet he still bargains with us." The sophomore plucked another tulip, scowled at its folds, and tossed it into her wicker. "I understand the appeal of flowers but why again are we looking for these specific varieties?"

The maid almost coughed. "Reagents...for the apothecary. They're running low again and it's been rather busy as of late with all these travelers, merchants, journeymen, patrols, and the occasional adventuring party passing through."

"I suppose so. These blue ones are medicinal, correct?"

Yes. Completely medicinal. Siesta knew little to nothing about alchemy but she was sure that the extensive list of ingredients demanded by Mademoiselle Montmorency ensured a most potent elixir of the passionate kind.

"So let me get this straight," wheezed Leon. "When Monty figured out you were two-timing her, she and that other girl slapped you so hard, you fell on your ass...then a bunch of other girls showed up...and they basically called you out, took your wand, and buried you to your waist in the middle of the courtyard while they kept your mole busy."

Guiche grit his teeth and nodded, keeping his focus more on repairing the crude stone walls meant to provide a modicum of protection to travelers on the highway passing through Talbes. His valkyries continued to labor like clockwork until the gaps were filled and the necessary reinforcements were completed...as well as some necessary refinements to make these defenses more visually appealing even though they were nothing more than rocks cobbled together and reached up to his chest at best. All the while his magic-less(?) companion filled up the random pits that pockmarked the road with a shovel. Said companion was also grinning from ear to ear as he pestered him to retell his most inglorious misfortunes...over and over again.

"It was...most unfortunate," the blond grunted, "but...I admit was...a necessary lesson in...humility."

He heard Leon snort. And snicker. Then burst into laughter. "Holy shit, man! That's fucking hilarious!"

Sigh. "At this point, I doubt I can convince you to stop referring to my darling with that pet name."

The landless nobleman continued to hoot and toot until he wiped his eyes dry. "Jesus Christ, making yourself out to be quite the ladies' man, huh?"

Guiche ignored him and continued to direct his valkyries to finish up on the walls until he heard rumbling in the earth. Sure enough, Verðandi popped up out of one of the ditches that Leon had recently filled (much to the older man's annoyance) and plopped onto his hand a ring. He held it up against the blue sky: topaz inlaid in gold around a silver band with some letters carved into it.

"What'cha you got there?" Leon asked.

"A signet ring." He looked to his familiar. "Did you pilfer this from someone's stash again? You know that you can't always keep doing that. Oh, well. If it was a fair maiden, I might be able to fix this."

"And that's why Monty's on your ass."

"Again, her name is Montmorency. And I'd rather not imagine what you keep on insinuating about her sitting on my donkey...or my bum. Also, why a donkey? Shouldn't a pale mare be a better steed for my beloved?"

His companion stared then chuckled. "Oh boy. And I thought I was hopeless..."

Guiche rolled his eyes and patted his familiar on the head. "But really, Verðandi, where did you find this? On the side of the road? Please tell me you found it on the side of the road. I'd hate to deal with an accusation of theft right now."

The large mole shrunk back into the ground before shortly bursting out of the middle of the road a few paces away.

Leon frowned. "The mole-rat could've just pointed with its snout. Now I got to fill up that hole."

The blond smirked; just about fair to make his companion's job a bit more difficult for vexing him. "Oh well. Some things tend to fall off the back of a cart, I suppose. And they get buried overtime."

The landless nobleman began filling up a pail with dirt that he would later use to fill up the small pit that Verðandiwas gleefully widening in the middle of the highway. Grumbles aside, he jerked a thumb at the little treasure in his hand.

"Looks like it's made of gold. Since earth mages like you are the usual experts on all things rock, how much do you think that'll go for on the market?"

"Topaz? A pretty hefty sum given its rarity." Guiche raised the band up against the sun. "Huh. There's something inscribed."

"What's it say?"

"'Guilde Des Artisans Occitans.'"

Hum. "Oh, wow. An artisans guild, huh? Sounds pretty nifty."

"Quite affluent, actually."

"Really? How can you tell?"

"The edges are finely cut and there aren't any abrasions as far as I can see... In fact, I would wager that...this was made fairly recently. And by skilled hands. Or skilled artisan magic since this belongs to an artisans guild. This...this is signet ring. The grooves here are purposed exactly for stamping on seals."

Snigger. "Look at you. The jewel expert with his professional appraisal. Color me impressed."

Guiche almost remarked how uncultured his companion was. "I'm an earth mage. It would be shameful for me to be so ignorant of such trades involving my element. Besides, expert jewelers are highly sought after since they usually specialize in the subsets of arcane crafting. And I can say that this is the work of a master craftsman. Which means it must be either highly-valued or belonged to someone of considerable wealth and influence."

Whistle. "Sounds like a hell of a lost-and-found, don't you think?"

The blond spread fit the band on his finger and spread his hand, the finely-cut topaz shining against the sunlight with its engravings. "I wonder how long this was left sitting buried under the dirt."

"Long enough for the previous owner to get a new one instead of looking for it?" Leon posited. "I mean, if it 'fell off the back of a cart' as you say, then it must have be forgotten by now. If you ask me, it would take days for something like that to just naturally get buried under a layer of soil on a highway of all places. So..."

"Are you saying that we keep this find? Who knows what sort of people could be looking for it! This is a golden signet ring with a guild stamp...from Occitania, a province in Gallia."

His companion planted his chin atop his shovel. "A missing ring belonging to some rich guy who's a member of some fancy guild in Gallia. You really think he and his buddies are still looking for that? It's that important to them?"

"Maybe so...?"

"You know, if it were me, I'd keep it. It's been in the dirt for God knows how long and so far, nobody's been turning up rocks looking for it. Either that or I could be missing something; you know I don't get to go out much."

Guiche nodded hesitantly. "No, no, you do have a point. Truth be told, there is a lot going on right now and it's hard to keep up. Perhaps if we asked around..."

"I'm good with that. Oh, hey, since you mentioned Gallia...and Tabitha is literally a Gallian princess-in-hiding, why don't we ask her later?"

"That's right! She should know about these things."

Leon puckered his lip in thought. "Then again, she is keeping her distance from her uncle, the actual king of Gallia who has a massive army, massive clout, and I'm sure a massive tumor in his brain if all the noise about him is to be believed. So...getting in touch with this Occitan gang may not be in our best interests for the time-being."

"We'll hold onto this then." The blond then pulled the ring from his finger and put in his pouch before resuming work on the stone walls. In the back of his mind, he wondered what sort of business a vague and almost unheard of artisans guild from the more distant provinces of Gallia have here in Tristain.

The Talbes apothecary shop was modest compared to the laboratories of House Montmorency or even the shops in the cities but at least this place was tidy, comfortable, and well-stocked. If anything, it was a nice respite from the more hectic and nauseatingly pungent workstations where her family conducted their potion trade. That and the elderly healer and her two young assistants were amicable company, barring the noble station of House Montmorency.

So far, it was turning out to be a comfortable, quiet day for the blonde water mage. Until Kirche and Tabitha strode in.

"So, how's the progress on that love potion?" asked the former.

Montmorency nearly leapt across the table to shut her up. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She snickered. "You really need to work on your facades, ma chérie."

"I thought you were supposed to be on patrol with the town guard," the blonde hissed.

"Nothing much out there but wheat fields upon wheat fields upon boring, old wheat fields." Kirche leaned over with her shameless cleavage edging the glass beakers aside. "Brew me an ale, would you?"

"Go to the tavern then."

"I could but then it would be boring with just Tabitha and me. Also, you make henbane tea better than anyone I know."

Montmorency rolled her eyes and went back to balancing her mixture. Then she noticed Tabitha giving the redhead a raised brow.

"What?"

Her flat look seemed to get even flatter though she made no move to intercept Kirche who had now sauntered past the blubbering attendants to the back of the shop where she could hear her bartering with the elderly apothecary for some herbal tea. Montmorency thought nothing else of it since she was busy trying to secretly put together a damn love potion for that love-sick maid. She suspected Siesta would try to use it on Leon which may lead to problems with Louise though she doubted the pink-haired mage would throw a fit since she seemed to hold nary any romantic feelings whatsoever towards her own familiar.

Siesta was coming back up to the farmhouse after helping out in the wheat fields when the front door suddenly burst open and Montmorency frantically rushed out, bounding past her in her mad dash towards the town.

The maid wondered what had suddenly possessed the blonde water mage and she got her answer when she stepped inside the house. Papa was standing over the mess of the entire interior with chairs pushed all the way up to the walls and the table flipped on its side. Plates were on the floor with cups having spilled some steaming tea...

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh dear Founder Brimir, no!

Her secret love potion! To keep from panicking, Siesta stiffly began picking up the pieces and putting them back on the cupboard. She did not need to ask though because Papa quickly explained what had transpired leading to Siesta hurrying after the other nobles who were by that point congregating in the middle of Talbes.

Montmorency came to deeply regret not paying much attention when Kirche made off with a large batch of henbane tea earlier that day. Because right now, she felt she had contributed to this disaster happening before their eyes with an unkempt and uninhibited Louise dancing on the roof of the provost's manor, screeching like a deaf siren and gracelessly waving her wand about with the gracefulness of a debauched ballerina.

"Do you feel lucky!?" her pink-haired classmate declared, her silhouette pirouetting horribly against the night sky.

"Louise, get down from there!" Kirche hollered.

"Well, do you, connard!?"

The redhead was not amused. "Damn it, Louise, don't make this any harder than it already is! Get down from there before you hurt yourself! Or anyone else for that matter."

Louise brandished her wand over her head. "Alright, you backward ignoramuses, listen up! This is my boom-stick! It's twelve inches of hardened cedar. Topflight Romalian quality. And I will use it to blow you to bits, clean and cratered!"

"Okay, I'm getting her down. Beam me up, Tabby," Leon said as Tabitha began to levitate him up to the roof.

"Be careful, Leon!" pleaded that maid Siesta who, ever since catching up to them, had been apologizing non-stop. Apologizing for what? Was she involved in this somehow?

"I'll be fine, Siesta. Really, I've done this kind of stuff before. Just not without all the magic."

"Climbing up towers and yanking madcaps off the ledge?" Siesta said.

"Weren't just towers and weren't your regular off-the-rocker wackos," mumbled the landless nobleman moments before he was tossed into the air by Tabitha's wind magic.

"You must ask yourself one question: do I feel lucky?" Louise hollered. "Well, do you, schijtluis!?"

"She's rambling now," Kirche muttered.

"Well, whose idea was it then to have Louise imbibe so much henbane, hmm?" Montmorency sneered.

The Germanian frowned with the maid suddenly going quiet in the back. "I did not intend for her to take in so much. It was only an above-moderate amount. How was I supposed to know that the herbs were far more potent than they were supposed to be?"

Guiche moaned from where he was seated on the portico steps, his head still throbbing in his hands. "That tea kicks harder than ale and made me feel like I had grown wings."

"Don't you pretend no one knows what plants you swindled from the healer, Kirche," the water mage ranted. "Those were a rare variety that could only be imported from the east! Just a pinch of half a mortar could bring down an ogre! Thank goodness, I caught the smell before I took a sip. You didn't even dilute the mixture."

The redhead huffed, puffed out her chest and folded her arms underneath them. "Would you rather I had taken the hemp instead? There were lots more of them in store. Dizzyingly pungent, I might add, but much milder and much more calming in comparison."

The blonde paled. "No. No! Do not even think about it!"

"At least your fiancé did not fall over halfway through his cup. Shows his strength."

"Don't change the subject!"

"Look on the bright side, cher Monmon." Kirche leaned in close to her ear. "At least she didn't drink your illegal love potion."

To which Montmorency forcefully clamped her hand on the taller girl's lips while glaring over her shoulder towards Siesta who appeared a little relieved.

"I feel like...I'm missing something here...like I'm supposed to be asking someone something about...something," babbled the still dizzied Guiche. "Maybe it's not important right now..."

Eventually, Leon managed to get Louise back down to safety...then he had to be treated by the blonde water mage for all the deep scratches, bites, and claw marks all over his face and arms. Thankfully, no explosions happened tonight. Half the town were not pleased with such a disruptive spectacle, however, and the provost himself was quite furious since Louise had made such a big mess of his home in her herb-induced delirium.

To be fair, the noble students took full responsibility for tonight's debacle. Montmorency still blamed Kirche though.

-~oOo~-

Day LXXV

To say that Montmorency was stressed understated what she was feeling right now. It was difficult enough acclimating to their modest plebeian lodgings (a single bed with three others!). Then she was secretly commissioned by their lovesick maid (that woman could deny it all she wants, it was damn obvious) to brew an illegal love potion (they were illegal for so many moral, ethical, and logical reasons!) which was further complicated by Kirche abusing the apothecary's limited stock of rare herbs for something 'playful' that ended up absolutely dreadful.

And this morning, she and the rest of their party had been summoned by the (still irate) provost where they were shown signed reports detailing extensive flooding across the territories surrounding Lake Lagdorian. It had gotten so bad that some locals raised arms against the lake. In Montmorency's mind, if these commoners could not pin any reasonable blame upon the nobles who were charged with protecting the lands they were given, then they would turn their grievances to the closest logical source: the ancient Lagdorian Undine.

It was depressing knowing how many lives were affected (how many people drowned!) in the flooding but it was downright maddening that those same people who survived thought the best course of action was to vent at a powerful elemental dating back to Brimir's time. That venting included literally attacking the waterfront with whatever crude weapons they could salvage which, unsurprisingly, made things even worse. In time, the commoners (and the lower magistrates as well) would turn their attention to House Montmorency, the high aristocrats that owned much of the land surrounding Lagdorian and (known only to a select few) had extensive dealings with the undine for centuries.

All in all, the blonde water mage was not enjoying the bumpy carriage ride from Talbes to the walled city of Cambrai, the capital of County Cambrai whose territories and administration were (hotly) shared (contested) between House Montmorency of Tristain, House Burgundy of Gallia, and the Church.

"It is not all that bad, Monmon," prattled Kirche who was seated next to her in the carriage while Flame was curled up and asleep on the floor, the small fire at the tip of its tail providing some warmth. "You get a chance to visit your home and see your family and friends. Besides, I've always been keen on visiting your estates and enjoying the sights, the sounds, and the cuisine."

"That would have been well and good if it were not for the flooding," Montmorency groused, letting Robin leap out of her hands and nuzzle atop the sulfur salamander's head. "There is no doubt that every dining table discussion will be about that and then someone will mention the on-going disputes between the noble houses and the Church and that is one of the big reasons why I preferred to stay at the Académie during the weekends and holidays."

"I don't think it would be that bad," the Germanian countered before gesturing at the other person who was seated across from them in their carriage. "Wouldn't you think so, Louise?"

Louise sighed. "We cannot know for sure."

"At least you're realistic about this," Montmorency groaned.

To which, the pink-haired mage nodded. "That does not mean I am not hopeful. I mean, we are on our way to help. Is that not cause for some relief?"

There were so many arguments the blonde wanted to throw back.

"Extra hands make for less trouble, if I may," politely intruded Siesta, the maid seated directly across from Kirche.

"Besides, it's a nice break from Talbes," piped the redhead. "No offense, cher Siesta, but the serenity can be quite dull at times."

"No offense taken, ma'amselle."

"Monmon?" Louise said timidly.

The water mage blinked. Did she...did this girl just call her by her pet name? This same girl whom she had tormented for a whole year up to the Invocation, this same girl with the poor temperament and explosive magic that made everyone at the Académie loathe her, this same girl was giving her her best reassuring smile.

"Whatever it is that is going on," this same girl continued, "I'm sure we can find a solution to it."

For some reason, Montmorency felt like crying so she furiously held back her tears. "Merci, Louise. Y-your words are...v-very much appreciated. I... I suppose I should stop moping and...and steel myself."

Louise nodded and turned away to the window. As usual, Tabitha took to the sky atop Sylphid and the pair had gone on ahead to survey the affected territories. The other carriage carrying the other half of their party followed closely by, laden with the rest of their (Leon's) supplies (weapons).

"We don't have any chaperones with us so anything that comes our way, we'll have to deal with it on our own," the pink-haired mage said.

"My, my, what strong words, Louise," Kirche cooed. "To your point, even with our glorious and brave young noblemen on our side, this may take all of our efforts combined. A calamity such as this is...well...unnatural, don't you think? It is summer and the weather has been graciously warm all throughout."

"I suspect someone provoked the undine," Montmorency posited. "There can be no other logical explanation. My family's dealings with her have been civil and we were very delicate to preserve order and ensure that she would not see fit to ravage the lands that rely so much on her boon."

"Are...are they really that...sensitive to any offense?" queried Siesta. "I...I do not know much about such matters."

"Elementals are...very sensitive to remarks, even those given in jest," the water mage explained slowly. "I suppose I could enlighten you since you insisted on accompanying us on this detour from our main task of uncovering Talbes's secrets."

The maid shrunk in her seat but nodded along, the pommel of an ornate dagger peaking out from under her blouse.

"Shit, it's that bad over there too, huh," Leon piped, seated so lackadaisically across from Guiche. His scabbarded sword was on his lap while at least four daggers were strapped across his chest with two snuggled inside the cuffs of his boots and another pair hidden behind his belt.

There was a crossbow fastened to the ceiling and another that he had tucked under their seats with the bolts squeezed into the back of the cushions. On top of the other luggage that was deemed necessary, as well as seating space for Verðandi, there was little room for the blond earth mage to fully stretch his legs in their carriage.

"I could only surmise," Guiche said. "It is unfortunate that we are being sidetracked by this but Monmon's happiness is my goal and this is bringing her much unhappiness."

"Aww, ain't that sweet."

He scowled. "I love her dearly hence it pains to see her so sad."

"And it didn't pain you when she was pissed that she caught you chasing after—"

"Irrelevant! We must focus on how to best deal with this complication. It is a flooding so there would be refugees and that would mean problems with lodging, food, order. That is what we were tasked by the provost to help with."

Leon rubbed his stubble in thought. "You know, traveling to another county to help with their problems wasn't part of the deal we made with the provost. But I can understand why he thought we might help. And I guess this is his way of getting rid of us for a little while...especially after last night."

"It's all Kirche's fault, that I will argue."

"Never thought tea could be that potent."

"You do not have henbane in...Tartary?"

"We have...other stuff. 'Chems,' we call them. Some good, some bad. Uh, well, a lot of them are pretty bad. Kind of like you're, uh, 'forbidden herbs' and all that stuff. Y'know, the stuff that Director Osmond smokes. Yeah. Too much of a good thing is...a heart attack. Or a nasty chemical reaction in your gut that'll spill out through any and every orifice in your body like an offal volcano, if you catch my drift. Back in the wastes, we call it overdosing."

Guiche shook the morbid imagery from his head. "Okay. I have been enlightened."

"You're welcome." He suddenly snapped his fingers. "Oh! I just remembered. Did you talk to Tabitha about our little find yesterday?"

The blond blinked wide. Then slumped against the cushion. "Merde, I forgot! Ugh, it was the tea. It was too strong..."

"Eh, well, we'll just ask her once we get to Cambrai."

"I just hope we settle matters there before the summer ends." Guiche shuddered. "I'd hate to return to Monsieur De Hainualt with nothing to show for."

Leon leaned over and tapped him on the shoulder, flashing him that cheeky smile that the blond swore he was starting to see on Louise every now and then. "Hey, cheer up, man. We got this. We worked pretty fast back in Talbes, don't you think?"

Not after he had cut his throat with a butter knife back at the Académie not too long ago. The scar still itched from time to time. Then again, that was water under the bridge at this point. "We did make for an effective labor duo."

"Look, man. I've worked with a lot of folks. Made some really big headways with some fantastic partners. And I can tell that you've got the potential to be just as good as Charon. Or Butch. Or maybe even Fawkes."

"I...do not know who they are but I appreciate the compliment."

The older man clapped him on the shoulder and leaned back to draw on one of the daggers on his chest. "Which is why I'm going to give you some pointers on knife-play. Just in case you get disarmed."

The blond was almost immediately offended at the notion of toying with anything but his rose-wand. Then again, he remembered the nimble dexterity and lethality that the man before him possessed. And that last part about being disarmed rang so, so true. So he swallowed his pride, put on a determined face, and accepted the offered weapon.

"I've had basic martial lessons back home but nothing much involving daggers and such," the blond started, feeling the weight of the steel in his hand and the coldness of the rubber-wrapped handle on his fingers.

"Well, I won't be teaching you any tricks while we're in a moving vehicle so I'll just give you a lecture. You cool with that?"

He nodded, turning the dagger around to fully admire its simple design. "I do feel the coldness of the steel."

"Uh, I meant, are you okay with me just talking your ear off?"

Guiche raised his brow. "Talk my ear...off my head?"

Leon sighed. "Never mind. Just pay attention, alright? This is how you hold it..."

It was dusk when Duchess Karin De La Vallière landed Martel within a small glen that she had sighted in the middle of the dense woodlands near the vast, rolling wheat fields of Talbes. She had full confidence that her familiar could easily devour any predator that dared to rear its head; it was quite a long time since Martel had consumed his foes.

Donning on a heavy satchel, she pulled up her hood to complete her disguise. Then she trudged forward until she emerged onto the highway that she followed all the way up to the village. Interestingly, the old stone walls had been repaired. Fairly recently by the looks of it with some unnecessary flair added by whoever put in the effort. And the holes plaguing the road were filled as well. Then again, she had not visited this place in years.

She arrived at the tavern and immediately ordered for a meal, playing to her visage of a traveler tired on his journey. While dining, she leaned her head back to catch the whiff of conversation among the other patrons.

Huh.

So Louise and her companions had made their mark. Some of the details were difficult to believe (she doubted her precious third daughter would indulge in such debauchery as drunkenly dancing on the roof of the provost's manor) but despite what she heard, she felt assured that she had raised her child well. Talbes was truly benefitting from their visit, it seemed.

Then she heard the news that threw her intentions here out the window.

Louise and her whole party had abruptly departed for Lagdorian Lake, apparently to help in the relief of the communities afflicted by the sudden flooding that had taken place there. How unfortunate that the domains of House Montmorency were put under such strain especially with how bullish House Burgundy had been over territorial rights despite the mediation of the local bishopric. Then again, a daughter of House Montmorency was among Louise's companions so that surely must have influenced the decision to go assist there.

Karin casually finished her meal, remained a little longer to eavesdrop a bit more, then took a long walk around the town until she felt she had gleaned enough about her daughter's 'assignment.' There was nothing more she could learn from here (even if she could personally engage with the provost but that would only serve to complicate her own assignment from the Crown).

By the time she returned to Martel, she had to step over some fresh animal carcasses. Oh well. Less wolves and bears for the local populace to worry about. Before midnight, she crossed the Gallian border unimpeded and proceeded soaring towards La Rochelle where she could already see the few merchant vessels docking at both the sea-port and the sky-port.

Osmond stifled a yawn. Another long day in an empty school, another mountain of tasks fulfilled (or postponed). Had Professor Colbert not suddenly vanished to pursue some obscure mysterious treasure he had recently learned about, maybe he would have gotten even more done.

But enough grousing. He needed a drink before resting his weary bones and was thus on his way to the wine cellar under the scullery where Motsognir was surely waiting, the aged mouse having been sent ahead as usual to peruse the stock for any new arrivals.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Directeur," greeted the ever-smiling Monsieur Stephen De Chidron, the new deacon assigned to the Académie.

Osmond returned the greeting. "Out on one of your evening walks?"

The clergyman offered back a courteous smile. "Mais bien sûr. Helps to clear the mind, after all. On your way to fetch another bottle?"

On second thought, maybe not tonight. In his experience, it was not wise to converse with a holy man while under the influence. "We each have our ways. I prefer my pipe."

"Or some hard wine."

"You know me too well. Alas, another time. Wouldn't want to burden Marteau with another case of missing spirits." He would have to recall Motsognir after this conversation.

Light laughter. "You know, I would advise against constant reliance on such...emboldening commodities."

The centenarian wizard grunted back, keeping in pace with the only other school staffer still awake at this time of night. "Don't have to tell me twice. I have the sisters at the infirmary nagging me ceaselessly about it on top of the rest of my subordinates threatening to replace my prized desk with a much smaller one with only two drawers: one for my inkwell and the other for my quill. No room for even my pipe or a bottle of champagne."

Stephen laughed. "For someone who clings closely to such vices, you managed to outlive many of the elders I've known."

"I still think I'm overdue for an appointment with the mortician."

"Oh, but deep down inside, I believe you still yearn to live another ten years. If only to see another world-ending catastrophe averted, no?"

Osmond raised his brow. How astute. "You are very discerning, Monsieur Diacre."

Stephen's near-unchanging smile began to unnerve him. "I can hear your thoughts, Monsieur Directeur. On some nights, they scream at me like all the others. Loud voices begging to be heard. It can be quite disruptive on some occasions, especially when I am in prayer and communion."

The director stopped in his tracks. "You always speak of listening to the thoughts of those around you. To be frank, it is a joke that is beginning to lose its mirth."

The deacon turned slowly on his heel, his lips still curled wide to his cheeks though his eyes shone with a certain fire that did not fit a holy man. "Oh, it is no joke. I understand the skepticism that comes with such a claim but I stand by what I have said. Your thoughts constantly speak to me as with the rest of the people in this school. From the staff to the students...to even Ma'amselle Vallière, blessed of the Void."

Osmond gripped his staff, his face hardening into a dry glare. "I am not in the mood for jests, Monsieur Diacre."

"It is no jest, my reverence for the bearer of the lost element. She has yet to fully grasp her true potential and already she has been ensnared by Monsieur le Comte De Hainault who bears a different...more pragmatic reverence to the lost element. Would you not agree?"

"... So you do read minds."

"Not of my volition. Rather, the voices do not cease to speak. They are always echoing around. It is but a matter of...attuning to them, listening in. Like how a child puts his hands to his ears to shun the noise. I only need to remove my hands to hear those who cry out in secret."

"There is a reason for secrecy."

"That is why we have confessionals. To silence those voices."

The director scowled. "How long have you known?"

"Ever since I have hosted my first mass here. Ma'amselle Vallière's voice was the loudest. Too loud. But manageable. Then there was the voice of Monsieur De Tartarie. Poor man. I understand his struggles. After all, one does not leave the Wasteland unscathed."

Osmond nearly scoffed. "You are a son of a Tartary."

Stephen pursed his lower lip. "My ancestor was a son of Tartary. You could say I am of the third generation. The third one in my entire lineage to bear this gift of the Wasteland. Though I am not the only one whose forebears are not of this continent."

"You have sufficiently robbed me of sleep, Monsieur Diacre." The centenarian wizard resumed his stroll, this time in the direction of the chapel. "You have been hosting confessionals all your ministerial life. What say we switch the roles a bit, hein?"

"I suppose it is no sin to share the secrets of my gift to you," the deacon replied, falling in step.

"Yes, this 'gift' of reading minds."

He chuckled. "Semantically, it was referred to as 'collecting thoughts' since thoughts were always everywhere and it is only a matter of gathering them as one would pluck flowers from a garden. I know, sounds ridiculous but my father, despite his cynicism, was adamant about the proper deference to the gift as well as the importance of being selective of who I share it with."

Osmond hummed in agreement. "The Church would either condemn you for heretical divination or canonize you as a living prophet. I would not know which would be a worse fate than death."

Another chuckle. "The same words my father used. Sometimes, he called the gift a curse. Part of being born a psyker."

"Pardon, Monsieur Diacre, but I believe you mean psychic."

"Oh no, Monsieur Directeur. I have not misspoken. You could say that 'psyker' is a Tartaric sobriquet for people who can bend the world around them with the power of their mind alone. Sounds heretical, doesn't it?"

The director sighed long and loud. "Why worry about another Tartaric son in our midst, hein? I have more important things to worry about than the Inquisition condemning me for implicitness in heresy."

For once, Stephen dropped his mien in favor of a grim stare. "The Church is changing and I feel it pertinent to be open about this. Most especially now that the Inquisition has begun their investigation at the capital."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, you were nearly stoned to death for preaching the truth."

The smile returned. "And I would do so again."

Viscount Jean-Jacques Francis De Wardes pulled his sword-wand from the gut of his former informant. The disgraced Gallian infantry captain stared back at him with wide pleading eyes until they rolled to the back of his head. The disguised Square-class wind mage dropped his latest kill onto the cobblestone then promptly looted the pockets for anything valuable the man had—purse, rings, the occasional polished gemstone tucked in a sleeve for good luck.

When he was done, he promptly rolled the corpse into the drainage hole before closing the grate. Come dawn, the perforated body would either give some poor street cleaner a heart attack or it would follow the flow of the reservoir into the aqueducts that would inevitably dump it into the River Scheldt. From there, it would most likely become a case of some unfortunate noble who was either viciously robbed or assassinated; goodness knows his contact had made many enemies.

Francis wiped the blood off his blade before sheathing it and proceeding down through the empty underpass that snaked beneath the streets of Amiens. His business here was completed and the rest of the night would be a straight flight to La Rochelle where the rest of his companions would gather for their mission into Albion.

"I expected cleaner," a familiar voice echoed.

Polished reflexes had the viscount pointing the tip of his sword-wand at the head of the hooded stranger leaning against the wall, conveniently swallowed by the shadows. "... Why are you here, Michel?"

Chevalier Michel Ney shrugged, his arms still folded. "Same reason as you. I got done early and I thought I'd check in on how you clean house."

The viscount looked him over. Enchanted mantle, hardened leather jerkin, light equipment with a Gallian saber sheathed on his hip next to the polished ornate handle of his wand. No doubt, there would be flintlocks and daggers hidden under his magic-resistant cloak.

"No one would miss him," Ney continued, his eyes cracked and baggy. "Don't worry. I've already taken care of anyone who would think to investigate any further."

Francis lowered his sword-wand. "I believe you would be late for your next appointment."

"I can spare a few moments. My liege loves to take his time so I doubt you would be hard-pressed to move onto your next objective so soon." Michel pushed himself off the wall and strode over to the sewer grate. He leaned down and proceeded to wipe something off the ground with a piece of cloth. "You're getting sloppy, Jean. Do I have to always clean up after you as well?"

"I am saving my patience for the coming days, Michel. Say your peace and let us part ways."

The 'Bravest of the Brave' pocketed the blood-stained kerchief. "I am inclined to believe that our deceased friend who is now riding the currents to the Scheldt is the last loyal dog to Sa Majesté, le Roi Fou."

"I've burned all the bridges that have been asked of me."

"What about the pontoons?"

Francis grit his teeth. "I prefer not to swim."

Ney chuckled. "Likewise, old friend. But remember who we work for. He does not like loose ends."

The viscount sheathed his sword-wand with a snort. "None of us don't."

"Exactly. Which is why I wish to know if you have any news from our Occitan 'friends.' Their presence in Tristain has been completely eradicated and their newly founded artisans guild is bleeding money to recover from the loss of their finest 'diplomats.'"

"They're still the same as they were since their founding. Lapping at le Roi Fou like a starved puppy. I have no doubts they will try again as soon as they are able. As of now, I do not entirely know. What I am aware of is that they have shifted their attention to the recent troubles in Lake Lagdorian."

Michel nodded. "They're lending their craftsmen to help build homes for the refugees, I take it?"

"What other services could they offer?" Francis snorted. "They've sent some of their artisans to Cambrai to set up shop. If you're going to gouge out more of his eyes in Tristain, then that's where you should start."

The chevalier shook his head. "Non. Not so soon. It is already suspicious enough that his intelligence network has been...purged so extensively and so rapidly. If those artisans were to suddenly disappear from Cambrai—"

"Non, non, I can see where you are getting at. He may be mad but he is no fool," the viscount hummed. "... You're thinking of leaving them alone."

"For a while," Ney said with finality. "Let them reestablish their network in Cambrai. If we snuff them out before the end of the month, Sa Majesté will pursue a more overt, more aggressive strategy against us. Spies will not be the only snakes he will be sending through our borders."

"I've heard the flooding around Lagdorian could get worse. The waters have yet to reach Cambrai but if they do..."

Michel's lips curled slyly. "Well, I do wonder who provoked the elemental to begin with. A mystery why the countryside was suddenly taken in by a coordinated deluge."

He grit his teeth. "Michel, I did not—"

"Non, you did not. But the Occitans did. That's why we strung them up. Because somehow they managed to steal something from the elemental and then passed it on to the Reconquista. Some ancient artifact—a ring, to be precise. Said to be able to warp minds or raise the dead, I'm not too sure. The legends were always sketchy on those details. Not even the agents sent to retrieve them know exactly what it does."

"And you want me to retrieve it from the Reconquista," Francis worded incredulously.

"Well, they did say that the damn thing had already made it to Albion. You notice anything strange while you were there?

"Mindless thralls and shambling corpses? No." At that moment, the viscount's eyes went wide. "I was not even informed of this."

Ney scoffed. "Perhaps Sa Seigneurie no longer trusts you as much as he used to."

It sounded quite probable. Was Cromwell already suspicious of him? Had that rambling reformist already reached such extent of his paranoia? "That...remains to be seen."

"In that case, bonne chance. I have my dues to fulfill and you have yours. Adieu, Jean-Jacques."

Jean-Jacques silently watched his old comrade-in-arms walk away into the night, disappearing into the shadows of Amiens.

Director's Cut

Guiche held up his nose in a futile attempt to stave off the nauseating odor of the gong pit before him. Okay, he was an earth mage so he had no issues with getting a little dirty every now and then. But this? Not even Verðandi would be subjected to such a task!

While Leon had no qualms submerging himself to his neck in refuse if it meant alleviating the burdens of others, Guiche De Gramont did. He was a noble son, for the love of Brimir! And he would rather be strung up on a tree by Montomorency to be pecked away by hungry crows for his shortcomings than to lower himself to such a level and—

"Guiche, the golems!"

Of course! His valkyries were more than fit for such tasks. With a few waves of his rose wand, four constructs emerged from the earth, polished to a shine...which inevitably faded once the bronze homunculi dipped into the gong pit to help Leon find some missing family heirlooms that had mistakenly been dumped here.

By Brimir, he would have settled for guarding the roads with Kirche and Tabitha but alas, the seniority of the provost must be respected as part of their compromise. They may have royal authority to claim the secret treasure of Talbes but they had to earn the trust of the locals guarding it through 'legal, moral, and ethical means.'

"I think I found something," barked Louise's familiar.

Guiche leaned in close only to recoil so spectacularly onto his bottom when his companion lifted his hand up from the muck with such speed that a few specs splattered his clothes...and some on his cheeks as well. Held up against the blue sky and glistening from the sun's rays was a jeweled ring. Inlaid opal on a copper band, to be precise (he could tell because he was an earth mage and it would be disgraceful for someone like him to be so ignorant of the minerals and ores at his age).

"D-did you have to splash me with, with, with f-filth!?"

"What? Oh, sorry about that. Um, there's a towel over there I think."

Guiche stomped off to the nearby hitching post where some of the commoner children—who had stifled their laughter—gave him distance. The noble scion pointed to one of them and asked for a towel. He got a ragged cloth in return but it was good enough, he supposed.

"Wait. Is this the right one?" Leon carped.

"For the love of... Where else can you find such a luxurious heirloom in a backwater town as this?"

The landless nobleman, his naked torso covered in mud, refuse, and Brimir-knows-what all the way to his neck, only shrugged with a hand on his hip as though this was any other dull day of the week. "You never know. What was it again we were looking for?"

"A pendant, monsieur," replied the gong farmer. "Hopefully attached to the lace."

"A necklace? Damn. Well, on the bright side, that's one more fancy little trinket unaccounted for."

"It appears so, monsieur."

Guiche could only gawk in horror as Leon beckoned him over. "Come on, buddy! We still got the rest of the day to find this necklace."

"What about this ring?"

"I don't know. Keep it, I suppose? Doesn't really look all that fancy as the last one we found," Louise's familiar raised his voice to the small crowd that had gathered. "Anybody here missing a ring?"

A dozen hands came up.

"Guiche, you're the jewel expert, right? Rocks really aren't my forte so catch!"

And the youngest son of House Gramont scrambled to receive the copper band which was still sullied in dung that he grimaced as he had felt the muck on his bare fingers while he cleaned it with the same towel that he used to wipe his face. Then he turned to the expectant onlookers, some of whom were a few fair maidens. Well, he supposed that mediating between greedy claimants wouldn't be too hard if they were this pretty.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: September 1, 2021

LAST EDITED: March 5, 2022

INITIALLY UPLOADED: March 5, 2022

Chapter Text

Day LXXVI

Matilda sat in the corner of one of the cabins in the quarterdeck aftcastle of the Gallian sky-carrack Grozon that had been chartered to ferry them to the rebel-held port city of Portsmouth in Albion under the guise of transporting contraband. Well, the guise itself was not really necessary since the cargo hold was indeed filled with actual contraband—weapons, provisions, old leather-made armors, and various assorted supplies donated by 'Gallian sympathizers' to the Reconquista Coalition.

And it was clear that the crew of this ship were driven solely by coin since none of them protested to the inclusion of a manticore and a gryphon in the lower deck. Their apathy towards the civil war meant that Count Hainault—otherwise known in secret circles by his Tartaric name 'Courier Six'—had free reign to rewrite the ship's manifest to accommodate for the additional supplies that he brought with him much to the annoyance of Viscount Wardes, Duchess Vallière, and Knight-Commandant Milan.

Thump, thump, thump.

The reformed thief turned to see her employer Courier Six and his protege Agnès returning from the lower deck. The former sauntered in with a whole box of heavy Gallian spirits which he planted so loudly onto one of the tables in the room.

"Hard Bourbon clear," he drawled admirably. "Goddamn, do I love me some o' this poison."

"Your hardy constitution continues to baffle me," droned the blonde.

"Heh, what doesn't damn right kill you gon' make you stronger, don't you think, Angie?"

"Not always true for everyone. The fact that you're still standing and mightily sober after three bottles of the hardest spirits in La Rochelle even before we departed is itself a mystery for the ages."

Matilda thought the same but kept her mouth shut; she was wise enough not to prod the bear again. She wondered how Francis was doing at the moment; he and the duchess were in the lower deck with their familiars, making preparations for their assignment which was to retrieve some damning letters sent by Princess Henrietta to Prince Wales. She had so many questions at first but they ended up crumpled under a massive eye-roll when Her Royal Highness informed them that she had been stupidly in love, stupidly arrogant, and stupidly ignorant of the consequences until it was too late.

To say that the Courier and the Grand Tempest were furious was an understatement. For a moment, those two stopped passively tearing at each other and agreed that the Princess absolutely bollocksed...then they went back to passively tearing at each other. With that much silent antagonism, it was amazing how their party remained intact up to this point.

"See anythin' out there?"

She shook her head.

Count Hainault grunted. "Eh, it's damn cloudy, anyway. Can't see shit past a half-klick radius."

That did not mean that they could be stalked by lighter, smaller vessels or even far-reaching avian patrols. From what limited intelligence they could gather, the Reconquista Coalition only had half their fleet in the east with the other half scattered throughout Albion either skirmishing with royalist pockets or patrolling the borders. Sure, all those fiery speeches had turned the best half of the Albian Royal Navy against their liege but that resulted in bloody mutinies that ended up with most of the older, talented officers killed by their own crews and hastily replaced by younger, inexperienced captains. So it was safe to assume that the siege of Newcastle was making very little progress despite having powerful ships-of-the-line including the vaunted man-of-war Lexington hammering at the walls.

Regardless, a partial blockade was enforced upon the city which meant that in order for Francis and the duchess to slip past the besieging forces, they would have to fly through the Umbra so as to reach a small, hidden port in the underbelly of the floating isle. From there, the two were expected to meet with Prince Wales Tudor himself (if he was still alive), retrieve (or destroy) those godforsaken letters, and help defend Newcastle until the Courier would arrive and complete the final phase of this whole excursion. By that point, however, Matilda and Agnès would no longer be needed as they would be escorting the other 'persons-of-interest' hidden aboard the Grozon back to La Rochelle.

The whole plan was unbelievable at first but having come this far, the sole surviving daughter of House Sachsen-Gotha was starting to regain some lost hope in the restoration of her prestige, the vindication of her house, and most importantly the normal life she promised over and over again to...

"Thirsty?" grunted Count Hainault.

Matilda quietly declined.

"More for me then." He then popped off the cork with the flick of his thumb and guzzled down half the bottle.

Seriously, how was this man still alive?

"Solid kick, this'un," he remarked. Then he turned his weighted, green eyes at her. "Say, what part o' Albion do they make Hennessy?"

"Pardon?" Hennessy? What was a Hennessy?

"Y'know. Them Irish folks. Or I think you call 'em Celts? Or was it Gaels?"

Matilda wanted to pinch the bridge of her nose. Out of all the things he was going to ask of her... "If you mean by the hardest spirits of the White Country, the biggest distilleries are located in the northern highlands."

"Really now."

She stared. Please, no. Please do not seriously consider a detour to the northern highlands just for some hard ale! "There are taverns all over Albion that serve—"

He waved her off. "Mission first. Souvenirs later."

That was a relief. "Understood, sir."

Matilda keenly eyed the gauntlet on the count's left arm. It was a strange device—a magical contraption embedded with what looked to be shimmering garnets (yet they were not) and seemingly forged around a large polished bloodstone (which it was not) that bore various glowing texts, numbers, and strange hieroglyphs including a caricature of a smiling man—and it seemed to enhance whatever innate power was within him. A sort of living extension of himself, as far as she could tell.

He would frequently consult it as though it were some oracle and astoundingly, it held a library of records (including music and voices!) that was immensely convenient. Whoever crafted such a gauntlet deserved every praise for their ingenuity and an intense inquiry as to how it was made, what it was made out of, and where the materials could be gathered (or where a fully-working model could be acquired). She recalled that Sir Leon Walker Of Tartary also possessed one and the count confiscated it immediately after his summoning by little Miss Louise.

Truly, the technological wonders of Tartary morosely matched the hellishness of it. Considering if the stories were true, then what sort of semi-arcane mechanical horrors had been borne that wiped entire nations off the map in minutes and made poisoned deserts out of lush valleys?

"Tiffania's s'posed to be a sweet girl, right?" the Courier suddenly quipped. "Wonder what makes her so special. Then again, bein' born out o' wedlock can put a mark on your back. Especially when one of the parents is royalty."

Matilda bit her lip to keep from speaking.

"Now that's her story. Yours is different, though, eh, Tilly?"

She was not going to have this conversation.

"Had a lot taken from you," he droned. "Title, noble status, money, friends, family—"

"Please, stop," she choked.

"Say if ever we come across any one of 'em bastards who damn right done did you wrong..."

Her voice was cold. "They're dead."

"Oh? Well, that's good. Lesser sons o' bitches to worry about. That is unless this Tiffania's got more baggage than expected—"

"Tiffania doesn't have anyone left," she croaked. "They all don't."

"Which is why you're going to give them something better in Tristain, hein?" interjected Knight-Commandant Milan. "Perhaps resettle them near your chateau?"

The reformed thief snapped from the window to see the Courier loudly plant his cup onto the table to blankly stare at his protege.

"You know, Sixième," she continued, "you're not one to admit things too close to your chest."

He did not speak. Instead, he shifted his stare towards the reformed thief who snapped back to the window where the passing clouds began to part and the massive shape of the White Country grew ever closer.

Karin saddled atop Martel as Jean-Jacques did the same to his gryphon familiar Marceline on the main deck of the Grozon. Monsieur De Hainault was on the stern next to the captain, the former impressed by the sight of the White Country. Madame Sachsen-Gotha stood nervously near the mast in front of the duchess alongside Chevalier De Milan. The sky-carrack eased to a lower altitude, keeping close to the thicker clouds to minimize the risk of being seen by any far-reaching patrols.

"The chance is now, monsieur," advised the captain.

The duchess and the viscount turned around in their saddles where they saw the count give them a single nod.

Karin nodded back before she righted herself and took flight with Martel. Jean-Jacques followed almost immediately after with Marceline leaping up with her wings spread wide. The two Square-class mages soared up then banked to the right before diving down through the clouds until they could see the rugged underbelly of the floating kingdom otherwise known as the Umbra.

And she dove right into it with her companion in tow.

Despite the slivers of the midday sky peeking between the clouds, the Umbra was dark enough to warrant torches hence the heavy lanterns of enhanced mage-light that they hastily brought out and strapped tightly to their belts. The duchess had her wand in her hand, the lower end strapped tightly to her wrist. The viscount likewise had his sword-wand at the ready, his wrist also tied to the pommel. Neither of them had ventured into the Umbra for years yet the experience was inevitably going to be the same.

The creatures that dwelt in caves and tunnels deep within the earth likewise made their homes here with thousands of caverns that led deep into larger caverns where greater predators slumbered. The vastness of Albion meant an entire ecosystem underneath that mirrored that on the surface. Bats were the least of anyone's concern when one ventured into the Umbra and the two of them had prepared for that.

Almost immediately, they were surrounded by hordes of bats. Karin flicked her wand and powerful winds dispersed them. Before the winds dissipated, growls of much larger beasts echoed back from above.

She heard Jean-Jacques cry out and she flipped Martel around to avoid a blast of lightning that shot outward from behind her, striking at a massive flying revenant that had rapidly descended from its perch. It roared as it was thrown back before swinging around and shooting towards the viscount.

That was when the duchess struck, guiding her familiar upwards with her wand extended. Three crescent blades of compressed air eviscerated the revenant. She swerved to avoid its remains falling into the sea below and regrouped with her protege who was now cutting through creature after creature, each one more horrid than the last.

"Spare your strength for when we get to Newcastle!" she ordered before casting a vertical cyclone that surrounded them like a moving funnel.

He nodded back and followed closely after her as she pushed the cyclone forward, cutting through the various creatures that came at them, be they nocturnal birds or foul necrophilic abominations twisted by forbidden magics.

"We are almost there!" he yelled over the noise of the cyclone. "The port should still be heavily illuminated to deter these night-flyers!"

"How often has it been used since the war began?"

"Not as often as before! The Umbra is just too dangerous!"

And the Reconquista knew it. Even if they knew of this secret port which was only accessible either via the open sky, which was occupied by the rebel fleet, or via the Umbra, the Coalition leadership—including His Lordship Cromwell himself—considered the Umbra impossible to cleanse.

That was where Karin would begrudgingly acknowledge the shining points of the Courier's stratagem: risky, unorthodox, and borderline insane that when executed properly would yield tremendous results. If she had not been included in this excursion, that man would have either tried to walk right through Reconquista lines or would have pushed the Grozon through the Umbra anyway.

Louise had never been to Cambrai so she was a little taken aback by what she had seen (and smelled) when they were granted entry. The walled city's impressive defenses contrasted with the tight streets, noisy congestion, and horrendous sanitation. Case in point, the sewage canals were nearly overflowing with the floodwaters coming in through the aqueducts leading from Lake Lagdorian itself. She had to constantly hold up her nose to stave away the stench of the filth as her party was escorted through the streets to Chateau Cambrai on the top of the hill for their meeting with the local magistrates.

And, so far, it was going better than she expected—Count Damien De Cambrai was a family friend to House Montmorency and deferred to the blonde water mage almost immediately, causing his subordinates, the lower magistrates, to submit as well to her suggestions. And Louise had to admit that Montmorency sounded very sincere and knowledgeable during the discussions...at least, without revealing outright the depths of her family's regular communion with the Lagdorian Undine.

"We will provide you an escort for your journey to Lake Lagdorian," explained Monsieur De Cambrai. "It will take at least a day to mobilize the men needed for this assignment, hence for now, I suggest you all rest and resupply here."

"If you don't mind me saying, sir," Leon quipped, "we don't have a lot of time to spare given how fast this whole place is flooding up and you look like you need all the manpower you can get to keep that from happening. We can handle ourselves just fine; just point us in the right direction and we'll head there now."

Louise was about to stomp on her familiar's foot for speaking out of line when the count chuckled tiredly, unbothered by the disrespect.

"I understand the need for haste, monsieur," he replied, "but I assumed you comprehended the supernatural forces you would be dealing with. No offense to your martial skill."

"We would be willing to wait," Montmorency said, taking back the reins of their conversation.

"Very well." Monsieur De Cambrai then dismissed his subordinates including the lower magistrates, then proceeded to cast a potent soundproofing ward around his whole office.

To think her familiar would know a bit more tact; instead, the pink-haired mage very nearly elbowed Leon when he whistled. Whistled. In front of a reputable nobleman! By Brimir, this was not Count De Hainault who cared less for etiquette!

"I take it that was some really serious noise cancellation. Something you don't want your own folks to know, sir?"

Thankfully, Monsieur De Cambrai was too tired to care for tactlessness. "Very much so. You see, while everyone knows about the relationship between House Montmorency and the Lagdorian Undine, very few are aware of the proper details. Even then, a select few are knowledgeable of the exact nature of that relationship. Is that not so, Ma'amselle Montmorency?"

Montmorency reluctantly agreed. "You are right, monsieur le comte."

"I can tell that Ma'amselle Montmorency has enlightened you about the rare intimacy her family shares with the revered undine. Friendships often transcend borders and sometimes oaths. However, there are some things that must be kept...close to one's heart, as I recall the saying goes."

Guiche furrowed his brow at his betrothed. "Monmon?"

"Je suis navré," the blonde apologized hastily. "But you know that there are some things that we are in our own way bound by oath to keep close to our hearts."

"Am I not your heart, Monmon?"

Louise almost rolled her eyes. Really? Now of all times, Gramont?

"Je suis désolé," interjected Monsieur De Cambrai. "I had forgotten Ma'amselle Montmorency had been betrothed with Monsieur Gramont. Alas, I feel it is time to loosen the oath of secrecy?"

"Since many innocent lives are at stake," Montmorency said. "I will explain it to them, monsieur le comte."

Thus, the pink-haired mage and her companions found out that only a member of House Montmorency could hold an audience with the Lagdorian Undine for longer than five minutes without literally sacrificing a bucket of blood or an entire limb. And, as Leon not so subtly intoned at the end of it, Montmorency had ascended in value from just being a low-class tag-along healer in their motley party of adventuring students. In the back of Louise's mind, she wondered if Monsieur De Hainault had been aware of this secret as well; that this must be the reason why she had been included in their group. Then again, could he have foreseen the flooding at Lagdorian?

Either way, at the end of the exposition, the group remained in silence for a long moment...until her familiar opened his mouth.

"You know, this secret pact...now that we know how it actually works...might make fixing this a lot easier."

"How so, monsieur?" queried Monsieur De Cambrai.

"So Monty here can directly commune with the water spirit...who can manifest in areas where waters from the lake have gathered. Did I get that right?"

Heads nodded.

Leon continued. "Okay. Now because of how ancient and powerful this spirit is, she doesn't have to be anchored to the lake itself to make her presence known to the person trying to communicate with her. Am I getting that part right, too?"

"Yes," Montomrency replied.

"Right. And you're telling us that your ancestors have, in the past, communed with the spirit without having to go to the lake itself. They've had rituals with the spirit's aspect miles from the lake."

"But that was before my great grandfather had committed a grave sin against—"

He held up his hand. "Didn't mention the spirit calling it off because of that. It's just good sense to play safe after offending a powerful entity like which means assuming that their long-distance privileges were revoked. Henceforth they made it a rule to head directly to the lake the next time they would try a summons. Now, I'm not throwing shade at your ancestors but I'm just saying that they were probably so spooked that they didn't bother confirming if the spirit abrogated on that privilege."

Guiche waved his hands. "Wait, are you saying—?"

Kirche shushed him then turned to Leon. "I can see where you're going with this, cher. Monmon did say that the undine could manifest so long as there is a sufficient volume of water drawn from Lagdorian itself to anchor her."

"And her ancestors had previously summoned her aspect from the safety of their own reservoir which was filled with water drawn directly from Lagdorian," Louise added.

Montmorency remained doubly unsure. "Oui, oui. But that was a long time ago. Leon, you say that my family could not have known for sure that our communal privileges were rescinded. Regardless, I prefer to be cautious. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. We couldn't simply ask the undine. This is a powerful, ancient spirit from Brimir's own time!"

"Would it hurt to try?" Leon retorted.

The blonde sputtered. "... I...I don't want to put you all at risk. We might just offend her again if we force a summons away from the lake! I-i-if anything, th-this could make this much worse!"

"At this point, I'd be willing to try anything," intoned Monsieur De Cambrai. "Forgive me, Ma'amselle Montmorency, but I believe your limitations extend here. I am still responsible for governing this province and this city directly. Thus, I have to make the decisions. Not you."

"But the undine—"

"Might just hear you out." The landless nobleman shook his head. "Monty, look, I get that you're scared and you've got a lot to lose on this. About as much as anyone affected by the flooding. But you got to take risks. There's a lot more at stake here than just your family's assets. From what you've told us, either the spirit shows up...or she won't. And if she doesn't, then we just head on straight to the lakeshore where it's 'safer' as you say."

Not much coaxing was needed after that. After a long while, she acquiesced. "Monsieur le comte, how big is your reservoir?"

"About as big as the reservoir under your family's estate, ma'amselle."

"And has it been filling up with floodwaters from Lagdorian?"

"Overflowing, to be exact. The lower walkways are fully submerged. However, there is still enough room left on the uppermost catwalks to...conduct your ritual."

"That is...good enough. The undine's aspect can sometimes manifest as the mirror image of the summoner so as long as there is enough space for me to stand upright, that will do."

The count nodded resolutely. His relief was apparent in the firmness taking over his tired eyes. "Very well."

Louise nudged her familiar. "You better know what you're doing."

"Only working with what we've got. It's better than sitting on our asses and waiting."

"Then we can't really be sure if this would work."

He shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

"Welcome to Albion, brothers and sisters in the new faith!"

Matilda resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The Reconquista port authorities were no different than the royalists they replaced; they did not bother to hide the extra coin they had been given in exchange for letting the Grozon dock at Portsmouth for the entire duration of their excursion. Much of the cargo was already being transferred to the quartermasters for bookkeeping and distribution and it was already clear from what they were seeing that the rebels were in dire need of supplies.

Just outside the customs office, a platoon of the Portsmouth garrison were roasting a large plump rat over a spit which would be shared among eight starving soldiers. Others were lying on cots on the ground, apparently suffering from dysentery or some other food poisoning. Spoiled cheese and moldy bread, they said.

Matilda had barely set foot outside when they were assaulted by the odor of a port city that fared worse than before the civil war. People were still lining up at bakeries and shops hoping to purchase (or brazenly steal) whatever little was left before the seasonal shift. Another bad harvest for the White Country and no amount of lies and 'alternative solutions' that the Coalition offered could stave off the impending famine.

"Merde, this is much worse than I thought," muttered Agnès, her voice muffled by her closed helmet.

"Wait 'til you see the farms," Matilda groaned underneath her veiled hood.

"Been to worse," grunted the Courier.

His blackened cuirass padded with a harness holding satchels and pouches and the four flintlock muskets that were openly strapped over his chest. His more advanced, steel 'revolvers' (as Agnès called them) were expertly hidden beneath his overcoat while that mechanical cannon of a musket he carried was tightly wrapped in burlap and slung over his shoulder with those two feathers on the stock flittering in the breeze.

He took in the sights with a frown before spitting some chewed tobacco onto the nearby canal. "Tilly, where's the nearest waterin' hole here?"

"Are you bloody serious?"

"'Course I am. I want me some Hennessy."

The reformed thief turned to her companion. "Is he absolutely serious? He just had a bloody drink before we disembarked!"

Sigh. "He wants to find information. Best place is the tavern."

Oh. Right. Of course.

Matilda led the way, her shoulders beginning to ache from the weight of her supply pack which was laden with more than what she had expected to carry. Along the way to the tavern, she could feel the hungry, jealous stares of the people in the lines. More mendicants had lingered on the steps, some sleeping in the middle of the day. Or maybe they were not really sleeping at all with the flies buzzing over them.

"You'd think with how destitute these people are, the war would be turning in favor of the royals," remarked the knight-commandant.

"Promises of victory, sweeping change, and the like," the reformed thief quietly answered. "Most everyone here have grown tired of the royals and they'd be willing to endure these hardships for as long as they have to if it meant no monarchs would be ruling over them."

"And they believe these delusions?"

"You should have listened to His Lordship speak. He was so hypnotic, it was terrifying. Whole crowds by the thousands enraptured and clamoring for revolution before he could even finish his speech." Matilda pushed open the doors to the tavern which was as lightly packed as the shelves. Less alcohol, lesser patrons.

Their drinks were heavily watered down and the barmaid explained that they were rationing their few remaining barrels because their expected shipment had been stolen by bandits.

"You don't got to apologize, woman," drawled the count. "Things could be worse. Y'all could be back under royal control an' they don' seem to be treatin' you folks any better than before this whole rebellion been done goin' down."

"You have a strange accent, sir, if you don't mind me saying," the barmaid said.

He shrugged. "Germanian twang. All out in the sticks an' they don' got proper language schoolin' so some words gon' get jumbled up either way even if you use them translation spells on me."

Matilda kept quiet and let her employer speak. He had his own way with words and convinced the barmaid, the barman, and the few other patrons present to inform of them how Albion was actually faring. She did order something to eat and ended up with a small portion of vegetable stew that came at a price that could have bought her a full course meal back in Tristain. She did sincerely hope that whatever resources that Director Osmond had been periodically sending here was enough to maintain the orphanage given the rising taxes and living costs. And that was if the shipments had actually reached them. The roads had inevitably gotten more dangerous.

Then there was the mention of a certain Richmond from Tristain that piqued Agnès's interest. This Richmond was a noble who had arrived in Albion a few months prior, apparently fleeing imprisonment on the mainland for some vague crime. He had brought along his substantial wealth, pledged his allegiance to the Reconquista and was now serving as a financial advisor to His Lordship while also acting as a tax collector for the northern shires.

"Say, how 'bout a friendly game o' cards? Got a little bit o' Gallian coin I'd be willin' to throw down."

Oh, Brimir's balls, really? In minutes, the few patrons who had something to lose were now crowding around their table, too drunk to care how much they were wagering. But the Courier was merciful as he was masterful with his sleights of hand and he let some games pass in their favor. Would not want to rile up suspicion for being too lucky. Impressively, among the wagers that were won in the Tristainians' favor were three healthy warhorses from the Portsmouth stables.

Montmorency was practically gliding on her heels, moving from vendor to vendor at Cambrai's market forum, making the most of the few hours of daylight they had before the ritual that she would later conduct that evening in the city reservoir under the keep.

"Don't you have everything you need by now?" groused Kirche, who had been diligently keeping up with her.

"Almost," she replied, handing off her latest purchase to Siesta who dutifully carried their basket of reagents. "But I refuse to proceed any further until I have developed a failsafe."

"Failsafe? Hmm, I suppose I can't blame you for that. Alchemy is a very delicate craft and that love potion you've been working on could use an antidote in case someone uninvolved happens to drink it."

"Can you not speak so loudly about that?" shrieked both the blonde and the maid.

To which the redhead's lips stretched to her cheeks. "Unless you want me to constantly whisper in your ears."

"Ugh, please, keep your distance," groaned Montmorency. "I've had enough of Guiche doing that to me whenever he feels 'romantic.'"

Kirche made a noise of excitement before grabbing her shoulders and twirling her around. "Oh? Has he been making more substantial advances? Do tell. A peck on the lips, a hand up your skirt? Ah, vom Gründer! Was it your first time? Tell me all about it and don't spare any details!"

The blonde recoiled, almost stumbling into the maid who nearly dropped her basket if not for the timely intervention of Tabitha. "Tais-toi! Don't even insinuate anything scandalous! Guiche may think with his crotch sometimes but he could barely go past holding my hand. Anything more and he folds to his own stupidity while he retreats to the company of Malicorne and Reinard and Gimli and his other 'brothers borne of differing mothers.'"

The redhead scoffed. "You don't sound bitter."

"I'm not!"

"Have you considered that...perhaps le petit cochon may harbor stronger feelings for his companions? I mean, the henbane lifted all those inhibitions of his for a time and he very much expressed quite the admiration for our beloved Monsieur Walker."

She pressed her finger at the taller girl's nape. "Can you not!? And, mind you, it was your bloody antics with the henbane that I'm not going to finish my commission until I've already concocted a swift antidote."

"You could just let the effects wear off after a few weeks."

Montmorency stared at Siesta who vigorously and apologetically shook her head. "After the incident with Louise, I'd rather not take any more risks."

"Fine, fine. Your antidote then. What else are you missing?"

The blonde ignored her and resumed her gait, speeding past another row of the public market.

"Oh, come on, Monmon!" huffed the redhead. "It couldn't be that rare. Some of the goods you're so happily ignoring are worth a mansion and a duel back in Germania. Have you even noticed the few vendors we've passed who were selling those strange herbs that Directeur Osmond likes to smoke?"

Again, Montmorency did not reply, instead hastily perusing through the various wares on display. To her growing frustration, as they circled around the forum twice, three times, four times that no one seemed to be selling what she was asking for. And the few times she asked in hushed whispers for it, the sellers either shook their heads or shriveled up in fear before ushering them away from their shop.

They did follow up on a few tips and ended up in the seedier alleyways of the city. Montmorency was less confident here despite the martial proficiency of Kirche and Tabitha. And Siesta, annoying commoner as she was, was equipped with a polished and sharpened dagger gifted to her by that war hero Chevalier Ney.

"Alright, Monmon, you've been threading my curiosity for awhile now," Kirche groused. "What exactly are we looking for?"

Exasperated, Montmorency silently pleaded with Tabitha who quietly responded with casting an air bubble around them. To suppress sound. Not exactly what she wanted but she supposed even the Gallian princess-in-hiding was just as curious and equally tired of being dragged around an unfamiliar city for hours.

"Fine. The love potion is essentially complete. I've made the base mixture so all I have to do is add the final ingredients and let the concoction sit for a few hours."

"So you're basically done," the redhead said.

She nodded. "Technically, yes. But for the potion as it stands now is not very potent. It can make you feel something but not to such a, ah, passionate extent. The reason I've withheld adding the final ingredients is because I need to have an antidote at the ready. And that antidote...um..."

The blonde glanced around. The translucent airs whirling around them in this empty back-alley corner of Cambrai effectively muffled their voices to the outside. Although she could see a few curious onlookers occasionally taking a peek before scurrying away. Nosy riffraff.

"I need the tears of an undine."

Kirche blinked.

Siesta blinked wide-eyed.

Tabitha sighed.

Montmorency gulped. "And, ah, other than the Lagdorian Undine, I was hoping for someone here who could have some in stock. But...alas, it seems I have another petition to make to the spirit later tonight."

The redhead blew a whistle while the maid shrunk in on herself. The airs were still whirring around them, however.

"Um, Tabitha, you can dispel now."

"Not yet," the Gallian replied.

The other three were taken aback by the sudden seriousness in her voice and they traced her gaze towards a man in a dusty apron leaning over his cart of chopped timbre. He had stopped at the end of the alley and was staring at them. Interestingly, there was a sigil stitched onto his shirt. It was small but discernible and when he noticed that they were analyzing his brand, he quickly turned around and shuffled away with his cart.

"Someone you know?" Kirche asked.

"Gallian citizen."

"Should...should we be concerned?" Montmorency stammered, remembering who exactly it was that Tabitha was running from.

"Yes."

"Pardon, ma'amselles," Siesta nervously interjected. "Perhaps we should head back to the keep at once? If not to avoid, um, untoward strangers?"

The spinning airs dissipated and Tabitha started walking back to the keep. The other three followed after her where they passed by the apparent shop that the man pushing the cart had come from. They could tell because it had the same sigil carved onto the large sign hanging overhead. It was a shop belonging to a guild of artisans from Occitania in southern Gallia and, unnervingly, all of the men working inside the shop gave them all pointed looks as they hurried by. Montmorency decided to save her questions for later even though she suspected just as much that these Gallian craftsmen had immediately recognized their missing (and widely-believed to be deceased) princess.

"Arise, friends," implored His Royal Highness Wales Tudor De Albion. "There is no need for such formality."

Karin rose from her bended knee along with Jean-Jacques. Newcastle still retained its dignity despite the damage from the constant cannonades by the Reconquista besiegers. The Albian Royal Guard remained impressively steadfast, standing straight as guardian statues on both flanks of their liege as he guided the two Tristainians through the halls of the palace towards the war room.

"Flew through the Umbra, haven't you," the Prince started lightheartedly. "We were resorting to evacuating some of our citizens through there but we were unsure of the risks. Tell me, would our few remaining transport ships survive the journey you have undertaken?"

"I would not recommend it, Your Royal Highness," the duchess replied in polished Albian, having studied it herself in her younger years instead of taking the easier route of a translation spell. "Despite our best efforts, we still struggled against the creatures of the Umbra."

"At least you whittled them down and I am grateful for that."

"Your Royal Highness, we are here under orders of Her Royal Highness Henrietta Tristain," Wardes began.

The Prince paused and turned. "Henrietta? Not her mother?"

"No. It was Her Royal Highness's initiative that she would endeavor to aid you in secret."

"And she sent you two. The best Tristain has to offer and arguably among the best of all of Halkeginia. Yet you came here on on your own familiars and no army, no retainers, no others like you and you traversed through the Umbra instead of challenging Reconquista's armies outside these walls."

The duchess stepped forward. “Your Royal Highness, we have come here on a clandestine excursion to render you aid. It is imperative that we are not to be identified by the rebels throughout our stay here lest we provoke a more drastic, more hostile, and more harmful response from the Reconquista and their sympathizers on the mainland. And they have many, powerful sympathizers.”

Wales nodded. "I can understand that. I am not blind to see that Tristain cannot freely offer us wider assistance and you two are the best they have to offer with utmost subtly. Henrietta's advisors must have convinced her to have to thoroughly think this through."

"We are not the only agents who are operating in your country," added the viscount. "There are a few others who will be helping to weaken the rebels from within."

"Hence they will infiltrate their lines," the Prince deduced. "Yes, I can see that as well. My subordinates will complain that you two alone are not enough to turn the tide. But I thank Brimir wholeheartedly that we have been blessed with the best of our allies."

"We do not seek to lift the siege—"

"I'm not expecting you to."

That was an unexpected answer. Karin shared a glance with Jean-Jacques.

“The numbers alone show that Newcastle will soon fall regardless of whatever support may come,” Wales continued morosely. “I have only a few hundred able-bodied knights left and the rest are a mix of levies and professional soldiers, many of whom are sick and wounded. Multiply those numbers tenfold and include our own fleet turned against us and try to convince me that only a miracle could save us. Our best option is to hold them for as long as we can. Now that you're here, however...”

"Pardon, Your Royal Highness," the duchess said. "We are not here to enforce a total victory."

"As I said, I am not aiming for total victory. I am aiming on handing our besiegers a most painful, irrecoverable victory. If I may be so blunt, I expect that you two are going to help me deepen the wounds upon our enemies so that their next victory will be their undoing."

"There is another reason for why we are here."

"Oh?"

"The letters."

Wales furrowed his brow. Then smiled at the floor and laughed. "Right. The letters. I had thought that Henrietta's marriage with the Kaiser had been abrogated."

"Postponed."

His brows shot up. "Postponed? Oh my. That must have been a difficult decision for her then."

"It was the Kaiser who postponed the marriage and put in place a treaty of mutual assistance."

"And a treaty. It seems the Founder is manifesting his support for us by speaking to the hearts and minds of our brothers and sisters on the mainland."

It was more of the machinations of the Founder's most questionable choice of familiar for one of his own blessed of the Void, Karin did not say. “Regardless, we are here to remove all evidence of your more intimate correspondence so as to prevent our enemies from using it as a tool in their intrigues.”

"Hmm, I suppose you're right." The Prince sighed. "At the end of the day, those are just words on parchment. Would you like to have them back?"

"Best if they are to be destroyed."

Sad smile. "I was hoping you would not say that, to be honest. Those letters have been one of the very few things left that have strengthened my resolve in these trying times. Alas, there is no wiser course of action. Better to be sure than to take any more risks and I have taken far too many already. I will retrieve the letters myself after we meet with my war council. Best to get the pageantry over with, eh?"

Except there was no pageantry in the castle war room. What they found were disheveled royalist officers, some of whom were still recovering from their wounds. They all stood at attention at their arrival and, after being introduced by the Prince, they all visibly relaxed in relief. The Great Tempest and the Lightning Blade has come to save Newcastle, they clamored. Surely, a Tristanian relief army was on the way to punish Cromwell and his scum, they expected.

Alas, they were very disappointed when Francis explained that they were not here to seek a punishing victory over the rebels but, as His Royal Highness had said, to furtively help them hold out for longer and significantly diminish the rebels' strength hopefully to military impotence. Karin had but to flash them a glare to silence any more vehement protests.

Minutes after they adjourned, Newcastle was once again barraged by extensive and indiscriminate cannon fire coupled with volleys of concentrated offensive magic. Out the windows, the two Tristainians could trace the glowing arcs of magic soaring over the outer perimeter walls and destroy already ravaged territory.

"I will retrieve my letters," the Prince said after the bombardment ended. "Do with them as you wish."

Karin later deferred the task of destroying the letters to Francis who hesitantly burned them all on a brazier. The ashes were then collected into a jar that was emptied into a garderobe. He later asked her in private why he had to be humiliated like that.

"Humiliation?" the duchess retorted. "No one sees what you did as an act of humiliation."

"Karin, with all due respect, you know damn well why you made me do that," he politely growled.

"Oui, je sais pourquoi. And no one else outside of our party is aware of why you feel so slighted at burning the very things you were tasked by Sa Seigneurie to retrieve in the first place. Are you questioning your loyalties again, Jean-Jacques?"

He paled despite his glower. "My loyalties are set in stone. Thank you for reminding me of my past treacheries."

At least he accepted his punishment. If only she could humble the Courier in the same way...

This was not the first time Louise had to borrow Leon's Pip-Boy out of curiosity but this was the first time she had to use it on herself. Frankly, it was a little unnerving to have a glowing emerald slab ("It's actually a glass screen, kind of like a window with, um, magic water that can form shapes in it...") depicting a cartoonish girl with labels depicting her various statistics ("Those are your vitals...") and showing accurate estimates of her weight and height and even going so far as to score her under a ridiculous attribute system ("It's called the 'S.P.E.C.I.A.L.' system and it's, um, you know what, I'll fill you in on it later..."). It was all so overwhelming now that she was subjected to this so-called 'Wasteland science' and even quite infuriating that said un-living science took the liberty to preemptively evaluate her.

Seriously, one out of ten in the attributes of Strength and Endurance? Perhaps, there was some truth to that; proper ladies like her were often not blessed with hardy constitutions. Likewise, Louise was brought up in the ways of noble etiquette and class, directly opposite to the plebeian ways of simple-minded brute strength.

More annoying were the twos she received in Agility and Charisma. True, she may not be as agile as a cat but she had ballet lessons when she was a child so balancing herself on her toes for a full minute without falling over counted as more than a two. And while she may not have been sociable to her peers, she was at least sociable.

A five at Perception, she was willing to accept. After all, one did not attain high marks in academia without being so attentive in class and in the details of their homework.

Hence her rather pleasing score of seven in Intelligence. Much better than her peers and quite an impressive score according to Leon's assessment (he averaged at around seven as well which he claimed was not very common in the Wasteland).

Luck was...odd. Even her familiar could barely comprehend it and he reached a six at best. Louise, on the other hand, found herself topped at nine. Was that a joke? Or was the system as 'buggy' as Leon sometimes put it? (How could bugs live in a machine? Perhaps that was why some contraptions malfunctioned because of insects that had made their home in its inner workings?)

And there her various other 'skills' that the Pip-Boy measured. Obviously, she was ranked poorly in the martial ways though she did frown at the low numbers in the diplomacy side. Louise still had to understand much of the other functions and fiddling with this device took up half her time in the library of Chateau Cambrai where she had originally intended to do some reading while her familiar trained with Guiche in the yard and the others went shopping for more essentials.

She could have gone with Montmorency but Leon insisted she stay close-by for her safety. She protested but then he argued back with the same angry seriousness as Monsieur De Hainault and she relented. The count was a terrifying (monster) man and her familiar was not too different. That and her familiar presented that vexing argument that she 'special' so she could not risk being away from him.

The doors to the library eased open and Louise immediately smelled her familiar before he made his presence known. His tunic stuck to his skin due to the sweat (stop looking, girl!) with the fabric tracing the bulges of his muscles (do not be so improper, young woman!).

She quickly snapped her head back down to the Pip-Boy. "I would have expected more use out of your device but all I keep finding are more puzzles that confound me."

He chuckled. "You'll get used to it after awhile."

"How was your training?"

She heard him stretching...and groaning with satisfaction. "Refreshing. Haven't had a good work-out like that in a good long minute."

Louise scrunched up her nose. "Spare me your musk, please."

"I'm not that bad."

"Don't." She finally raised her head. "Where's Guiche?"

"Oh, yeah. The girls got back and they started grilling him about the ring we found in Talbes. Turns out the guild has a shop here in the city and the sigil on the gem matches the sigil they saw on the sign in the market. Small world, huh."

More like the guild was seeking to expand their business into Tristain and what better place to start than in a mercantile city like Cambrai. "So you'll be returning it to them then."

Leon paused. "Tabitha says no."

Louise raised her brow. "Why not?"

"Something about the guild being a front for the Gallian Crown."

Oh. That...complicates matters. "I suppose we should hasten our business here in Cambrai and leave as soon as we are done?"

"Yeah. The old man was hella paranoid but he wasn't wrong when he said the Gallians are hell-bent on making things go their way especially when a supposedly 'unwanted' royal had been on the loose for far too long what with her being the only other legitimate claimant to the throne."

The pink-haired mage frowned at that. Tabitha—or rather, Her Royal Highness Charlotte Helene Orléans De Gallia—had chosen to exile herself from her own country for many reasons and one of them was to be free of the Mad King. Unfortunately, the Mad King was mad enough to plague Tristain with Gallian spies in the hopes of either keeping Tabitha quiet or snuffing her out entirely. Had it not been for the efforts of Monsieur De Hainault, things could have been much worse for her blue-haired classmate (and, by extension, the rest of them).

That, inevitably, indebted Tabitha to the royal messenger. In exchange for removing the Mad King's spies from Tristainian soil, Her Royal Highness De Gallia was expected to compensate...by serving as one of Monsieur De Hainault's 'secret agents' along with Louise, Leon, Kirche, Montmorency, and Guiche. They were not promised much pay but they were assured luxurious benefits.

Kirche's voice rang through the library. "We're ba~ack!"

"Louise," Montmorency called, "Please tell me that you're not involved in any intrigue or anything with royalty. Because if you are, you better tell me or I swear to the Founder I will drown you in—"

"I'm betrothed."

Silence. Kirche stared. Montmorency stared. Tabitha stared. Guiche stared. Even Siesta stared. Leon, on the other hand, groaned drying himself with a towel in the corner; he never liked the topic of her betrothal.

"I can tell that you are under great stress, Monmon," Louise started calmly, her head bowed as she went back to fiddling with the Pip-Boy. "And I believe that it's fair that I share a bit more of myself to you all after you shared the more personal details of yourselves to me. Yes, I am betrothed. Yes, it was not meant to be public until one month before the marriage. Specifically, I am to marry Monsieur le Vicomte Jean-Jacques Francis De Wardes, the commander of Tristain's Corps De Chevaliers Griffons and my mother's protege..."

After Louise was done droning on about her marital fate, she ended up being interrogated by an excited Kirche. The redhead, who was actually fleeing from an unwanted betrothal in Germania, did not let up with her questions until dinner shortly thereafter. In her peripheries, Louise noticed Siesta being a bit more jovial for some reason while Leon passively expressed his annoyance at the fact that she was even betrothed to begin with.

The reservoir underneath the keep had indeed been filling up rapidly with the sluice gates left open since the flooding began days prior. While these measures kept the water from rising any further, it resulted in the city's canals overflowing into the lower districts. Many residents had to relocate to the upper floors of their own homes while the lower nobles assigned to the affected areas did their best to redirect the flow of water away from the more vulnerable areas within the city.

And yet, as Louise gazed down at the murky black waters inches below the catwalk she was standing on, she could feel that the Lagdorian Undine a greater deluge prepared that could overwhelm the walled city so much that it would literally turn into a massive reservoir with the thick, enchanted stone walls damming the waters in.

"Everybody ready?" Leon barked.

On another catwalk across from them, Kirche replied with a loud affirmative. Tabitha stood beside her, staff in hand, ready to act at a moment's notice. On the other platforms stood ready Count De Cambrai and his retinue of most trusted knights, Line-class mage-warriors whose martial proficiency, when combined, would hopefully hem the spirit...just in case.

At the center of it all, beside Louise, was Montmorency. She was caressing her familiar Robin sitting in her hands.

"Alright, we're good to go." Leon then turned to the blonde. "Waiting on you now."

Louise saw Montmorency nod back, then glance to Guiche who quietly assured her, before extending her hands from which Robin leapt off into the depths. Lit only by oil lamps and balls of mage-light hovering over sconces, there was very little for anyone to see past the surface as the minuscule visage of the frog quickly disappeared.

And they waited.

No one said a word until the rippling in the water intensified with small waves crashing against the walls and supports. Like many of her companions, Louise held onto the railing even though the vibrations were ignorable at best. Leon was as alert as the knights surrounding them, each one shifting glances while keeping their attention to the water.

In the dim light, Robin could be seen swimming back to the surface. Montmorency knelt down and caught her familiar as it jumped into her palms. In the moment she rose to stand, the vibrations ceased. And the Lagdorian Undine finally manifested...in the visage of Montmorency herself.

"Greetings, young one," the spirit greeted. "I have answered your summons."

The blonde water mage trembled as the traditional adorations spilled from her mouth per her prerogative as the summoner. Despite her anxiety, she stayed composed until she was able to present their supplications. All the while, Louise and the others could only gawk in wonder at the entity so ancient as to have existed in the days of Brimir himself...so much so that some legends claim that the Founder himself had actually conversed with this particular spirit.

"... Thus please, ondine très vénérée, may you grant us this humble request," Montmorency pleaded, kneeling prostrate on the platform.

The undine hovered over the reservoir, anchored to the water by a small cord that spun endlessly like a funnel. The reply was blunt: "I deny your request."

Eyes went wide, heads turned, sword-wands threatened to come loose, and the blonde water mage sighed in defeat. "I...see. Then...then so be it, ondine très vénérée. Thank you...for gracing us with your presence."

The spirit said nothing and was about to sink back into the water when Leon stomped his heel so hard that the catwalk shook. He leaned over the railing, his lips stretched thin. Louise turned to her familiar and was graced by that cold, unforgiving, demonic look that paralyzed her.

"With all due respect," he said, "our meeting isn't over, ancient water spirit."

A tight, increasingly uncomfortable silence befell the entire reservoir.

"I have a little complaint, you see. From what I gather, you're just going to keep flooding this whole place, drowning hundreds and thousands of people—men, women, children, infants, the elderly, the infirm, folks who don't know why they're suffering, who've never even bothered you, who are trying to figure out the reason for their lands into a giant, godforsaken, bug-infested swamp."

The others found their voices, all of them horrified at the outburst. Kirche in particular was visibly appalled (a rare sight for Louise) that she raised her voice at him. "Leon, verdammt, stop it! Don't provoke her!"

Leon ignored the redhead and continued to raise his voice against the undine. "I was told that you're the old, mystical, millennia-old spirit in charge of the deepest waters this side of Tristain. You don't sympathize with us mortals because you don't suffer like we do. Supposedly, you don't feel pain like we do, you don't starve, you don't even feel fucking sick to your stomach from all the poison that everyone around here shits into your lake one way or the other."

"Monsieur!" decried Count De Cambrai, his skin growing pale with horror and his wand now drawn. "Cease your blabbering or you will get us all killed!"

"As far as I'm concerned, sir, I'm not the one drowning in my bed," calmly replied the landless nobleman. He then pointed an accusative finger at the undine. "As far as I'm concerned, this is a spirit. Not a god. Or a demigod. Not even a titan or some other cosmic entity that holds the fabric of the universe together. Eventually, great spirit, you're going to run out water. Eventually, people will find ways to get back at you for ruining their lives. I've seen whole rivers poisoned all the way to the sea. It's not that hard to do. And as suicidal as it may seem, I ran with crazier folks who've gone the distance to burn themselves to a crisp for the tiniest dose of spite. Because a spoonful of spite is all that's needed to scratch that indomitable ego of yours."

Louise finally shook herself out of her stupor and snatched at his wrist, desperately pulling to no avail. "Leon, par les Fondateur, stop it!"

"Leon," Tabitha called, her voice heavy and stern. Despite her stoic facade, her knuckles were white from gripping her staff...which was directed at him. "Please, stop."

"Get a hold of yourself, man!" Guiche cried, his arms wrapped around his beau. Montmorency, for her part, was too stunned to speak as she clutched onto him.

"Leon, listen!" Siesta begged, her hands shaking as she clutched at the dagger she had received from Chevalier Ney. "D-don't get us all killed, please!"

The pink-haired mage tugged again, dragging the glove off his hand that bore his familiar runes. "Let this go. We tried, we failed. It doesn't matter. Stop this foolishness, stop making enemies, stop making things worse!"

Whatever pleas they all made, however, fell on deaf ears. Not even the commands bellowed by Monsieur De Cambrai fazed her familiar.

Suddenly, the Lagdorian Undine spoke, her voice ethereal and equally cold. "Always acerbic, Gandálfr."

Whispers of that last word resonated amongst the bewildered knights and even the count was taken aback by the mention of one of Brimir's legendary familiars.

"Your past incarnations spared no adulations," the spirit continued. "By virtue of your mark, Gandalfr, I forgive your transgressions and grant you my audience."

"Great," huffed the 'Gandálfr' that was Louise's familiar. "Let's start with why you're causing all this. I can see that just asking you to stop isn't going to work. Cause and effect, really. And after a bit of old-fashioned sleuthing, this looks to me now like an effect of a cause with you as the victim. I know my myths and legends...or the basics of them, at least. Ancient spirits like you don't go out of your way to proactively mess things up unless it's something on a prophetic level."

"You are correct, Gandálfr. Your foresight speaks to your wisdom and vindicates your excitement."

"I'm not that wise and I don't think I'm all too excited either. I'm only pointing out the facts that I've learned to get to more facts that I need and this next one is what I'm trying to figure out right now: who pissed you off?"

The aspect turned to face Guiche who froze in fear, locked in an embrace with Montmorency. A watery limb morphed into a finger that pointed at the topaz he wore on his hand. "Those who have offended me proudly carry that ring."

Silence.

Louise could taste the pure fear that descended upon nearly everyone from Monsieur De Cambrai to his retainers to even Tabitha whose brows were furrowed behind her monocles.

Unsurprisingly, it was Leon who broke the quiet with frustrated sigh. "Well, shit."

"Well, shit."

"What in the bloody bulging balls of Brimir above have you done!?"

"Matilda, s'il te plaît, calm down. It's fine."

Calm down? Calm down!? How can she be calm when her companions had already brutally killed three men in the back-alleys of Southampton? They had barely spent half a day in Albion and now they were now murdering people.

"Who were they? Were they Reconquista? Did they compromise us?"

The Courier waved her off. "Keep it down, woman. You're too damn loud."

As if the noise she had been hearing from several paces away was not loud enough! She thought their first night in Albion would be uneventful; lodging at an inn and sharing a room with Agnès with the count occupying the one next door. Matilda was busy unpacking to notice the blonde had left her alone and when neither her companions had returned to the inn after nearly an hour, she hastened out onto the street wand at the ready and fearing the worst.

She had probably spent the next hour or so combing Southampton, asking locals if they had seen this or that, chasing breadcrumbs until she found herself in the dregs where a drunken mendicant was rambling about 'rude foreigners.' That same mendicant pointed her towards an alleyway where she held her lantern over droplets of blood that grew to a trail smeared across the cobblestone. That trail ended in a growing pool forming below three mangled bodies nailed to a wall and the guilty party slitting the last survivor's throat.

"Relax, Tilly," droned Courier Six. "We're in an abandoned part o' town. Ain't we, Angie?"

Agnès nodded. "It is clear that no one has lived in this part of the city for years."

That did not mean that they were not possibly surveilled by hidden onlookers, Matilda nearly screamed. She had been a street rat herself and she could easily pinpoint hiding spots for witnesses. And her street rat ears picked up the clinking of coin purses which were bouncing in the Courier's gloved hand before he pocketed them all.

"A'ight. Time to get rid o' the evidence."

The reformed thief was too stunned to speak and stepped back as the other two unpinned the three dead men and dragged them over to a nearby drainage hatch. They then rolled bodies into it, the cadavers landing into the tainted waters with loud splashes. The squeaks of rats could be heard echoing back up before Count Hainault closed the shaft.

"So, Tilly, you done right come lookin' for us?"

"Of course, I was!" Matilda flared. "I thought something had gone wrong and we were exposed! What were you doing here? Why were you doing this? What happened?"

"Just followin' up on some new leads is all."

"What new leads? I thought the plan was to head straight to Wiltshire and—"

"An' we're goin' there, no fuss. It just so happened that Angie here's sniffed out somethin' big. An' she sniffed out these little birdies who done sang loud and clear."

She snapped to the knight-commandant. "Agnès, what is going on? Is there...a sudden development that necessitated this...?"

“Wouldn't call it a development,” he continued, wiping the blood off his curved Tartaric blade with a rag. “but I ain't gon' be damn right surprised if this one sum'bitch that done skipped the noose over back on the mainland is the same sum'bitch runnin' his racket here for them rebels.”

"Who?"

Agnès spat out the name. "Charlon Rocheleau."

"Nasty piece o' work from what I hear. That far, gluttonous yellow-belly fuck's allegedly the brains behind some damn right unforgivable that'd been done to Angie over here a long time ago. Fast forward a dozen or so years an' a hundred proscriptions later, that lard-ass gets ratted out by his cronies and he done right high-tailed it outta Tristain as soon as heads started rollin'. Well, guess where he might'a ended up in."

The reformed thief scoffed. "Here? In Albion?"

"Lord Emil Richmond," spelled the knight-commandant. "Bought his way into the ranks of the Reconquista and is now collecting taxes for the northern counties."

"He bought his way into the rebels?"

"Ex-finance minister," the Courier answered. "Guy ran the entire tax system o' Tristain for the past couple decades. Partially responsible for the sinkhole economy that Henny ended up salvagin' when she started gettin' real hands on with her rulership."

Agnès snarled. "He routinely pilfered from the royal treasury. Small amounts at first but over the years, he became more brazen. Whole wagons full of coin and goods suddenly gone! Several communities left starving, nearly impoverished the kingdom with his greed."

Whole wagons full of royal gold? That was a thief's dream. The only difference between Rocheleau and Matilda was that the latter endeavored to return to the poor what was taken from them by the rich. Like the old Albian folk hero the Hooded Robin. "How can you be sure then that Richmond and Rocheleau are one and the same?"

"Them birdies di'n't sound like they were lyin', eh, Angie?"

The blonde bore her teeth in a twisted grin like a leopardess that had relished in her kill. "Oh, they were most truthful, Sixième."

Matilda gulped. "I suppose you'd be wanting to kill him then. This...this might complicate things, you know."

"What was it that Madame Duchess said?" echoed the bear. "Oh, that's right. Precision."

"Richmond is a viable target," Agnès defended. "He has placed himself as a direct mediator between Cromwell and his baseline supporters. Removing him would disrupt Reconquista's finances, hinder their forces, and worsen any frictions in the ranks. He is a precise target."

"And I don't suppose culling his retainers would satiate your thirst for attrition?"

The Courier only laughed and began walking back to the inn where they would be staying for the night. The knight-commandant followed shortly thereafter with the reformed thief dragging her feet along. The two ladies though kept a wide berth with the man.

"You could have at least told me," Matilda whispered.

Agnès deflected. "There was no time. They moved like street rats and I have been chasing street rats long enough to know that I could not risk any delay. Sixième was with me and he advised we follow them immediately."

"Agnès, I was a street rat. I was an Albian street rat; if I had been involved, we could have done things differently and about as efficiently."

Blink, blink, jaw agape. "I...apologize. I...was not aware."

She huffed indignantly. "It's fine. It's over and done with anyway. Three less people to worry about as the saying goes."

"Matilda—"

Matilda held up her hand. "Just...inform me next time, okay? This is Albion, not Tristain, not Gallia. It would greatly help if we were to not keep these kinds of secrets that lead to surprises like that."

Resigned sigh. "... Very well."

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: January, 2022

LAST EDITED: April 13, 2022

INITIALLY UPLOADED: April 12, 2022

Chapter Text

Day LXXVII

It was the ninth hour of the day and Henrietta felt her mood sour upon seeing another letter flutter onto her messy desk. "What's this?"

"An execution order," answered Cardinal Mazarin.

The Princess read through the order and almost clicked her tongue at the name of the condemned. A part of her screamed amnesty; the rest of her was indifferent to the poor man whose neck was to be graced by the headsman's axe.

"Your signature, Madame Royale."

Oh. So that's how this is playing out, eh? Given this particular prisoner's reputation prior to his incarceration, no doubt there would be some significant opposition. Oh, well; Henrietta was no stranger to scrutiny and she had been tolerating dissent amongst her subordinates since her coming of age.

"I take it that all legal measures have been exhausted to prove that this man is indeed guilty of his crimes," she said.

"Without a shadow of a doubt," replied Mazarin.

The Princess read through the order again...and quickly made up her mind. "Very well."

There were neither smiles nor expressions of satisfaction or remorse as she rasped her quill over the parchment and handed it back to the cardinal. This was the first execution that she had personally authorized. She barely knew who the condemned nobleman whose life she was signing away was but she was aware of the influence he had held and his many influential friends who would protest at royal approval of such a verdict. Though, to be honest, she was starting to care less and less about what these unfortunate bastards did to earn themselves a stay at the dungeons until their time of reckoning.

Their fault, she supposed. Half of her argued that some of these people were wrongfully accused...which was true. To that, Sixième's voice echoed in the back of her mind: 'no one ain't ever completely innocent.'

"Madame Royale?"

Henrietta nearly groaned. "Is there anything else, L'Éminence?"

"No realm for amnesty?"

"Not today."

"This will be carried out at midnight tonight."

Good. The quicker, the better. "One less problem to worry about tomorrow."

For a brief moment, the cardinal's aged face hardened into a disapproving glare. "... Madame Royale, I must warn you against letting your flippancy blind you to the potential consequences of these sorts of matters especially when they involve members of the Cour Royale."

Tell that to her familiar then. "I am not blind to them. As you can see, these sorts of matters are arrayed before me on this very desk every day."

"Pardon the intrusion, Madame Royale, L'Éminence," echoed Legate Chesare, his hypnotic baritone sending a shiver down her spine, "but seeing a mountain is different from assailing it."

Henrietta did not rise from her chair when he strode in. "Is there something you need, Monsieur Chesare?"

"Madame Royale, I wish to ask you...how long has Tristain relied on mercenary bands for their services?"

"Not very long." The Princess traced the predatory gleam in his eyes and remembered how eerily similar it was to Sixième when he had cornered his prey. "We do not resort to the use of mercenaries to enforce order. We have an army for that. And trustworthy vassals with retainers and professional troops."

"I see. This is odd, then." Ulysses strode closer to her desk until he had effectively blocked out the sunlight beaming through the glass windows, leaving her more and more insecure in her seat. "Madame Royale, my inquisitors have compiled reports regarding large bands of Tristainian mercenaries based in this kingdom actively participating in affairs in Gallia and Germania. In fact, these mercenaries are not largely Tristainian by birth. Many hail from all across Halkeginia, pledging their services to the highest bidder...as managed by whatever organization they have in County Hainault. I assure you, Madame Royale, that this matter is itself not illegal under any existing law or decree. However, mercenaries have always been fickle and the Church, given our extensive history, is not very partial them."

"They are doing business as they see fit," Henrietta replied testily.

"Offering their services to powerful entities in Gallia and the Germanian Confederation with minimal oversight from Tristain," the legate added. "Indulge my curiosity: is that wise?"

"I don't expect you to say it is," she answered firmly. "Alas, what is done is done and they are out there bleeding for us and filling up our coffers with coin. Better us than them, I say."

He chuckled. "How shrewd of you, Madame Royale. Allowing 'Tristainian volunteers' to 'help' the Mad King suppress dissent in Gallia's tumultuous south; to 'help' the Kaiser hold off the pagan hordes in the Germanian east; to 'help' petty rulers who send them on assignments that often do not see many strong and capable warriors returning alive. I expected you to be pragmatic but I had also thought you to be the merciful angel that your people revere you as."

Sometimes, angels get tired of being merciful. "Did not the Founder speak of angels of death who carried out divine punishment?"

"There are many such angels in the world. It is just that they are often seen without their wings nowadays."

Cardinal Mazarin, at this point, decided to take charge of the conversation. "That is all well and good. Now, given how much work Her Royal Highness must accomplish, is there anything else you would wish to discuss with us, Monsieur Chesare?"

Ulysses nodded. "Yes. Recent developments have necessitated my personal visit to this kingdom's eastern provinces, specifically your provinces Flanders and Cambrai. It seems that there is some kind of natural calamity occurring near the southern border with Gallia close to the Ardennes that has been widely considered as the act of a provoked supernatural entity."

"Pardon," interjected the Princess. "I thought your presence here was to...audit my administration?"

"And these territories are under your royal administration, Madame Royale. However, given how...busy...you are with your work and the fact that your royal demesne does not extend that far west, it is inevitable that the lower magistrates governing the area may have adopted extreme measures to curtail disaster. As the chief inquisitor of this delegation, it is my prerogative to ensure that the proper legal, ethical, and moral standards are upheld."

More like an excuse to get out of the palace and explore the fringes of her kingdom to find even more dirt to fault her with, she mentally seethed. Could she stop him? No. Delay him? Not applicable at this time. Warn him, she supposed? Might come off as a threat...

"Additionally, I will be taking Deufelevorum with me."

"The relic? Does it not inconvenience you to constantly have a caravan following in your wake? Surely, you can just leave the sword in the royal vault and free up your guardsmen to assist you in your tasks."

"It is not a question of your palace security or the allocation of my men's services, Madame Royale. I am only adhering to the instructions given to me by His Holiness and that is to keep the relic close to me at all times regardless of the circumstances."

Henrietta and Cardinal Mazarin shared a wary glance. Odd as it seemed, they could not go against something that the Pope himself had issued.

She relented. "Very well. I suppose I should see you out to the grounds?"

"If it does not hinder you from your work."

She could use the break. Together with the cardinal, they both escorted the Papal legate through the palace halls to the portico where the rest of the inquisitors and Papal guardsmen had mustered around the Papal caravan. Between them was the ornate ark that had housed Deufelevorum. On command, the ark was levitated and carefully shuffled into its gilded carriage where the doors were sealed shut three times over.

As the caravan began to move, the Papal legate turned to the Princess. "I will return in due time, Madame Royale. Our business here is far from complete."

Henrietta did not mutter a farewell until they were out of sight. A while later, she found her voice and she turned to Cardinal Mazarin.

"Did I speak too much?" she asked quietly, like a child that had realized the error of their ways and was dreading the punishment from the adult standing over them. "Did I step out of line? Was my behavior unbecoming of a princess, an heir-apparent?"

"Non, Madame Royale," he replied morosely. "You are only being who you are and that is no different to how your father had conducted himself in these sorts of affairs."

"He did have the louder voice." She turned on her heel and strode back inside. "By the way, make sure to seize whatever assets that condemned prisoner still has left. We're going to need every bit of coin to stave off a deficit."

"You are aware that Monsieur De Besarcon has a son who is set to inherit his estate."

She paused in her step. She had forgotten about that. How did Sixième get away with this? Oh, right. "Remind me again who this son is."

Mazarin breathed deep; he discerned where she was going with this. "Monsieur Gillaume De Besarcon. He had reached his twentieth year a few months ago. Decent, well-mannered, intelligent and so far loyal to the Crown despite his father's sins. An exceptional water mage ranked at Triangle. He served for two years as an auxiliary healer in our army."

"I see. Any other kin?"

"An older sister: Mademoiselle Genevieve De Besarcon. Also a Triangle-class water mage. Erudite, very intelligent, diligent as well. Currently employed at the Institut Royal De Recherche De Oriz. If I am not mistaken, she is well-acquainted with Madame Éléonore De La Vallière and works closely with her."

Damn it. Must the Vallières always be involved in everything? "I remember Madame Éléonore. She was always the scary one. Headstrong and determined. I always respected her."

The cardinal stood in front of her with a deep scowl and his voice low enough to be a whisper. "I understand the need to refill our coffers—"

"Who else is left of House Besarcon?" Henrietta retorted. "Most of the others, if I recall correctly, are either dead or in exile. The case of treason against Monsieur le Marquis Onfroi De Besarcon has, as you say, been thoroughly justified and his head rolls tonight. If his children decide to intervene against the headsman, they will make themselves criminals and will thus completely destroy their own house."

"You are suggesting we leave Monsieur Gillaume and Mademoiselle Genevieve destitute with no titles to their names. That is tantamount to stripping them of their nobility."

"Their nobility dies if House Besarcon is completely dissolved," the Princess growled back. "Tomorrow, Monsieur Gillaume will be the new patriarch of his house. Likewise, his sister sounds like she is doing fairly well in preserving their prestige at Oriz even without having been married yet. The way I see it, they still keep their titles and preserve their house so long as they behave."

Mazarin begrudgingly hummed in agreement. "What exactly do you intend to do with them then?"

She resumed her gait, glancing out the windows to the palace gardens where colorful butterflies were fluttering about the verdure. "... Give Monsieur Gillaume his due inheritance. Levy the usual tax. But include this offer: if he wishes to redeem his family name, let him serve in our army once more and I will assign him to a place where he can truly earn back their prestige. Besides, Monsieur De Poitiers keeps complaining of the lack of competent and disciplined Triangle-class officers."

"And if Monsieur Gillaume refuses?"

"Then tell him that the free corps of County Hainault are always looking for new members. Perhaps he might enjoy the liberties of mercenary life. Otherwise, if he still refuses, then so be it. Let him do as he does. But he should know that if he should challenge the Crown in his grief and anger, then he would soon follow after his own father."

Sigh. "Is there anything else, Madame Royale?"

"That is all, L'Éminence."

Henrietta returned to her office and resumed going through the petitions piled on her desk. If her kingdom was to survive the coming storm, then she needed to get used to these grim decisions. To think enabling proscriptions was the most difficult thing she had done; alas, carrying them out was even more difficult. She still wanted to be kind, she still wanted to be lenient, she still wanted to be merciful...

But Sixième's 'truth' were ringing truer and truer by the day. And in her dreams, she had seen what happened to leaders who were too 'soft.' This may not be Tartary or the Wasteland or whatever godforsaken hell-scape but the principle remained the same: she had to be colder to fight this cold war against the enemies of Tristain.

"Arrêt! Arrêt, connards!"

Louise grit her teeth when the Occitans fought back against the guardsmen sent to arrest them. The sergeant, a Dot-class mage, was immediately tackled by three large men, their bulging muscles no doubt the result of not only years of craftsmanship but military training. That and their flawless coordination spoke of extensive experience. They were truly dealing with very skilled and dangerous foreign agents, most of whom were commoners.

"Told you they wouldn't give up that easily," groaned Leon. "Louise, do your thing."

Taking a deep breathe, she walked to the bannister of the window where they were scuffling down below and began to chant. It didn't matter really what spell she chose because the result was always the same. But out of habit, she chose to cast a basic fireball anyway and she took care to aim her wand at the rest of the Gallian 'spies' who were trying to flee.

She screamed the last word and, as expected, an explosion rocked the street, clouding the district and sending a shockwave that shattered the windows, scattered junk, and sent splinters towards anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby.

"Nice," her familiar hummed before perching his foot on the window sill. "Damn. These are tough bastards. They're still trying to make a break for it."

What!? That could not be! Her explosion was powerful enough to hurt someone given how many people she had unintentionally sent to the infirmary during her freshman year. Looking out the window, she was surprised that despite bleeding from cuts and scrapes and being knocked down to the ground, these agents of the Mad King of Gallia forced themselves to their feet and kept forcing their escape.

"Hardened vets," Leon observed. "Brushing off something like that means they're top-tier guys."

"I'll have my valkyries stop them!" Guiche declared.

"No, you stay here and keep the rest contained. Louise don't cast any more explosions. Monty, prep a lot of water because there's going to be a lot of hurt."

"What? Leon! Don't—"

He was gone before she could grab the hem of his cloak. Screaming his name, they rushed to the window sill of the balcony to see him landing atop one of the agitators, subduing him with a quick strike to the back of his neck before confronting another of the Gallian offenders by grabbing his head with both hands and—

Crack!

Gasp.

Crunch.

The pink-haired mage blinked wide-eyed at the man on the ground whose face was now staring up at her while his back was to the sky.

"Par les Fondateur," stammered Montmorency.

"D-did he just...?" stuttered Guiche.

Blink, blink, deep breaths. Louise swallowed the lump in her throat and squeezed her classmate's hand as her familiar proceeded to brutalize half a dozen men who were much larger than him. Graceful and graceless, his strikes were quick but efficient and the three men who survived were beaten again by the angry guardsmen who took them away for questioning in the keep dungeons.

The three students in the upstairs room of the tenement across from the Occitan guild shop had already forgotten their roles in this ambush, much less form words. They were snapped out of their reverie when Leon yelled at them to 'get their heads back in the game' before running down the street where another battle was taking place.

It took a bit of effort for the betrothed pair to drag their classmate down to the street to help tend to the wounded. There were not many of them and Louise could not help but constantly stare at the mangled bodies, one of whom had his chest caved in from a single, hard punch from the Gandálfr.

Gouts of fire burst outward from Kirche's wand and engulfed the culprits who had been bottlenecked into their alleyway by their pursuers. Tabitha followed up with an expertly timed release of compressed air that halved the wands of the three mages among them, with their apparent leader having his whole hand sliced clean off at the elbow. The pursuing guardsmen arrived seconds later to subdue the survivors.

"Is this everyone?" asked the redhead.

Her best friend shook her head and pointed in the direction of the market forum. "Stragglers."

The two girls levitated over the guardsmen, caring not to burn through too much willpower, before landing on their heels in front of a startled vendor on the edges of the market forum. Before either of them could ask the merchant if he had seen anyone suspicious pass by, a scream broke out in the middle of the agora.

Pushing past people who were fleeing and some who were hurrying over to watch, Kirche and Tabitha ended up behind an overturned food cart watching Leon tackle one of the five remaining Occitan agents, their wands in full view. Given the odds, Louise's familiar was in for a serious fight; these were men carried themselves like cold-blooded veterans.

"Leon!" the redhead called out.

"Stay where you are!" he hollered before turning around and immediately dodging a blade of air that was meant for his neck.

Tabitha met the incoming blade with a wall of ice. She extended her staff and the wall expanded around them, creating a safety barrier that hopefully would prevent these onlookers from being injured.

"Don't be foolish, liebling!" Kirche hissed, jumping over the cart with her wand out.

She chanted quick and a ball of fire sped outward only to smash uselessly against a reinforced ward cast by the apparent leader of the group.

"Watch my six, then!" Leon barked back, once again skillfully dodging another gust of compressed air. "Keep 'em busy while I take 'em out."

"Killing them is a last resort!"

"Sorry, Kirche, but those aren't my rules of engagement."

That was the last thing she heard before Tabitha whisked her back to her side with an air current. Kirche landed behind a pile of crates next to her best friend who kept her in place as she watched Herr Leon Walker Von Tartarei viciously prove why the Lagdorian Undine recognized him as the reincarnation of one of the Founder Brimir's own legendary familiars.

Five hardened battle-mages against one supposed 'commoner.' And that commoner was winning.

Having grown up during a tumultuous period of unrestricted internecine skirmishing between the Germanian states, Fraulein Von Anhalt-Zerbst had quickly learned to trace the movements of warriors to avoid being collateral. Thus, her eyes tracked Leon's movements like a hawk, her focus tacked to his limbs, and she was astounded at how fast he was dispatching his opponents.

In seconds, he had closed the distance with the first mage and thrust his palm upwards at his chin—no, his nose! The strike debilitated the larger man, causing him to stumble back into his comrade behind him, disrupting his chant. As they tumbled onto the dirt, Leon spun on his heel, ducked to avoid a blast of fire, and swiftly drew one of the daggers on his belt. That glinting blade immediately found its way into the third mage's armpit. Then it came out bloody and was plunged into the nape of his neck.

"Vom Gründer," was all Kirche could say.

The other two, although stunned by the death of one of their own, recovered quickly and engaged Leon in a melee with their own concealed blades.

Cling, clang, crack!

Kirche ducked her head to avoid the saber that came flying towards them after it was knocked out of the wielder's hand. She peeked over the boxes again to see Leon stab the other Occitan mage with his own short sword. Herr Walker quickly pirouetted around his victim's body, dragging the blade out, and cut down the other man with enough force to create a gaping fissure from his shoulder, across his chest, down to his hip.

Three men dead. The other two were still struggling to their feet, one of whom was still heavily disoriented; blood was pouring down his broken nose.

She blinked once. And Louise's familiar—the 'Gandálfr'—slid underneath the battle-mages. The surviving Occitan agents of Gallia's Mad King collapsed onto their knees, howling in agony, their tendons cut wide open.

Tabitha muttered something fast and a pair of ice shards rained down from above, piercing through the men's wand-hands, effectively disarming them and pinning them to the ground.

Kirche continued to stare a bit longer, her mind still piecing together what she had seen, until she was shaken on the shoulder by Leon who had crimson spatters over his leather armor.

"You okay?"

"Ja, I'm fine." Was that blood on his fingers? "Ah, liebling, please don't wipe yourself on me."

He withdrew his hand which he casually rubbed on his thigh. "Sorry. Anyway, I think we got 'em."

"You know, we were supposed to take them in alive."

He snorted. "If only they didn't fight back, eh?"

That cynicism was one of the reasons why the Germanian chose to study in Tristain. "You could have disabled them instead of killing them."

Leon exhaled. "Kirche, I get what you're trying to say. But, you see, we have what we call rules of engagement. And I abided by those rules. They resisted arrest, they fought back with the intent to kill, they preferred death over surrender. That's three strikes and I only need one to have the liberty to put them six feet under."

She inched away from him. "You can't always apply those rules everywhere, you know."

He shrugged as the rest of the city guard finally arrived, their faces twisting at the visceral sight even as they began taking in the two surviving Occitans.

"You don't see them complaining," remarked Herr Walker. "Point is, we got some of these bastards alive and the folks here have got interesting ways to make them talk. At the end of it, we did our part, we did our job, now we just have to figure out where these guys took the Andvaranaut and things will be back to normal. Hopefully."

"Efficient," Tabitha commended.

"Likewise," Leon reciprocated.

Kirche liked to think she had gotten used to death and violence but this whole experience had rattled her deeply. Whether or not it was the blessing of being allegedly one of Brimir's chosen or a lifetime of Tartaric brutality, the young man walking next to her had fought in such a way that she could only describe as inhuman. Thank the Founder, he was merciful! Ever more so that he was Louise's familiar.

In the end, as they regrouped at the keep, Tabitha succinctly mentioned to her that Leon's right hand was glowing as he fought. He wore gloves, she argued, but her best friend pointed out that there was a glimmering sheen of light that had been peeking between his sleeve.

"The fleet is repositioning for another volley," announced His Royal Highness Wales Tudor.

So far, Duchess Karin De La Vallière was unimpressed with the tactics being employed against them by the Reconquista. Constant, inaccurate bombardment that was almost never followed up with any attacks. If anything, they were wasting ammunition and despite having seized much of the royal munitions houses and repurposed captured industry to churn out supplies for the Coalition, their lethargic misuse of material resources spoke of ineptitude and inexperience that was to doom them to failure.

"Where is the closest point of contact you have with the rebels?" she asked the Prince.

"As of this morning, that would be the south gate. My men have reported no attempts by the rebels to storm the gatehouse since last week but they did count at least a sizable number of troops amassing on their doorstep."

The Grand Tempest traced the shapes of the rebel sky-ships moving over the horizon. Their repositioning would be complete in minutes and then there would be a brief lull before they would begin firing. The distance from Newcastle Keep to the southern gantry would take no less than ten minutes by foot, half by horse, two by manticore...

"What are you planning?" inquired His Royal Highness.

"Francis and I will attack from the south gate but we will not advance to reclaim lost territory." Karin began moving down towards the stables with the Prince keeping in step.

"I had thought you would not wish to be seen."

"Our helmets have thick visors and neither Francis nor I have to verbally communicate to coordinate our attacks."

Speaking of the viscount, he was now coming up from the war room fully armored in the polished plated steel of the Albian Royal Guard complete with purple mantle and the closed helmet adorned with the bright crimson plume that denoted senior standing among House Tudor's elite knighthood. His ornate Tristanian-forged sword-wand was neatly wrapped and concealed in the small of his back, having equipped himself with one of the less decorative and slightly longer sword-wands issued to Albian knights.

"Are we heading out?" he asked.

Karin nodded, slipping on her own closed helmet with a yellow plume that completed her own plated Albian armor set. "South gate."

"Counter-attack?"

"A simple lashing to remind these rebel rabble of their folly."

His Royal Highness saw them both out to the antechamber of the keep where they immediately saddled upon the two horses prepared for them right as the cannons of the Reconquista fleet began firing.

Almost immediately after the bombardment had ceased, Wales and his subordinate commanders watched from another protected balcony as the Great Tempest and the Lightning Blade combined their spells to inflict a massive, devastating blow against the Coalition troops gathering to assault the gatehouse. The battering ram inching towards the gate had suddenly been lifted by powerful winds and flipped on top of the men pushing it while the rest of the rebels screamed as they were likewise plucked off their feet and flung back across the battlefield like discarded dolls.

Interestingly, the duchess avoided casting her signature cyclones (for very few in Halkeginia could do so flawlessly and to devastating effect) and the viscount likewise refrained from going past single lightning strikes (very few mastered casting forked lightning and Viscount Wardes was one of them). Regardless, what they both did was more than enough to destroy any attempt to penetrate Newcastle from the south, inflicting severe casualties on the enemy. From where he stood, behind peep-holes in the castle hoarding, Wales counted over a hundred bodies strewn in front of the south gate.

"Why are they not advancing?" demanded one of his officers. "They should be retaking lost ground while they still can!"

"If we do that, we will expose ourselves to the better-positioned rebels hiding amongst the ruins," Wales rebutted. "There are very few of us left and sending out even more to occupy broken houses would overextend us."

"I apologize, Your Grace. I did not think of it that way."

"No need for apologies. We are all scraping ideas on how to damage Cromwell even further."

"Yet to skirt a victory when we have been blessed with powerful allies—"

"Square-class mages or no, those two cannot defeat an army even if we were to muster our all and join them in battle. Our enemies are far too numerous and the terrain here favors the defenders. And we are the defenders." Wales stopped there, having had this argument with his army staff before.

"Small victories then, Your Grace," quipped one of his more senior commanders.

"Like bee stings," the Prince replied morosely. "Too many bites, too little ointment, by then there is too much venom in your veins and you will fall sick and die even after you succeeded in destroying the hive. The longer Cromwell fails to see that, the better for all of us."

Matilda knew this was going to happen; it was inevitable given how largely uneventful things were since leaving Portsmouth and Southampton.

She held tightly onto the reins of her steed, arguing back with the sergeant of this patrol they had encountered on the road to Wiltshire. Nine men in total, all lightly armored in padded jerkins, equipped with spears, some with daggers, others with crude short-swords. The man raising his voice at her was clad in better armor; some hammered steel to protect his head and his upper body. He had a flintlock pistol holstered on his belt and was waving another one in her face, threatening to arrest her and her companions for trespassing or some other trumped-up charge.

The more she tried to convince him, the more it was becoming apparent that she was talking to a group of men who were looking for their next score thanks to the measly pay they were getting for being rear echelon Reconquista grunts.

To think things could not get any worse, Count Hainault saddles up next to her and interrupts: "A'ight since this ain't gettin' anywhere, any chance y'all would let us through in exchange for some, y'know, fairy dust?"

"Hah, bribery!" scoffed the patrol sergeant. "Now that is a crime worth a proper arrest!"

"Come on now, buddy. We all know this is a shake-down and y'all are just scrapin' to get by."

The sergeant and his men laughed. "False accusation as well. Any more crimes, brigands?"

Matilda caught the sudden change in the Courier's face from a placating smile to a malevolent leer before he coldly replied, "Yeah. Multiple homicide."

And he moved.

Her eyes went wide and she found herself nearly thrown off her horse when it reared in fright. She pulled on the reins as smoke clouded her vision, her hearing compounded by several loud bangs. By the time she had gotten the beast under control, it was over; her companions had murdered the entire patrol faster than she thought anyone could have. And despite the thickness of the smoke, she was able to discern how this had transpired.

Courier Hainault drew the first pair of his quartet of flintlock pistols with lightning speed and simultaneously fired at the sergeant and the spearman next to him, both between the eyes. Before the they fell to the ground, he dropped the pistols, immediately drew the next pair and rapidly killed two more with eerily precise shots to their heads. The remaining five were too stunned by the sudden turn of events, unmoving like bottles on a fence. That was when Agnès emptied her own pair of Tristainian flintlock pistols, whittling down the guard to three. There was a flash of sunlight reflecting off polished steel and the royal messenger finished off the rest of the patrol with three instantaneous shots from his 'revolver' pistol.

How such a dirty weapon could shoot without the need to reload was mortifying enough. Yet the thought that such a device fired carefully smelted 'bullets' that were designed to pierce through the hardest of armors with ease and with greater accuracy at greater ranges was enough to rob her of a night's sleep.

And so Matilda sat on her horse, guffawing at the cadavers arrayed around them, her jaw hanging and her grip tight on her wand. She could have ended up like that weeks ago...eyeing down the barrel of that same 'revolver' pistol in the Académie vault...

"We're clear," barked the count. "Let's start cleanin' up 'fore anyone else shows up."

He and the knight-commandant dismounted and began rifling through the dead, coming away with poorly-minted coppers and a few dented silver shillings along with small strips of dried meat and some bread. The sergeant's own flintlocks and powders were confiscated as was the silver band on his finger—somewhere out there, another Albian woman had become a widow.

"Little slow there on the draw, Tilly," lightly admonished the Courier who had retrieved and reloaded his quartet of flintlocks and was filling the bags on his steed with their meager loot.

"You...were too fast," was all the reformed thief would say. "I couldn't keep up."

He pointed at her wand. "Then make up for it."

"I...don't understand."

"Body disposal," Agnès clarified, striding over the cadavers towards her mount.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Use your magic to get rid o' the evidence," ordered the count. "You're an earth mage so you do the honors."

So this was how she was being put to use. It was not the first time she had to be so unceremonious her magic but it still left a bad taste in her mouth. "Where do you want them buried?"

He pointed to a spot on the side of the road by the tree line. "You want them carried?"

"The earth will carry them."

And the earth did move the dead as she chanted. The dry soil shifted like mud, dragging the bodies from the highway to the grassless patch which opened up like a hungry beast to swallow the cadavers whole. She made sure to pile another layer of dirt for good measure, almost making it look like the earth was 'chewing' the remains, and by the time she was done, it appeared as though no grisly crime had ever happened on this stretch of highway.

"Good job," drawled the Courier, sounding quite impressed with her deed. "Saddle up. We can pick up the pace a little bit."

He clicked his heels and his steed started ahead at a steady trot. The knight-commandant did the same with her mare, keeping close to him and sparing the reformed thief a sympathetic look as she passed.

As Matilda's horse finally followed up on the rear, she asked him, "Is this considered 'going loud' as you say?"