The Secrets Beneath the Gardens

  On a sunny day, the merchant corridors of Rousth’s Lower District were saturated with activity—noise and ceaseless movement.

  At last, Victor arrived at the cherry merchant’s stall on Brokling Street. The man carried on as normal, haggling over prices and weighing fruit like any ordinary trader. Victor stepped close enough to whisper the keyword.

  The merchant didn’t react right away. He finished the transaction, closed the shop without a word, and with a slight gesture signaled for Victor to follow.

  They slipped into a discreet room behind the stall, far from the street’s noise. The air inside was thick and heavy with dust.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” the merchant said as soon as he shut the door.

  “We were delayed,” Victor replied. “There were deviations along the way.”

  The man nodded with a weary motion.

  “I figured. Anyway…”

  He opened a leather satchel and pulled out several documents, spreading them across the table.

  “Thanks to other collaborators, I managed to gather what you asked for. Here are the maps of the ducts and the underground sewage system that connects the palace to the outside.”

  Victor took the papers and began reviewing them carefully.

  “So the palace has an internal tunnel network,” he murmured.

  “It does,” the merchant confirmed, “but it’s not that simple. Some of these passages are still under patrol—though not very frequent. Even so, they could be used to move from one sector of the complex to another… if it’s done carefully.”

  “That’s excellent news,” Victor replied gravely.

  The merchant hesitated for a moment before adding:

  “However… the collaborator still hasn’t come to retrieve them.”

  “I understand,” Victor nodded. “Circumstances inside aren’t simple.”

  The man stepped closer and handed him an additional bundle of documents.

  “Here are the duplicates and the supplementary information you requested.”

  “Good. We’ll stay in contact,” Victor concluded, leaving a pouch of coins as payment.

  “As soon as she receives the information, I’ll let you know,” the merchant stated.

  They parted without unnecessary farewells.

  Victor pulled up his hood and disappeared into the crowd until he reached a narrow alley, where a figure was waiting for him in the shadows.

  It was Martha—hooded as well.

  “How did it go?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Good. We have the maps of the internal ducts. It’s not everything we need, but it’ll be key for future plans… and for Amarantha.”

  “Has she received the information yet?” Martha asked, frowning.

  “Not yet. I imagine she’s still assessing how to get out of the Sovereigns’ Garden.”

  “And we still haven’t received reports from the usual contact points,” she added.

  “I know.”

  Martha lowered her gaze.

  “I hope she’s okay.”

  “So do I,” Victor replied.

  They took a few steps, but he suddenly stopped.

  “There’s something else,” he said, guiding her into an even more secluded corner, where the silence was absolute. “I’ve made progress on what I mentioned last time.”

  Martha scanned the surroundings before looking him straight in the eye.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still pursuing that investigation,” she replied, with a mix of fear and reproach.

  “I’ve gathered enough information,” Victor insisted, “but there are still loose ends before I take the next step.”

  Martha gripped his hands tightly.

  “Victor, our priority is survival—gathering information and neutralizing threats from the shadows. I warned you already: what you’re doing is extremely risky. Zeldrin won’t agree… and if he finds out, the consequences will be serious.”

  “Zeldrin doesn’t have to know,” Victor replied firmly. “For now, I’m only collecting data. Later, I’ll decide what to do.”

  “I know you want what’s best for Reydem,” she said, tightening her hold, “but we have to focus only on what’s indispensable for our current survival.”

  Victor exhaled and gently loosened his grip.

  “That won’t be enough, Martha. Operating from the shadows won’t be sufficient to confront Rousth and its Sovereigns. But don’t worry… I’ll handle it carefully.”

  She lowered her voice.

  “I just want you to be okay. I don’t want this to drag you into conflict with Zeldrin. You could lose everything.”

  “I know,” Victor replied, his tone somber.

  They prepared to leave in opposite directions. Before doing so, Victor paused for a moment.

  “Take good care of yourself, Martha. You’re very important to me.”

  She gave a small smile, heavy with nostalgia.

  “You too. See you.”

  Without another word, both of them melted into the city’s darkness—carrying a secret that, when the time came, could alter Reydem’s fate.

  Martha, Sapphire Division (36 years old)

  Victor, Sapphire Division (40 years old)

  Hard Hands and Soft Hands

  In a remote corner of the lands of Drafta, the fighting was already over.

  The air still carried a metallic smell, mixed with smoke and churned earth. Among the remains of shattered banners and abandoned weapons, bodies lay scattered like forgotten pieces on a board that no longer mattered. The silence wasn’t absolute: the crackle of burned wood, distant groans, the wind brushing over flattened grass.

  Zeldrin moved through the corpses with a firm, steady stride.

  He didn’t look at their faces. It wasn’t contempt or cruelty; there was simply no need. Those men were no longer a threat, and in his mind, that was enough. The battle was finished.

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  From one flank of the field, three enemy soldiers emerged with clumsy movements, dragging exhaustion and fear behind them. Zeldrin stopped for barely a second—just long enough to measure distance.

  The first fell before he could raise his weapon. The second stepped back on instinct, but had no time to react. The third tried to run, and was cut down before he could take two steps.

  It was fast. Clean. Efficient.

  Zeldrin remained standing among the fresh bodies, watching the field that now belonged to Reydem. There was no pride in his expression, no relief. Only a heavy calm, almost gray. This wasn’t a victory worth celebrating—it was a task completed. Another one.

  Time passed.

  As the light began to shift, Reydem had already secured control of the area. At some distance from the battlefield, a temporary encampment had been raised: tents aligned with practical discipline, fires burning, supplies distributed without ceremony.

  Some men ate in silence. Others drank without enthusiasm. The wounded were treated with limited resources, reused bandages, and exhausted hands. In several spots, covered bodies waited to be removed when logistics allowed it. No one spoke of them; everyone knew that by dawn, there would be fewer.

  Zeldrin walked between the tents without being stopped. The soldiers recognized him, but avoided meeting his eyes directly. Not out of fear, but out of restrained respect.

  They knew his presence didn’t mean rest.

  Finally, he pulled back the canvas flap of a larger tent and stepped inside.

  The atmosphere within was different—denser, charged with attention. Carlos was there alongside other officers. At the center, on an improvised table made of planks, an unfolded map rested, marked with symbols, routes, and zones crossed out in firm strokes.

  The war wasn’t over. It had only moved one step forward.

  Zeldrin placed both hands on the edge of the table, leaning slightly over the map.

  “We’ve defeated this front of House Optlis,” he said without raising his voice. “The plan worked exactly as intended. Thanks to the informants’ intelligence, coordinated by Victor, we were able to anticipate them and secure a decisive strategic advantage.”

  He pointed to a marked area on the parchment, mentally tracing an advance that no longer existed.

  Carlos nodded before speaking.

  “Torken was successful in Roterfudd as well,” he reported. “The messengers confirmed the strike was carried out as agreed. The front has been neutralized.”

  Zeldrin slid his finger toward another sector of the map.

  “That’s good,” he replied. “If we can divert attention at these points, we clear the way for Violet Division to operate in the Zuberthe areas.”

  He paused briefly.

  “Let’s hope what they find there justifies the men we lost in these attacks.”

  He lifted his gaze, scanning the faces around him.

  “But let’s not fool ourselves. So far, we’ve only faced minor armies. We haven’t clashed with major forces or full contingents from the great Houses. This is no time to sing victory.”

  The silence inside the tent grew heavy.

  Zeldrin turned slightly toward Carlos.

  “Any information on Amarantha?”

  Carlos shook his head.

  “Nothing so far.”

  “I imagine she still hasn’t managed to get out of the palace,” Zeldrin said in a neutral tone. “Good.”

  He turned back to the map and traced an invisible line.

  “We’ll move our troops toward the Keimpster base. From there, we’ll prepare the next steps. I want all preparations ready for rapid mobilization.”

  He straightened slowly.

  “In the meantime, we’ll wait for Victor’s next field reports to orchestrate our course of action.”

  “As you command, Commander,” Carlos replied without hesitation.

  Zeldrin stepped away from the table and left the tent without adding anything else.

  From a distance, Carlos watched him walk between the tents and the soldiers. Zeldrin moved with the same calm he’d shown crossing the field of corpses hours earlier—without stopping, without looking back.

  This was only beginning.

  Standing at the tent entrance, Carlos swept his gaze across the camp. Amid the constant movement of soldiers, wounded men, and auxiliaries, something caught his attention. A short distance away, he saw a woman kneeling beside a fighter, tightening a bandage with steady hands while giving quick instructions. She moved from one to the next without pausing—handing out wraps, checking wounds, improvising treatment.

  Carlos narrowed his eyes.

  When he took a few more steps forward, he recognized her.

  “Carla…”

  She saw him too.

  For a second, she held his gaze.

  Then she turned away at once and started walking in the opposite direction, blending into the soldiers as if she hadn’t noticed him. Carlos quickened his pace, weaving past men and stretchers until he caught up to her.

  “Carla.”

  She stopped.

  “What are you doing here?” Carlos asked bluntly.

  “I came to treat our comrades,” she replied without hesitation.

  Carlos set a firm hand on her shoulder and guided her toward the edge of the camp, away from the flow of men and the constant noise of war.

  “This is a battlefront,” he said in a low voice. “You have no reason to be here. You should’ve stayed at the base.”

  “How did you even get here?”

  Carla met his eyes.

  “I’ve always been among you. I just made sure not to draw attention. I stayed hidden while the attack was carried out.”

  Carlos shook his head slowly.

  “We’re a combat unit. We could be sent back into action at any moment,” he replied. “Out here, you’d only be a liability. And besides, you’re one of our best medics. You belong at the base.”

  “Many of our men will die if I don’t treat their wounds,” she said firmly. “Infections, hemorrhaging, fever… you know what happens when there’s no care in time.”

  Carlos lifted a hand.

  “Carla.”

  She fell silent, attentive.

  “When we return to the base, you will stay there. You won’t come out with us again. It’s far too dangerous for you,” he said, his voice hard. “I know you want to help, but you need to understand something: we’re the cannon fodder. We know what we signed up for.”

  Carla lowered her gaze.

  Carlos exhaled and softened his tone.

  “You mean well, but this is war. Healing staff aren’t replaceable. You’re resources we have to protect. That’s why you belong at the base.”

  “I know,” she admitted quietly.

  Carlos added, almost like an unavoidable reminder:

  “Besides… you’re Victor’s sister. If you’re here, all you’ll do is worry him.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “While you’re here,” Carlos continued, “stay close to me. Understood?”

  “Yes,” Carla replied.

  Then, after a brief silence, she added:

  “But… since I’m already here… I’m going to tend to the wounded.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned and headed back into the camp, resuming her work among the fallen soldiers.

  Carlos watched her from a distance. He knew he was right—but he also knew that, in that moment, nothing could be done.

  Carla was already here.

  And war didn’t wait for anyone.

  Carlos, Sapphire Division (42 years old)

  Carla, Sapphire Division (22 years old)

  Zeldrin, Commander of Sapphire Division (60 years old)

  The Lustful Predator

  In one of the palace’s inner quarters, several noblemen watched and amused themselves around a small private coliseum. The stands were made of polished marble, stained by years of spilled wine and dried blood. At the center, two gladiators fought beneath the elite’s eager gaze.

  The match was even. Some nobles shouted, others placed bets, others simply drank while waiting for one of them to fall.

  Among them was Ganza.

  Ganza, Sovereign of House Tudeth (50 years old)

  Standing at first, a goblet of wine in hand, he shouted shamelessly:

  “Come on, come on… finish that idiot off.”

  Then he sat down heavily, took another drink, and glanced at the Sovereign beside him.

  “I enjoy these things more than you can imagine,” he said with a smile. “Women, wagers, fights to the death… all of it is a pleasure.”

  “While you’re with me, your House will be respected. And it’ll be thanks to me,” he said, all charisma.

  He gave him a few pats on the shoulder.

  “That said… you work for me. You’re beneath me. You understand that, right?”

  The other Sovereign nodded without argument.

  “And you have nothing to say?” Ganza pressed. “Anything.”

  The other Sovereign, trapped under the pressure of Ganza’s stare and the awkward expectation of an answer, scrambled through his memory and said:

  “Well… I heard new cloth maids arrived.”

  Ganza’s smile widened.

  “Yes. I heard.”

  He leaned a little closer.

  “There’s nothing—nothing better—than fucking a cloth maid.”

  He laughed openly.

  “Docile, submissive… they’re like lifeless dolls. They refuse nothing. You can do whatever you want to them.”

  Then Ganza said:

  “And to know that they were noblewomen who, through decline or in retaliation against their houses, were handed over by their own fathers and brothers to settle their debts.”

  He took another drink.

  “That turns me on more than you’d think.”

  The other Sovereign hesitated.

  “But… isn’t that forbidden by the Direcrim?”

  Ganza let out a harsh laugh.

  “Fuck the Direcrim. Nobody respects that anymore. Only conservative idiots still believe in old traditions and rules.”

  Then he clicked his tongue, as if remembering something.

  “Now that you mention it… whenever new maids arrive, I like to ‘welcome’ a few of them.”

  “It’s something I always do. I never let it slip.”

  “I like reminding them what a usable object they are, so they start getting used to it from the beginning.”

  He laughed again—low, thick with intent.

  Then he added, still laughing:

  “I hope there’s someone more interesting among the new ones.”

  In the arena, Glatius drove his sword into his opponent and, without hesitation, slit his throat. Blood splattered across the ground.

  Ganza sprang to his feet.

  “That’s it! Yes, damn it!”

  He raised his arms and made obscene gestures with his hand toward another Sovereign, laughing.

  “Take that, you idiot. Just wait till I make your wife moan… you bastard!” he shouted, laughing loudly.

  Then he sat back down, drank another goblet, and watched as Glatius bowed in reverence toward him.

  “Alright,” he said. “After a fight… it’s time for me to have fun.”

  He looked at the Sovereign beside him.

  “Coming?”

  “No… no, I…”

  “Whatever. Your loss.”

  He left the coliseum.

  In the crowd, he grabbed a noblewoman by the arm. She tried to resist at first, but the moment she recognized who he was, she let herself be led away. She glanced back, anxious, searching for help in the faces of those with her.

  No one did anything.

  “Come on, baby,” Ganza told her. “Tonight you’re going to have fun.”

  And just like that—without anyone intervening—they disappeared into the palace corridors.

  In Rousth, the great Houses were so feared and respected that many—just to preserve their status—preferred to bow their heads, endure humiliation… and accept the unacceptable.