Gong Yae-hwa drops her knees onto the damp black dirt of the botanical gardens, her dark hair falling forward over her small shoulders like a heavy black silk curtain. The morning heat in the Southern Garden Belt hangs thick and wet, saturated with the overwhelming, sickly-sweet perfume of blooming jasmine, crushed hibiscus petals, and warm sulfur rising from nearby underground thermal channels. Nearby, tall stone statues of forgotten goddesses crumble under thick layers of green moss, their carved marble faces partially choked by twisted orchids and creeping ivy vines.
Beside her, Lin Mei-ling kneels among a bed of pale, star-shaped night-shade blossoms, her slender fingers moving with deliberate, practiced slowness as she clips green leaves with a pair of small iron shears. Her breath comes out in steady, controlled rhythms. Zhang Wei sits a few feet away beneath the broad, shade-casting canopy of a wild fern tree, her round wire-rimmed spectacles resting on the bridge of her nose, quietly sweeping dry fallen blossoms into a woven straw basket.
CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.
The sharp, rhythmic metallic vibration of iron boots against paved stone echoes from the main road bordering the garden perimeter. The heavy sound cuts straight through the humid buzz of dragonflies and cicadas.
Yae-hwa's hands freeze mid-air over a cluster of dark purple lavender stalks. Her shoulders lock up, her spine instantly snapping into a stiff, defensive coil. Her dark almond eyes lower to a thin, guarded slit, staring intently at the muddy roots beneath her fingernails.
[Men. Soldiers. They have arrived...]
A column of marching men winds past the iron garden gates. The Ajax Battalion. Two hundred and fifty men, marching in double files. Their leather doublets are stained with sweat and white flour dust, their heavy iron kettles tilted forward to block the blazing southern sun. Pikes sway overhead like a moving forest of stripped pine, their broad steel tips catching the harsh midday glare.
Yae-hwa raises her head ever so slightly, her eyes tracking the lead files.
At the front of the column rides a tall, imposing man on a heavy bay warhorse. He wears a scarred steel breastplate that glints dull grey in the light. A long, jagged white scar cuts straight down his left cheek, running from his cheekbone all the way to his jawline, giving his face a permanent, ferocious sneer. He sits high in his saddle, his broad chest expanded, his gloved hand resting with casual authority on the pommel of a broadsword. He barks a short, sharp command to the front rank, his deep voice carrying over the clatter of boots, making the marching conscripts instantly snap their shoulders back and straighten their wooden pikes.
Yae-hwa's heart hammers violently against her ribs. Her fingers dig so hard into the soft garden soil that damp dirt jams under her fingernails.
[That's him, literally. The commander of this battlion. Look at that scar. Look at the way he holds his sword. A violent man. An authoritative butcher. No way he isn't the commander ! I must report.]
A few paces behind the tall, scarred officer rides another man on a smaller grey mare. He wears simple, unadorned leather armor. His skin is remarkably smooth, pale, and completely unblemished, free of any scars or sun-weathering. He rides quietly, leaning slightly forward in his saddle, his face calm and unimpressive as he stares at a folded piece of parchment in his lap, adjusting his hat without looking up.
Yae-hwa completely ignores the smooth-skinned man on the grey mare. Her eyes stay locked on the tall, scarred warrior leading the path.
She shifts her weight backward, rising to her feet in one swift, silent motion. She glides backward into the shadows of the heavy fern trees, motioning with two fingers toward a tall Czech slave standing near the rear brick wall of the greenhouse complex. The Czech man wears a torn linen tunic, his wrist bearing the fading red brand of a runaway laborer, his rough face shadowed by a wide straw hat as he pretends to weed a patch of red poppies.
Yae-hwa steps close to him, her voice dropping into an urgent, low whisper that barely stirs the humid air between them. "The Ajax Battalion is passing through the southern road right now. Exactly two hundred and fifty men. Their captain is a tall, dangerous man riding a bay stallion. He has a deep, jagged scar running straight down his left cheek. He carries a broadsword and commands the front rank."
The Czech slave nods slowly, his dark eyes widening under his straw hat. He slips a small iron rod into his tunic pocket. "A tall man with a cheek scar. Got it. I will get word to Volkov's riders near the valley before sunset."
As Yae-hwa steps back into the dense shade of the magnolia trees, her heart still racing from the proximity of the marching men, the column comes to a brief halt at the garden crossroads.
The tall, scarred officer on the bay warhorse re-ins his mount around, pulling up alongside the grey mare. He removes his iron helmet, wiping a heavy layer of sweat from his forehead, his scarred face tightening in a respectful nod.
"Chief Aldo," the tall, scarred platoon leader says, his tone completely devoid of its earlier dominance, bowing his head slightly toward the smooth-skinned man. "The vanguard has cleared the turn near the sulfur baths. No signs of rebel scouts on the ridge. The men are holding standard marching distance."
Aldo patriot, the slave soldier captain who holds absolute commanding power over the two hundred and fifty men of the Ajax Battalion, folds his parchment parchment neatly and tucks it into his leather belt. His smooth skin, kept meticulous through expensive healing ointments and strict hygiene habits maintained despite the dusty road, catches the sunlight. He turns his clear, quiet eyes toward the tall platoon leader, giving a single, calm nod.
"Good work, Sergeant," Aldo says quietly, his voice low, measured, and entirely unhurried. "Keep the pikes raised. We take ten minutes of water at the well head ahead, then push straight for the valley junction."
"Understood, Chief," the scarred sergeant replies instantly, pulling his horse back to resume his position at the head of the file.
Deep within the thick magnolia leaves, Yae-hwa watches from afar, entirely unaware that she has just mistaken a simple vanguard platoon leader for the supreme commander of the Ajax Battalion, her report already carrying a fatal error toward Volkov's revolutionary lines.
A cold, grey mist hangs suspended over the stagnant, black waters of Lake Syr.
The air smells foul—a heavy, suffocating mixture of rotten lake reeds, wet peat, sulfur, and the sharp, burning bite of black powder smoke. The lake stretches wide and silent, its mirror-like surface occasionally broken by the gentle splash of a dying water lily or the movement of a water rat darting through the reeds.
On the eastern bank of the lake, two thousand men of Regiment Arthur stand formed in three dense, disciplined lines. Their dark blue doublets are soaked through with rain and sweat. The front rank kneels in the mud, matchlocks raised, the glowing red ends of their match-cords flickering like tiny, angry eyes in the damp gloom. Behind them stand thirty Guild warmages in long, silk robes of crimson and gold, their hands glowing with pale blue luminescence as they channel protective barrier fields above the front ranks.
Across the narrow, muddy marshland—less than three hundred yards away—stands Volkov's revolutionary red army.
Eight thousand men. A massive, chaotic wall of humanity. They wear no uniforms—only ragged wool coats, rough homespun tunics, and leather aprons stained with forge grease and farm dirt. They carry no standardized pikes; instead, their ranks bristle with scythes forged straight, heavy iron pitchforks, woodsmen's axes, and crude wooden spears tipped with sharpened file steel. Red banners, hastily dyed with madder root and dragon-blood resin, flap limply in the wet wind above their heads.
BOOM!
A matchlock volley erupts from Regiment Arthur's front rank. A blinding wall of orange flame and thick white smoke shoots across the marsh. Lead balls whistle through the air, tearing through the tall cattails and smashing violently into the front ranks of the rebel militia.
Men scream. Bodies drop forward into the black, squelching mud, splashing dirty water high into the air. A young rebel peasant drops his pitchfork, his hands clutching his chest as dark red blood wells between his fingers, pouring down into the lake reeds.
"HOLD THE LINE!" a red officer shouts from behind a barricade of overturned farm carts, waving a rusted broadsword. "FOR LAND AND BREAD! DO NOT GIVE WAY!"
From the center of the rebel line, three old men wearing torn scholar robes step forward onto a raised grassy knoll. They raise their wooden staffs into the air, their voices rising in a rhythmic, guttural chant that vibrates through the earth beneath their bare feet.
The ground groans.
The wet earth along the lake shore begins to churn violent, muddy waves. Massive slabs of black peat and jagged granite boulders burst upward from the marsh, forming a thick, improvised earthwork wall six feet high directly in front of the rebel infantry. The lead balls from Regiment Arthur's second volley smash harmlessly into the freshly raised dirt, burying themselves deep in the soil with heavy THUD-THUD-THUDs.
"WARMAGES! RAISE THE FIRE MANTLE!" the commander of Regiment Arthur roars from his horse, pulling his saber from its sheath.
The thirty warmages raise their arms in unison. The pale blue light around their hands turns into a blazing, blinding gold. A massive sphere of shimmering heat erupts above the lake, radiating outward like a miniature sun. The extreme heat instantly boils the shallow lake water near the bank, sending huge clouds of scalding white steam roaring across the battlefield.
The steam rolls over the rebel earthworks. Men scream as the scalding vapor cooks their skin. Dozens of rebel farmers drop their weapons, clawing at their red, blistered faces as they roll blindly in the mud.
"CHARGE!" the red officer screams, his face contorted in frantic desperation. "CLOSE THE DISTANCE! DON'T LET THEM RELOAD!"
Thousands of rebel feet slam against the mud. The red horde surges forward out from behind their earthworks, splashing through the shallow, boiling water of Lake Syr like an unstoppable tide of iron and raw fury.
CRACK! SPARK!
Regiment Arthur's matchlock men frantically pour black powder down their iron barrels, their hands shaking so violently in the freezing mist that half the powder scatters into the wet mud. They drive their iron ramrods down with frantic, rhythm-less thuds: CLANG-CLANG! CLANG-CLANG!
The two lines slam together with a deafening, sickening crunch of metal, wood, and bone.
A heavy iron scythe swings through the steam, severing the wooden stock of a matchlock musket before cutting clean through the gunner's leather doublet. The soldier drops to his knees with a choked gasp, his blood spurting bright crimson onto the pale water lilies floating in the mud.
In return, a Guild warmage points two fingers forward, sending a concentrated bolt of lightning tearing through three rebel peasants at once. Their bodies jerk violently, smoke pouring from their eyes and mouths as they collapse into a twitching pile in the reeds.
Yet, for every rebel that falls, three more step over the bodies. The sheer, overwhelming weight of eight thousand men pushes Regiment Arthur back step by step into the deep, sticky mud of the lake shore.
The battle grinds into a horrific, motionless stalemate. Neither side can advance; neither side can retreat. The water at the edge of Lake Syr turns dark, opaque purple, thick with blood, floating caps, broken pike shafts, and shredded red banners. The wind carries no sound now except the wet, ragged gasps of dying men, the sharp clank of iron hitting iron, and the low, endless humming of magic burning through the damp air.
The sun dips lower toward the western horizon, casting long, bloody streaks of orange and purple light across the dusty expanse of Triad Road.
Near a ruined stone fountain at the junction leading south toward the Garden Belt, Duke Ferris pulls his great bay stallion to a hard halt. The horse tosses its head, white foam dripping from its iron bit, its hooves scraping against the cracked cobblestones. Ferris's crimson cape is spattered with mud, but his tall, aristocratic frame remains impossibly straight, his golden hair catching the dying light.
Aldo pulls up alongside him on his grey mare, his smooth face tight with cold, unyielding frustration.
"Your Grace, we must push north immediately," Aldo says, his voice flat, sharp, and biting. "Regiment Arthur is engaging the rebels at the lake right now. If Ajax turns south toward Flora, we waste three hours of daylight."
Ferris turns his head slowly, his dark blue eyes narrowing as he looks down at Aldo from his high saddle. "We turn south, Captain. I must visit Flora."
Aldo's jaw tightens. His fingers grip his reins so tightly that his knuckles turn white. "You wish to turn an entire battalion away from the front line... to visit a bathhouse? To see a courtesan while Arthur's men are dying in the mud?"
Ferris's face flushes red with sudden, sharp anger. "Watch your tongue, soldier! Priscilla Lowe is not merely a 'courtesan'! She holds the administrative heart of the Southern Garden Belt!"
"She holds wine cups and perfume bottles!" Aldo snaps back, his voice rising over the wind. "This is madness! Company 204 is not here! Ajax has two hundred and fifty men! We cannot afford side trips for your romantic desires!"
"It is not a romantic desire!" Ferris roars, leaning over his saddle, his hand slamming down onto the pommel of his sword. "You think I am a fool, Aldo?! You think I lead my armies based on whim?!"
"I think you lead them based on your heart, Your Grace, and right now your heart is in Flora while our gunpowder is in short supply!"
"THEN LOOK AT THE WAGONS!" Ferris screams, pointing a gauntleted finger back toward the rear of the Ajax column.
Aldo blinks, his eyes shifting toward the three heavy wooden supply wagons sitting in the road.
"Do you know what is in those barrels, Captain?" Ferris rasps, his chest heaving under his silver plate armor, his voice dropping into a harsh, trembling whisper. "Dry grain. Salt pork. Half-empty powder kegs. How long do you think two hundred and fifty men can hold a trench line in the Syr Valley when the autumn rains begin tonight?"
Aldo stays silent, his eyes fixed on the Duke's face.
"Flora is not just a city of baths and silk!" Ferris presses forward, his voice fierce and desperate. "The southern storehouses in Flora hold eighty tons of dried oats! They hold four thousand barrels of clean lamp oil! They hold forty crates of refined sulfur and saltpeter imported straight from the coast! Priscilla controls those keys! If I do not sign the requisition orders in person at the Sanguine Lotus tonight, the Guild quartermasters will lock those vaults until the court meets in spring!"
Aldo remains motionless on his horse for five long seconds. The wind rustles the mane of his grey mare. He looks down at his leather belt, then back up at the Duke.
"Eighty tons of dried oats?" Aldo asks quietly.
"Eighty tons," Ferris answers, his breath heavy in the cold air.
"And forty crates of sulfur?"
"Forty crates of pure, dry sulfur."
Aldo lets out a slow, deep breath, his smooth forehead relaxing as his pragmatic, cold logic instantly overrides his frustration. He turns his horse's head toward the southern trail.
"Then...We go to Flora," Aldo says flatly. "We take the sulfur, we take the grain, and we leave at dawn."
Ferris lets out a long, ragged sigh, adjusting his velvet cape with a weary wave of his hand. "Thank you, Captain."
"Do not thank me, Your Grace," Aldo mutters, nudging his horse into a trot. "Thank the sulfur."
Night falls over the Southern Garden Belt like a heavy velvet blanket, dark, humid, and starless.
The grand stone courtyard of the Sanguine Lotus complex glows with the soft, warm light of hundreds of paper lanterns hung from the carved wooden eaves. The air is intoxicating, filled with the rich scents of roasting lamb, spiced wine, jasmine oil, and sweet tobacco smoke rising from brass hookahs.
The two hundred and fifty soldiers of the Ajax Battalion are arrayed across the lower terrace garden, resting their tired limbs against marble benches and stone fountain rims. Their pikes are stacked neatly in wooden pyramids near the gates, their heavy leather coats unbuttoned in the balmy night air.
Near the central wine fountain, Gong Yae-hwa stands behind a low wooden serving table.
She wears a clean, simple white linen tunic tied with a silk sash, her long dark hair pinned up with a wooden hair comb. Her pale face is flushed red, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs as she looks out at the sea of male soldiers drinking and laughing in the courtyard. Every time a soldier laughs loudly or slams a wooden mug against the table, her shoulders twitch, her eyes dropping instantly to the floor tiles.
[I can do this,] she tells herself, her breath coming in short, shallow hitches. [For the sisterhood. For the map. For Earth.]
Beside her, Lin Mei-ling offers a warm, dazzling smile to a young conscript, pouring a thick stream of dark red wine into his earthenware cup. "Drink deep, brave soldier! You must be exhausted after marching all the way from Carravin!"
The young conscript blushes furiously, taking the cup with trembling hands. "Ah... thank you, miss! It... it was a long march indeed!"
"Tell me," Mei-ling purrs smoothly, leaning slightly closer over the table, her eyes wide with innocent admiration. "Is the whole battalion here tonight? Or are there more coming from the north?"
The soldier, completely intoxicated by her attention and the strong wine, leans in eagerly. "Oh, no! Ajax is just us two hundred and fifty! But Regiment Arthur is up at the lake with two thousand men! We're heading up at dawn to join them!"
Yae-hwa watches Mei-ling from the corner of her eye, her own hands trembling as she picks up a silver pitcher of wine. She steps timidly toward a group of three conscripts sitting on a stone bench.
She forces her face into a soft, sweet smile, her voice coming out as a breathless, melodic whisper. "Would... would you gentlemen like more wine?"
The three men look up, their eyes lighting up at her delicate, youthful features. "Ah! Yes, please, little sister!"
Yae-hwa pours the wine carefully, her eyes lowering to mask the intense, burning hatred behind her gaze. "You all look so strong... your captain must be a very grand warrior..."
"Our captain?" one of the conscripts laughs, gulping down half his cup. "Aye! Chief Aldo is as sharp as a razor! Smooth face, quiet tongue, but he knows how to keep us alive!"
Yae-hwa's heart skips a beat.
[Chief Aldo? Smooth face? Quiet tongue?]
Her eyes widen slightly. The memory flashes through her mind—the smooth-skinned man on the grey mare whom she had completely ignored in the garden.
[It wasn't the scarred man... the commander is the smooth-skinned one! My report to the Czech was wrong!]
Panic hits her like a bucket of ice water. She steps back from the bench, bowing quickly. "Enjoy your wine, sirs!"
She turns swiftly, gliding away through the crowd of drinking soldiers, her white skirt rustling softly against the marble tiles. She weaves through the lantern-lit pillars, heading toward the dark, shadowed alley behind the bathhouse laundry rooms.
Standing in the deep shadow of a brick archway is the tall Czech slave. He waits quietly, leaning against an iron rain barrel.
Yae-hwa steps into the shadows, her breath short and ragged. "Listen to me! The report was wrong! The captain is not the scarred man! The real commander is named Aldo—he has smooth skin, no scars, and rides a grey mare! You must send a new message to Volkov before—"
"Before what, miss?"
A low, calm voice cuts straight through the darkness from behind the archway.
Yae-hwa freezes instantly, her blood turning to liquid ice.
Aldo patriot steps out from the deep shadow of a climbing bougainvillea vine. He holds no sword, but his hand rests firmly on the leather grip of a heavy iron dagger at his belt. His smooth, pale face is completely unreadable in the moonlight, his dark eyes locked onto the Czech slave.
The Czech slave reacts instantly. He reaches into his tunic, pulling out a sharp, jagged iron file, lunging straight for Aldo's throat with a guttural roar!
CLANG!
Aldo sidesteps the lunge with effortless, terrifying precision. He catches the Czech man's wrist with his left hand, twisting it violently downward! SNAP! The iron file drops into the dirt. Before the slave can scream, Aldo brings his right elbow crashing squarely into the man's temple!
The Czech slave collapses like a sack of wet flour, hitting the dirt floor unconscious.
Yae-hwa gasps, spinning around to run, her feet flying across the gravel! "MEI-LING—!"
Aldo moves like a striking cobra. He closes the distance in two strides, his heavy leather-gloved arm wrapping securely around Yae-hwa's waist, hauling her off her feet!
"LET ME GO! YOU MONSTER! LET ME GO!" Yae-hwa screams, her small fists beating frantically against his arm, her heels kicking uselessly into the empty air.
Aldo doesn't utter a single word. He pulls a coil of thick hemp rope from his belt with one hand, efficiently looping it around her wrists, binding them tightly in front of her chest. With a single, powerful lift, he hoists her up, swinging her small frame over his broad shoulder like a sack of grain.
Yae-hwa twists frantically on his shoulder, her dark hair tumbling wild over her face. In pure, desperate panic, she pulls her head up, aiming her eyes toward the dark canopy of the magnolia trees above the courtyard wall. She purses her bruised lips, letting out a sharp, high-pitched bird whistle—a signal of ultimate distress.
TWEET-TWEET-TWEEEEEEET!
A small, blue night-sparrow resting in the branches startles, bursting into the night sky with a flutter of feathers.
From the shadows of the laundry room door, two figures erupt into the light!
Lin Mei-ling and Zhang Wei burst into the alleyway! Mei-ling wields a heavy, bronze-headed meat cleaver snatched from the kitchen table, her face contorted in fierce, protectiveness. Zhang Wei follows right behind her, holding a long, sharp iron tailoring needle raised like a dagger, her wire-rimmed glasses glinting under the lantern light!
"DROP HER!" Mei-ling roars in Mandarin, stepping squarely into the center of the narrow alleyway, her bronze cleaver raised high above her head.
Aldo stops dead in his tracks, Yae-hwa still bound and squirming over his right shoulder, his dark eyes calmly measuring the two armed girls blocking his path...