Chapter 4
The Spectrum Map
Amarantha had only been in the complex for two days.
They still hadn't sent her to the Main Palace—the Sovereigns' true sanctuary—but her body already moved with the programmed obedience of a Cloth Maid.
Her hands carried out simple tasks.
Her eyes did not.
As she worked, her supervisor's voice returned to her mind like a persistent echo. A lesson burned into her.
She remembered her walking in circles around her: a woman with hardened features, an impeccable uniform, and a relentless gaze, correcting even the way Amarantha breathed.
"Pay attention to every word," she said in a monotone voice. "You are a Cloth Maid. And more than anyone, you must know what is expected of you. But before I deliver you to them… I need you to understand the nature of the Sovereigns."
Now, Amarantha stood in the outer gardens, holding a metal watering can. To anyone else, she was nothing more than an insignificant figure. Just another shadow among the roses, just another maid.
But behind her empty gaze, her mind was working. She wasn't only watering. She was evaluating.
Her eyes moved up and down the walls, measuring heights, ledges, angles. She identified blind spots between the bushes and routes that could serve as escape… or as access.
She counted guards without turning her head: one, two, three.
She registered the way they walked, the weight of their armor, the kind of weapon at their belt. Who relaxed too much. Who kept a hand near the hilt as if waiting for an order.
She also watched the rest of the staff: who had access to the kitchens, who carried keys, who moved freely—and when the shifts changed.
As the water seeped into the soil, Amarantha was already building a map in her head.
And on that map, there were already places where, if the moment came… blood would run.
Her supervisor's voice continued, as if dictating the structure of a world that could not be allowed to collapse.
"As you know, Rousth is one of the most influential kingdoms in the main regions. Its stability is not accidental."
Amarantha kept watering.
"It is controlled by the Sovereigns. Not one. Several. Through a network of political and economic interests that encompasses everything."
The supervisor spoke without emotion.
"Each House operates with absolute autonomy. Each pursues its own interests. Each maintains its own private armies."
She paused briefly.
"But when the benefit is shared… when the threat is real… there is a common front funded by all."
Amarantha remembered that word, spoken as if it were an inevitable law:
"That shared direction is called Direcrim."
The supervisor gestured toward the immensity of the complex.
"Multiple Houses coexist here. From those of the highest lineage… to those of lesser influence."
Amarantha lowered the watering can.
"Your work, for now, will be strictly limited to the Sovereigns' Garden."
Her voice hardened.
"Only when you master your duties and prove useful will you be granted access to the Palace."
The supervisor continued.
"As you may have noticed… the Sovereigns' Garden is its own ecosystem within Rousth. It is the refuge of the aristocracy. The precise point where the kingdom's most influential elite is concentrated."
Amarantha lifted her gaze for an instant.
Imposing walls. Barracks positioned strategically. Guards who allowed not the slightest mistake.
The supervisor did not say it with pride.
She said it as a warning.
"Crossing this threshold is a privilege few ever reach."
Then her voice lowered slightly.
"Outside these gardens lies the rest of the world. Commercial zones. Merchants. Dungeons. Establishments in the common district."
The supervisor stopped.
And she looked at Amarantha with severity.
"On very particular occasions you will have to go out. Purchases. Errands. But let it be clear: they will be exceptional events."
The final sentence fell like a weight.
"Outside these limits… danger is constant."
Amarantha did not answer.
But her mind imagined the deeper sectors of the common district: narrow corridors where the air felt tainted, corners forgotten by the guard, where opulence died and only gloom remained.
There were no silk patrols there.
No shining armor.
Only men with murky eyes, vagrants pressed to the walls, and iron-reinforced doors behind which people disappeared.
An underworld with its own laws.
A place where the Sovereigns' influence was little more than a distant whisper.
Amarantha moved with silent steps through the immensity of the complex.
The Sovereigns' Garden was not a simple open space.
It was a labyrinth.
Endless corridors. Noble sub-castles. Minor palaces raised like fortresses within the fortress itself.
From time to time, Amarantha stopped.
Her hands moved with a mechanical gesture, as if she were distracted.
She took a napkin.
She drew simple lines.
To any guard, it was nothing: idle scribbles from a maid with no craft.
But it wasn't art.
It was code.
Structural markings. Wall layout. Service exits. Hidden access points.
A map.
A map that could fit on a napkin.
And that could destroy a kingdom.
Her supervisor's voice returned one last time, more severe, as if the warning was the only thing left to offer.
"And one more thing."
Amarantha did not move.
"You will not speak to a Sovereign… unless he grants you permission."
The sentence fell like an order carved in stone.
"Your answers will be simple. Just enough. The bare minimum."
She paused.
"Affirmative. Negative. Understood. I don't know. Yes, Sovereign. No, Sovereign."
The supervisor leaned slightly, as if making sure Amarantha carved every syllable into memory.
"You are not there to speak. You are there to be."
Her voice did not harden.
It only grew colder.
"If a Sovereign asks you, you answer. If he doesn't ask you, you remain silent."
"And if you think you should explain something… you're wrong."
Amarantha kept watering.
The supervisor finished with a simple sentence:
"In Rousth, a maid who speaks too much… is a maid who forgets what she is."
Her supervisor's voice continued, as if now she was pointing directly at the true center of the horror.
"When you finally enter the Rousth Palace… be extremely careful with every word and every action."
Amarantha kept walking.
"The Sovereigns' Palace is not a single building," the supervisor continued. "It is a complex of interconnected palaces. The political, commercial, and military fate of Rousth is decided there. It is the core of power."
The supervisor paused.
"Your mission will be to attend to requests with absolute discretion."
The next sentence was the one that mattered.
"Only a select group of staff may cross that threshold."
Another pause.
"And only Cloth Maids are allowed into the private chambers… where the Sovereigns hold their most secret meetings."
Amarantha stopped in the middle of one of the most beautiful gardens in the complex.
Exotic flowers. Vivid colors. Nature molded with an unreal perfection.
But she didn't react.
Her face remained dull.
A lifeless shadow in the middle of so much beauty.
And then, for the first time, the supervisor lowered her voice.
Not out of real compassion.
But out of something like fear.
"I pity the Cloth Maids…"
Amarantha did not blink.
"Because the things they see and hear inside that palace…"
The sentence broke off.
As if the supervisor didn't want to finish it.
"…are horrors I would not want to see. Much less experience myself."
Amarantha kept staring at the flowers.
But her mind was already crossing the marble walls.
She knew that beauty was only a mask.
And that the real abyss lay deeper inside.
Petals in the Darkness
The tavern was alive.
It wasn't one of those clean inns where merchants or ordinary travelers gathered. It was a dense place, low-ceilinged, with beams blackened by smoke, where the smell of old beer, sweat, and damp wood mixed in the air like a second atmosphere.
Oil lamps hung over the tables, casting a yellowish light that didn't fully illuminate, but instead warped the shadows. The floor creaked under boots, and the constant murmur of voices made even silence feel impossible.
At a table set apart, far from the center of the commotion, Victor drank.
He wasn't draining his cup for pleasure. He did it with a dry heaviness, as if the liquid were only an excuse to keep his hands busy.
Martha sat across from him.
She had stayed quiet for a while, watching him, until she finally broke the tension.
"Are you alright, Victor?"
Victor let the air out slowly. He set the cup down on the wood with a faint thud.
"Honestly… no."
He kept his eyes on the bottom of his drink.
"Amarantha's situation won't stop circling in my head."
Martha nodded, her expression bitter.
"I understand. She's far too young to carry a sentence like that."
Her voice hardened.
"That bastard Zeldrin… he acts as if everyone is just a disposable piece on his board."
Victor didn't argue right away. He only lowered his gaze.
"She accepted it," he said at last. "Maybe she felt she had no other way out… but she could've refused."
Martha clenched her jaw, but didn't answer.
Victor leaned forward and, with one hand, pushed aside part of the documents he carried. There were folded papers, sealed files, and falsified records stamped with dark wax.
"Infiltrating Amarantha as a Cloth Maid was complex," he said, with a coldness born of exhaustion.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"We had to forge her entire identity. Invent genealogical ties to noble families in decline. Track records of the dead who had no connection to her, but could serve to build a believable past."
He paused.
"And locate the exact contact inside the bureaucratic administration so all her documentation would fit inside the Sovereigns' archives without triggering alarms."
He set the cup down firmly.
"Even Zeldrin himself has to admit that infiltrating that place demands a price no one should ever have to pay."
Martha lowered her eyes.
"But there's no turning back now," Victor continued. "All that's left is to hope she manages to come out of that hell alive."
Silence settled between them for a moment.
Martha spoke without looking up.
"I hope that, despite everything… some part of her stays intact."
Victor didn't answer right away.
Then, as if forcing himself back to work, he straightened and recovered his commanding tone.
"Martha… how did it go with the northern Houses?"
She reacted to the shift. She slipped a hand under her coat and pulled out carefully folded documents. She spread them across the table.
"We managed to obtain the intelligence we needed."
Her voice turned colder—more strategic.
"Thanks to our collaborators and the deployment of covert surveillance, we identified the main faction behind the hiring of mercenaries to hunt us down."
She pointed to a specific section of the report.
"The trail leads directly to House Dumstrein, under the command of the Sovereign Eliotas."
Victor read in silence.
Martha added:
"He seems to be the one most economically damaged after Zeldrin's incursions."
Then she looked at him.
"For now, he hasn't managed to influence the Direcrim into declaring a large-scale conflict… but it's only a matter of time before he drags other Houses to his cause."
Her voice hardened.
"After all, Dumstrein is one of the most powerful Houses."
Victor reviewed the papers carefully, without losing the thread.
"And what about the other major Houses?"
Martha crossed her arms.
"For now, they're keeping their distance from the direct conflict."
She leaned in slightly.
"They're still funding the Direcrim to fight external threats: Viking incursions, foreign mercenaries, border conflicts."
She lifted her gaze.
"To them, we're still just rebels. Nothing more."
Victor nodded.
"That works in our favor."
He put some of the documents away.
"If we're only fighting the troops of minor Houses tied to Dumstrein, we'll buy time to investigate the rest of the Sovereigns."
Martha didn't reply, but it was clear she agreed.
Victor folded the last paper and stored it.
"We need to identify their commercial links and their strategic points."
He raised his eyes.
"Strike their economic foundations before the Direcrim starts seeing us as a real threat."
Just then, a messenger near the entrance gave him a brief signal.
Victor stood.
"I have to leave you, Martha. We'll see each other another time."
Before he left, he squeezed her hand with affection.
Martha tightened her grip for a moment, holding him firmly.
"Take care, Victor."
He nodded in silence.
He released her hand and disappeared into the crowd.
Outside the tavern
The cold night hit Victor the moment he stepped through the door.
The street was damp, and the tavern's lights fell behind him like a warm rectangle in the middle of the darkness. The city smelled of mud, smoke, and wet stone.
Victor walked without stopping, turned into a narrower alley, and approached a corner where a man waited for him, hidden in the shadows.
They exchanged no greetings.
Victor went straight to the point.
"Do you have the information?"
The man nodded and handed him a worn leather folder.
"Yes. Here it is."
Victor took it.
"It's the detailed registry with the names of the Sovereigns you requested, their main economic activities, and the internal structure of their respective Houses."
The informant glanced quickly toward the main street.
"I've already dispatched the messengers to the agreed meeting points. They're ready to receive the reports from our infiltrated collaborators."
Victor concealed the files beneath his cloak.
"Good work."
His tone wasn't friendly, but it was firm.
"For now, stay out of sight. If anything relevant comes up, get it to me immediately."
"Understood, chief," the man replied, dipping his head.
The informant turned to leave, but Victor stopped him, lowering his voice even more.
"What news have you had regarding the other matter?"
The man hesitated for a moment.
"For now, I haven't been able to contact the rest of the investigators."
He paused briefly.
"However, as soon as I receive concrete news, you'll be the first to know."
Victor stared at him.
His voice was low, but loaded with real threat.
"Remember that this is a secret. Strictly confidential between us."
He stepped closer.
"The rest of the division must not know absolutely anything."
"Understood," the man confirmed.
And he vanished into the darkness of the alley.
Victor stood alone for a moment.
He felt the weight of the folder under his cloak, as if he were carrying more than just papers.
Without wasting time, he pulled his hood up, hiding his face completely, and walked away at a fast pace, disappearing into the darkness of the city.
Inside the tavern
Martha watched the exit Victor had taken until he was gone.
Then she stood.
The music continued, people kept laughing, but she no longer belonged to that atmosphere.
She moved with authority toward several men occupying nearby tables. To anyone else, they looked like ordinary customers.
"Well, boys."
Her voice was low, but firm.
"It's time to move."
The men answered in unison.
"Understood, boss."
The group left the warmth of the tavern and faced the cold street.
Once outside, they dispersed strategically. They took different paths to avoid suspicion, though several kept a prudent distance, following Martha's steps.
When they reached a darker area, they all covered themselves with hoods, blending into the night.
Martha stopped for a moment.
She opened the palm of her hand.
A small, delicate flower rested there.
She remembered the exact moment of their farewell, when Victor, as he squeezed her hand, had left it there as a silent gesture.
Martha looked at the flower with a brief expression of nostalgia.
Then she tucked it carefully into her clothes.
Without looking back, she resumed walking.
And disappeared.
Martha, Sapphire Division (36 years old)
Victor, Sapphire Division (40 years old)