From the shadows of a nearby alley, Louie de Braisechant watches the procession. He sees you walking calmly in the center of a squad of City Watchmen, the Captain at your side. He sees the broken merchant being dragged away. He saw no fight, no grand duel. He just witnessed a war won with a loaf of bread, two slaps, and a handful of perfectly chosen words. The lightning has struck, and the thunder now understands the mind that guides the storm. You are led away from the chaos of the market, through the disciplined, stone-grey streets of Dijon. The destination becomes clear as you approach a formidable, graceless stone building flying the banner of the City Watch. This is their headquarters. The local arm of the Duke's law. You have their full and undivided attention.
You march in silence, the rhythmic tread of the Watchmen's boots on the cobblestones the only sound. The streets here are cleaner, more orderly. The looming headquarters of the City Watch dominates the small square it sits in. There are no statues of forgotten heroes, no useless ornamentation. Just thick walls, arrow slits for windows, and a single, iron-reinforced door over which the Duke's banner hangs, stark and intimidating.
You glance at the grim facade, then at the Captain walking beside you.
"Yes," you remark, your voice casual. "Tall, sturdy, practical. The Duke is a man who understands priorities."
Captain Renaud doesn't break stride. He gives you a brief, sideways glance, his face an unreadable mask of professionalism. He offers a single, noncommittal statement in reply.
"The Duke is a practical man."
The words are a stone wall, offering no purchase for further conversation. He leads you through the iron-reinforced door and into the heart of the Watch headquarters. The air inside is cool and smells of oiled leather, steel, and damp stone. Men-at-arms and clerks move with quiet purpose through the halls, their hobnailed boots echoing on the flagstone floors. This is a place of work, not ceremony. You are not led down to the cells. Instead, Captain Renaud guides you up a short flight of stairs and into an austere, functional office. It contains a single heavy desk of dark wood, two simple wooden chairs, and a map of the Duchy of Bourgogne hanging on one wall. It is the office of a man who values work over comfort. Renaud walks behind the desk, remaining on his feet. He gestures to the simple wooden chair opposite his desk. Then he closes the heavy oak door behind you. The sound of the bolt sliding home is loud and final in the small room. You are alone with the law.
You take the offered seat. The wood groans under your weight, the sound loud in the oppressive silence of the small office. The single barred window casts a lattice of grey light across the dusty floor. Captain Renaud stands opposite you, a bulwark of quiet, disciplined authority. You look at him, your expression open and reasonable.
"Captain, you have my cooperation. Maybe not full, but I promise I have no ill will or harm intended."
Captain Renaud does not sit. He doesn't even react for a long moment. He simply watches you, his eyes hard and assessing. He walks around the heavy desk and leans against its edge, crossing his arms over his chest. It is a position of casual command, placing him slightly above you.
"No ill will," he repeats, his voice a flat, toneless baritone.
"The last man who said that to me was trying to sell me a lame horse. The man before that put a knife in my ribs."
He leans forward slightly, the leather of his uniform creaking. The professional pleasantries are over. The door is locked. The games are done.
"You are a Silver-Tier Conceptual practitioner. You are not some common thug. You didn't orchestrate that chaos in my market because you were hungry. You did it to get my attention. You did it to get in this room."
His gaze is like a physical weight, pinning you to the chair.
"Congratulations. You have it."
He pushes off the desk and takes a single, deliberate step towards you, his shadow falling across your seated form.
"Now, we are going to stop playing games. You will tell me your name. Your real name. You will tell me what a disgraced son of an Aquitanian house is doing in Dijon. And you will give me one, single, compelling reason why I shouldn't throw you in the deepest, darkest hole under this building and report to my superiors that I neutralized a foreign agent attempting to incite a riot."
The silence in the small, stone office is a physical presence. The Captain's ultimatum hangs in the air, a threat of imprisonment and oblivion. You do not flinch. You do not look away. You offer him a look that is almost pitying, as if he couldn't possibly comprehend the answer even if you gave it.
"The story is too insane, so I don't think I want to tell you that," you say, your tone matter-of-fact.
"But if you need a real name, it'd be Louie de Braisechant."
Captain Renaud stares. The name lands on the heavy wooden desk between you, and the pieces click into place in his mind with an almost audible snap.
Braisechant.
The disgraced house.
The son of the traitor Baron who chose to disobey the King.
His face, which had been a mask of cold, professional anger, goes utterly slack with comprehension. He sees the shape of it now. A scion of a ruined house, his loyalty to the Crown broken, appearing in the capital of the King's greatest rival, possessing immense power and a suicidal lack of fear. He lets out a long, slow breath through his nose. It is the sound of a man accepting defeat. He walks back behind his desk and sinks into his own chair, the wood creaking in protest.
The interrogation is over. The power dynamic has irrevocably shifted. He is no longer an officer of the law questioning a suspect. He is a mid-level manager who has just been handed a problem far, far above his pay grade.
"So that's it," he says, his voice flat, all the fire gone from it.
"You're not a spy. You're a political statement."
He rubs his temples with his thumb and forefinger, a gesture of profound weariness.
"You're right. The story is insane. And it's not for me to hear."
He looks up, his eyes no longer filled with suspicion, but with a grim, calculating pragmatism.
"I can't lock you up. If you're genuine, the Duke would have my head for imprisoning a Silver-Tier defector on the eve of a war. I can't let you go. You've assaulted three men, confessed to blackmail, and caused a civil disturbance."
He leans forward, lacing his fingers together on the desk. His role has changed. He is no longer your jailer. He is now your handler.
"So this is what is going to happen. You are going to remain here, in this office, under my personal watch. I am sending a runner to the Ducal Palace. He will carry a message for my direct superior, Sir Kaelen, the Captain of the Duke's Household Guard. I will inform him that we have a... guest. A guest he will be very interested in meeting."
He leans back, his expression grim.
"Let's see how your story sounds to a man who has the Duke's ear."
You lean forward slightly in the hard wooden chair, your expression one of reasonable concern. The threat of a dark cell has been replaced by the more subtle danger of a locked room and a long wait.
"May I follow you?" you ask, your tone even.
"I don't want to be accused of black magic later."
A frown touches Captain Renaud's lips, a flicker of confusion before he understands the implication. You think he's leaving you alone. He scoffs, a short, sharp sound of derision.
"Follow me? I'm not going anywhere," he says, his voice dry. He gestures around the small, stone office.
"You think I'd leave a Silver-Tier asset alone in my own headquarters? You will not leave my sight until Sir Kaelen arrives."
The statement is both a reassurance and a warning. He is your guard as much as he is your host. He rises, walks to the heavy oak door, and slides the bolt back with a loud thud.
He doesn't open it fully, just a crack. "Sergeant!" he barks into the hallway. A moment later, a man in a steel helmet appears in the gap. "Captain?"
"Get me a runner. A fast one," Renaud orders, his voice crisp and authoritative.
"He is to take a priority message to the Ducal Palace. For the Captain of the Guard's eyes only. The message is simple: We have a guest. "
"Yes, Captain," the sergeant replies, and his footsteps recede down the hall. Renaud closes the door and slides the bolt home again. The sound echoes in the small room. He returns to his desk, sitting down and lacing his fingers together. He makes no move to write anything down or busy himself with paperwork. His entire attention is on you. The runner is gone. The message is on its way. Now, there is nothing to do but wait. The silence in the office stretches, filled only by the quiet hum of the city outside and the ticking clock of your shared predicament.
You break the heavy silence of the office, your voice a calm, conversational island in a sea of tension.
"So, now that the matter is settled, may I just clarify that I truly just wanted to blackmail that man for money? It's part of the insane story, but you just happened to be doing your job properly and keeping order in the city, so I'm not blaming you or anything. I'm just saying that is a coincidence that ended up with me achieving my main objective of getting to meet the Duke, but not my side objective, which is to get money for food because I am quite hungry and I'd like to have some roast beef."
Captain Renaud stares at you. He stares for a very long time. A single, thick vein begins to throb at his temple. He slowly pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as if warding off a migraine of monumental proportions. He does not believe you. Not for a second. He believes you are deliberately trying to drive him insane. He lets out a long, suffering sigh that seems to carry the weight of every bad decision he has ever made in his life.
"Braisechant," he says, his voice a low, gravelly sound of pure, undiluted exhaustion.
"Are you telling me that you, a Silver-Tier Conceptual Scion, started a political incident that could have gotten you killed, because you wanted to eat roast beef?"
He opens his eyes, and they are the eyes of a man who has been pushed to the absolute limit of his professional composure. He stands up, walks to the door, and slides the bolt back. "Sergeant!" he yells into the hall. The same sergeant appears, his expression alert. "Captain?"
"Our guest," Renaud says, gesturing vaguely towards you without looking, "is hungry. Go to the officer's mess. Get him a plate of roast beef. The good cut. And a mug of ale. Put it on my account."
"Yes, Captain," the sergeant says, his face a mask of confusion before he hurries off. Renaud closes and bolts the door again. He returns to his chair and slumps into it, the picture of a man who has been thoroughly and completely defeated by a level of absurdity he was not trained to handle.
"There," he says, his voice flat and dead. "Roast beef."
He leans back, crosses his arms, and resumes his watch, his expression now one of grim, silent resignation. He will not speak again until his superior arrives.
You speak the words into the heavy silence.
"Well I think anybody who would make it to a position of importance enough to order the death of a Silver-Tier would be smart enough to not kill a Silver-Tier Conceptual Scion"
The logic, cold, clear, and utterly self-serving. It is the simple truth of the world as you see it: power respects power, and any leader who doesn't understand that is a fool destined for a grave. Captain Renaud, who had just slumped into his chair in a state of defeated resignation, slowly opens his eyes. He stares at you. He doesn't look angry. He doesn't look surprised. He looks like a man staring into the sun. The sheer, unblinking confidence radiating from you is a force of nature, and he is simply too tired to fight it anymore. He closes his eyes again and says nothing. The vein at his temple gives a single, final, defeated throb. The silence returns, heavier and more absurd than before.
It is broken a few minutes later by a sharp rap on the door. Renaud grunts, rises, and unbolts it. The sergeant stands there, holding a heavy wooden tray. On it sits a thick slab of dark, glistening roast beef, a hunk of black bread, and a pewter mug brimming with dark ale. The smell of rich gravy and roasted meat fills the small, austere office. The sergeant carefully places the tray on the corner of the desk, his eyes flicking from his exhausted Captain to you, the calm, seated guest, trying and failing to understand the situation. He gives a curt nod and quickly exits, closing the door behind him. Renaud bolts the door again, then gestures tiredly at the tray.
"Your... compensation."
He returns to his chair, crosses his arms, and resumes his watch, a man held hostage in his own office by a polite madman and the smell of a dinner he isn't going to eat. You take the tray, place it on your lap, and begin to eat. The beef is excellent. You chew slowly, deliberately, savoring the first proper meal you've had in weeks. The only sounds in the room are the scrape of a knife on the wooden tray, the soft tear of bread, and the heavy, suffering silence of a Captain of the City Watch waiting for his superior to arrive and take this nightmare away from him.
You take another bite of the roast beef, chew thoughtfully, and then swallow. You wash it down with a sip of ale before looking up at the beleaguered Captain.
"OK, I understand, thank you," you say, your tone one of gracious finality.
"I'll shut up and wait for my keeper now." Captain Renaud's right eye gives a single, violent twitch. He doesn't respond. He doesn't move.
He simply stares at the far wall, a man who has made a conscious, professional decision to stop processing information until his replacement arrives. He is a statue of pure, weaponized patience. True to your word, you fall silent. An hour passes in this state of suspended animation. The only sounds are the scrape of your knife against the wooden tray and the rhythmic, weary breathing of the Captain. You finish your meal, draining the last of the ale, and set the tray aside. The silence congeals, thick and heavy.
[About 10:00 AM on Day 23]
Suddenly, a new sound cuts through the quiet hum of the headquarters: heavy, booted footsteps ascending the stairs. They are not the hurried tread of a clerk or the steady tramp of a patrol. These are the confident, measured steps of a man accustomed to command, a man who has never had to hurry in his life. The footsteps stop directly outside the office door.
Captain Renaud visibly straightens in his chair, his exhaustion momentarily burned away by a surge of adrenaline. He looks from the door to you, his expression a mixture of profound relief and dread. A series of sharp, authoritative raps echoes through the room. It is not a request for entry; it is a summons to open. Renaud rises, squares his shoulders, and unbolts the door.
The man who stands in the doorway is a tier above everyone else in the building. He is tall and lean, clad in immaculate, black-lacquered plate armor that bears the silver inlay of the Duke's personal sigil. His hair is the color of iron filings, cut short and severe, and his face is a collection of hard, sharp angles. A longsword with a simple steel crossguard hangs at his hip. His aura is a razor's edge—a clean, sharp, and utterly lethal Silver-Tier resonance.
This is Sir Kaelen, Captain of the Duke's Household Guard. His cold, grey eyes flick past the exhausted Renaud, dismissing him as part of the furniture. They sweep the room, taking in the empty tray of food, the simple wooden chairs, and finally, they lock onto you. He assesses you in a single, silent, penetrating gaze, his expression giving away nothing. He is not judging a criminal; he is evaluating a potential weapon.
You lean back in the simple wooden chair, looking the Duke's right-hand man up and down with the leisurely air of a patron at a theatre. A low, appreciative whistle cuts through the tense silence of the office.
"Wow," you say, your voice bright and conversational. "Handsome man."
Sir Kaelen does not so much as blink. The cold, grey eyes narrow by a fraction of a millimeter, the only sign that he has even registered the sound. Beside him, however, Captain Renaud visibly flinches, as if you had just slapped him personally. A strangled sound, half-gasp, half-groan, escapes his throat before he chokes it down. Sir Kaelen's gaze remains locked on you, utterly ignoring your comment. His voice, when he speaks, is like the scrape of steel on stone.
"Renaud. Leave us." It is not a request. It is a dismissal.
Captain Renaud looks like a man granted a royal pardon. "Sir," he mutters, then turns and practically flees the room, pulling the heavy door shut behind him with a solid, final thud. You are alone with the Duke's enforcer. Sir Kaelen does not sit. He walks to the center of the room, his black-lacquered armor drinking the dim light, and stands over you. He is a tower of polished steel and lethal intent.
The silence stretches, thick and cold.
"Who sent you?" he asks, his voice flat, devoid of curiosity or emotion. It is the question of a man who deals only in answers.
You deliver the line into the cold, still air of the office.
"I sent myself"
The words are simple, direct, and a flagrant rejection of the way the world works. Men do not simply appear; they are sent. By kings, by dukes, by spymasters. Sir Kaelen's face remains a mask of cold iron. There is no surprise, no anger. There is only a subtle, chilling shift in the atmosphere of the room. The pressure of his Silver-Tier resonance, which had been a passive, sharp presence, now focuses on you like a physical weight. It is a suffocating, silent demand for submission, an attempt to crush your will with his own. He is a predator, testing the defenses of a creature that has wandered into his territory. He does not believe you.
He does not disbelieve you. He is simply processing the statement, stripping it of its bravado and weighing the core of it against the power he feels radiating from you. The silence stretches for a full ten seconds, a quiet, brutal battle of wills fought in the space between two chairs.
When he speaks again, his voice is even colder, even flatter than before.
He has discarded the question of your origin and moved to the only thing that matters.
"Why?"
The words fall into the suffocating silence of the office.
They do not echo.
They are absorbed by the cold stone and the heavy wood, landing with the dead finality of a body hitting the floor.
"Because I believe the Duke should be King."