[About 04:00 PM on Day 24]
The Lion's Cage is a cauldron of roaring noise and spilled blood. The arena, a brutal circular pit carved into the earth of a repurposed training yard, is surrounded by tiers of raucous spectators. Merchants, minor nobles, and hardened mercenaries jostle for space, betting heavily on their chosen champions. The air is thick with the metallic tang of sweat and gore, the cheers and jeers of the crowd, and the low, guttural thrum of raw power.
Sir Kaelen, Captain of the Duke's Household Guard, stands on a raised platform overlooking the pit, his black-lacquered armor a stark contrast to the boisterous chaos. He watches with an impassive, analytical gaze, flanked by his lieutenants and a grim-faced Captain Renaud, who is subtly rubbing his temple.
Below, in the center of the cage, stands Louie de Braisechant. His rags are gone, replaced by simple, sturdy fighting breeches that showcase the brutal, sculpted power of his new physique. He is covered in blood and grime, none of it his own. His face, your face, is grim and unyielding, his green eyes burning with a cold, focused fire. He has moved through the tournament like a force of nature, an unstoppable, silent engine of destruction.
His final opponent, a hulking Bronze-Tier brute known as "The Bear of Bastogne," lies sprawled at his feet, unconscious, his body clearly broken in several places. Louie has not used magic, not once. He fought with fists, feet, and the terrifying, unnatural strength and agility of a Silver-Tier warrior honed by conceptual alchemy. He has dismantled every opponent with a chilling precision, delivering bone-shattering blows with the casual ease of an artisan at his craft. The crowd, initially roaring for blood, is now stunned into a bewildered, reverent silence. They expected a spectacle; they witnessed an execution.
Louie stands over his fallen foe, takes a single, deep breath, and then slowly raises his gaze to Sir Kaelen.
Sir Kaelen does not move. His face, which had been a mask of professional disinterest, now reveals a profound, cold satisfaction. He had witnessed every blow, every shattered bone, every opponent reduced to a broken mess by a man who looked like a common beggar. He had seen the raw, unbridled power of a Silver-Tier warrior, unleashed with lethal intent. He had heard the whispers in the crowd, the dawning realization that this was no mere mercenary, but a force to be reckoned with.
He meets Louie's unwavering gaze, then slowly, deliberately, a thin, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips. It is not a smile of amusement, but of a craftsman admiring a perfectly forged weapon. He had tested you, and you had delivered beyond his wildest expectations.
"Well done, 'Braisechant'," Sir Kaelen's voice rings out, cutting through the stunned silence of the arena. It is loud, clear, and carries the undeniable weight of command.
"You have shown your worth in steel and blood. Your performance here... it will be spoken of for a long time."
He turns, his gaze sweeping over the silent, awestruck crowd.
"The Lion's Cage has a new champion! Present him his prize! And prepare him. He will attend to me immediately."
His gaze returns to you, a cold, challenging glint in his eyes. He has acknowledged your power, given you the public validation you sought, and issued his summons. The test is over. The path to the Duke is open, but only if you can navigate the treacherous currents of his Captain's trust.
[About 05:00 PM on Day 24]
An hour later, you are led from the cold silence of the Watch headquarters to a private chamber within the Ducal Palace barracks. Louie is already there. The blood and grime have been washed away, and the beggar's rags have been replaced with a simple, well-made black tunic and sturdy leather breeches. He is no longer a gladiator or a vagrant; he is a weapon, polished and waiting. He nods as you enter, the silent acknowledgment of a shared victory.
The door opens again, and Sir Kaelen steps inside, his black armor seeming to drink the torchlight. His eyes fall on Louie, then on you, then back again. He takes in the two identical faces, the shared posture, the same quiet intensity. There is no flicker of surprise on his face, only a slow, dawning comprehension. A chillingly thin smile touches his lips.
"Two of you," he says, his voice a low rumble of dark appreciation. "The rumors will be... potent." He understands the game now, not just in theory, but in its literal, impossible reality. He gestures to the door.
"The Duke is waiting."
You and Louie fall into step behind him, two identical shadows following a column of black steel. The halls of the Ducal Palace are not lined with art and tapestries, but with captured enemy banners and racks of polished polearms. The guards you pass are not courtiers in livery but Silver-Tier veterans in full plate, their gazes as hard as the stone walls. This is the heart of a war machine.
Kaelen leads you to a pair of massive ironwood doors, which swing open silently at his approach. The audience chamber is vast, stark, and intimidating. There are no stained-glass windows, only high, narrow slits that cast spears of the fading afternoon light onto a floor of black marble. At the far end of the hall, on a throne carved from a single block of dark, unadorned granite, sits a man who radiates power like a physical heat.
He is clad in a polished steel breastplate over a tunic of deep crimson. His hair is dark, shot through with grey at the temples, and a jagged scar cuts through his left eyebrow. His hands, resting on the arms of his throne, are the calloused, powerful hands of a warrior. This is Duke Charles "the Bold," and his Gold-Tier resonance fills the room, a heavy, oppressive presence that demands respect and promises violence.
Sir Kaelen strides to the center of the room and kneels. "My Lord Duke," he says, his voice ringing with formal respect.
"I present the defector from Aquitania, Louie de Braisechant." He pauses, then adds with perfect composure, "...and his twin."
Duke Charles leans forward slightly. His dark, intelligent eyes assess you both, taking in your shared face, your different attire, your identical, unwavering stances. He doesn't look shocked or confused; he looks like a master weaponsmith examining a pair of strange, perfectly matched blades.
"My Captain of the Guard tells me,"
the Duke says, his voice a deep baritone that rumbles through the stone hall,
"that you believe I should be King."
He rises from his throne, a towering, intimidating figure of steel and raw power.
"Words are wind. Power is steel."
He descends the dais and walks towards you, his boots echoing in the cavernous silence. He stops a mere ten feet away, his gaze boring into you both, weighing your souls.
"Convince me," Duke Charles commands, "that you are not just another gust of wind."
[About 05:02 PM on Day 24]
You stand on the cold black marble of the Duke's audience chamber, a mirror image of your newly forged ally. Before you, the Gold-Tier sovereign looms, a figure of immense physical and aetheric pressure.
His command—"Convince me"—is an absolute, a challenge to your very existence.
You are the mind. You step forward, your voice calm and clear, cutting through the cavernous silence of the hall.
"The King has many friends," you begin, your tone less that of a supplicant and more of a strategist briefing his commander.
"One of them, Baron Faucher, commands the fortress of Roche-sur-Yon to the west. He is a pompous fool, but his fortress controls a vital trade route that funds the King's coffers."
Duke Charles listens, his dark eyes unblinking, his expression unreadable. Sir Kaelen stands like a statue of black iron, observing.
"The Baron is hosting a tourney in two weeks' time to celebrate his daughter's name day," you continue, laying out the pieces on the board.
"It will be a gathering of Royalist knights, all seeking glory and the King's favor. It is the perfect stage."
You pause, letting the implication hang in the air before delivering the core of your plan.
"We will go. Louie will be the thunder; I will be the lightning. He will enter the lists and not just win, but systematically dismantle and humiliate every champion the Baron puts forth. While the court is distracted by the spectacle, I will move through his fortress, spreading dissent, disrupting his trade, and ensuring that by the end of the festival, Baron Faucher is a laughingstock in his own home, his authority shattered and his revenue stream choked."
You finish, the plan laid bare. It is a declaration of insidious, psychological warfare.
Duke Charles is silent for a long moment. He slowly begins to circle you and Louie, his heavy boots echoing on the marble. He moves like a great wolf, inspecting two strange new beasts that have wandered into his territory. He stops behind you, his oppressive aura a physical weight on your shoulders.
"A serpent's plan," he rumbles, his voice a low growl of appreciation. "I appreciate the venom. To turn a Royalist's celebration into his own ruin... it has a certain... elegance."
He completes his circle, standing before you once more. His eyes are no longer merely assessing; they are sharp, calculating, looking for the flaw in the weapon you've presented.
"But a laughingstock is temporary," the Duke states, his voice hard as granite.
"Humiliation fades. Royalist fools have a habit of clinging to their King's favor like drowning men to driftwood. I need more than a temporary disruption. I need a wound. A permanent one."
He leans forward, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that could crack stone.
"You will have your horse. You will have your purse of gold," he commands, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.
"But you will bring me more than stories of your victory. On the wall of Baron Faucher's great hall hangs his Royal Charter of Fealty, the very scroll, signed by the King's own hand, that grants him his power and title."
The Duke's eyes glint with cold, ambitious fire.
"Win your tourney. Break his champions. But when you return, you will bring me that charter. Do this, and you will have proven you are steel. Fail... and your gust of wind will be silenced for good."
[About 05:03 PM on Day 24]
The Duke's challenge hangs in the cold air of the audience hall, a gauntlet of steel thrown at your feet. You do not hesitate. You offer a slight, sharp bow—a gesture of a professional accepting a contract, not a vassal pledging fealty.
"It will be done, my Lord Duke," you state, your voice a calm, steady echo in the vast chamber. Beside you, Louie mirrors the gesture, his nod grim and resolute.
A slow, predatory smile spreads across Duke Charles's face. It is the look of a man who has just acquired a pair of perfectly honed, venom-tipped daggers. "Good," he rumbles. He turns his back on you, a clear dismissal, and ascends the dais to his granite throne.
"Kaelen. See them equipped. Give them what they need to draw blood."
Sir Kaelen bows. "As you command." He turns, his black armor seeming to absorb the fading light, and gestures for you to follow. "Come."
He leads you from the oppressive silence of the audience hall back into the functional, martial heart of the palace. The destination is the Ducal Armory, a place of profound and practical lethality. The air inside is cool and smells of quenching oil, whetstones, and leather. Rows upon rows of masterfully crafted plate armor stand like silent steel sentinels. Racks of longswords, polearms, and crossbows line the stone walls, each weapon a testament to Bourgogne's focus on war.
"The Duke is making an investment," Kaelen states, his voice flat. "Do not disappoint him."
An armorer, a broad-shouldered man with hands like hammers, approaches and bows to Kaelen. At the Captain's command, the process begins.
Louie is fitted for a suit of full steel plate armor (Bronze). It is not ornate, bearing no guilding or useless filigree, but its overlapping plates and articulated joints are a masterpiece of defensive engineering. He is given a blunted tourney lance, a heavy shield bearing a plain, unadorned sigil, and a sheathed longsword (Bronze) of impeccable balance and sharpness for "emergencies."
For you, the gear is simpler. A set of dark, high-quality traveler's clothes, reinforced leather boots, and a simple, well-made dagger (Copper) to be concealed within your robes.
Finally, Kaelen leads you to the Ducal stables. The horse brought before you is not a simple riding mount; it is a destrier, a true warhorse. A beast of black muscle and furious intelligence, its powerful legs capable of carrying an armored knight through the maelstrom of battle.
As the stable hands fit the horse, which Louie dubs "Ruin," with a new saddle, Kaelen hands you a heavy leather purse. "The Duke's investment," he repeats. The purse contains a significant sum of gold and silver, more than enough to fund your journey and any bribes or expenses you might incur.
[Your Ledger is updated from Level 2 (Impoverished) to Level 5 (Prosperous).]
[About 08:00 PM on Day 24]
You stand in the torchlit courtyard of the Ducal Palace. Louie, now a formidable figure in a gleaming steel plate, sits astride the powerful warhorse. The beast shifts impatiently, its breath misting in the cool night air. You stand beside him, a shadow in dark robes, the weight of the Duke's gold, a tangible promise in your pouch.
Sir Kaelen watches from the armory steps, a silhouette of black iron. He gives a single, curt nod. The mission is yours now. The great gates of Dijon stand open, and the road to Roche-sur-Yon lies to the west, shrouded in the falling dusk.
The massive warhorse, Ruin, shifts impatiently beneath Louie, its iron-shod hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones of the torchlit courtyard. Sir Kaelen's silent, watchful presence is a weight at your back as you prepare to depart.
As the great gates of Dijon begin to grind open, you reach up, passing the heavy leather purse filled with the Duke's gold to Louie. He leans down from his high saddle, the new steel plates of his armor groaning in protest. His gauntleted hand closes over the purse.
"You already got it in you," you say, your voice a low counterpoint to the creak of the gate. "You just need the outside, and now you look the part. Indeed, much better than most nobles I know."
Louie pauses, the heavy purse held between you both. From his elevated position, he looks down at you, his identical face half-hidden in the shadow of his helm. For a moment, the cold fire of the gladiator is gone, replaced by something older and more somber.
"The last man to trust me with his coin was my father," he says, his new voice a quiet, gravelly rumble.
He says nothing more. He doesn't need to. He secures the purse to his belt with a practiced, final motion.
He straightens in the saddle, gathering the reins. He is no longer a disgraced boy or a vengeful ghost. He is a knight, forged in alchemy and blood, riding to a war of his own choosing.
Together, you pass under the great stone archway of the city gate. The sounds of the forges and the marching men of Dijon fade behind you, replaced by the chirping of crickets and the whisper of the night wind. The road to Roche-sur-Yon, a ribbon of pale dirt in the moonlight, stretches out before you into the dark, Royalist heartlands of Francia.
Beside you, Louie sits astride the chestnut mare, a dark, powerful silhouette against the night sky. He looks towards the west, towards the heart of Francia, towards the tourney at Roche-sur-Yon. "Two weeks," he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet. "It's a long ride." The road stretches out before you, a pale ribbon winding through the darkness. The first step of a long, treacherous plan has been taken.
You sit atop the powerful warhorse, the cool night air fresh on your face after the stale confines of the city. The road west is a long, dark promise. You agree with Louie's assessment of the journey's length, but your focus is on a different kind of prize.
"Yes," you say, your voice a thoughtful murmur in the quiet.
"I wonder if there are some towns that serve specialty pork or lamb or beef along the way."
Louie, a grim silhouette beside you, turns his head slowly. He stares at you through the darkness for a long, silent moment. The silence is not one of confusion or anger.
It is the deep, profound, and utterly exhausted silence of a man who has finally accepted that his partner in a treasonous, world-altering conspiracy is fundamentally motivated by his next meal. He lets out a long, slow sigh that seems to carry all the weariness of his short, tragic life.
"Janus," he says, his voice a flat, tired monotone.
"We are riding through the heart of Francia, a kingdom we intend to betray. We will be sleeping in ditches and avoiding patrols, not sampling the local cuisine." He turns his gaze back to the road, his shoulders slumping just a fraction.
"We'll eat what we can find. Hard bread and dried meat, most likely." He gathers his reins, the pragmatist taking control.
"Let's move. The further we are from Dijon by sunrise, the better."
Without another word, he kicks his mare into a steady trot, the sound of her hooves a rhythmic beat in the vast, sleeping countryside. You urge your own steed forward, falling into place beside him. The two of you, a plague and its sword, ride west into the darkness, one dreaming of glory and vengeance, the other of exquisite french cuisine.
You become a model of restraint. The two-week journey from Dijon to Roche-sur-Yon is a study in quiet discipline. You are no longer Janus the Plague; you are Janus the unassuming advisor. You ride west, deep into the heartlands of Francia, leaving the martial air of Bourgogne behind. The landscape changes from rolling hills to vast, open plains and dense, ancient forests. The roads are choked with mud from the autumn rains, and the inns are filled with the low murmur of gossip and the suspicious eyes of locals who look warily upon any armed travelers.
Louie handles the logistics with the grim efficiency of a born soldier. He barters for supplies, cares for the horses, and chooses your campsites in defensible, out-of-the-way clearings. He is the physical shield, the practical hand that keeps you fed and safe. You, in turn, are the silent observer. You watch the flow of trade, the state of the roads, the morale of the people in the towns you pass through. You listen to the tavern talk, not of grand politics, but of rising taxes, of banditry on the rise, of a King in Paris who feels a thousand miles away. You are gathering data, mapping the sickness in the kingdom you intend to exploit. You speak little, eat your share of the hard bread and dried meat without complaint, and offer no commentary on the lack of roast beef. The roles you chose in the warehouse solidify with every mile. He is the Lord, you are the shadow. He is the sword, you are the mind that guides it.