The heavy, leaden sky of July 8, 1300, hangs low over the city of Thromium, drowning the jagged slate roofs in a slow, relentless gray drizzle. It is the fourth day of the Great Gala. Droplets of cold water smear against the tall, arched stained-glass windows of Duke Ferris's grand ballroom, blurring the vibrant green hills of the Palantine Heilop into a chaotic, watery collage. Inside, the air is thick with the cloying scent of roasted venison, spilled mead, and the suffocating perfume of hundreds of gathered nobles. String instruments drone a monotonous, courtly rhythm from the high gallery, the sound muffled by the constant, low roar of aristocratic gossip.
Aldo stands near a massive marble pillar, his fair skin looking starkly pristine against the dark stone. His smooth, well-proportioned body is clad in a brand-new noble suit—a doublet of deep charcoal wool with silver embroidery along the cuffs, completely devoid of any military insignias.
The societal parameters of the Thromium court dictate a strict visual variance, Aldo observes internally, his dull, dead-fish eyes tracking the swirling silk dresses on the dance floor. To wear the same tunic on successive days within this specific high-density zone would trigger an immediate escalation in political scrutiny. The procurement cost from Comtois was highly inefficient, yet necessary to maintain their low profile while Hano and Onaga complete the geographic grid with Isabetta.
Beside him, Bertrand Comtois stands three inches taller, his solid, muscular frame filling out an identical suit that looks slightly too tight across his broad shoulders. His wide, boyish face carries its usual mischievous, goofy look as he watches a group of elderly barons argue over land rights near the wine fountains. He nudges Aldo with a heavy elbow, completely unbothered by the courtly etiquette.
Across the sprawling hall, Duchess Meave Wintersong glides through the crowd like a fragment of the winter sky. Her shimmering sky-blue dress catches the light of a thousand tallow candles, casting soft, ethereal reflections across her flawless face. A young knight in polished steel armor bows low before her, his hand pressed theatrically against his heart as he murmurs a courtly compliment. Meave doesn't look at the knight; instead, her sharp, calculating gaze drifts across the room, locking instantly onto Aldo's pale face for a fraction of a second.
Aldo doesn't blink. He turns his head smoothly to the right, breaking the connection without a single trace of emotion on his rosy lips.
Directly beside the pillar, a young maid with rich chestnut hair is slowly wiping down the edge of an empty mahogany banquet table. Her fingers grip the coarse white cloth tightly, her movements deliberately slow, her dark eyes fixed intently on Aldo's profile. The moment Aldo's dead-fish eyes shift toward her, she drops her gaze, her shoulders tensing as she aggressively scrubs a nonexistent stain on the wood.
Aldo turns back to the food platters, bending down alongside Comtois to focus on a massive silver tray loaded with thick cuts of roasted wild boar. He moves with a slow, polite elegance, using a small silver fork to lift a piece of meat to his mouth, though his throat swallows the food with an unnatural, terrifying speed born of intense military conditioning. Without looking, Aldo reaches into his own plate, picks up a thick, prime slice of fat-trimmed beef with his fingers, and drops it directly onto Comtois's plate.
Comtois stops chewing, his jaw hanging open as his goofy face twists into an expression of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. He looks at the meat, then looks at Aldo's frozen expression.
"Well, well, aren't you just the most generous commander in the entire central sector?" Comtois asks, his voice a deep, gravelly whisper that vibrates with genuine surprise. "If you're practically begging me to eat your rations, Aldo, far be it from me to decline the offer."
Comtois leans forward, devouring the beef in a single, massive bite, his thick throat working quickly as his mischievous eyes scan the nearby guests. He wipes a smear of grease from his chin with the back of his sleeve, leaning closer to Aldo until his broad shoulder presses against the smaller youth's frame.
"So," Comtois mutters, his voice dropping into a sharp, assertive hiss, "can we actually sit down and write the Manifesto now? The boys are out in the rain mapping the perimeter, and we're just sitting here wearing expensive rags and eating the Duke's livestock. We need the theory on paper, man."
The maid with the chestnut hair moves three steps closer, her long grey skirt rustling against the flagstones. She picks up an empty silver chalice from the table right behind Comtois, her ear tilting slightly toward the two teenagers as she pretends to inspect the metal for blemishes.
Aldo says absolutely nothing. His fair face remains perfectly blank as he reaches out with a steady hand, picking up a tall glass of dark red wine. He lifts it to his rosy lips, pretending to take a long, deep draught while his dead-fish eyes track the reflection of the chestnut hair in the polished glass. With a fluid, unhurried motion, he turns his entire body away from the table, facing the crowded dance floor to cut off her angle of hearing.
Comtois's face flushes with a sudden, irritated heat, his thick eyebrows knitting together into a deep, angry scowl as he stomps his foot lightly against the marble floor.
"Are you seriously sulking right now?" Comtois barks under his breath, his voice laced with an assertive frustration. "You absolute Tsun Tsun! You're being completely incomprehensible today, Aldo! Just give me a straight answer!"
Aldo takes two slow steps back toward the massive pillar, his body shifting into the deep shadow cast by the tallow candles. He tilts his head slightly backward, leaning his shoulder against the cold stone as Comtois follows him with an aggressive stride. Aldo waits until Comtois is directly beside him before speaking, his voice a low, mechanical murmur that barely registers above the drone of the string instruments.
"I feel highly insecure when her physical presence is within a two-meter radius," Aldo whispers directly into Comtois's ear, his eyes remaining fixed on the crowd.
Comtois blinks, his goofy expression instantly returning as a wide, knowing smirk cuts across his broad face. He lets out a quiet, rumbling chuckle, leaning his large frame against the pillar as well.
"Oh, I see," Comtois smirks, his tone dripping with playful mockery. "So the great tactical mastermind just wants a nice, safe little space away from the scary girls? Is that it, Aldo?"
"Private space," Aldo corrects him instantly, his voice flat. "Maintaining an uncompromised informational perimeter is critical. If we reveal the structural layout of our objectives within this high-density aristocratic zone, the resulting political escalation will be a total operational disaster."
Before Comtois can respond, a heavy, unsteadily solid hand claps down onto Aldo's shoulder.
Officer Watkins, their immediate superior within the Heilop military hierarchy, stands behind them. His uniform coat is partially unbuttoned at the collar, his face flushed a deep, bright crimson from the endless flow of the Duke's vintage wine. Despite the obvious weight of the alcohol pressing down on his eyelids, his leather boots remain perfectly steady on the polished marble, his broad chest rising and falling with a slow, disciplined rhythm.
"There you are, you little ghosts," Watkins rumbles, his voice thick with liquor but carrying the sharp, authoritative weight of a veteran officer. "Listen to me carefully, Aldo. Tomorrow morning, at first light, you and your squad are assigned to escort the supply wagons to the major festival in Carravin. It's a mandatory deployment. The High Command wants our best faces visible in the southern district."
Aldo looks at the older man's bloodshot eyes, his own dead-fish gaze remaining completely unblinking.
"Sir," Aldo states plainly, his rosy lips moving with clinical precision. "You are currently experiencing a significant level of alcohol-induced impairment."
Watkins lets out a loud, wet snort, waving his hand dismissively as he stumbles half a step backward, though his stance quickly locks back into a steady, rigid posture.
"Leave me alone, you miserable little scribe," Watkins grumbles, turning his back on them with a heavy grunt. "You should be glad to leave this place. Go to Carravin. It'll be much less suffocating than this damn noble ballroom. The air here smells like old perfume and rot."
The officer stumbles away into the crowd, his large form instantly swallowed by a group of laughing barons.
Comtois immediately hooks his thick arm around Aldo's neck, dragging the commander back into the narrow space behind the marble pillar. His goofy face is gone again, replaced by that stubborn, self-assertive intensity that always drives him forward.
"Let's get right back to the main point," Comtois whispers fiercely, his eyes boring into Aldo's blank face. "Forget Watkins. Forget the festival. We should write the Manifesto right now, while the nobles are too drunk to notice us slipping away."
The rustle of a linen skirt cuts through the shadows. The maid with the chestnut hair has moved again, her small leather shoes stepping directly into the narrow corridor behind the pillar. She holds a heavy pewter tray against her chest, her dark eyes wide and fixed on the two youths as she pretends to search for dirty glasses along the base of the stone wall.
Aldo drops his smooth, uncalloused hands into the pockets of his charcoal trousers. Beneath the fine fabric, his heart suddenly begins to race, its rapid, thumping rhythm a sharp contrast to his frozen, dead-fish features. His rosy lips flatten into a thin line.
"This specific movement pattern is highly provocative," Aldo says, his voice perfectly level despite the hidden speed of his pulse.
Comtois steps squarely in front of Aldo, his solid, muscular frame completely blocking the maid's view of the commander. He raises his broad, calloused hands, pushing down against the air to signal calm.
"Whoa, chill out, Aldo," Comtois mutters, his voice steady. "Don't go overreacting over a piece of cloth. Watch how a professional handles the civilian staff."
Comtois turns his body around smoothly, flashing his widest, most charmingly goofy smile at the chestnut-haired maid. He steps directly into her path, his massive chest nearly brushing against her pewter tray.
"Hey there, beautiful," Comtois says loudly, his tone booming with friendly confidence. "My friend here is practically starving after all that dancing. Do us a massive favor and run down to the central kitchens to fetch us another platter of that roasted boar, will you? Make sure it's extra thick."
The maid stops dead in her tracks. She looks up at Comtois's solid frame, her pale face completely expressionless, her dark eyes holding a cold, unblinking clarity that seems entirely out of place for a common domestic servant.
"I understand," she says, her voice low, flat, and remarkably steady.
Without another word, she turns on her heel and runs at a brisk, silent pace down the service corridor, her gray skirt disappearing through the swinging wooden doors that lead to the kitchen ward.
Comtois doesn't wait a single second. He grabs Aldo's sleeve with a powerful, vice-like grip, dragging him toward the heavy velvet curtains that conceal the ballroom's side exit.
"Come on," Comtois whispers urgently. "Let's get out of this damn Gala before she comes back with an army of guards."
The cold, light rain hits Aldo's face the moment they step through the iron side doors into the Duke's private gardens. The air here is instantly fresh, smelling of wet earth, crushed mint, and the sharp scent of ozone. The drizzle is thin but constant, slicking the gravel paths and turning the white marble statues into dark, gleaming monoliths under the gray sky.
Comtois dashes through the manicured boxwood hedges with a long, agile stride, his leather shoes kicking up bits of wet mulch. He stops behind a massive, overgrown laurel bush near the estate's outer stone wall. Without a word, he drops to his knees, his rough hands tearing through the wet leaves until he uncovers a heavy iron spade hidden deep within the roots.
With rapid, powerful strokes that show no signs of fatigue, Comtois digs into the soft earth, his muscular shoulders working in a steady, independent rhythm. After three fast scoops, the spade strikes something solid with a dull thud. He reaches down and hauls out a tightly wrapped oilskin bundle, tearing it open to reveal several sets of coarse, mud-stained peasant tunics and frayed linen trousers.
He stands up, shaking the wet dirt from the rough fabric, and thrusts a bundle directly into Aldo's chest.
"Here," Comtois grunts, his goofy face bright with excitement. "Let's sneak out of the city limits right now. Put these on over your fancy suit."
Aldo doesn't take the bundle. He lets his arms hang straight at his sides, his dead-fish eyes staring down at the dark streaks of wet soil clinging to the coarse weave of the peasant clothes. His rosy lips curl downward into a look of absolute, clinical revulsion.
"I will not place those garments upon my person," Aldo states curtly, his voice clipping through the sound of the falling rain. "The sanitary conditions of those articles are completely unhygienic."
Comtois raises his voice, his thick eyebrows joining together into a heavy, irritated frown as he steps closer. He places a heavy, rough hand on Aldo's shoulder, his fingers gripping the fine charcoal wool with an assertive, domineering force.
"You are being completely, ridiculously demanding right now, Aldo!" Comtois barks, his voice vibrating with frustration. "We're trying to escape a high-security noble estate! What the hell is wrong with a little bit of honest dirt?"
Aldo looks up at the massive youth, his pale face unyielding under the heavy grip.
"Bacteria," Aldo replies simply, his tone deadpan.
Comtois lets out a loud, exasperated groan, releasing his grip and pointing a thick, calloused finger up toward the gray, weeping sky.
"As a trained soldier of the 204th Company," Comtois shouts, his tone dripping with absolute disbelief, "you shouldn't be afraid of such completely trivial, everyday things! It's just mud, man!"
"The baseline resilience of the human psychological construct may be strong," Aldo counters instantly, his voice a dry, level drone, "but the biological parameters of the human immune system will cry out in immediate distress if exposed to unsterilized organic matter."
Comtois waves his broad hand through the air with a violent, dismissive gesture, throwing the wet peasant clothes back onto the grass with a heavy sigh.
"So what you're telling me," Comtois grumbles, his face falling into a miserable pout, "is that I now have to spend my own hard-earned coin to buy you nicer, cleaner civilian clothes just so we can take a walk outside the walls? Oh, fantastic. Truly fantastic."
Before Aldo can respond, Comtois's movements freeze instantly. His mischievous eyes widen as he stares past Aldo's shoulder toward the adjacent servant quarters.
The chestnut-haired maid from the ballroom is standing there near a low stone alcove. She is carrying a large wooden basket, ostensibly sent out to retrieve outdoor items forgotten in the sudden drizzle, but her movements have completely stalled. A damp cloth is clutched tightly in her pale hands.
Her dark eyes lift, locking directly onto the two youths standing behind the laurel bush. The silence between them stretches for three long heartbeats, broken only by the steady, rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain hitting the leaves.
The maid opens her mouth, her chest expanding as she prepares to scream for the perimeter guards.
"Operational compromise!" Comtois curses under his breath. Before Aldo can calculate an optimal retreat trajectory, Comtois lunges across the narrow gravel path. His massive hand claps securely over her mouth, stifling the alarm before it can echo through the courtyard, and he violently drags her back into the shadows of the hedges.
"Let me go! Let me go, you absolute monsters!" a sharp, panicked scream tears through the quiet forest path. "God in heaven, someone good please save me! I am just a completely defenseless, innocent girl who has been brutally kidnapped by two absolute perverts!"
Deep within the thick woods half a mile north of the Duke's estate, Gertrude Koch struggles violently against her bonds. Her chestnut hair is completely soaked by the rain, clinging to her cheeks in messy, dark strands. Her wrists are bound tightly with a thick hemp rope, her gray maid's dress stained with green moss and dark brown mud from her frantic resistance.
Aldo walks at a steady, unhurried pace along the narrow dirt trail, his charcoal suit pristine despite the damp foliage brushing against his trousers. He turns his head slowly, his dead-fish eyes tracking her thrashing movements before settling on Comtois, who is marching ahead with a look of stubborn pride.
"Why do you possess the intellectual conviction that this specific course of action constitutes a good operational idea, Comtois?" Aldo asks, his voice a flat, level drone.
Comtois doesn't stop walking. He carries a heavy sack of gear over his shoulder, his massive, muscular frame moving through the wet brush with an independent, careless momentum.
"Think about it logically, Aldo!" Comtois barks back, his goofy face twisting into an assertive, self-satisfied scowl. "She was hovering around our table for forty minutes straight! She was definitely a high-level spy sent by Duke Ferris to eavesdrop on our revolutionary plans. We had to deal with her immediately before she could run to the captain of the guard."
"If we permanently deal with her within this territorial jurisdiction," Aldo states plainly, his rosy lips flat, "Duke Ferris will deploy the full weight of the regional garrison to deal with our remaining units. The cost-to-benefit ratio is heavily negative."
Comtois suddenly stops, dropping his gear sack onto the wet grass. He turns around, bending his large body down until his face is mere inches away from Gertrude's trembling chin. He inspects her smooth, uncalloused forehead, his mischievous eyes narrowing as he reaches out with a large hand toward her shoulder.
"Hey," Comtois says, his voice dropping into a curiously soft rumble. "Are you an Earthling like us? Can we actually... you know, talk like civil human beings?"
"GET YOUR DIRTY HANDS OFF ME, YOU PSYCHO!" Gertrude screams at the top of her lungs, her voice cracking with pure, defensive rage as she tries to bite his fingers.
Comtois flinches back, his goofy face flashing with an absolute, idiot-like bewilderment. He looks at her thrashing legs, then lets out a loud, decisive grunt. Without a single word of warning, he stretches out his long, muscular arms, reaches down, and hoops his thick arms around her waist, hoisting her entire body off the ground like a sack of grain.
He pivots on his heel and begins running at full, blinding speed down the muddy forest path, his heavy boots throwing up massive clods of dark earth with every stride.
Aldo stands still for a single second. The sudden relocation of the subject increases our visibility vector, his internal monologue functioning with cold precision. The physical effort required to maintain pace is inefficient, yet separation will result in total containment failure.
Aldo shifts his weight forward, his well-proportioned body accelerating into a smooth, mechanical sprint as he chases after the large youth, his breathing remaining perfectly rhythmic under the light rain.
"What are your immediate tactical plans now, Comtois?" Aldo shouts ahead, his voice remaining remarkably steady despite the speed of his stride.
"Huh?" Comtois roars over his shoulder, his face flushed red as he jumps over a fallen log with the heavy girl in his arms. "What plans? I don't have a plan! I just want to get the hell out of here as quickly as humanly possible! I don't want to be seen carrying a screaming maid through the main roads like some kind of common criminal!"
"Think of a viable extraction route," Aldo commands sharply. "Let us alter our heading and run towards the riverbank. The water feature provides superior environmental masking."
Comtois veers sharply to the left, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the dense, wet ferns as they sprint down the sloping ridge toward the distant, rushing sound of the Thromium river.