Vael woke up with a groan, not because of the straw mattress—which was surprisingly comfortable—but because he felt a terrifying, armored weight resting on his feet.
He was currently residing in what Astra called his 'Consort's Quarters,' which was actually a supply closet next to the armory. Astra had insisted on standing guard right outside, but apparently, she'd decided the inside was safer. She was seated on the floor, still in full crimson armor, her greatsword across her lap, and her helmet resting against the wall. She was snoring lightly, but the sheer volume of her armor made the sound industrial.
Acquisition One is already too much, Vael thought, rubbing his tired eyes. I can't even go to the latrine without her asking if I need an escort. 100 wives? I'll be dead from exhaustion by wife number five.
Astra's possessiveness was astronomical. Any soldier who dared speak to Vael about the weather was met with a glare that promised a public execution. The Fortress was buzzing with confused gossip, and Vael was officially the most protected—and most socially isolated—man in the entire Legion.
This was precisely why he absolutely, positively could not afford to Charm another woman. He needed allies, not more terrifyingly affectionate jailors.
That night, well past midnight, the silence was shattered not by Astra's snoring, but by a chilling shhhwing sound right next to his head.
Vael's eyes snapped open. The moonlight slicing through the supply closet's tiny slit window illuminated the steel of a shortsword held horizontally across his throat.
"Don't move, poet," a voice hissed. It was low, dry, and absolutely furious.
"Lyra," Vael managed to croak. He didn't even need to open his eyes fully to recognize the Vice-Captain's lethal presence. "Astra is right outside."
"The Captain is currently dreaming of flowers and puppies, thanks to your 'Poetry'," Lyra sneered, her breath smelling faintly of cheap Fortress ale. "She won't wake up until dawn. Now, I want to know what you did. I want the exact words you spoke to my Captain."
Vael's heart slammed into his throat. He could feel the cool steel of the blade against his skin. This was it. The moment he'd dreaded.
"I... I can't repeat that one, Lyra," Vael whispered, genuine terror shaking his voice. "It was... personal."
"Don't lie!" Lyra pressed the blade a fraction deeper. "You told the whole Legion it was about 'War and Love.' Now, tell me that cursed chant! And if I feel even a slight magical burn, I will end you before Astra finishes dreaming about those ridiculous puppies!"
Vael's brain went into overdrive. She thinks the romantic poem is a 'chant.' If I use it, she's toast. I need a poem that is pure philosophy. Something she respects, not something she wants to marry.
He took a deep breath. He had to be bold. He had to pivot. He had to use the poem they had crafted—the Strategic Poem—which contained not a single word of personal devotion.
"Very well, Vice-Captain," Vael whispered, forcing his voice to be steady. "But this is not a chant. It is merely a lens through which I see your world."
He closed his eyes and let the words flow.
"Wars have been fought that only shattered hearts,
While Love has built a bridge where souls did part.
They are but two sides of the same cold coin,
Both claiming lives, in which their powers join.
The heart consumes a man from the inside out;
The blade achieves the same, leaving no doubt.
Yet those who fall for Love's most fatal sting,
Are often those who final victory can bring.
For those who claim to have no heart to spend,
Oft win the battle, but lose the final end."
The air in the closet grew heavy, but differently this time. It wasn't the sweet, intoxicating rush of Charm. It was a cold, dense pressure of Truth.
Lyra froze. Her hand, which was gripping the shortsword, began to tremble.
[Divine Power Effect: Charm Level 1 - Initiation (Suppressed)]
Inside Lyra's mind, a total war was breaking out. The poem wasn't romantic, but it was profound. It justified every cynical, painful choice she had ever made in her life while simultaneously condemning her lack of emotion.
The heart consumes a man from the inside out... That line hit her like a dagger. It spoke directly to her iron-hard discipline, telling her she was just as self-destructive as any emotional fool. The poem didn't make her want to marry him; it made her want to fight for him, learn from him, and never let him leave. It was the same Charm, but filtered through a fiercely controlled mind.
Vael, unaware of the internal chaos, watched Lyra's face. Her expression remained hard and critical.
Phew! Vael sighed internally. Success! She didn't melt! She's just thinking hard. I only earned respect, not a wife.
Lyra slowly, deliberately pulled the sword away. She didn't sheathe it; she simply held it at her side, the point resting on the floor.
"That was... unexpected," Lyra finally growled. Her voice was strained, and Vael completely missed the underlying possessiveness now fighting with her military rigor. She was furious at the poem for its truth, and furious at herself for how deeply it affected her.
"A philosophical riddle, poet," she spat. "It's clever. It makes you sound less like a goat and more like a pretentious idiot. It did not, however, explain why my Captain acts like a lovesick tavern maid."
Vael, relieved, shrugged cautiously. "Perhaps... your Captain has a greater heart than you realize, Vice-Captain."
Lyra stepped closer, her amber eyes—which were now suspiciously bright—locking onto Vael's.
"Listen to me, Consort," she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I don't believe in magic poems, but I do believe in results. Your words have clearly unhinged my Commander. You have one week. One week to prove your value to the Legion before I decide you are more of a liability than a benefit."
She leaned in, her voice cold and commanding, but her gaze held a strange, desperate intensity.
"You wrote a truth about Astra's soul. Now, write a truth about mine. If you can make me understand this 'Poetry'—not with flowery nonsense, but with lines I can respect—I will leave you alone. Fail, and I will personally toss you over the walls."
Lyra did not wait for his response. She turned sharply, slipped out the door as silently as a ghost, and disappeared into the shadowed hallway.
Vael sank back onto the straw mattress, adrenaline draining out of him. He ran a hand through his hair.
One week? Write a truth about her soul? He had completely missed the fact that Lyra's threat was merely a defense mechanism to cover her sudden, overpowering need for his verses.
"I think I managed to get out of that one," Vael muttered, adjusting his spectacles. "No second wife. Just a difficult, week-long assignment. 99 to go, and the difficulty is already at 'Expert Level' for every single one."
He grabbed his journal, his hands already starting to itch again. He had seven days to write a non-romantic poem for the most cynical woman in the Legion, or be thrown off a castle wall.