Six days had passed since the bloody siege of Pisum. The walls still smoked, black as the hands of the survivors hastily digging trenches, fearing the return of the king's banners. The end-of-month rains had not arrived, and the suffocating heat of Calorium seemed to punish both the defeated and the victors alike. On the horizon, the first breath of Ignis was beginning to set the plains alight in dust and thirst. It was the last month of summer, and, perhaps, the first of the civil war.
From Pisum, crows and riders set off in all directions, carrying not letters, but embers. Messages written by Edouard Lefevre reached villages and towns, nervous fortresses and cities of the Kingdom of Calentia. They were received with silence, then with murmurs, then with marching.
They arrived in small groups, men with worn boots and women with hardened gazes. Some came with muskets, others with hunger. They gathered under improvised banners and new names, each believing their pain to be part of something greater. For the first time in decades, the people marched not because of a king, but for something more diffuse – a word many could not pronounce but all could feel: republic.
From Porto Calido, came a letter sealed in golden wax. It did not say 'yes', but it did not say 'no' either. It spoke of sympathy, of consideration, of interest – slippery words, like the hands of bankers. Riberaforte, with its thick walls and a governor too hesitant to take sides, responded with caution. Torre del Calor, built upon ancient pride, declared that it was observing with attention… but it needed more than words and ideals.
They all needed victories in order to pick a side in the confrontation.
Meanwhile, the nobles of Calentia, perfumed in a sweet and treacherous way, gathered in cold halls to discuss whether the revolt was a fever that would pass with time, or one that could kill kings. And in the countryside, the peasants had already chosen. The names of the dead from Pisum passed from mouth to mouth, transformed into ballads whispered at dusk.
The revolution was not yet a sword – but it was already a fire. A fire that, when the month of Ignis arrives, would burn faster and bring even more people to the revolutionary cause.
Caelus walked slowly through the city of Pisum, observing the result of days of fighting. On every corner, someone was hammering a plank, stitching a tear, cleaning dried blood from a stone. The city took a deep breath and swallowed the pain, trying to pretend it wasn't dying inside.
The streets of Pisum had changed. Where once there had been soldiers in orange and yellow uniforms, there were now men and women wearing uniforms of green and red, with clenched fists and suspicious looks. The revolution promised hope, but hope, here, however, walked along with hunger.
Caelus felt like a stranger among ghosts. He walked among them as if searching for something – perhaps himself. There was a stiffness in his shoulders, a tightness in his chest that did not come from the dust in the air. It was something else. An idea that burned through his thoughts like the embers beneath the city's ruins: the house he was about to enter… was his mother's house.
Duchess Pisodorato. The name seemed far too heavy for the frail body of the woman who gave him life. And yet, in recent days, Caelus had noticed the gestures, the tics, the firm gaze – the same he saw in the mirror. The resemblance was undeniable. But to accept her as a mother? For that, he still needed a little more time. But in time, everything would be resolved, or at least that's what he hoped. Everything was still new, an open wound, and yet a wound he was glad to carry within him.
The Governor's House was intact, which was already a luxury in Pisum. The doors stood open, but two armed men watched who entered. They recognised him at once and said nothing. There was no need. He passed by them without a word. He climbed the steps like one climbing to the gallows – each heavier than the last.
Inside, there was a smell of fresh paint, wax and paper. The main hall was lit by the warm light of late afternoon, and at the centre, over a table covered in maps and sealed missives, stood three figures in attentive silence. Isabela Pisodorato leaned over the map with the posture of a tired but still proud queen. Beside her, Edouard Lefevre spoke in a low voice, but with conviction. The third was Fausto Duarte.
The voices around the table were muffled, debating the future of a kingdom, as if the fates of men and women could be folded like the corners of a map. But Caelus was not listening. Something in the corner of the room caught his eye, stronger than Lefevre's words or his mother's sighs.
Sitting on a low chair by the window, half-hidden by the curtain's shadow and the warm light coming in at an angle, was Bia. Her hair was tied up hastily, and a closed book rested on her lap – not that she was reading it. She was watching the city.
Upon seeing him, she rose with the grace of a cat. Not a single crease in her trousers betrayed haste or effort. And before Cal could even think of speaking, he was enveloped in a tight, warm embrace, full of tenderness. That simple gesture tore through the armour of cold days, heavy duties and long separations.
– Cal… how are you, my Lord Count? – she said with a mischievous smile, between hurried kisses on his face and a laugh that sounded of memory and teasing. Her tone was half affectionate, half mocking, like someone who remembers everything said and done… and everything left unsaid.
He returned the smile with weary resignation.
– I'm fine, but you don't have to call me that – he murmured, running his fingers through her hair as if still confirming a truth. – Lady Spy.
Her eyes sparkled at the provocation. They were more alive than any map in that room.
– Ah, but I earned that title, my dear – she replied with a raised eyebrow. – If I weren't in Edouard's service, you'd still be in that hole, half-dead and stinking of horse. Or do you think I saved you just by following the love I have for your handsome figure through the streets of Pisum?
Cal let out a snorted laugh, but the weight in his eyes remained. It felt strange to laugh when surrounded by missives of war. Even so, Bia made him forget – for a moment – that he was heir to a title, son of a duchess, and a piece in a game where many had died before learning the rules.
– Perhaps it was my handsome figure that made you save me – he said, with gentle irony.
– Or because I knew you'd end up owing me a life. And I like to collect my debts with interest. And I know exactly how you can pay me back – she replied, biting his shoulder lightly like a wolf playing with its prey. Her laughter was light, but her eyes said something else. They said she knew more than she let on. She always had.
Bia sat down again, pulling him by the hand to the chair beside her, and her fingers, for a few brief seconds, intertwined with his. The gesture was natural, intimate.
Caelus looked at her sideways, like someone searching for an answer in a face that never reveals everything. He finally spoke – in a lower, more intimate tone, almost murmured, like someone asking for an old truth.
– Why did you never tell me that you also believed in my ideals? That you were one of us all along? While we were just talking about revolution in the tavern, you were out on missions for Lefevre and actually trying to make this a better kingdom.
She didn't pretend not to understand. She didn't smile, nor did she look away. She simply looked at him as a blade looks at a neck.
– Because it wasn't the right time – she said. – And… and because I feared that, if I told you, you wouldn't look at me the same way again.
Caelus frowned.
– But Edouard… he asked me to join him after I'd been captured. Why didn't he ever ask me to join before?
Bia took a deep breath, and the answer came with a sorrow that slightly bent her shoulders.
– He wanted to – the confession dropped between them like a stone cast into a well. – More than once. He asked about my life and I spoke of you. I said you were clever, that your blood boiled with revolution, and that you had the cunning needed to join us.
– Then why…
– Because I said no – the answer came quickly, sharply. – Because your father was always good to me… good to us. Because I knew he'd do everything to keep you from joining us. And because…
She hesitated. The next words came like shattered glass.
– … because I wouldn't know how to live with myself if I lost you because of me.
Caelus said nothing. He simply looked at her with the eyes of someone seeing a new map, a land that had always been there, but was only now revealing its contours.
– You did well – he said at last. – My father… my father already had his cause. His mission was to protect me. For himself, and for my mother. I tried to talk to him once about the ideals of revolution… it wasn't a good conversation. Thank you for saving me… and thank you for everything you've done for me.
She nodded, a gesture of relief and joy, and smiled again.
The silence lasted just a moment more before Caelus raised his eyes to the table at the far end of the room. The tension was almost tangible – fingers pointing, sharper whispers, papers passed from hand to hand like swords about to be drawn.
– Do you know what they're discussing? – he asked. – It seems… serious.
– It is serious – replied Bia, leaning sideways in her chair, eyes half-closed. – They're deciding how to bring the rest of the kingdom's towns to our side.
– And they don't agree?
– Of course they don't – her laugh was brief and joyless. – Isabela wants to promise positions, titles and influence to prominent people for the cause. Edouard wants to make the right promises, in the right tone, in the right letters. But neither of them wants to be the first to give up part of the revolution in exchange for volatile alliances.
She looked at him more intently, and her eyes now had a calculating glint.
– Do you know what scares me? – she said. – It's not the fact we're fighting the king. It's the fact that, even without someone wearing a crown, we still haven't stopped thinking like courtiers. And one day, someone will remember that… and might use it against us.
Caelus stared at the floor for a moment. Then he raised his eyes.
– Maybe it's time for someone on the margins to help decide the course of history.
– Maybe – murmured Bia.
Caelus and Bia approached the table, the sound of their boots echoing on the wood like a warning. As they drew near, the murmurs ceased, and three pairs of eyes turned towards them – eyes that saw more than they said, eyes of those who had long stopped trusting blindly.
Edouard was the first to smile, though the smile did not hide the exhaustion of the previous days nor the weight of choices yet to come. The stubble gave him the look of a penitent priest, but his voice remained steady.
– Let's hear their opinion, Isabela – turning to her. – If there's anyone with a future in this room, it's them. We're not fighting for an empty throne, we're fighting to give them a new world.
Isabela kept her face impassive, but her gaze lingered a second longer on Caelus – not as a mother, but as a strategist. As someone assessing a chess piece that may finally be ready to move.
– That's an excellent topic, Edouard. Tell us, Caelus and Bia, how do you think this new world can be built? – she asked, no emotion on her face. – What would you do differently, now that you have the chance?
Caelus looked at the faces present. Then he looked at Bia, at his side, and found in her eyes not certainty, but enough courage to pretend he had it as well.
– I don't know what I can offer that you haven't already thought of – he began, with raw honesty. – But if you've called us here, it's because you need more than advice. How can we help?
It was Isabela who answered, without hesitation.
– Would you be willing to go to Porto Calido? – she asked. – Speak with Lord Afonso Valmorada, the city's Viscount. His support is… delicate. But essential.
Bia raised an eyebrow. Caelus merely took a deep breath. The name Valmorada carried with it the weight of salt and gold. He was a man known for navigating both political and commercial waters and commanding the kingdom's modest naval fleet.
– The Viscount will never commit without guarantees – murmured Bia. – Nor without payment.
– That's exactly why it has to be the two of you – replied Isabela. – He respects young people with noble blood, and he'll fear what spies with sharp eyes might uncover in his city.
Edouard nodded in agreement, adding with a grave note:
– And more than promises… we need his soldiers – his fingers tapped the map of the coast as if knocking on an unopened door. – He has troops. At least five thousand defending his city. If we get them on our side, even if just a portion, we can face the king as an army with banner and purpose.
Caelus exchanged a glance with Bia. She didn't need to say anything. The glint in her eyes was the answer: They would go, but not out of obedience. They would go because they knew what was at stake.
He turned to the three at the table, raising his chin with a calm he didn't know he possessed.
– And we go alone? – he asked, in a neutral tone. – Just the two of us… to Porto Calido?
Fausto snorted, like a guard dog offended by the idea of leaving a lamb in the open.
– Don't be foolish – he growled. – I wouldn't let you go even to the outer wall without an escort, let alone to the coast.
Edouard said nothing, but merely nodded in approval.
Isabela folded her arms and spoke with the cold calm of someone who had already organised expeditions for negotiations that ended in ambushes.
– We'll summon good soldiers from Lefevre to go with you. Five. No more, no less. Good, silent, and loyal.
– Five? – asked Bia, as if weighing the usefulness of a short sword in a long battle.
– They will suffice – replied Isabela, with a cutting tone. – The road is clear. The campaign against Pisum drew the royal soldiers away from the trade routes. If you leave at sunrise, you'll be seeing the Viscount's towers by nightfall. And we don't want to draw more attention than necessary.
Bia nodded, but her eyes were already elsewhere – further ahead, deeper within.
– And what do you expect me to do there? – she asked, though the question was more directed at Edouard, her voice low but firm. – You know as well as I do that Valmorada is neither a fool nor blind. He'll see through our purpose the moment we set foot in his city.
Edouard interlaced his fingers, like someone preparing a response with the care of a surgeon.
– I want you to observe. And speak. With the people, with the discontented. With the young who have the will but not the courage – he looked at her as if he saw in her like a lit torch in the middle of gunpowder. – I want you to bring back revolutionaries. Men and women who can enlist, fight, carry the news of the revolution beyond the city walls.
– A mission of words – murmured Bia, – but with the scent of blood.
– Everything worthwhile, Bia, starts like that – said Edouard, – with words, and ends with blood. The only choice is the order of the acts.
Isabela remained standing, hands clasped behind her back and eyes fixed on the maps as if she could tear the world in half with a single thought.
– We have just under four thousand revolutionaries ready to fight in Pisum – she said, without boasting, in a cold and lucid voice, like water running beneath old ice. – Veterans, most of them. Soldiers who already answered to my voice before I stopped representing the royal house of Caelestis.
No one interrupted. Isabela continued:
– Edouard has another two thousand, perhaps slightly fewer, but many of his were wounded in the liberation of Pisum. They are brave people, yes… but green. Most of them wouldn't know which end of the musket to hold.
– And the king? – asked Caelus, his voice already steadier, despite the weight of the words that had preceded it.
Isabela turned to him with a slight shrug, like someone who recognises the burden but does not bow to it.
– King Rafael Calentiflor still has ten thousand soldiers at his disposal – she said. – Well… perhaps nine thousand, now that Edouard has reduced the Cavalry of the Rising Sun to ashes – she gave him a brief, dry look, without a smile. – It was a victory… but one that came at a cost. Every fallen cavalryman is one more trumpet for the king to blow in fury.
Caelus nodded slowly, his heart beating faster. It was easy to speak of numbers as if they were pieces on a board. But each one was a name, a body, a piece of flesh about to be thrown into the fire.
– So… when do you want us to leave? – he asked, aware of the importance of his mission.
Isabela sat with the calm of someone who had seen many leave… and not all return.
– When you're equipped and your escort is ready – she paused. – Edouard will choose five soldiers. He'll pick them as if they were the fingers of your hand, Caelus.
– And weapons? – asked Bia, as one who refuses to leave without thorns.
– You'll have everything you need – replied Fausto. – Muskets, pistols, sealed letters. But what will carry the most weight is what you say. And how you say it.
– The word is sharper than the blade – murmured Isabela, – but less forgiving when it fails.
Caelus stared at the map on the table. Porto Calido awaited them at the far East of the kingdom, painted in sun-orange ink, leaning against the Fluvius Calivolus like a wall facing the world. There lay Viscount Valmorada, surrounded by wealth, indecision, and well-paid soldiers. If the revolution wished to win, it would first have to pass through his gates – and bring back more than empty words.