The room was still plunged in the half-light of early dawn, the sky slowly tinging with pale shades of orange and grey. Caelus awoke first, feeling the weight of sleep still clinging to his eyelids, yet unable to surrender again to rest. Beside him, Bia moved silently, her eyes half-closed, her hair spread across the pillow like strands of living fire.
He turned to her, his voice low, almost fearful of breaking the silence that hung between them.
– Why did you volunteer to fight by my side? – he asked. – If anything happens to me, you could be in danger too… and I cannot allow you to be hurt, or worse… killed on a battlefield.
Bia opened her eyes, fixing them on him with a calmess that seemed to come from centuries. The timid light of dawn touched her face, emphasising the firmness of what he said.
– Nothing will happen to us – she murmured, but with conviction. – Just as your mother said, I am your lucky talisman. Whenever we are together, nothing bad happens to you. Only when you are away from me do you face mortal danger.
Caelus felt a pang of fear, and, at the same time, a strange hope. Reluctantly, he let out a heavy sigh and turned his gaze to the window, where the sky was slowly brightening.
– Perhaps… – he said, almost to himself – perhaps you are right.
Without warning, Bia moved with an almost feline grace, leaping onto Cal. Her lips met his with urgency and audacity, showering him with kisses that burned hotter than the very dawn seeping through the window.
– You know I'm always right – she murmured between kisses, her warm breath against his skin, – but now I want you to be lucky in another way.
As she spoke, her hands began to travel over the buttons and folds of his clothing, slowly undoing the fabric that separated them. Cal, half-stunned, raised his eyebrows, his mind caught between desire and caution.
– There's too much silence… we could still wake someone – he said, his voice trembling, laden with warning and hesitation.
Bia smiled, a smile as provocative as it was assured, as she continued to undress his shirt, leaving his chest exposed to the chill of the dawn.
– And when was that ever a problem in your father's house? – she replied, her tone light, but loaded with promises and memories of a daring past.
Cal tried to open his mouth to protest, but before a word could escape, Bia kissed him with determination and a fire that seemed to pierce through time.
In a gesture that was both firm and delicate, she drew close to him, her movements charged with an audacity that knew no limits. Cal tried to protest, but before a word could escape, her lips met his, in a kiss that silenced all hesitation, and in that instant, the outside world disappeared – there was no longer the silence of the Governor's House, nor the approaching dawn, only the intensity of the present.
Unhurried, yet without hesitation, she freed herself from her own garments. The light of dawn painted her hair in shades of amber and gold, and Cal was breathless, a warrior defeated by a beauty he could not contest.
What he saw was not the nudity of an impetuous goddess, but of a complete woman, with the soft curves of her hips, the milky paleness of her skin contrasting with the dark, erect nipples stimulated by desire, and the mysterious shadow between her legs. It was a landscape Cal knew by heart, yet it always astonished him as if he were seeing it for the first time.
When she guided him inside her, it was with a slowness that was almost an agony of tenderness. A stolen sigh escaped Cal's lips, lost in her hair. There was no haste, only a sweet ceremony of union. Every inch yielded was a vow, every tremble a shared secret.
It was an ancient, silent dance. The only sounds were the sliding of their skin against each other, the moist, rhythmic impact of their hips, and the ragged, syncopated breathing that softly roared between them. The movement was not frantic, but deep, a constant tide fading and flowing, each thrust a reaffirmed promise, each retreat a sweet motion.
The tension grew like a storm at sea, silent, yet powerful. Their muscles tensed, their stomachs clenched, and their muffled murmurs became more urgent against each other's skin. His gaze met hers for a brief moment – a volcano of contained emotion, of love, of total possession – before their eyes closed and they surrendered to one another.
When they reached their climax, it was not a noisy cataclysm, but a great, silent deluge. A tremor ran through them simultaneously, an intimate, shared spasm that left them rigid, then limp, then entangled in a knot of limbs and sweat. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the furious beating of their hearts, slowly calming, returning to a single rhythm, yet unable to part.
When they finally separated, the morning light was fully risen over the Governor's House, painting the room with soft, golden tones. The silence of their final intimate moments still lingered between them, a quiet memory mingling with the scent of the sheets and the fresh breeze that was entering through the window.
They rose with slow, careful movements, washing with cool water and exchanging glances full of complicity. Then, with coordinated gestures that revealed both training and habit, they donned their uniforms: Bia with her sergeant's attire, adjusting the red and green with precision, and Caelus with his lieutenant's uniform, the colours of the revolution shining softly under the rising sun.
Bia helped him put on the cuirass inherited from his father, the cold metal pressing against his chest, and ran her firm hands over the sword at his side and his mother's red scarf around his neck.
With uniforms adjusted and determination in their gaze, they stepped out onto the training ground. The horizon was filled with figures joining the new unit, each volunteer wearing the revolutionary uniform, muskets gleaming in the morning light. Bia headed to the column reserved for officers.
Captain Horace Kingsley awaited Caelus in the shade of a leafy tree, his stance firm and gaze scrutinising every gesture of the new regiment. Upon seeing him, he raised his hand in a silent greeting, their steps echoing on the beaten earth as they walked side by side.
– Today, and in the weeks to come, you will train your regiment how to fight and march – Kingsley began, his voice firm yet calm, turning to Caelus as they advanced across the field. – Learning to march is not difficult, any sheep can do that. The real challenge is to transform a group of people into a single body. Calentia's army has something called 'The School of Soldiers'. Each soldier is trained to fight and march as part of a single organism. Carrying a musket, for example, is not merely lifting, aiming and firing. There are nine movements, repeated over and over, until every gesture becomes automatic, requiring no thought.
Caelus listened attentively, absorbing every word, every nuance of the captain's tone, as the field opened up before him. As they approached his regiment, already aligned and at attention, his heart beat faster at the sight of the familiar faces of the volunteers in his new unit, each one upright and ready, including Bia, who stood out among the officers with her firm bearing and determined gaze.
Kingsley stepped slightly aside, walking over to her. He stopped in front of Bia and, with a half-smile that did not conceal his authority, said:
– Ah, Sergeant Montferrat, loading in nine movements. Demonstrate what is to be done. Assume the musket has just been fired. One, place your hand on the cartridge box and remove a cartridge.
Bia leaned slightly, her hand quick to touch the leather pouch, removing a cartridge with firmness.
– Two, place the cartridge between your teeth.
The paper cracked under the pressure of her teeth, carefully, but with the speed required.
– Three, tear and open the paper. Four, pour the powder into the barrel and place the shot.
Following the steps quickly, the cartridge slipped slightly from her hands, spilling powder and shot on the ground. A swift reflex made her bend down, picking up the charge almost instantly, eyes fixed on the musket, her breath held, and she continued, placing the shot and powder into the barrel. The cold metal against her hands reminded her of the seriousness of the drill, and every second felt both drawn out and hurried at the same time.
– Five, remove the ramrod.
Bia pulled the ramrod out with a firm gesture, muscles tense, but her gaze focused.
– Six, tamp the charge with the ramrod.
The sound of the powder compressing echoed faintly, yet clear, as she executed the step with precision, each movement a balance between speed and care.
– Seven, return the ramrod.
The metal slid back into place, clicking almost satisfyingly.
– Eight, cock the lock and place the remaining powder from the cartridge into the firing pan.
Bia performed the action skilfully, the tension in her shoulders evidencing the effort of following each step quickly, yet without error.
– Nine, assume the shoulder arms position.
She raised the musket firmly, resting it against her shoulder, her gaze fixed on the imaginary enemy line on the horizon. Every muscle in her body was alert, the fresh sweat on her neck reminding her of the drill's demand, but also of the importance of each gesture.
– Very good – said Kingsley finally, his voice heavy with seriousness. – You understand the idea, Sergeant, but this must be done without thinking… and much, much faster.
With a decisive gesture, he took a musket from one of the volunteers near Bia. Kingsley lifted the musket, tilting it precisely, and began demonstrating the reload, repeating the nine movements with mechanical speed and perfection, showing that he had practised each gesture for decades:
– One, place your hand on the cartridge box… Two, between the teeth… Three, tear and open the paper… Four, pour the powder into the barrel and the shot… Five, remove the ramrod… Six, tamp the charge… Seven, ramrod back… Eight, cock the lock, place the remaining powder… Nine, shoulder arms.
The dry sound of metal and wood echoed across the field, each step marked with almost cruel precision, imposing absolute silence among the volunteers. When he finished, Kingsley raised the musket to a final position, his gaze scanning every face in the regiment.
– Practice until you can do it as fast as I just demonstrated. This could save your lives – he ordered, his voice deep and firm.
He turned to Caelus, extending his hand in a commanding gesture.
– Lieutenant, with me.
They walked across the trampled field until they reached a large tent, erected with firm ropes and stakes driven into the still-damp morning soil.
Beside it, a small table was surrounded by benches, where Captain Kingsley carefully drew lines and marks on a piece of paper. He looked at Caelus, his eyes hard, assessing his understanding.
– The battle line consists of two lines of soldiers, one behind the other – he began, his voice firm. – When one line fires, the other reloads. Behind them will be line closers, officers, and sergeants.
He traced precise movements on the paper, each mark a silent warning.
– But a line of battle is difficult to manoeuvre while moving – he continued, without lifting his eyes from the drawing, – so we have to switch to columns of four.
He paused, tapping the quill on the paper with controlled force, as if each strike reinforced the importance of his words.
– We have to be able to go from column of four to line of battle and back to a column of four quickly. It is not difficult to go from line of battle to column of four… the hard part is the reverse. And if we have to make this change, it will be under enemy fire – Kingsley finally raised his gaze, fixing Caelus with intensity. – I am sure you understand that these movements must be learned so thoroughly that the soldiers can execute them in their sleep. In the coming days, it will be your job to prepare these men and women for the battles ahead, and may Solarius pray they learn quickly, for we do not know how long it will be until the next battle.