Hallow locked the door and tested the latch to ensure it would hold, nearly tearing it from the frame. Inside, the music still rose from the common hall, and both wondered whether sleep would be possible for them—or for anyone—at all that night. Perhaps they were the only ones already retired. Villages keep their own rhythms, and outsiders often misstep their tempo. At least, the room was already paid for.
There was a single window, a few empty chests, and two sagging beds on the verge of giving way. In the corner, a small table. The man felt a deep nostalgia for the place. For a long time, rooms just like this had been his home—tiny spaces of splintered wood, lit by lanterns, smelling of damp and mold.
"They hang the banners even in here," Santvic remarked, setting her case on the floor while admiring the red cloths draped above the bed. "A beautiful color, truly. It reminds me of the noble chambers of the Capital."
Hallow went to the window. Outside, carriages still passed; a few Grinders crossed the street carrying baskets and packs. Nothing that demanded immediate attention. He shut the worn glass, the torn fabric tapping softly, and turned back to Santvic, kneeling on the floor and organizing her case.
"What was that back there, downstairs, boss?"
Santvic raised her face just enough to cast him a dry, impatient look. Hallow continued, lowering his voice.
"Draw less attention. Talking too much about certain things complicates my work."
"I declared no intention. I merely warned them," she replied, unwrapping clothes and folders. "My work involves saving and investigating, Hallow."
"Saving?" He asked without trying to offend, but Santvic lifted her head fully now, suspicious.
"Yes. Saving." She put on the glasses once again. Hallow let out a long, restrained sigh.
"Alright. I won't interfere with your work. Just remember we're two against a pack of Grinders if they decide to head to Tertiary while you're busy saving and investigating. Some things aren't worth it."
"Are they?"
Santvic's dry question froze Hallow the moment she finally fixed her golden eyes on his. There was no expression—only pure tension, trembling as though it might collapse under its own weight. Even bolstered by the strength of an Antebeing, he felt threatened, because in the end, he depended on her. That was what his duty as a rider demanded. He knew Santvic understood the situation, and the possibility that unsettled him most was that his charge might not be entirely sane.
"What do you mean by worth it, Hallow?"
"You know." He looked away, lowering his voice. "Sooner or later I'm going to have to deal with some lunatic who doesn't like your face. We try to avoid it, but you saw what happened today. All I'm asking is that you don't be naïve when a real threat shows up. You do your job. I do mine."
"Hallow…" Santvic closed her eyes, containing her patience inside a body that seemed to boil like water about to spill from a kettle. "Believe it or not, I know exactly what I'm doing."
Click. She shut the heavy case with a single snap and shoved it under the bed. She took out a few papers and carried them to the table. Sitting down—ignoring the chair's creak—she drew a deep breath. Hallow followed her every movement, impatient, until he finally said:
"I think this would work better if you talked to me instead of doing… this."
"Doing what?"
Santvic traced an I over her left wrist with the index finger of her right hand. In front of her face, the Antesystem menu opened—a neon-blue rectangle filled with text and icons.
"This. You say something and then shut down. Like now. You say you know what you're doing. Do you really? Have you ever done this before?"
"I will write to Professor Fiorenza. Would you like me to tell her anything?" Ignoring his outburst, Santvic tapped the quill icon; the Antesystem indicated 40% ink remaining. Hallow let out a short laugh.
"Write that I'm trying, but my charge is an ignoramus."
"I'll hand the letter to the couriers in the morning. Tertiary likely doesn't maintain active postal services. Are you sure you don't wish to add anything else?"
"I'm serious. If something happens to you, she'll know it wasn't my fault. Maybe then she'll give me another chance. With someone less insane."
Santvic stopped writing; the pen's tip sank into the paper, leaving an irregular blot of ink.
"Funny." She turned, setting the pen aside and dragging the stain into a long, crooked line. Hallow was removing the pauldrons from his armor and setting them beside the bed. "I thought sending me with you was an act of mercy, Vanhallow. Fiorenza seemed convinced this would be a simple assignment—too small for you to fail. 'Protect the girl,' she said. That was it. So why all this concern? I'm your mercy. A gift from Schüssler, am I not?"
The man sat on the bed and let the tip of his sword rest against the wood. He hunched forward, relieved to abandon the rigid posture he had maintained all day. Santvic's words didn't seem to strike him, but he answered anyway, his voice sharp.
"Don't put that on me, boss. When I got the order, I didn't know you were going to throw yourself into a volcano. I didn't even know what kind of position this was. To be honest, no one does. And if I had known, maybe I wouldn't have taken it. Sometimes rotting would've been simpler."
"But you did take it." Santvic smiled; there was something about the gesture that, to Hallow, felt misplaced—almost sad. "You're not the first to treat my work with contempt, and you won't be the last. Tomorrow you'll see me humiliated and spat on by those peasants; you'll be free to laugh as much as you like. Listen: you're an Antebeing, aren't you? None of this should matter. If someone attacks me, you'll do your job—as long as it doesn't interfere with mine. Now, if it comes to killing a Grinder and their entire caste comes after us, then we've failed. And the fault will be yours."
She made a brief gesture with her hand, dismissing the notion of continuing to respond to Daric's concerns—concerns they both knew were, at their core, selfish.
"You wouldn't understand. I don't even know why I'm wasting my time."
"All right, boss." Vanhallow decided that, for now, agreeing to disagree was the most sensible course of action.
In the end, she was right — albeit for the wrong reasons. Hallow's only real concern was Santvic digging herself into a hole too deep to see the top of; not out of care, but because it would culminate in his immediate imprisonment in the Capital's worst cells. With little else to do while she devoted herself to the letter, he began to wander the room. He peered through the window: the night had swallowed any trace of movement, no carriages, no late footsteps crossing the street. He considered cleaning his sword to pass the time.
"Boss, will you lend me a little cloth?" he asked in a ceremonious tone, already expecting a refusal. "Will you grant me the honor of using a Capitanean fabric, my lady?"
"Are you going to clean that filthy mouth of yours, knight?" Santvic replied, separating another sheet and beginning the next page.
"My sword."
"No, no. Of course not."
A few minutes dragged by in silence until Santvic called him. Hallow stepped up to the table and rested his hands on the wood.
"Sign here. It's just a formality. Schüssler will see that you're taking this seriously; it should earn you a few points with the Synchrony."
As he signed, Hallow managed to catch a glimpse of the letter, reading a passage out of the corner of his eye.
"I note that the use of firefly lanterns remains predominant even in villages of advanced structure. Secunda demonstrates full technical capacity for the implementation of other forms of perpetual lighting; nevertheless, whether by aesthetic choice or budgetary restraint, it opts to maintain the current model. It is observed that its economy derives largely from the acquisition and redistribution of these artifacts, resold to merchants originating from Satus, which has, in practice, isolated the former collaboration maintained with Prima-Village and Tertiary — the latter not yet visited by me.
As previously mentioned, my next correspondence will be delayed due to the remote and unstable nature of the ongoing investigation. Even so, I respond in advance to the inquiries regarding the appointed knight, Daric Vanhallow.
Despite his frequently oppositional posture — I permit myself the use of the word questionable — and repeated challenges to my functional authority, he has proven an effective defender. He fulfills his charge with rigor and demonstrates consistent concern for my integrity, not infrequently prioritizing my safety to the detriment of investigative progress. Await my return in full condition.
I long for our reunion, at which time I hope to discuss in greater depth the future of my position — and of Catharsis.
Respectfully,
Barbela Santvic Babalon
Daric Vanhallow"
There was, in truth, no reason at all for Hallow to sign; he had not written a single line. It took him a few moments to realize that this was, in her own crooked and childish way, an apology — Santvic wanted him to read it. A rare, genuine smile escaped him, brief enough to be a mistake, and vanished the moment she looked at him, adopting a satisfied, almost triumphant expression.
"'A good defender,' then."
"'Questionable posture,'" Santvic shot back.
"My posture is excellent, boss," he replied, stretching his back with a soft groan. "The problem is that it hurts."
"Therefore, let us sleep, knight." Santvic seemed to have adopted the title as a retort to Hallow's boss, though to him it sounded more like praise than provocation. Santvic would never notice. "I'll envelope these letters for tomorrow."
Carefully, she began organizing the papers. Hallow crossed his arms and let his gaze wander about the room. He couldn't say whether Santvic shared the feeling, but there was a comfort there that satisfied him, a reward for the entire journey thus far. The last few nights had been spent in similar inns, though almost always in large communal dormitories — the standard for transit points between urbes, where Grinders and merchants sleep side by side. Almost a prison.
"I've been wondering about something, boss." An idea had surfaced in the knight's mind.
"What?"
"What's the problem with the lanterns?"
"The fireflies," she replied, as though closing the matter.
"Yes. What's the problem?" Hallow insisted, still not quite grasping it.
"I'll give you my perspective," Santvic began, adjusting the papers, "but know that this is still a topic widely debated in the Agora." Hallow straightened slightly, still leaning on the table, now truly attentive. "Before classifying a firefly as a product of the Antesystem or Yggdrasil, we recognize it as a living being. Whether you are Miracula or Anthemic, the understanding should be the same."
"Well, I consider it an insect." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "With a glowing ass."
"The rear does indeed glow, knight." Santvic raised an eyebrow faintly. "The Antesystem merely summons them in certain regions, especially high forests, as we've seen here in Catharsis. Even so, in all Capitanean records, it differs in no way from an insect of Yggdrasil. An worm, for example."
"Depends on the worm," Hallow shot back, with a slight shiver. "The big ones or the small ones? The big ones are a problem."
"Earthworms," she corrected, dryly. "Have you ever been to Delinfinito?"
"I've been to many places. Not always for my own good." Hallow smiled, pleased with himself.
Santvic merely shook her head and returned to her task, focused on the letters. Hallow noticed then that Fiorenza was not the only recipient that night — but chose not to comment. Some questions were better left for the following morning.
"In any case, we consider the firefly a living being. With that in mind, what distinguishes a firefly from a butterfly?"
Hallow's eyes widened as he held back a laugh. What distinguishes them? What a stupid question, he thought. Santvic, focused on her work, failed to notice his reaction, but already anticipating what was going through the knight's mind, continued.
"Beauty, size, color. As you know, years ago, due to Miracula protests coming mainly from Shaltar and, well, threats from Satus…"
"You're kidding."
"Yes. The Crown returning to its roots. In any case, the Miracula considered the mass sale of butterflies for potion-making an offense to Yggdrasil. The Capital summoned the Synchrony to debate whether the sale should be banned or not — and you know the rest."
"The Grinders weren't very happy."
"Even so, the Capital did not reverse its decision," Santvic continued, firm. "Over time, things stabilized. Now — what is the difference between a butterfly and a firefly?"
"I'll tell you." Hallow shot back, prompting Santvic to look at him. "No one is protesting for the sake of fireflies."
Santvic paused, holding Hallow's gaze. The playful smile remained on his face, clashing with her seriousness. She blinked a few times before quoting:
"No blood shall be spilled beneath a vain blade."
King Maldevi I, of Satus. Hallow recognized it immediately.
"If we save the lives of butterflies merely because they belong to Yggdrasil," Santvic went on, already returning to organizing the papers, "but deny the lives of fireflies because they belong to the Antesystem, that logic extends further." A brief pause. "Should an Antebeing be worth more than a Physical? Or than a Pneumatic?"
"Physicals and Pneumatics are…?" Hallow scratched his beard, straining his memory, certain he had heard those terms somewhere before.
"Classifications of affinity with the Antesystem," Santvic replied without looking up. "Antebeing is merely an informal term. You are a Hylic — your existence is entirely bound to the Antesystem. Most Grinders are Physical, of medium affinity."
"Oh. Right." He hesitated. "Uh… no. I mean, they shouldn't be worth more. Some people say they are, but, you know…"
"I know." Santvic aligned the final letter in the stack, now perfectly ordered. "It is a filthy thought. Repulsive." She adjusted the papers one last time. "That is why I do not devalue the lives of fireflies, just as I do not devalue those of butterflies. To deliberately deny their nature, to condemn them to imprisonment from birth, is… immoral."
"Hah. Well…"
Hallow tried to hide how completely the subject had escaped him. He crossed his arms and stared at the floor, as though the wooden planks had suddenly become interesting. Didn't the Capital raise animals to slaughter and eat? What was the difference, in the end? They were just insects — or so he thought, though he didn't say it aloud.
"The Capital does not oppose their use in remote regions," Santvic continued. "They are cheap methods of perpetual lighting, and light wards off beasts. But this place could use nulic flames. They are more expensive, yes — but viable. So why don't they?"
"Because it's cheaper," Hallow replied, shrugging.
"Yes." Santvic removed her glasses and set them on the table. The gesture closed the discussion. "It is cheaper."
To Hallow, it had been a pointless conversation.
Santvic traced an S across her own wrist without so much as acknowledging the man's presence. Hallow thought about turning his face away, out of decorum — the correct gesture, the expected one — but curiosity won out far too quickly. Why now? Why here? The question came before judgment. Is she insane?
The blue rectangle materialized in the air, displaying all of Santvic's information in a list, neatly organized into tabs. That was no trivial thing. Not even among Miracula who fervently rejected the Antesystem was the Anteprofile opened like that, in plain view. It was a window into the soul; something not offered even to intimate allies. A lapse of that magnitude bordered on social heresy. It was obscene.
Hallow already knew, of course, that the woman he was sworn to protect was not ordinary. Even so, he briefly considered that perhaps Santvic did this with anyone — until his eyes caught the numbers, in the corner of his vision. The thought died there: there was no way she would proudly show that to anyone.
Paltry attributes. Ridiculously low. Close to nothing. Lower than those of a newborn child. He even held his breath when he noticed Vitality waver, unstable, and an absolute zero occupying the space of Nullity. Not only rare — wrong.
What the hell happened to you? The question would not leave his mind. Such weaknesses usually betrayed severe illness, traces of a curse, deep damage. But as his eyes scanned the menu, he found nothing. No deficiency. No recorded anomaly. Santvic had simply been born that way, and had gone through life without ever accumulating attributes. Hallow swallowed the immediate urge to ask "What is wrong with you?" — or worse, whether she usually exposed her Anteprofile to any curious onlooker. He swallowed it all, tucked it away, and pretended he hadn't seen a thing.
She was right about one thing, even if she was dangerously ignorant. Santvic was his mercy — a narrow breach between him and the deepest cells of the Capital. One completed job — just one, just this one — and his sentence might be reconsidered.
Perhaps he should listen to her more, question less. Act only when required.
Santvic waved her hands through the air. The menu vanished.
"I hope they serve breakfast," Santvic remarked, already getting up, as if nothing had happened. "I'll wake up starving." She adjusted her gloves carefully. "Keep watch until the lights go out, yes, knight? After that, you may lie down. Until then, good night."
"Right. Good night, boss."
Hallow watched as she lay down.
B.B. Santvic sleeps with gloves on, he thought. What a peculiar woman. He wondered, without knowing why, what her hands must be like inside them — and decided, with some effort, that certain curiosities did not need answers.