Lethologica
"Wait, what?! You—You're in?"
Stark, who had just returned from his meeting with Zachary, stood frozen when Asep said that. He couldn't believe Asep would just agree to join.
"Yeah? Why is that? You don't want me in?" Asep replied calmly as he took another swig of wine.
"No, I never said that... Just... I didn't think you'd accept it so quickly," Stark said, still a bit dumbfounded. "I was about to offer you the deal myself, but seeing that Sylvanne is already here... I guess I need to thank her for that."
"Hehehehe... You see, Starky boy?" Sylvanne grinned, slinging an arm around Asep's shoulders. "All it takes is a little... creative negotiation. And the promise of a glorious future where a man can enjoy his smoke in peace."
"The tobacco... I see." Stark sighed, a weary but understanding look on his face. He pulled up a chair and slumped into it, the weight of his conversation with Zachary still heavy on his mind. "Then, welcome to the company, Asep. Things are... about to get complicated. And we'll need every capable hand we can get."
Stark's tone was heavy with a hint of grim foreboding in it. The jovial mood at the table instantly cooled. Even Sylvanne's boisterous grin faltered slightly. She removed her arm from Asep's shoulder, her crimson eyes narrowing at Stark.
"What did Zachary say?" she asked, her voice losing its playful edge. "Is it about the princess?"
Stark nodded, running a hand over his face. "Yeah. We'll just wait until she returns to this town, he said. I hope she will be fine out there."
"She will. Zachary will do anything to protect her, even if it costs his own life. You should know that, Stark," Sylvanne said. "And we're here to support him with all of our might."
*Princess... Civil war... Tobacco...* The words swirled in Asep's mind, a confusing soup of high-stakes politics and personal addiction. He'd joined this mercenary outfit on a whim, motivated by something as mundane as a cigarette craving, yet he found himself immediately entangled in a web of royalty, rebellion, and impending war. Just a few hours ago, he was a simple peat cutter. Now he was a mercenary, informally pledged to a cause he knew next to nothing about, sitting with a group of battle-hardened veterans discussing the fate of a princess and a kingdom. Life had a truly fucked-up sense of humor. He took another long gulp of his wine. He was going to need a lot more of it.
"So... what's the plan, then?" Asep asked, breaking the sudden, heavy silence. "We just... sit here and wait for this princess to show up? Or is there something we can do in the meantime? Like, I don't know, find a secret stash of tobacco somewhere?"
Sylvanne chuckled, the tension breaking slightly. "I wish. No, for now, we wait for Zachary's orders. But that doesn't mean we sit on our asses. There's always work to be done. Patrols, training, escorting merchant caravans... keeping the peace in this town is a full-time job, especially with all the refugees pouring in." She glanced around the now-packed tavern, her eyes lingering on the anxious faces of the displaced families huddled in the corners. "This town is a powder keg. Our job is to make sure no one lights a match."
"She's right," Stark affirmed, his composure returning. "Starting tomorrow, you'll be one of us, Asep. We'll get you registered with the Mercenary Company, find you some proper gear—unless you plan on fighting a war in your work clothes and muddy boots." He eyed Asep's current attire with a hint of disapproval. "And we'll see what you can do. Zachary will want to assess your skills himself."
"Fine by me," Asep shrugged. "Just point me where to punch. And where to sleep. I'm guessing I can't keep crashing in a peat shed."
"We'll get you a bunk in the barracks," Sylvanne said, clapping him on the back. "It ain't the royal suite, but it's warm, dry, and the food's not half bad. And the company," she winked, "is excellent."
The conversation stopped when a new voice came from the tavern's door.
"Sylvie-sis! We're back! The escort mission was a success!"
A cheerful, youthful voice cut through the tavern's din, followed by the clatter of armored boots on the wooden floor. Two figures appeared at the entrance, their travel-worn clothes dusted with the grime of the road. The one who had spoken was a young woman, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, with a bright, earnest face and short, honey-blonde hair. She wore a practical set of leather armor over a simple tunic, an orange cloak fastened at her shoulder, and carried a round shield and a shortsword at her hip. A small, white flower was tucked neatly behind her ear, a spot of delicate beauty amidst her functional gear. Radiating an infectious energy, she pumped a gloved fist in the air, a wide, triumphant grin plastered on her face. Beside her, leaning against the doorframe with a look of profound boredom, was a young man of similar age. His moss-green hair was perpetually messy, falling into his sullen yellow eyes. He was dressed in the garb of a ranger or a scout, a sturdy longbow slung over his shoulder and a quiver of arrows at his back. Where the girl was all sunshine and enthusiasm, he was a silent, brooding storm cloud, his arms crossed over his chest and a deep scowl etched onto his features.
Sylvanne's head snapped up at the sound of the girl's voice, her boisterous grin immediately softening into something warmer, more genuinely fond. "Clara! Kirsche! You're back already? I thought you weren't due 'til tomorrow." She waved them over. "Come on, pull up a seat! Your first round's on me. Tell me everything. Did those mountain goats give you any trouble?"
Clara's face lit up even brighter, if that were possible. She practically bounced over to their table, her shield clanking against the scabbard of her sword with every step. "It was amazing, Sylvie-sis! The mountain pass was a bit tricky, and a rockslide blocked the path at one point, but we cleared it! Kirsche shot a rope across the gap and we helped the merchants rappel down. It was so exciting!" She beamed, her eyes shining with the thrill of a successful first real mission. "Oh, and we saw a griffon! It was just circling way up high, but it was huge!"
"It was just a big bird. And you almost fell off the cliff twice because you weren't watching your footing," the boy, Kirsche, muttered, not moving from his spot by the door. His voice was a flat, disinterested monotone. "The only exciting thing was that the merchant paid us the bonus he promised. Now we can get paid and go home." He finally pushed himself off the doorframe and shuffled over to the table, pointedly not looking at anyone as he dropped into the last empty chair.
"Oh, hush, you," Clara chided, giving Kirsche a playful nudge that he completely ignored. Her gaze then fell upon Asep, and a look of open, unabashed curiosity bloomed on her face. Her head tilted, much like a curious puppy. "Ooh, who's this? I haven't seen you around the guildhall before. Are you a new recruit?" She offered Asep a warm, friendly smile.
"Something like that," Asep replied, returning the smile with a lazy one of his own. These kids... they reminded him of the fresh-faced underclassmen from his old gang. Full of piss and vinegar, thinking they were ready to take on the world. It was a nostalgic, slightly painful feeling. "Name's Asep. Just signed up a few minutes ago, I guess."
"Really? That's awesome!" Clara exclaimed. "I'm Clara! And this grump-lump is Kirsche." She gestured to the green-haired boy, who merely grunted in response, his eyes fixed on a knothole in the wooden table. "Don't mind him, he's always like this. It's so great to have someone new join! We need all the help we can get, right?"
"Yup. Especially since your babysitter here," Asep jerked a thumb towards Sylvanne, "recruited me with the promise of saving the kingdom's tobacco supply."
Clara blinked, a look of confusion on her face. "Tobacco? Is... is there a problem with the tobacco?"
"There is," Kirsche spoke up unexpectedly, his sullen gaze finally lifting from the table to meet Asep's. There was a flicker of something in his yellow eyes—not empathy, perhaps, but a shared understanding of a common vice. "The last shipment from Albion was seized at the border. The prices have gone up. My old man's been complaining about it for a week." He grunted again, as if the effort of speaking so many consecutive sentences had drained him, and resumed his intense study of the wood grain.
The dynamic was clear. Clara was the bubbly, outgoing heart of their little duo, while Kirsche was the stoic, pragmatic anchor. Sylvanne seemed to play the role of the exasperated but indulgent older sister, a mentor who guided them with a mix of tough love and teasing affection.
Somehow, it made his heart feel warm. *These people are... nice. I wonder if I can really fit in.* He thought, as a faint smile formed on his lips.
***
The following morning came with the unfamiliar luxury of a real bed and a solid roof. Asep woke feeling more refreshed than he had in months. The barracks were spartan, but the mattress wasn't stuffed with straw, and the water in the communal bathhouse was clean and blessedly warm. He'd even managed to scrounge a dull razor and scrape away the four-month accumulation of stubble from his jaw, making him feel almost civilized. Stark had provided him with a new set of clothes—simple but sturdy dark trousers and a grey tunic—a definite upgrade from his peat-stained work rags. Dressed and feeling more like himself, he followed the spearman through the bustling guildhall, now a hive of morning activity with mercenaries coming and going, checking the bounty boards, and stocking up on supplies. Their destination was the steeple office, where he would officially sign his contract with Zachary.
As they reached the top of the stone staircase, the heavy oak door to Zachary's office creaked open from the inside. A young woman was just stepping out, her head bowed as she carefully clutched a stack of papers. She wore the simple, practical attire of a commoner—a cream-colored blouse, a tan skirt, and a leather corset—yet there was an air of quiet dignity about her that seemed out of place. A soft, off-white scarf was draped around her neck, and a small brass lantern hung from her belt. She looked up as she closed the door behind her, and for a fleeting moment, her eyes met Asep's.
And his world tilted on its axis.
It was just for a second, a brief, inconsequential meeting of gazes in a hallway, but it hit him like a physical blow. Her face... it was painfully familiar. The gentle curve of her jaw, the way her dark brown hair was casually tied back, the warm, compassionate light in her brown eyes. It wasn't an exact match, not a perfect copy, but the resemblance was so profound, so jarring, that it stole the breath from his lungs. A name clawed at the edges of his memory, a ghost on the tip of his tongue, but it remained stubbornly out of reach, a frustrating and maddening void. He knew her. He was *certain* he knew her. But from where? How? He didn't know. It was like he was seeing someone from a dream, yet he couldn't name her.
She offered them a polite, reserved smile and a slight nod before turning and descending the stairs, her footsteps light and unhurried. Asep's eyes followed her until she disappeared from view, his mind reeling. He was so lost in the disorienting wave of déjà vu that he didn't even realize Stark had opened the door and was waiting for him.
"Asep? You coming?" Stark's voice pulled him back to reality. Blinking, Asep shook his head as if to clear it and stepped into Zachary's office.
The mercenary leader was seated behind a large mahogany desk now, a stark departure from the map-covered table of the previous day. He looked up from the contract in front of him, his sharp eyes assessing Asep with a calm, discerning gaze. "Asep. Thank you for coming. Stark has informed me of your decision. Welcome, officially, to the Castalia Mercenary Company."
Asep merely nodded, his mind still elsewhere. He walked to the desk, his movements automatic, and took the offered quill. He skimmed the document—a standard contract outlining pay, duties, and the company's code of conduct. It seemed straightforward enough. He dipped the quill in the inkwell and signed his name at the bottom with a flourish that was more habit than intent.
"Good. Now, for your initial assessment—" Zachary began, but Asep cut him off.
"The girl," Asep said, his voice a bit rougher than he intended. "The one who just left. Who is she?" The question came out before he could stop it, a desperate need for an answer overriding any sense of propriety.
Zachary paused, a flicker of surprise in his otherwise unreadable expression. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Her name is Adeline. Why do you ask? Do you know her?"
"No... I don't think so," Asep admitted, forcing a casual tone he didn't feel. "She just... reminded me of someone, that's all. Someone from a long time ago." He tried to conjure the face from his past, the face he was so sure Adeline's resembled, but the image remained blurry, a frustratingly incomplete puzzle. After all, it was when he was a street kid, almost dying of hunger. *Lethologica,* he thought, the word for the inability to remember the right word just floated into his mind. *It feels like that. But with a face.*
"I see..." Zachary's gaze was analytical, as if he were trying to dissect Asep's sudden, intense curiosity. "Well, to answer your question, Adeline is the acting representative for the refugees from Merlesia. She's been tireless since they arrived, organizing the camp, distributing provisions, and acting as their spokesperson. She was just here reporting on their needs—food, blankets, medical supplies. She possesses a remarkable strength and clarity of purpose for someone so young, especially considering... what she and the other survivors have been through."
A refugee representative... It made sense. She had that look about her, a weariness in her eyes that spoke of hardship, but also a resilience in her posture that spoke of an unbreakable will. And yet, the answer did nothing to solve the infuriating mystery of her familiar face. Who was she? Or rather, who did she look like? The question gnawed at him, an irritating splinter in his mind that refused to be dislodged.
"Now, as I was saying..." Zachary continued, his tone shifting back to business. "Before we assign you to active duty, I need you to sign this contract. Once you've signed it, you'll get your share from Stark's bounty hunting share."
Asep's eyes immediately caught a small pouch on the desk. "Is that..."
"Yes." Zachary pushed the pouch across the desk. It landed with a satisfying clink of coins. "Your share of the bounty for Borwe. Stark insisted you receive it immediately. A gesture of good faith."
*Money!* The sight of the pouch finally managed to break through the fog of his confusion. He grabbed it, the weight of the coins a solid, reassuring reality in his hand. *And with this...* A wide grin spread across his face, the first one he'd managed all morning.
"...I can finally buy some smokes!"
Zachary simply stared at him for a long moment, a completely nonplussed expression on his handsome face, before letting out a soft, almost inaudible sigh.
"I see..." Zachary's voice was flat, betraying no emotion. "Very well. Your priorities are clear." He gestured towards the door. "Stark will take you to the training yard. We'll have you spar with a few of our regulars. I want to see what you can do with my own eyes. Don't disappoint me, Asep."
"You got it, boss," Asep said, tucking the coin pouch securely into his belt. The mystery of Adeline still lingered, but for now, it was overshadowed by the far more pressing and immediate need for nicotine. First, he'd prove himself in the yard. Then, with his newly acquired funds, he would embark on the most important mission of the day: hunting down the last vestiges of Loriana's dwindling tobacco supply. The fate of the kingdom could wait.