“I didn’t expect the occupying governor to defend an Ikesian patriot from the soldiers of a country allied to Grekuria,” she shot at him with all the snark she could muster, confident that he wouldn’t take it personally. She almost lazily slipped into the chair and idly scanned the room, its lacquered wood and velvet cushioning as comfortable as any throne.

All of the office was opulent, in the most tasteless possible sense - from the elaborately patterned green-gold wallpapers, to the heavily lacquered, intricately carved furniture and the equally elaborate rug that covered at least half the available floor space. The only painting to be found in the room was behind the governor’s desk, displaying none other than himself in a medal-covered uniform - a portrait.

The towering, muscular man - the living ideal of physical prowess that he was - sank back into his seat with a defeated sigh and a wry smile, the swagger and ego deflating from his form to give way to a more honest, lifelike pride. She could see a great deal of ego and arrogance behind the governor’s eyes, but it was tempered, and it was real. At this very moment, Zelsys knew she was speaking to Crovacus Estoras the man, even though the nameplate on his desk labeled him as the archetype of the occupier, the Provisional Governor.

“I didn’t expect to be the one getting interrogated today, I must admit,” he said, his eyes lighting up like living embers. “I trust you know why I wished to speak with you, yes?”

Zelsys smiled, nodded, and making no attempt to hide her pride in her actions, confessed, “I beat some sense into your arrogant pottymouth of a son, yes.”

“You’re lucky you’re not an Ikesian,” the moving statue of a man rumbled, his eyes firmly planted on one of the many documents littering his desk. “I’d have no choice but to make an example out of you, then. If I let an Ike get away with something like this, it’d look like I was admitting young Halxian’s lack of character… As lacking as it is. He’s bought too eagerly into wartime propaganda and taken to conducting himself like a common ruffian, yet I could neither punish him directly nor allow an Ikesian to get away with doing it for me. But you...”

The blazing embers that were his eyes snapped up to meet hers, and he chuckled. “Swap that outfit for a Grekurian flag and you’re straight out of our recruitment posters. That beating you gave him seems to have ignited a proper drive toward self-improvement, I’ve never seen the boy train this diligently.”

The Governor had called her here… Just to let her know why he wouldn’t punish her? No, he clearly had something more to say.

“I’m not gonna help train your son, if that’s what you want,” she denied in advance, only eliciting another hearty chuckle from the man. He shook his head and asked a question.

“You didn’t fight in the war, and if my sources are correct, you spent the war exploring ruins in the tropics. As far as I’m concerned, you’re as close to an unbiased observer as one can be. Tell me. Are you fond of Ikesia?”

“Sir, I have no patriotism for any country.”

“I am not questioning your allegiance. Country and creed aside, have you enjoyed your stay in this land? Is this very town a nice place to live, in your opinion?”

“I’ve been here for only a few days, but sure. What does that have to do with the reason you called me here?”

“If you plan on staying here for any longer than a few months, you will do well to consider my offer.”

“We have… A situation. You’ve seen the omens, you’ve seen the bickering locust-men demanding a crippled veteran be persecuted for singing in the streets of his homeland, in front of the gods-damned Provisional Governor no less,” Crovacus began his doubtlessly rehearsed explanation, leaning forward in his seat as he leaned on his desk.

“There are great many beasts left over from the war, a great many beasts who need to be slain. The holes in the walls, the ruined buildings, the munitions accident that destroyed the old town hall - we’ve connected every terrorist attack that Willowdale has suffered to a cell of supposedly rogue Pateirian operatives, and now we know where they operate from. We know they have a motive - Willowdale is one of the few places that refused to take a side in the war, and the Pateirians took it particularly personally.”

“Where do I come into this?”

“Let’s run down the list. You’re a Fog-breather of vaguely Grekurian ethnicity, yet you have the pointed ears emblematic of the far-northern imperials and the triangles in your irises suggest at least some ancestors among the southern monk-nobles. Neither you nor your Ikesian compatriots have any records to speak of, which I will choose not to question. In the plainest terms possible, you’re my best option for a plausibly-deniable bug exterminator.”

“I don’t think I have the appropriate equipment to deal with more than a couple people at once, much less to wipe out an entire terrorist cell on my own. Furthermore, there is the matter of my payment…”

Without missing a beat, the Governor shot her an offer.

“Two-hundred fifty gelt to cover your operational expenses and any equipment,” he offered, reaching into a drawer and placing a coin pouch bulging with silvers on the desk. “And five thousand gelt in Cold-iron Sovereigns once you’re done, plus the option of further employment as a sanctioned beast-slayer. As for the matter of your targets, they are not human. Not anymore. The terrorist cell in question appears to be made up of Pateirian war veterans too deformed by elixir abuse to return to civilian life.”

A question sparked to mind. Zelsys had thought that the references to Pateirians as locust-men were just petty slurs, but now… She wasn’t so sure. A raised eyebrow at the last of his words was enough to make him give a grim nod and reach into that very same drawer, retrieving a folder from within.