Bartholomew was exhausted. Granted, he had, for the most part, delegated most of his General-duties to a carefully selected, incompetent man who would frequently arrive to the shift-rotation without half his armor and a dirty tabard- the exact man his brother might’ve rooted out from his service weeks ago. He was perfect... but his exhaustion was not a result of the strenuous activity of delegation, but because he had spent every night for the past two weeks in a dirty, dark tunnel- training his charming friend in the use of daggers.

Bartholomew glanced across the table- to the Duke’s council in order. The man who dealt with the treasury, the man who handled the city’s infrastructure, that man with the tea-stain on his hat that he was certain had something to do with the river and the boats leading up to Capita. Those, he knew, as they were kind enough not to pester him with their minute matters. The other seven- save for his brother, might as well have sat around the round, marbled table for the first time. The luxurious, slate-brick hall’s red, silken curtains hung lazily to deprive him of the sliver of sunlight his mandated attendance on the council entailed.

His brother’s golden armor reflected the fanciful crystal chandelier’s rays into his eyes- further provoking that looming headache. Bartholomew leaned forwards on his fist and watched as the something-something of coin’s mouth flapped and scowled his ancient, gray brow at him in between his lengthy presentation. He remembered once- on his lengthy trek through the wildlands where eyes just like his had watched him as an electrical-affined magus elder tortured his cock and balls while a third-

“-Bartholomew?” The wayward Sargerrei snapped out of his stupor to scan the many eyes staring at him- most with displeasure. The only two faces who smiled at him were his golden-armored brother and the effeminate Petrus who loomed over him like the overprotective lover he was. Bartholomew sat back on his chair, narrowed his eyes and pondered however he should get out of this one, before he heard Lita's voice speak in his place.

“I apologize for speaking out of turn. But I assure you Master Bartholomew is working tirelessly on discovering the facts pertaining to the disappearances... because of his dedication, he has not been able to sleep- despite my magical assistance.” The melodious voice spoke from behind Bartholomew’s gilded chair. He sighed a profound, relieved exhalation and sternly nodded towards a selection of the men around the table. Titus lit up at the sound of Lita’s voice and nodded in turn before addressing his Council: “Do you see? If only half of you were as dedicated as my dear Brother. Instead, you insist on these daily meetings.” He clicked his tongue and shook his head- shaming his council... all, save for one.

The what’shisface- the one who seemed to represent the outlying villages crossed his arms and continued to glare at Bartholomew and said: “Yes, well... you worrying about the disappearances will not bring back the one-hundred-twenty-six people who have disappeared from the villages. Sir Titus- forgive me, but I must say that things were far better when you were in charge of the guard.” Bartholomew opened his mouth to protest, only for Titus to slam his fist into the table, rise to his height and raise his golden glove in the direction of the old, finely suited man.

“And if not? Would you have sat there and slandered me!? No- I would have been just as bewildered as my brother in regards to this threat.” The something-of-coin swallowed and brought his hands together to bow where he sat- hoping to disarm their at-times frightening Duke.

“I-I apologize, Duke.” He turned towards Bartholomew and continued: “And you- vice-Duke Bartholomew. I-I never meant to slander anyone- all I meant was-” Bartholomew raised his hand and puffed his silver-plated chest out to smile a confident smile towards the man. This called for a change of tacs- he needed to rise up to the opportunity the man had bestowed upon him. Bartholomew rose up and said;

“I understand your fear- all of yours.” He looked across the table, before resting his eyes on his brother and continued: “be it by beast or by man, it seems our great City is under siege. But we must not be hasty- nor can we be tarry... therefore, I suggest that I- alongside my most trusted men, go out to the villages and search for this threat.” This seemed to please several of the men- especially the one who had spoken so warmly on the villages’ behalf. Titus seemed to approve more than any of them and shone a confident grin his brother’s way. He tapped his golden chest and scolded his Council:

“Do you see? My brother- born and bred in Capita- offering to go out to investigate these matters with his own, two eyes... had he not been so vital for our operations, I would have let him. Alas, I cannot let him go... But I ask that you have patience and that you do not worry, for we’ve soon a consultant on our hands.” Titus lit up at the mention of a consultant. Bartholomew, however, was taken aback by the surprising news.

“Lieutenant-General Ingvard is taking the first Legion out into the Blighted Lands and I have offered them a stay in our Grand City. Surely, with their help, we will get to the bottom of this mystery once and for all... that is, if my capable brother does not do so first.” Most of the Council missed Bartholomew’s agape jaw, but not Petrus... Petrus watched Bartholomew act exactly as he had expected... like the guilty, immoral runt he had come to known as his beloved’s brother. Bartholomew recovered and raised his hand to his chin- forcing a confident smile.

“O-oh, I am-… I am sure I will. I-I must say, I do wish you had told me of this sooner. Although I love and trust my men, I am not so certain they are presentable enough to measure up against the First.” Titus clapped his knee in a bellowing laughter.

“No one can, my dear Bartholomew! They are the first legion for a reason!” Bartholomew swallowed before agreeing. “Y-yes... I suppose you are right. Tell me, Titus- how far away is Ingvard?” Titus brought his golden fists to his shoulders and confidently answered: “Well, they should be starting their journey this week, but you know as well as I do that they will be here when they are. It all depends on how determined uncle Ingvard is to run his men ragged. None train their men as rigorously as he does... well, except our father, of course.” Oh, Bartholomew knew full well how both the honorable gentlemen trained their men. He had, after all, been their favored torture victim- figuratively and literally for years.

“Now, then, Councilmen. Shall we continue with our meeting? I believe exports are next-…" Titus’ voice blended in with the screeching in Bartholomew’s ears. This was terrible. No- it was far worse than terrible... this was horrible! He spent the rest of the meeting considering words that could explain how outraged he was at this unwelcomed turn of events.

Thankfully... he knew exactly who to go to.

This panic was easily overlooked by the rest of the Council, but the observant, effeminate castrate behind Titus glared over the table at the nervously twitching, wayward Sargerrei. A shrouded smile begun to crawl across the Purged’s lips as he realized that this was an opportunity unlike any other. After all, Bartholomew’s nervosity meant that he could doubt himself a little less... furthermore, it meant Bartholomew would have to compensate for the news and in this compensatory move, he would set himself at risk for discovery by Petrus’ watchful eyes. I have you now, Barty-boy...