‘We have been tracking a significant change in public opinion recently. Letters have been sent from unknown sources that seek to defame me and ruin my reputation over the case of Horyd Coeden. Our agents have begun to track letters and informants, though it leads to dead ends. To specify, the people who are spreading the propaganda are now dead. Dead men tell no tales. This is a concerning issue; thus the service is to begin fighting back with our own information. The truth.’ - Excerpt from a letter sent by Lucien Blodyn to King Brenin Helygen, January 1263.

———

Empty plates lined the tables, its content eaten by the restaurant’s guests. Men and women dressed in white linen shirts and black breeches entered from a side door, quickly clearing the plates away. The intermission before the final bout had ended, and Rupert began once more.

“Do we have any new promising officers? We’ve been at a deficit for too long now, and the quality that had been prepared as scab are dreadful.” Rupert asked.

Countess Cyffre glared at Viscount Dinol, obviously a point of contention.

“They aren’t dreadful, they’ve been doing a fine job.” Dinol rejected, defensive.

“No,” Rupert shook his head. “If you classify treating my soldiers as cannon fodder as doing a fine job, then I question your suitability for your role.”

“I don’t see an issue,” Cythraul interjected. “Their results have been rather satisfactory. They’ve won most of their battles. I don’t see that as poor quality.”

“I thought you said that this was my House’s jurisdiction, Cythraul?” Rupert rejected, a verbal riposte. “We have a duty to keep our soldiers alive, even if it is out of means or ends. They fight for our country. Needlessly sacrificing them in wasteful manners, such as the replacement officers are currently doing, is problematic, particularly morally.”

“Even look at it through means, they are creating a shortage of soldiers that’s slowly building up. I require a specific number of soldiers per our army. Once we lose soldiers, our legions, battalions, regiments, units, and platoons are constrained. I cannot afford to keep shifting soldiers around to maintain numbers. This is a fault caused by our untrained aristocratic officers.”

Cyffre smirked at this, her eyes still trained on Dinol.

“We do have promising officers. However, they are currently being repressed by specific members of our army who see it better that their officers, who are loyal to them, be promoted over the new recruits.” Cyffre’s eyes challenged Dinol to dispute her claims.

“And how bad is this repression?” Rupert demanded.

“Not at all! The new officers aren’t being oppressed. Why make this outrageous claim?”

“Serious. Their training has being withheld and the reserves prioritised for them has been redirected to the scab officers.”

Dinol and Cyffre, respectively, spoke over each other. The former shouted defensively and embarrassed; the latter was calm, with a hint of a satisfied smirk.

“Who are involved in this?” Rupert asked Cyffre. Dinol’s cries of injustice were ignored.

“The officers have been split into two factions on this issue. One for and the other against this nepotism. The leader of this group is Marquis Arian, he pulls Dinol’s strings in this matter.” Cyffre implicated Dinol. He gave a scathing glare at her which contained murder within.

“It isn’t nepotism! We have seen great potential in these officers, more so than within the new recruits. When the talent of these officer’s ability to lead is greater than that of the new recruits, we support the greater of the two.” Dinol spluttered hastily.

“But they’re not. I have watched them make far too many mistakes on the battlefield, more than any of their late predecessors. Before you continue to argue,” Rupert raised a hand to silence Dinol, “time and again, these officers have diverted from our strategies, choosing personal glory over army success. Please remember the case of Viscount Hangau. I thought that he was an egregious case, deciding to attack a settled Citadel battalion by himself without reporting back. However, I’ve received reports that these are commonplace.”

“Indeed, they are,” Cyffre’s smile contained schadenfreude. “The new officers, however, are firmly opposed to this behaviour. Part of the reason they have been repressed is because one of the recruits thoroughly chastised Marquis Arian on this issue. He punished her horrifically for doing so, and many officers took serious offence. This caused the factional rivalry to begin.”

Dinol ground his teeth in anger, shaking his head. Rupert stared at Dinol, waiting for him to deny her accusations, but he gave no response. Molten anger began to bubble within, though he repressed it. Sharp creases formed on Rupert’s brow.

“If even our trainees can recognise that what Marquis Arian supports is wrong, why the hell can’t you form the same conclusion? You are one of our best strategists for God’s sakes.” Rupert said. He tried to keep a level tone while speaking at Dinol.

“Because they are strategies we should take! We are too risk averse, and Marquis Arian so far has been the only high ranked officer to fight with some aggression. Why does it matter when some soldiers die when we could have greater, and more successful, victories! These officers have proven it, Hangau killed more of Citadel’s soldiers than he lost because he had the element of surprise! The outcome would have been very different had he waited for our own battalions, potentially even letting the Delish battalion escape our pursuit.” Dinol argued vehemently.

Rupert shook his head, his expression tight with irritation. However, his patience subdued it. He would make Dinol submit through words, then punish him in due course.

“Hangau killed fifty more than he lost, 129 to 79, all because he wanted glory. Only he survived, all other members of his regiment had died. That is unacceptable. I will not tolerate that many of our soldiers…” Rupert was interrupted.

“Do you think of me so poorly, Lord Rupert? You disgrace me with your assessment! I do not believe in the glory of the charge. The Malevolency that he earned from his victory was more than enough to recreate the regiment two-fold over!” Dinol shouted. This only served to stoke Rupert’s anger. How dare he interrupt! The gall to talk back! Such outrageous insubordination! Damned be the fool!

The molten anger exploded. Rupert’s hand curled around his hilt, and he drew the blade at a terrible speed. It severed down upon Dinol’s hands that rested upon the table. Just as it was about to cut through the wrists, a sabre blocked the attack. A metallic whine rung throughout the room, a battle cry of each of their owners.

Cythraul had parried Rupert’s blow. His eyes contained a hint of understanding, but also disappointment.

“Dinol, piss off,” Cythraul cursed. Dinol looked at Cythraul with shock. Cythraul responded with a glare. Dinol stood from his seat and left the restaurant with defiance in his eyes.

“Withdraw your anger. You need a calm mind, Rupert. Lopping off Dinol’s hands prematurely won’t solve this matter.” Cythraul turned his cool gaze onto Rupert.

“It is a rightful punishment for disobedience and insubordination.” Rupert spoke bluntly.

“He deserves punishing, but not maiming. There are better ways to do these things. Less physical, but ever more brutal.” Cythraul explained.

“Politics, again? Honestly, I despise it. Can’t we just lop his arm off and call it a day? It’s a sound punishment if you ask me. He’ll be healed with cauterise - which will punish him more - but he can live normally. Just armless.” Rupert responded.

“Problems arisen from politics must be solved through political means. That is the only effective solution. Even if you kill them, others will take their place. If you strip from them what they have sought to gain, no one can oppose you on that issue again,” Cythraul tapped the table. “Cyffre, make a list of all the officers who support Marquis Arian. Give it to Rupert by the end of the day.”

“Yes, Sir.” Cyffre nodded.

“Since you’ve decided this issue has concluded…” Rupert spoke with an irate bitterness, though Cythraul stopped him with a blank stare. Rupert understood from his gaze that they’d speak again about this later.

“Cyffre, can you organise the scouts and engineers to prepare for the skirmish ahead?” Rupert asked. He dropped the previous topic.

Cyffre saluted, a hint of a triumphant smile touched her lips. She left the restaurant with haste, before carrying out her duties.

Rupert stood from his seat and walked into the kitchen.

“Thank you, for the food… I also apologise for the violence towards the end, it was unbecoming of me.” Rupert slightly bowed to the cooks.

“It is part of our service as the personal chefs to Duke Honnen.” The head chef replied.

They spoke for a bit longer, then they vacated the restaurant. Rupert mounted his horse. The girl this time was with Cythraul, who herded her along with him. They rode to the northern barracks, weaving in between the crowds that populated the streets.

“Why are you coming with me?” Rupert asked, shouting to Cythraul who was riding next to him.

“Something's peaked my interests.” Cythraul responded.

“Huh? You’re interested in someone other than yourself?” Rupert lampooned.

“You won’t understand with that attitude, even if I tried to explain.” Cythraul shook his head.

They arrived at the northern barracks, with soldiers and officers coming to greet them. Rupert watched as groups of men and women sparred against each other in the distance. Some were armed, though others were unarmed.

They kicked chalk and dust in the air, forming earthy clouds with tinges of white mixed inside. Straw was carelessly strewn on the floor. It was slowly being kicked to the edges of their arena.

They descended from their horses as a man with a ranked officer’s insignia closed a door, and turned walking towards them. He greeted them with a bow.

“How can I serve you, Lord Rupert, Sir Cythraul?” He asked. There was a look of admiration plastered on his face.

“I wish to inspect how the new officers are faring. Can you please call them out to the courtyard?” Rupert commanded. Rupert saw the man give a conflicted look as he turned to leave for the interior of the barracks.

“All of them, please.” Rupert called after, making sure that his command was followed through properly. From what Rupert had heard, he feared that the officer might try to hide some trainees as it would reflect badly on him.

They waited in silence until a group, led by a young woman, walked in single file forming rows on the courtyard. The officer was the last to enter, following at the back of the line, just behind a woman in a wheelchair. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.

“This is not a formal inspection, and you will not be punished on our conclusions. I have received information of a potential sabotage. It remains unconfirmed yet, though it is not entirely unsubstantiated. I cannot voice what this sabotage pertains, in case our inquiry rules it false, for the accusations would damage the morale of the army. However, note this, you will be treated properly as you should.” Rupert paced up and down before them, looking into the crowd at their reactions.

Their faces were stone cold. Not a reaction from anyone of them. It wasn’t hostility, though there was a certain degree of distrust. It was a rigid discipline, an uncharacteristic hardiness that was rare to find in young aristocratic officers.

Rupert marched before the first officer in line. It was the young woman, and she was dressed in military uniform, and suited in breast and backplate. Rupert put his hand over the space above her chest, gently weaving a strand of Malevolent energy through the metal and her flesh. She cringed slightly at his intrusion, but she couldn’t resist and nor did she choose to.

It trickled through to her heart, where her Malevolent faculties lay. He examined her condition. Inside his mind, he imagined a candle’s Wick. Its flame flickered weakly, its orange hue threatening to be blown out as if being buffeted callously by a vicious wind.

He frowned at this. Her reserves should have been at a much higher level. The candle’s wax should at least be three folds thicker with the flames burning brilliantly. Instead, she was close to running out of Malevolent energy reserves, as reflected by her Wick.

This was not good. She was close to being made impotent, unable to use Malevolency until her reserves were refilled. If this happened, she would be no different from a common soldier. Nigh defenceless against those with Malevolency of the same aristocratic rank, unless she absurdly outclassed them in combat.

Rupert withdrew his thread of Malevolent energy and gave Cythraul a concerned glance. Cythraul nodded, walking forwards to the next soldier in line. He understood that this situation was worse than they initially thought.

They made their way through the lines of officers, until they stood before the girl in the wheelchair. Cythraul stepped before Rupert, blocking his path to her. He looked down upon her, his expression inscrutable. He was ready to begin probing her on questions he had thought of since learning of her existence.