[Capital City of Aramia, Aramain]
In the royal retreat chamber of Caela Crima—the emperor’s private sanctuary nestled deep within Aramain’s grand palace—Emperor Ethelar Aramid sat cross-legged upon a cushion, still as a coiled serpent. His gaze remained fixed on the sprawling map before him, where inked borders and markers stretched like veins across the continent.
The quill beside him had left faint stains along his fingers, each stroke upon the parchment deliberate and unyielding, as though hesitation itself were a crime. Around him, attendants moved in practiced silence, pouring fragrant tea and easing tension from his shoulders with careful hands. None dared disturb the stillness of his thoughts. Not when the empire itself seemed to breathe through his silence.
A herald stepped forward with measured urgency. “Your Imperial Majesty. The First Secretary; Nicholas Belsvan has arrived.”
With a mere flick of the emperor’s hand, the herald bowed and departed, retreating into silence to beckon the guest within.
As the doors opened, all eyes—though they dared not linger—were drawn to the man who entered. Young, striking, and adorned with red and black regalia bristling with badges, Nicholas Belsvan strode into the chamber with the composure of a man who belonged nowhere but at the heart of empire. The monocle in his left eye glinted like a scalpel—sharp, deliberate. Some of the younger attendants, momentarily undone by his presence, turned away in bashful crimson.
The First Secretary bowed, crisp and deep. “Your Imperial Majesty.”
“How many times must I tell you to dispense with the formalities, Nicholas?” Ethelar’s voice cut through the chamber like chilled steel. “Come.”
Nicholas rose without haste, removing his feathered cap as he approached the map. Attendants silently adjusted his seat and relieved him of his coat, their movements habitual and precise. He leaned over the table, already reading the empire’s concerns as though they had been written for him alone.
“I take it your mind lingers on the Varnarians at the southwestern border?”
“I am concerned,” Ethelar admitted, “but my deeper unrest lies with Randia.”
Ethelar finally looked at Nicholas, removed his glasses, and took a slow sip of tea. For a moment, he reclined slightly against a nearby attendant’s support before straightening again. He stared at Nicholas who was writing on the map. It's a personal way of salutation given by the first secretary to share the most updated information through scribbling several points of concern directly on the emperor's working paper.
“Tell me, boy… what is he to you, to Geovatus, and to Mirabelle?”
Ethelar rose and began to pace around Nicholas, circling him like a predator orbiting its prey. His fingers brushed Nicholas’s shoulder once, absentmindedly clearing a trace of dust.
“As you have already known, Your Majesty. Asmar and Randia — We cherish them greatly,” Nicholas said without pause. “Family would be the closest word to portray.”
“Then I assume you’ve heard the rumors.”
Nicholas gave a solemn nod.
“And your stance?”
“…It consumes me,” he confessed. “I long to see him. The yearning distracts me more than I care to admit.”
A smile ghosted across Ethelar’s lips. He reached for a chalice beside him—not for drink, but for the topaz gemstone nestled inside. He tossed it onto the map. The stone skittered, then came to rest on a point etched in ink.
“Two days ago, we received word of a sighting—in Londerstead.”
Nicholas frowned slightly. Londerstead was an unremarkable town by any standard. The small town yielded no riches, trained no warriors, and was oft bypassed by even the least ambitious merchants.
“Why Londerstead?”
“The why is negligible. At least, for now. There are better questions to ask.”
They moved toward the balcony, seeking breath and perspective. Before them, Aramain sprawled in all its splendor, where flowers danced with spring fragrance, canals shimmered with the toil of citizens, and the chorus of commerce roared like a song.
“My realm is vast,” Ethelar said, “but not impregnable. Not now. Especially after I dispatched our best to Tivaria.”
“You want me to anticipate his next move.”
“More than that.” Ethelar’s voice lowered. “Pin him down and bring him to me. I demand answers.”
The emperor asks not for his spymasters nor his inquisitors. He specifically asked for Nicholas. Because he knew only Nicholas would tread the line between loyalty and intimacy—only he could walk the knife-edge of memory and duty.
“How many men?” Nicholas asked.
“Only the locals and the spymaster’s network. But if you choose to assemble a special party of your own personal taste, my empire will cover every expense.”
A fair allocation — Nicholas speak to himself. With tensions on the Varnarian front, Aramia could not afford unnecessary force redistribution.
“And who will tend to my desk?”
Ethelar turned slightly, framed by gilded morning light, his silhouette briefly almost divine in its severity.
“I am your emperor,” he said, voice thick with contempt. “A flick of my finger suffices to manage your ledgers. Whether you sit at your desk or vanish into the mists, the weight of your absence is but a breeze. Do you fancy yourself irreplaceable, boy?”
“No sane man would,” Nicholas replied dryly. "Not when half the court would happily poison my morning paper to see me replaced.”
A pause, then—
“Talk to me when they start hiding a mummified pixa under your pillow.”
They laughed, sharp and low, and returned to the chamber. A servant stood waiting, bowing deeply with a scroll in hand: the royal decree relieving Nicholas of his duties—temporarily, but absolutely. One look. One press of Ethelar’s ring. The magic ignited, sealing the order with imperial force.
“I know you need no motivation,” Ethelar said, “but do your absolute best.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
And with that, Nicholas was gone—already moving through shadowed networks, writing letters across continents, calling in debts, invoking names long thought buried in the past.
The sun was high, and it was time for Nicholas to fill his belly. He had told the attendants of his estate that he would take his lunch on the balcony. The weather was pleasant enough to justify it, and the staff complied without question, preparing a twelve-course spread to mark his brief reprieve from duty.
Everything was perfect.
He was midway through lifting a spoon of creamy meat stew when noise erupted from below.
At first distant, then sharper, then chaotic enough to fracture his patience entirely.
Nicholas set the spoon down with measured irritation. “I will make sure the most severe punishment finds whichever fool is disturbing my golden hour.”
He rose, staff in hand, with his bodyguards falling in behind him as he descended the stairs. But the sight that greeted them below stalled even their steps.
Knights lay scattered across the marble hall, groaning in pain, armor dented, weapons dropped where they fell.
"Behind us, Lord Nicholas!" shouted Gerard.
The guards unsheathed their swords and muttered incantations, ready to meet force with fury. A frontal assault? It was unthinkable—Nicholas’s men were among the best. Any prior attempts at sabotage had been snuffed out before the plotters could even breathe treason.
“Gardia! Nullificus!” Nadia cast a shimmering ward around Nicholas.
“Damn it... Was it Erod’s dogs? Be careful, Nadia. Gerard.”
“Yes, my lord!”
The ruckus came from the central hall. Gerard urged Nicholas to take the secret escape path leading to the plaza, but the nobleman refused. He had to see for himself who had dared breach his sanctuary. So, the three of them crept toward the hall.
The moment they laid eyes on the intruder, their shoulders dropped, weapons sheathed.
“Oh... it’s him,” said Nadia flatly.
There he stood—tall, broad, and carved from the flesh of war. His eyes were knives, and his sideburns bristled like unkempt hedgerows. He wore no shirt, only bracers, tassets, and greaves, striding through the estate like it was his father’s barn.
A few guards tried to stop him. They were flung aside like sacks of grain.
“In the name of His Excellency Nicholas Belsvan! Lay down your arms, intruder!” a female knight shouted, brandishing her blade.
“A woman?! As a guard?! Let me cut your legs so you never leave the kitchen again!”
The man drew the hatchet at his hip. Steel tension sparked in the room—fighting within the ranks was a high crime. One wrong move and it would ignite.
Then, a jug of milk struck the man square in the temple.
"Ten years and still couldn't manage to learn the simplest manner, huh? Geovatus? Or should I call you Commander Geovatus now?"
"Nico! There you are!"
In a flash of a step, Geovatus is already in front of Nicholas, making him skip a beat out of surprise. Then, the huge man gives Nicholas a bone-breaking embrace. The hug is so tight and suffocating to the point that it's almost life-threatening.
"Y-You! Beast! Let go! And don't call me that in front of my subordinates!" said Nicholas as he pushed Geovatus's face with every bit of his muscles.
The guards are taken aback, some even have their steels clattering in fear. They never thought that the one who was charging into the first secretary's residence was none other than the infamous commander of The Red Walker. Now they understand why their resistance is futile.
"G-Geovatus?"
"This is the man who repelled the siege of Marnameth with only two hundred men?"
"So what?! He is trespassing our security!"
"No! No! You don't understand! That man is no human, you will get yourself killed!"
While most of the knights are arguing amongst themselves, the female knight who had been waiting for an opening, casts her spell. Chains spring forth from the magic circles in the air and wrap Geovatus's arm like a snake would do to its dinner, a textbook arrest spell amongst the knights.
"Let go of His Excellency and stand down!" said the female knight as she pulled the chain with a twist of her magic.
Unexpectedly, Geovatus turned around and swung his fist toward the knightess.
"Nha-!"
*Slam*
The female knight crashed into the wall far on the opposite sides of the hall. She managed to block the devastating blow with her shield. Although, it doesn't make the damage done by the impact any less painful.
"Did he just?!"
"Breaking through magic with sheer physical power?!"
The female knight tries her best to get up as quickly as she can. However, when she sets her sight back to Geovatus, the man is already right in front of her. He grabbed her helmet and slammed her head to the ground.
"Ack . . ."
Before she was able to react properly, the commander of The Red Walker already planted his foot on her shield, arms crossed, pressure mounting by the second. The knightess can barely hold her breath, let alone talk back to him.
"Weak. You cannot keep your duty to your lord. He will never be safe with the likes of you."
"Geo! That's enough!"
Nicholas was a few seconds too late to ask for his mercy. Some of the female knight's ribs were already broken. Nonetheless, Geovatus released her.
"Disgusting! How could you make a woman take up arms!? You disappointed me!"
"A lot of things change when you are busy running around the frontlines, fool."
"I will not let this be! Women should have stayed home and cook our food! Have our men become so weak that they need to cry for their sister's help?!"
Geovatus glared from the corner of his eyes to the bunch of knights behind him. The men of steel turn eel when they meet his eyes, the powerful glare is a synonym for a death sentence for those who are thinking about talking back without anything to back up their words.
"Listen here, bird brain! Everyone has the right to serve Aramia in long as they are up for the task! And don't use yourself as the standard!"
"Well, they don't really look like they're up for the task, do they?"
As soon as he spoke, a dagger sank into the back of his calf.
"D-Don't . . . look down . . . on us!"
The beaten-up knightess coughed up a lot of blood and collapsed soon after. Her fellow guards quickly picked her up and immediately left.
"Well, she managed to put a scratch on you. I'd say she's up for the task," Nicholas smirked.
In denial and annoyance, Geovatus tightens and shakes his wounded calf a little. The muscle shock is enough to catapult the dagger out of his calf as it bolts to the wall next to a knight's head.
“I refuse! Whether you like it or not, I’m training your men after this!”
Nicholas sighed and shook his head. He returned to his meal, Geovatus shamelessly trailing behind and helping himself to the feast. By the time they reached the fourth course, the burly warrior had already devoured half the spread.
"So," Nicholas said coolly, swirling the wine in his glass, "care to explain why you're here?"
"No fucking clue." Geovatus tore a haunch from a roasted boar and took a savage bite. "One morning, a messenger showed up and told me the emperor was pulling my men off the western front."
"I was under the impression Sindris was still boiling. What are those mages plotting now?"
Geovatus shrugged.
The gesture alone seemed absurd coming from a man large enough to make the chair beneath him look undersized.
"And what about you, Nico?" he asked after washing the meat down with nearly half a pitcher of wine. "Heard you've been dealing with those squint-eyed snakes. Something about trade access to Paradisia."
Nicholas raised an eyebrow.
"Now that is interesting. I always assumed your talents ended at breaking things. Time truly does fly."
The giant snorted and reached for an entire roasted turkey. Bones cracked audibly between his teeth as he ate. A moment later he lifted one leg onto the neighboring chair and adjusted the tasset hanging from his belt.
"Geo, even by your standards, that is disgusting! Must you behave like a-"
The reprimand died halfway through.
Beneath the lifted armor was a scar stretching along the inside of Geovatus's thigh. The wound had healed, but only barely. Even now it looked vicious.
Nicholas frowned.
"What in the world happened?"
"Almost got iced"
Geovatus reached for another drink.
"Turns out the cook was a spy. Son of a b*tch dosed up my bowl big time before slipping to my tent. Would've come home in a casket if Eiser hadn't keeping an eye."
Nicholas swallowed.
The wound suddenly seemed far less amusing.
"Since then," Geovatus continued, "I've figured I ought to use my head more."
"You better be. No matter how good you are at wrecking stuff, we're all helpless infants when asleep."
Geovatus leaned back in his chair and let out a big burp.
“Anyway, back to the stuff - Was that really enough reason for the old wolf? Doesn't sit right in my ears.”
Geovatus immediately noticed the change in his expression.
"In fact," Nicholas continued, setting aside his monocle, "I'm no longer serving as First Secretary."
The table shook violently.
Geovatus had risen so abruptly that several cups nearly toppled over.
"WHAT?!"
Heads turned throughout the tavern.
"WAS IT THAT FAT PIG EROD?! I'LL BURN HIS CITY TOMORROW!"
"No, for goodness' sake!"
Nicholas nearly spilled his wine.
"It's not about him, and his name is Erod, not Brod."
"I don't care."
Nicholas sighed.
The amusement faded from his face.
For a moment he simply stared into his glass.
Sadness was not an expression Geovatus often saw on him, and it's not the only thing. They had known each other for decades, fought wars together, buried friends together, and survived disasters that should have killed them both. Hence he knew by instinct, the sight is of a longing.
"It's Randia."
Geovatus calmed down and sat back on the chair when he heard the name.
Memories surfaced uninvited. Endless lessons. Endless lectures. Endless bruises earned through failed training. Geovatus could still remember being thrown into a river for ignoring instructions. Nicholas could still remember spending three days copying the same text after making a careless mistake.
Somehow, despite everything, those years had become precious.
"...The rumor is true?"
Nicholas rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"That is what His Majesty wants me to find out."