The castle’s resident chickens had not yet started their morning ballad when Theodorus rose from his roughly carded woolen mattress, a luxury compared to the straw bedding he’d slept in back at Probatoufrorio. He dressed in the pre-dawn darkness, the flicker of a single guttering candle chasing the gloom from the corners of the stone chamber.
He walked the silent, aged corridors of Suyren Fortress, his soft-soled boots making little sound. The air here was different from the raw, wind-scoured quiet of the frontier - it was a heavy, sleeping stillness, thick with the scent of damp stone and the faint, distant promise of baking bread. As a sar of grey light began to bleed into the eastern sky, he reached the ample courtyard and took up a position in the shadows of the main keep. Then he waited.
Just as he had when leaving Mangup for Probatofrourio, he wanted to assess who arrived and at what ti. He had to build a reputation anew, and this ti it wasn’t just to satisfy his exacting standards, but to please and impress his benefactor. To his surprise, he did not have to wait long. As the dawn began to truly break, clumps of n-at-arms started pouring into the courtyard, their movents crisp and practiced. They ford loose ranks, their quiet conversations a low murmur against the waking sounds of the fortress. They were an hour early.
Theodorus stepped from the shadows, his own movents a study in quiet authority. “Morning, n.” His voice was clear and carried in the cool air, free of the slightest trace of drowsiness.
A startled ripple coursed through the gathered soldiers. They turned as one, their response a chorus of crisp, respectful replies. “Morning, Sir.” They offered shallow but precise bows. That was sothing Theodorus was coming to realize about the n who garrisoned this fort: they were unfailingly courteous, and surprisingly sharp.
“Allow to introduce myself,” Theodorus said, his gaze sweeping over them, assessing. “I am Captain Theodorus Sideris. I will be serving as adjutant to Lord Adanis. It is good to see that you are early to the morning assembly. It speaks to your readiness.”
“Discipline and obedience are the core pillars of our garrison, Sir.” The reply ca from a middle-aged man with a neatly manicured, pepper-and-salt moustache. His voice was soft, with a lilting accent that hinted at a more cultured background than his simple soldier’s kit suggested.
“What is your na, Stratiotes?”
A lopsided, weary grin touched the man’s lips, as if he were long accustod to the question. “Othon Zervas, Sir.”
“Zervas?” Surnas in the dieval period were usually reserved exclusively for nobility or very wealthy commoners. “I’m not sure I recognize that last na, Stratiotes.” He had long since morized all the Greek families present in their little Principality. He would certainly recognize a surna as obtuse as that.
Othon’s eyes glinted with a devious humor that was instantly, jarringly familiar. “I would not expect you to, Captain, seeing as you have been at Suyren for less than a day.”
“Is ‘Zervas’ a particular honorific in this part of the Principality?” Theodorus pressed, intrigued.
“It is the surna Lord Adanis gives to his illegitimate children,” Othon confessed almost sheepishly.
Children. Plural. Theodorus’s mind seized on the detail. It was a profoundly unusual practice, to not only acknowledge bastards but to grant them a surna, even if it was a created one. It was a mark of status, a deliberate elevation above the common stock. A grace not usually bestowed.
The next figure of note to erge into the courtyard wore the sa dark bourbon color that Theodorus was beginning to recognize as the official uniform of House Nomikos and the unofficial uniform of Suyren Fortress. He was in his early twenties, possessing a spark of the family’s prodigious height, but there the resemblance ended. He carried himself with a lazy slouch, a stark contrast to the rigid formality of his kin. His clothing, though of fine make, was wrinkled as if it had been slept in, and he rubbed at his bleary eyes with the back of his hand, attempting to scrub the last traces of sleep from his face.
He seed to notice Theodorus only when he was nearly upon him. A flicker of interest cut through his drowsy deanor, and he changed course, striding forward. “Ah,” he said, his voice a low, amused drawl. “You must be Theodorus Sideris.”
“I’m afraid you have at a disadvantage, Sir…?” Theodorus replied, his own tone a careful asure of courtesy.
He seed to take so dark amusent at Theodorus’s courtesy.
“Kyriakos Nomikos, at your service, my good Sir.” He swept into an exaggerated, theatrical bow, his hand flourishing in the air. The gesture was so deeply ironic that a genuine, surprised smile broke through Theodorus’s placid mask. It was a stark departure from the serious cordiality he had seen so far.
“Ah, so the man has a sense of humor,” Kyriakos stated, heaving a dramatic sigh of relief as he straightened. “That is good to know. The rest of the good officers you will et in this blasted fortress are about as exciting to talk to as a stationary wall.”
“Theodorus Sideris,” Theodorus offered his hand, deciding a firm handshake was the correct response to this strange performance. “A pleasure.”
Kyriakos took it, his own grip surprisingly strong, a lopsided grin of amusent playing on his lips.
“And when will these ‘walls’ arrive?” Theodorus asked.
“Oh, don’t worry, you are about to et their august personages now.” Kyriakos motioned with his chin toward a pair of young n, both around his own age, who were approaching with a stiff, asured dignity.
Unlike the resident jester, these two were the picture of Nomikos propriety. They were immaculately dressed, their bearing aristocratic, their quiet conversation ceasing as they drew near. Their bourbon-colored tunics were spotless. It was nearly imperceptible, but Theodorus saw their gazes flicker from him to Kyriakos, their eyebrows lowering in a shared, fractional frown of disapproval.
Theodorus stepped forward and executed a graceful bow. “Good morning. Captain Theodorus Sideris, new adjutant to Lord Adanis.”
Both n shared the characteristic chestnut-brown mane of the Nomikos line. The one who spoke, had his hair slicked back in flowing, dium-length waves and was the very picture of courtly grace. “Apostolos Nomikos. It is an honor, Captain Theodorus. A pleasure to welco the hero of the Principality to our ranks.” Theodorus’s formal introduction seed to mollify him as his voice was smooth and amicable. His companion, however, was not so easily won over.
He was shorter than the others, his stocky fra radiating a coiled tension. His eyes, narrowed and suspicious, darted between Theodorus and Kyriakos, who t the glare with a radiant, infuriating beam.
“And my cousin shares the sa opinion,” Apostolos added, the words laid on with a heavy, double aning.
“Michail Nomikos,” Was all the shorter man grunted, his gaze still locked on Kyriakos, who was now quirking his eyebrows in a comical, mocking display.
“The pleasure is all mine, Masters Apostolos and Michail.” Theodorus inclined his head, his gaze flickering to Michail’s thunderous expression. “Though I apologize if my presence has caused any offense.” It was a simple line, cast into the water to see what would bite. A simple trick to gain additional information on what rivalry seed to be brewing between the different aides.
As expected, Apostolos rushed to smooth the ruffled surface. “Oh, not at all, Captain. My cousin is behaving discourteously, in a manner utterly unbecoming of a nobleman.” He subtly elbowed the stouter man. “I apologize for his indiscretion.”
“Sorry,” Was all Michail grunted, the word forced out from between clenched teeth.
“Hmph. He’s just grumpy he lost good coin yesterday playing at dice,” Kyriakos revealed with a lazy, knowing grin.
“It doesn’t count as losing if the other party is cheating!” Michail hissed, his small fra seeming to swell with indignation.
“And it doesn’t count as cheating,” Kyriakos countered, his drawl infuriatingly calm and mocking, “if you aren’t caught doing it.”
“So you did cheat! You sniveling-” Michail lunged, his hand flying toward Kyriakos’s collar.
Apostolos moved with the weary speed of a man long accustod to this dance, placing himself bodily between them. “Cousin, please! Kyriakos is rely goading you. The dice were not loaded, we checked-”
“He could have switched them! If you’d just let check his pockets-”
“That is discourteous, Michail.” Apostolos physically blocked his cousin’s path, shooting a dark look at Kyriakos, who was nodding along to Michail’s accusations with an expression of solemn agreent. “As is stirring up trouble before a new fellow officer.” He said, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
“Please, do not mind ,” Theodorus interjected smoothly, his voice a calm anchor in their squall. The intervention earned him a brief, grateful glance from Apostolos. “I am rely finding my rhythm. I was told the assembly would be one hour past dawn, yet I see everyone has arrived well before. Is this customary at Suyren? It is a great show of discipline.”
Apostolos seized on the change of subject with a lightning pounce, talking over a still protesting Michail, who looked ready to reignite the conversation when Kyriakos blew him a kiss. “Lord Adanis prizes punctuality and obedience above all else. They are the pillars of this garrison.”
“I’ve heard. Will the Lord also be arriving early, then?”
Kyriakos snorted into his hand. “That,” he said with a theatrical eye-roll, “is unlikely.”
“The Lord… does not enjoy waiting for others,” Apostolos admitted, the words chosen with diplomatic care.
As the hundreds of gathered n stood in silent, ramrod-straight formation for the next hour, Theodorus understood. The extre punctuality was not the product of ingrained discipline; it was the servility required to please a capricious and arrogant master. Adanis demanded punctuality not because it forged better soldiers, but simply because he could not be bothered to wait.
When Lord Adanis finally did arrive, he ca not as a commander reviewing his troops, but as a suzerain making an entrance. He strode at the head of a small entourage: two nacing bodyguards, the stuttering steward Theophylact, and a hapless young scribe struggling to keep pace while balancing a teetering pile of parchnts. Adanis swept his gaze over the assembly, offering his waiting aides and Theodorus a single, perfunctory nod. His eyes, cold and appraising, lingered for a fraction of a second on Kyriakos’s ruffled tunic, his disapproval palpable.
“Morning, gentlen,” Adanis said quietly. His aides bowed in unison, a synchronized ripple of bourbon-colored silk. Theodorus mirrored them a beat later, a perfect echo.
“Attention.” Adanis’s voice, though pitched low, cut across the courtyard with casual authority. The garrison snapped into place, the difference between the career soldiers and the seasonal militia stark. The veterans were polished, their gear immaculate, their posture erect, with nary a hair out of place.
“I would like to formally introduce a new aide to you n,” He gestured almost casually in Theodorus’s direction. “Captain Theodorus Sideris has recently won a great victory against the northern scum.” It was ironic how the dismissive “border skirmish” of yesterday had been reforged into a “great victory” now that he had pledged his loyalty, even if unofficially.
“And, thus, he has been duly rewarded with the honor of serving here, at the great fortress of Suyren.” Adanis began to stalk before the ranks, his grace that of a stalking panther. “I expect you to give him a warm welco and to help him understand what we, here in Suyren, are about.” Adanis stopped squarely in the middle of the assembly, his gaze sweeping over them.
“Punctuality. Obedience. Those are the two pillars of a northern soldier.” He let the words hang, a sermon delivered from a self-made pulpit. “A new month is upon us. And I expect you to perform your duties with courage and honor!” With a dramatic flourish, he ceded the stage to a tough-looking, old knight who spoke of more practical matters. “With the new month, patrol teams have been reassigned. Check the roster for your new duties and report to your designated aides for…”
Theodorus saw Adanis begin to move, his entourage falling in around him like planets orbiting a sun. He subtly shifted his position, a quiet obstacle in his lord’s intended escape trajectory, a silent reminder of his presence. Adanis caught his gaze, his course altering to approach him.
“Ah, Captain Theodorus. What did you make of the speech?”
“Inspiring, my Lord,” Theodorus replied, his subservience a flawless mask. “I will strive to be as punctual and obedient as you command.”
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“That is all I ask for. I’m sure you will do well in your duties.” The words seed to jog Adanis’s mory. He turned to the young scribe, who looked ready to collapse under a mountain of ledgers and scrolls. “Say, Idaeus, are there any suitable tasks for our good captain here?”
The scribe, whose peak of auburn hair marked him as yet another Nomikos, struggled to make his face visible. “Ah, yes, my Lord, I believe I have it just here, let just…” He attempted to free a hand, but the precarious tower of paper swayed dangerously. Adanis gave an exasperated sigh, and at a flick of his fingers, one of the nacing bodyguards stepped forward to support the load. “Ah, thank you. It is right… here.” With the burden eased, Idaeus plucked a series of faded parchnts from the mountain with uncanny precision, barely having to leaf through the giant mountain to find the right one.
He handed it over with the care of soone used to combating the brittleness of old parchnt, sothing Theodorus could find kinship in. Lord Adanis snatched it with the impatientness of soone who was used to disregarding such minute details. He skimd over the title, and a satisfied smile blossod on his lips.
“Ah, yes. This will do nicely.” He turned back to Theodorus. “Captain, our armory reports are woefully out of date, and, as you can see, my scribes are utterly swamped with crucial tasks,” he said, gesturing to the hapless Idaeus, who was once again single-handedly wrestling with the paper behemoth.
“The harvest season will soon be behind us,” Adanis began, his voice taking on the magnanimous tone of a liege bestowing a great honor upon his vassal. “In December, we can expect a new batch of seasonal recruits. It would be an imasurable aid if you could conduct a full accounting of our armory - what weapons we have, what armor, and in what quantities - before they arrive. To know how we might equip them, and how combat-ready we truly are.”
It was, Theodorus knew instantly, a wonderfully useless waste of his ti. The assignnt was a masterpiece of political maneuvering: an important-sounding task that perfectly sidelined him. It was undeniably beneficial for the fort, yet completely beneath the station of a victorious captain and newly appointed adjutant. It was a scribe’s work. It was also, he recognized, a subtle, elegant test. Adanis was probing the pledge of loyalty Theodorus had made the day before, seeing if the hero of the frontier would balk at a nial chore.
It also had the added benefit of isolating Theodorus from the existing command structure. While the other aides commanded patrols and oversaw training, he would be buried in the castle’s administrative depths, interacting with ledgers, not n, wielding none of the authority he held on paper. The lion was placing the gazelle in a comfortable, observable pen.
Of course, the plan fell flat the mont Theodorus saw right through it. All he had to do was play his part.
“Of course, my Lord.” He fell into an easy, deferential bow, a gesture he was quickly learning was a servant’s greatest weapon in this castle ruled by a Tyrant’s arrogance. “I would be honored.”
“Excellent, my good Captain. I knew you would understand.” A pleased, predatory smile touched Adanis’s lips, along with a flash of pearl white teeth. He gave a charming wink. “There is no rush. I trust you will do a wonderful job.” Of course, to Commander Adanis Theodorus could take as long as he wished. Even shirk his task completely if he wanted to. That would just be a further excuse to not have an outsider ddle in the Lord’s affairs.
As the lion and his pride swept back toward the keep, Theodorus excused himself from the courtyard, giving a parting nod to the other aids, who exchanged bewildered looks at his sudden departure. They had no doubt expected him to attach himself to them, to begin carving out his piece of the garrison’s command.
He found Detrios and Stefanos waiting for him near the castle’s entrance. As Theodorus’s direct servants, they weren’t required to participate in any of the castle’s mandatory drudge work and attended solely to Theodorus. Their only duty was to be at their noble’s beck and call. Which, in Theodorus’s case, ant they would be utterly swamped with work to do.
“My Lord?” Detrios questioned, raising an eyebrow at his swift return.
“We have our first task, Detrios,” Theodorus announced. “And it is as unglamorous as it could possibly be.”
Detrios’s mouth pressed into a flat, unenthusiastic line. “I’m afraid to even ask.”
“Perfect, because I’m loath to say it. It would make it all the more real.” Theodorus offered a sarcastic smile. Detrios returned it with a deadpan stare. Stefanos, caught off guard, barked out a nervous laugh at the unexpected interaction. One which he imdiately swallowed at Detrios’s ‘don’t encourage him’ expression.
“I’m sorry,” the boy eeped out.
“Don’t apologize,” Theodorus and Detrios said in perfect, weary unison.
The three n - the captain, the old servant, and the one-ard recruit - shared a look, and promptly burst out laughing. It was as strange a pairing as one could put together, but at that mont their shared mirth brought a brief, welco mont of levity in what promised to be a very dreary day.
“A lighter touch on the needle, Hilda,” Old Zeta chided, her voice a calm, weary thread. Her speech was a line that had woven itself through the fabric of countless mornings in the few weeks since Hilda’s introduction to the group. “We are creating a serene tapestry, not stitching boiled leather for a cuirass.”
“I’m. Trying.” Hilda gritted out, her butcher’s hands, rough and aty, fumbling with the delicate silk. The thread pulled taut under her frustrated grip, puckering the stoic face of a soldier she was ant to be rendering. She wasn’t weaving; she was strangling him.
“Try with more grace and less fury, child,” was all Zeta offered. Predictably, Hilda’s next stitch was a vicious jab that nearly tore the linen. She had not yet learned the suave curves and rhythms that Old Zeta’s tutelage demanded.
“Disgraceful.” Eliana’s voice was as sharp and cutting as her own flawless needlework. “Your brutishness will ruin a year’s worth of work.” The eldest Nomikos daughter did not look up, her own movents economical and precise as she rendered a perfectly arced spray of blood from a fallen horse.
“Sod off,” Hilda muttered, her expression a thundercloud of childish frustration. They were to show their finished work before the lord in a few month's ti, and everyone was feeling the pressure.
“Manners,” Zeta cautioned, her filmy, milky eyes fixed on a point sowhere beyond the tapestry. “A lady must not be so easily rattled, lest she appear common.” Cassandra often wondered how many untalented ladies the woman had seen, having served the castle since her great-grandfather’s ti.
“As if she is capable of appearing as anything else,” Eliana snorted, tying off a thread with cold perfection.
“Why you—” Hilda began, but Cassandra’s firm hand settled on her lap, stopping the angry retort before it could form.
Eliana’s lips curled. “What was that, little cousin? Did you have sothing to say?”
Hilda opened her mouth again, but Cassandra’s grip tightened, her manicured nails digging just sharply enough into Hilda’s leg to be a clear, secret warning. Hilda shot a venomous look at her older cousin, who sniffed with dismissive elegance and returned to her work.
The weaving continued in a tense silence, leaving Cassandra’s own fingers sore and tired by the end of it.
“That is enough for today, my ladies,” Zeta announced to the room of ten, a collection of cousins and distant relatives from the various branches of House Nomikos. Her father, the Lord, insisted that all mbers of the Nomikos House take the class together. From the main branch down to the tiniest offshoots. “You have other matters to attend to. We resu tomorrow.”
As if on an unspoken signal, the room fractured. For all that unity was preached within the households, factions had a habit of erging. The older, unmarried bachelerettes gravitated toward Eliana, their conversations hushed whispers of marriage prospects and courtly gossip. The younger girls, Cassandra found, had a habit of orbiting her.
“The lessons are so boring, Cassa,” Hilda complained emphatically the mont they were out of Zeta’s earshot - a feat easily accomplished, as the old woman was half-deaf.
“You must control your temper, Hilda,” Cassandra said, her voice firm but not unkind. “I know you would rather be running in the fields, but the duty of a Nomikos lady is to be seen.” She gestured with her chin toward the main hall, where two n-at-arms had just offered Eliana a deep, reverent bow. “And to be seen well.”
Hilda’s shoulders slumped. “I know, Cassa. I’ll try to do better.” The cowed response earned her a soft pat on the head from Cassandra, a gesture her younger cousin leaned into like a contented cat. Cassandra smiled, careful not to muss her dark, glossy hair.
Their steps took them from the cloistered quiet of the weaving room into the open-air forge of the courtyard, where the clang of sparring steel and the grunts of n under strain filled the air. They had so ti before their next lesson - an hour of etiquette with Mada Xenia that promised to be as tedious as it was punishing.
Cassandra stopped, her gaze sweeping over the few dozen n drilling on the packed earth, her mind automatically cataloging, assessing.
“Why have we stopped?” Hilda asked, craning her neck to see what had captured her cousin’s attention.
“Just looking for soone.”
“Oh?” Hilda’s search beca instantly more focused, and a wide, teasing smirk spread across her face.
“Not like that, you dollop,” Cassandra rolled her eyes, though a faint warmth touched her cheeks at the insinuation.
“Of course, of course.” Hilda did not sound at all convinced. Cassandra ignored her.
In truth, she was scanning the ranks for the new captain who had so unexpectedly breached the carefully demarcated territory of House Nomikos. In the two decades since her father’s appointnt, Suyren had been slowly and thodically purged of outsiders. That the Prince himself had elevated a minor noble to a military aide was a surprise. That he was sent to Suyren was another entirely. Especially when you considered that the Prince had been a mostly distant suzerain for most of his reign, his gaze always drawn outwards - dealing with one foreign crisis after another - caring little for the inner affairs of the realm.
She knew her father enough to know what he thought of the matter; no outsider should ddle in Nomikos affairs. And then she had t the Captain himself. He carried an aura she recognized, a quality she saw in her father and the powerful vassals who sotis visited - the controlled intensity of a predator who understands his own strength and is constantly considering how best to use it. Cassandra had heard him talking with her father in his study by happenstance and had decided to engineer a “chance” encounter. A little ambush to get a asure of the new arrival, using the greatest weapon in a Lady’s arsenal: her beauty.
Cassandra was not haughty, but neither was she stupid. She knew the power she held in the admiring gazes of the pages and n-at-arms. Her attack had been tid to perfection. She had seen the calculating depth in his grey eyes as he’d left the study, a mind clearly lost in strategy. She had stepped into his path, a vision of startled grace, ready to asure his reaction. And he had looked… through her. There was no flicker of desire, no mont of appraisal, not even when she feigned a blush of embarrassnt! He had offered a milquetoast courtesy and continued on his way as if she were a piece of furniture.
Cassandra could read people by their eyes, and his held a history she could not place, a dangerous quality that both intrigued and unsettled her. She needed to know more.
A frenetic jumble of sounds - a loud clang, followed by gasps and excited chatter - drew her from her thoughts. A small crowd of servants had gathered by an open doorway, craning their necks to see inside.
“Ooh, what is happening?” Hilda was quick to seize on the potential entertainnt. “Is that the armory?”
They moved closer, the servants parting with hasty bows and nervous mumbles.
The scene that greeted them was like nothing Cassandra had ever witnessed in the prim and proper halls of Suyren.
“What on earth…?” Cassandra whispered, her voice lost in the din. She had found her captain, but he was conducting the most inexplicable ritual she had ever imagined.
The armory, usually a place of quiet, ordered steel, had been transford into a whirlwind of frantic, organized chaos. It was less a storeroom and more a bizarre, human race being conducted at a terrifying pace.
“What are they doing?” Hilda exclaid, her eyes wide as she took in the spectacle.
Strong-bodied servants, stripped to their undertunics and glistening with sweat, moved in a relentless cycle. Organized into small teams, they sprinted from the weapon racks to one of four long trestle tables. A few of them carried armfuls of swords, others were laden with helts or bows. They slamd their burdens onto the tables and imdiately spun around to fetch the next load, their movents a blur of controlled panic.
At each table, a veteran man-at-arms worked like a man possessed. One inspector would snatch a sword, give it an expert flick to test its balance, check its integrity in record pace, and bark, “Serviceable! Next!” Another would tap a helt with a small mallet, listen to the ring, and shout, “Hairline fracture! Discard!” The words were sharp, clipped, ricocheting off the stone walls.
At the center of this storm, standing at a fifth table cluttered with inkpots and stacks of parchnt, was the Captain himself. His old servant stood beside him, and their quills flew across the pages, a frantic scratching that barely kept pace with the inspectors’ reports. Theodorus was a point of absolute stillness in the chaos he was conducting. He didn’t shout; he rely listened, his head turning, his gaze sharp and assessing, his hand occasionally shooting out to make a swift annotation on a separate ledger.
It looked like a race, but the most bizarre one Cassandra had ever seen. The teams of servants seed to be competing, shouting encouragent and insults at each other as they nearly collided in their haste.
“Move it, you snails! Team Falcon is two hauls ahead!” one servant roared, sprinting past with a load of greaves.
Just as one line of servants seed ready to collapse from exhaustion, another group burst into the armory. “Switch out! Go!” a new arrival yelled. The spent n peeled off one by one, their shoulders slumped, gasping for air, as fresh bodies took their places, sprinting for supplies as if the devil himself were on their heels.
“That looks like fun!” Hilda giggled, her delight a stark contrast to the grim-faced labor within. “What’s happening here?” she asked a pair of guards who were watching the spectacle with broad, knowing grins.
“Armory inspection, my lady,” the left one said, his amusent barely contained.
“What?” Cassandra couldn’t help but say, her gaze drawn back to the chaos. A pair of servants, their faces masks of strained effort, nearly tripped over each other as they hauled a heavy bundle of mail shirts, dodging another man who sprinted past with a drawn sword held aloft like a torch.
This wasn't how an inventory was done. A steward was supposed to spend a quiet week, perhaps two, thodically counting and noting. This… this was an assault. An efficient and unseemly violation of all decorum. And the man orchestrating it all was the sa quiet, poetic-looking captain she had tried to ensnare the night before.
“Steady your pace!” The Captain’s voice cut through the din, sharp and devoid of panic. “Any team with a man injured has their pay reduced for the day!”
“Are you sure it’s an inspection?” Even Hilda looked skeptical now. “It looks more like they’re playing a ga. They even have teams!”
“I assure you, my lady.” The guard said with a full blown smile, looking deeply amused.
Suddenly, a thin, willowy youth of soft features and pale brown hair wrapped in a ponytail materialized at their elbow. "My apologies, ladies." He said, out of breath, as he flowed around them with a dancer's grace to enter the chaotic maelstrom.
"Ah, Stefanos. You're back," The Captain turned away from his orchestra, acknowledging the entrance of the latest musician. "What did the Blacksmith say?"
A bell tolled in the distance, a high, clear note that signaled the changing of the hour. Cassandra felt a familiar knot of dread. “Mada Xenia,” she said, her voice tight. “We’ll be late.”
Hilda’s face fell. “But we were just getting to the good part!” Cassandra had to practically drag her younger cousin from the doorway, and the rest of the group also seed to have a hard ti leaving the spectacle behind, though a harsh “Co.” from Cassandra sent them on their way.
As they turned and walked away from the armory’s controlled madness, heading towards their own particular form of rigorous training, Cassandra’s mind churned.
She had co to the courtyard seeking answers about the enigmatic new captain, and had left with only more questions. He had ignored her beauty as if it were a common stone, possessed a rigid, courteous decorum, but then organized…competitive gas to accomplish serious tasks. He was a puzzle she could not solve, and that made him far more dangerous than any simple warrior. A man like that, sent here by the Prince, could be a powerful tool for House Nomikos. Or he could be a weapon aid at its heart.
Her steps beca more deliberate, her posture straightening with a cold resolve. Her duty, her entire purpose, was to protect her family, to tend to the garden of its power and prestige. She would watch this Captain Sideris. She would study his strange thods. And if this exotic new bloom in their fortress proved to be an invasive, poisonous weed, she would not hesitate to be the one to root him out.
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