Rousth’s Gear

  Amarantha continued working inside the Masters’ Palace.

  She was arranging a few items in one of the corridors when, without meaning to, a memory returned to her with sharp clarity.

  In her mind, she went back to the moment when she and the other cloth maids had been gathered before a masked man. He had stood in front of them all and spoke in a firm voice, as if he were reading out a protocol.

  “You are the Cloth Maids of Rousth’s Garden. As you already know, you are not just any kind of maids. You are exclusive employees of high prestige. Your mission is to meet the Masters’ needs and support the staff in domestic duties.”

  Amarantha remembered how he walked slowly in front of the line of women, making sure they all understood. No one moved. No one spoke. They only listened.

  “You will be assigned to different sectors of the Garden. Sometimes, depending on what the supervisor or the head maids instruct, you may rotate and move through different areas of the Garden and the Palace. But remember this: your main task is to fulfill the Masters’ needs. During their private meetings, only you will be allowed to enter. The common staff will not, so there you must perform your duties as caretakers, keepers of the place, and direct assistants for any request.”

  Then he paused and continued, without changing his tone.

  “Some of you will have exclusive arrangements with certain Masters. Others will work for the Palace in general, under the Direcrim’s orders. However, whatever the case may be, you must obey the Masters’ instructions.”

  The memory faded, and Amarantha returned to the present with her hands still busy with her work.

  As she arranged the objects, she thought coldly:

  “For now, I’m at the mercy of what the supervisor says… or the head maids.”

  Another memory overlapped almost immediately. This time, it was a concrete order, delivered without emotion by a staff chief.

  “I need you to tidy the palace corridors. Take towels to the bathrooms, remove the dirty laundry and the trash. Water the plants and feed the swans.”

  The woman had been clear, and then she added:

  “For now, focus only on the gardens of the Masters’ Palace and the rooms in the palace’s northern sector.”

  Amarantha went back to walking through the corridors, keeping the same steady pace as always. Her posture was the same as the rest of the cloth maids: straight, silent, obedient. Her hands moved with precision, without doubt or hesitation.

  I work in the palace’s northern sector, she thought.

  On that route, she moved in and out of different rooms as if it were perfectly normal. Sometimes there were meetings between Masters, and she would enter without a second thought to clean, arrange things, or serve drinks. She heard them speak of pleasures, other times of economic matters, and sometimes even of news related to Reydem.

  Sometimes they spoke of nothing important at all. They only discussed trivialities, complaints, or luxuries. But even that served her. It allowed her to measure hierarchies, rivalries, and which houses were treated with genuine respect and which only pretended.

  As she carried out her duties, one thought kept repeating insistently in her mind:

  I need to infiltrate the southern side of the palace as well.

  Over the following days, she devoted herself to listening to conversations with meticulous care. Sometimes she did it from discreet positions, without anyone noticing her presence. She would stay in a corner, still, pretending to be part of the furnishings. Other times she would enter directly under the excuse of service, feigning indifference as she poured juices or collected cups.

  With time, she began to notice something important: not all Masters shared the same intentions, nor the same level of perversion. Some were openly cruel and capricious. Others simply spoke of politics, trade, or military matters, without dirtying their hands in any visible way.

  However, Amarantha understood that this did not make them innocent. It only meant the system was broader, and far more complex.

  The Masters’ Palace was not just a place of luxury and gatherings. It was a center where the Masters came together to indulge, negotiate, and decide matters that affected the entire kingdom.

  The Direcrim, within the Kingdom of Rousth, concentrated the core of the economy of the other regions of Penteros.

  Amarantha understood it clearly: Rousth was the economic brain of the entire region.

  Masters from different houses, coming from distant territories, gathered there as representatives of their bloodlines, seeking to influence political and commercial decisions. Some came to close deals. Others came to make sure they were not left out of them.

  Not all of them were perverse in the direct sense, but many were at their core, even if they hid it behind formal speeches. And those who were not still upheld the system, because they lived off it.

  She also understood that, depending on who they were meeting with, the Masters would speak—or not speak—about certain topics. Some watched their words. Others allowed themselves to speak with complete freedom when they were among their own.

  That was why Amarantha recorded everything.

  House names. Masters’ names. Internal hierarchies. Alliances. And, above all, who held direct influence in the hunt against Reydem.

  Even though the persecution of Reydem was not an absolute priority for the Direcrim, it was still considered part of the “external threats” the system funded and monitored. It was not an urgent objective, but the extermination order still existed.

  And within that landscape, one house stood out with unmistakable clarity.

  Dumstrein.

  Eliotas was, so far, the most invested in destroying Reydem. In part because most of the field battles had taken place against houses close to Dumstrein, or tied to its influence.

  For the moment, Amarantha had already managed to leak the locations of temporary bases and troop movements toward different destinations. However, she still had not detected a concrete plan of attack. Only displacement and preparation.

  Even so, she knew she had to keep her distance.

  She had already identified certain people she needed to watch more closely, but the next step was more delicate: finding a way to drift into specific sectors of the palace without straying too far from her assigned area.

  Everything had to be calculated.

  Everything had to look normal.

  And, above all, nothing could look suspicious.

  The Weight of Status

  In a luxurious room within the palace, a group of Masters were gathered, surrounded by wines, cocktails, and trays of fruit.

  Fusuro was reclining in a wide armchair. One cloth maid was massaging his shoulders, while another fed him fruit by hand. The cloth maids had also been trained for that kind of task..

  Fusuro, Sovereign of House Susaku (37 years old)

  At Fusuro’s feet, Shuyo remained kneeling, silently massaging his feet.

  The other Masters were seated in armchairs around the central area. Pericles had a cloth maid sitting on his lap. He kissed her lips and neck while running his hands over her body with total impunity.

  Trabus had his chest exposed, and two cloth maids surrounded him, caressing him naturally. Ruptus spoke as another maid fed him fruit.

  To one side, Angelos sat normally, drinking wine alone, without touching anyone. Angelos watched Pericles, seeing him kiss and touch the cloth maid’s body with obvious passion.

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  Angelos, Sovereign of House Ludesth (40 years old)

  Then he said to him:

  “I see you’re having fun, Pericles.”

  Pericles kept kissing her and touching her. Then Angelos added, calm, with a serene smile:

  “However… isn’t it supposed to be, by Direcrim tradition, that you shouldn’t ask a cloth maid to remove her mask?”

  Pericles answered without stopping:

  “Yes, but no one is policing what can or can’t be done, right?”

  Angelos took a sip of wine.

  “The Direcrim has endured for centuries by following rules and traditions. But don’t worry. Everyone decides to do whatever they want.”

  Trabus looked at Angelos and asked him:

  “Tell me, Angelos… have you ever broken a Direcrim rule?”

  Angelos, calm, replied in his soft, smiling tone:

  “Truthfully, no. Speaking for myself, I’m someone who likes to follow the rules.”

  The conversation carried on with apparent calm until, to change the subject, Ruptus asked Trabus:

  “So you’re telling me your investments in the regions on the other side of Penteros are increasing?”

  Trabus, comfortable, let the cloth maids touch him as he answered:

  “Yes. The foreigners of Finebras enjoy the fruits and vegetables produced in Penteros. Their lands are arid—they barely grow certain foods. That’s why it’s easy to sell them products from the region across the sea.”

  Angelos raised his glass with a quiet smile:

  “Very good, Trabus. From what I can see, those trade deals with the far side of the sea have benefited you and your house. A toast to that.”

  The others raised their glasses in response. Fusuro didn’t. He kept his eyes closed, enjoying the massages as if the conversation were irrelevant.

  Pericles, as he kissed and touched the cloth maid slowly, said to Trabus:

  “In Finebras, anything you trade from across the sea will be well received. The Finebrans like everything that comes from Penteros.”

  Trabus nodded, but looked at him with interest:

  “Yes. But tell me, Pericles… many have tried, and few have managed to secure economic agreements there. Why?”

  Suddenly, Pericles stopped. He shifted the maid slightly aside and told her:

  “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”

  Then he added:

  “Because not many are interested in doing business with barbarian peoples. Lands of mercenaries and gamblers.”

  Trabus, from his comfortable position, pushed the maids away with his hands and sat up straighter. He looked at him more seriously.

  “Barbarians, mercenaries, gamblers… it doesn’t matter. What matters is the money. Don’t you think?”

  Ruptus, noticing the tension, raised a hand and spoke calmly:

  “Each house seeks its own way to expand its territory and its influence in order to elevate status. What matters is not losing who we are, and preserving the legacy.”

  Trabus looked at him.

  “That’s what matters, isn’t it?”

  Pericles replied without backing down:

  “Yes. Everyone does what they want. Personally, I wouldn’t get involved with low-status kingdoms.”

  Trabus rose from his chair abruptly. Pericles did the same. But before either of them could say anything, a voice stopped them:

  “Enough!”

  It was Fusuro. He hadn’t moved. He still had his eyes closed as he received the massages, as if he didn’t even care about the scene, but his tone was enough to cut through the air.

  Fusuro spoke calmly, without opening his eyes:

  “Trabus… fifth heir of House Trideh, region of Herides. A house that funds itself by trading with other minor houses. You export fruit to Finebras to make deals with poor villagers, low-class mercenaries, and tavern gamblers.”

  Trabus looked at him seriously, but held himself back. Fusuro continued, now addressing Pericles:

  “Pericles… House Brinsty, region of Tromher. Supposedly economic agreements with great houses. Exports of corn or wheat, something like that. They claim to have power and influence, yet they serve as bootlickers to the feudal Master of House Tudeth.”

  His voice grew even drier. Pericles didn’t respond; he went rigid. Fusuro barely turned his head toward Ruptus:

  “Ruptus… House Leingish, region of Trederath. The same. A couple of economic agreements, but always under the shadow of House Petrabish.”

  Then he let out a phrase with contempt:

  “And Shuyo… not even worth mentioning.”

  Shuyo didn’t stop. He kept massaging Fusuro’s feet in silence, as if he had no right to exist in that conversation. The three Masters remained tense.

  Fusuro, still enjoying the massage, added:

  “You boast about your houses’ status without understanding that you’re nothing but the shadow of what you try to appear to be. But don’t worry. I value you more than you think. That’s why, in one of the main projects I’ll be leading on iron and gold mines, I’ll involve you. That way you can raise your houses’ status.”

  The Masters looked at one another. Their faces were still tense, but they didn’t argue anymore. Angelos stepped in to break the awkwardness:

  “That’s good. A toast to that news, which will benefit everyone.”

  Ruptus raised his cup:

  “To the alliance.”

  The others repeated the word:

  “Yes! To the alliance.”

  Fusuro let out a low laugh.

  “Alliance? No... You’ll be working for me.”

  The atmosphere tightened again for a second. Then Fusuro added, with an almost mocking smile:

  “But cheer up. This will benefit you more than you think. And that’s why we’ll celebrate.”

  He sat up abruptly, brushing the cloth maids aside with a gesture:

  “That’s enough. Shuyo, bring the gift. In the palace, power isn’t celebrated with words, but with pleasure.”

  Shuyo obeyed immediately. Fusuro walked to an inner door and opened it. Inside the adjoining room were several naked women, adorned with accessories resembling Egyptian-style outfits. The men were stunned.

  Fusuro smiled:

  “I’m giving you this little gift to begin the celebration of this new project—and your participation in it. Enjoy.”

  The Masters stepped closer and began gathering around them.

  “Holy mother… they’re Eldyanas…” Trabus murmured.

  Shuyo tried to take a step forward toward one of them, but Fusuro stopped him cold:

  “Not you.”

  Shuyo stood still, limiting himself to watching. Two women approached Angelos. He rose calmly and, gently, guided them aside.

  “Well,” he said. “I think it’s time for me to leave.”

  Fusuro looked at him, with a woman wrapped around his waist:

  “What is it, Angelos? You always turn women away?”

  Angelos paused at the door. He didn’t turn right away. Then he answered with a calm, amused face:

  “I like to enjoy other ways.”

  Fusuro let out a laugh:

  “Your loss.”

  Angelos left and closed the door behind him. The cloth maids who had remained in the room stayed still, waiting for instructions.

  Inside, the night went on. It would be a night of celebration and pleasure.

  Ashes in the Vigil

  On a hill, deep into the night, Félix and Torken’s squadron was stationed. Several days had passed since their victory against the troops of House Optlis.

  The camp was made up of temporary tents scattered across different points of the hillside. Men were drinking and resting near several campfires, gathered in small circles. In some areas there was laughter; in others, only silence and low murmurs.

  At one of those fires, Félix was sitting with four men of Reydem, talking.

  Félix, Sapphire Division (40 years old)

  One of them was telling an anecdote, laughing as he spoke:

  “So I told her, ‘Come here, babe, and grab this piece I’ve got between my legs.’ And she said, ‘I can’t, because I’m a priestess.’”

  The others started laughing.

  The man went on:

  “I told her, ‘No one has to know about this.’ So I went up to her, touched her between the legs, and tell me—she couldn’t resist, that priestess. I fucked her, and afterward she couldn’t get her hands off my cock. Hahahaha!”

  The man kept laughing while the others joined in with loud cackles.

  Another one chimed in:

  “Yeah, priestesses are the worst. Once you open the flower, they never leave you alone afterward.”

  They laughed as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

  A third added:

  “Lucky bastards, getting to fuck a priestess. I never got the chance.”

  Then, still laughing, he said:

  “Now the next time I go to the temple and see a priestess, I’m gonna invite her over and see if she wants to grab my dick. See if I can bring out her wild slut side.”

  The laughter rose again.

  Félix laughed too, though more lightly. Meanwhile, he glanced at Torken.

  A short distance away, by another campfire, Torken was alone. Sitting in silence, still, staring into the flames without looking away, as if he were thinking about something.

  Félix stood up.

  “Well, your stories were funny, gentlemen, but I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to bed.”

  And before he walked off, he added:

  “Wish me luck. Maybe tonight I’ll dream I’m fucking some priestess.”

  The others laughed.

  “Yeah, good luck with that, Félix.”

  “Good night.”

  Félix walked over to where Torken was and sat down beside him. He stayed quiet for a moment, staring at the fire as well.

  Torken, Sapphire Division (40 years old)

  Then he spoke to him:

  “So… how’s the night going?”

  Torken replied without taking his eyes off the fire:

  “That’s a very open question. What would you expect me to say?”

  Félix looked at him.

  “Well, let’s just say I’ve seen you sitting there, staring at the fire, while everyone else celebrates the victory. Some talk about visiting their families, others drink to have fun, to drown their sorrows… and others talk about what it’s like to fuck the priestesses.”

  Félix paused, then continued:

  “Everyone does something to distract themselves after a battle we won. A battle where we don’t know what will happen tomorrow. And yet you… there you are. Still. Alone. Just staring at a campfire.”

  Torken kept watching the flames. Then he replied:

  “The night is intense, lonely, and dark.”

  Then he turned his eyes to Félix and added:

  “Have I answered your question?”

  Félix looked away, frustrated.

  “Why does everything with you have to be about plans, missions, and strategy? What about having a conversation for once that isn’t about that? Clearing your head. Getting distracted.”

  Torken looked at him.

  “I didn’t come to this war to make friends.”

  Félix sighed.

  “Anyway. Whatever you say, Torken.”

  He stood up.

  Already on his feet, about to leave, he said:

  “I’ve known you for a long time. And let me tell you—war has changed you a lot. My advice is: don’t let this consume you and make you lose who you are.”

  Félix started to walk away.

  “Félix!”

  Félix stopped.

  Torken spoke:

  “Tomorrow we move to Rinnerhot.”

  Félix turned and looked at him.

  “And that sudden change of plans?”

  “I received a manuscript from Víctor,” Torken replied, “reporting several sightings of troops from certain houses and, above all, activity there. It’s likely we’ll have to intervene. First, we wait for further instructions.”

  Félix frowned.

  “Interfere in Rinnerhot? Lands of the feudal Master Furher… the most dangerous of the Masters?”

  Torken didn’t hesitate.

  “We’re not on Furher’s radar yet. We won’t interfere with him or his allies. These are only preparations for what we’ll do next.”

  Félix clenched his jaw.

  “How can we be so sure?”

  Torken answered:

  “Amarantha managed to infiltrate the palace without any issues, and she’s already delivered relevant information. From now on, our plans can keep shifting depending on what she feeds us.”

  Then he added:

  “So tomorrow morning I’ll need your help notifying everyone and the sentries that we’re leaving this place.”

  Félix looked down, then looked back at him.

  “Whatever you say, Torken.”

  He turned to leave.

  But Torken spoke one more time:

  “War has never changed me.”

  Félix stood still, his back to him.

  Torken continued:

  “I was always like this.”

  Félix didn’t turn around. He only replied:

  “If you say so.”

  And he walked away, leaving Torken alone in front of the fire.