The Hand No One Watched
Canardia
It was already dark when Lansius’ carriage entered the city unannounced and without fanfare. They did not bring the hundred riders, who instead returned to the hill camp to debrief and get a proper night’s rest. In essence, this trip had been a short military campaign, just without the battle, and with a growing army came many new recruits, which meant mistakes, hiccups, and unsatisfactory conduct that needed to be addressed. However, based on the reports from Sterling and Karl, everything was progressing as expected. Francisca also supported that assessment with word from her Orange Skalds.
Despite earlier doubts about placing a half-breed in the role of spymaster, Francisca had proved to be a bold yet sensible choice. Unlike humans, she was capable of remaining awake even at odd hours to read reports as they arrived and immediately check on matters, sometimes going straight to the optical telegraph to send questions or confirmations instead of waiting for first light. Because of this, much of the information she gathered was more complete and thorough by the time Lansius received it.
Francisca herself, like her kin, took only short, light periods of rest whenever nothing urgent demanded her attention.
Any human would have fallen sick following her work schedule, but for her, it was ordinary, even easy, compared to a long sentry duty.
Now, Francisca wore a large traveling cloak to hide herself as she sat beside the coachman. The cloak would never work in daylight, but at night like this, few would notice.
With just three carts moving without haste and leaving space between each, and only a few mounted guards as escort, their presence did not draw as much attention as one might expect. People still turned to look and whispered among themselves about who the travelers might be, but without any certainty. After all, Canardia had grown into a large city with lords, dignitaries, and important persons living within its walls, meaning carriages and escorts were nothing unusual, even at late hours like this.
Lansius’ carriage rode slowly through the still-bustling city without attracting a crowd. Even outside the market district, many lights remained lit, proof of steady economic activity. There were taverns and small watering holes, various shops, and even parlors offering services. The alley entrances had turned into nighttime food corners, with stalls serving all kinds of delicacies. Even without opening the window, Lansius could imagine the smell of chopped onions and spices mingling with roasted meat drifting in the air.
As they neared an intersection where one road led toward the crowded market area, lines of people moved about in search of snacks, trinkets, or entertainment. But at the other side of the intersection, Lansius noticed a different kind of crowd forming near the bailiff’s complex. There was no cheer there, only a quiet, somber air hanging over them.
He glanced inside the carriage and saw Mother Arryn asleep with Gilly, both tired. The firm stone road made for a smoother ride than the unpaved paths they had traveled earlier. Audrey, however, remained sharp and alert, watching through the window opposite his.
“Drey, can you see what is happening over there?” he asked in a low tone.
Audrey turned toward his window and easily spotted the gathering. “Ah, it must be the vigil.”
“Vigil...?” Lansius frowned.
Audrey nodded. “Pilgrims.”
The answer struck Lansius. “But why here?”
“I don’t want you to blame yourself, but remember your bloodied armor from the rebellion? You gave it to the bailiff, right?”
“Yes, it’s for evidence.”
“The pilgrims heard about it and gathered at the entrance just to catch a glimpse of it. Day by day, they place candles and wreaths of flowers. It was probably too much, and it happens every day, so the bailiff made a pedestal to keep everything tidy.”
The answer made Lansius press his temples with his hand and turn his thoughts inward.
Indeed, a portion of the population had begun to worship him, and that troubled him deeply. He had opened communication with them through intermediaries and had even met some directly, but it offered no solution.
Many believed he was simply marked for greatness. His black hair, once a symbol of foreignness and a cause for suspicion, had turned into a revered sign from the Ancients. Even the way he had chosen his wife, Audrey, once a humble squire and later revealed as the Baroness of Korimor, was seen as an omen of greater destinies.
Damn them. Can’t they see her hips, her smug smile, and those beautiful, death-inducing eyes? I’d take her over any noble lady. And those glorious…
His mind drifted back to what had happened at the small stream between Bellandia and Ceresia.
Audrey seemed to sense something and glanced at him with an inquiring look. Lansius forced a small cough, took her hand, and massaged it warmly, letting her know everything was alright.
She gave him the space to think while, outside, their carriage rolled past the bailiff complex.
While the Ageless One and the Imperium had abolished religion and prevented any organized faith, belief, and superstition still thrived. With the Ageless gone for nearly three hundred years, even Midlandia had grown its own Monastery and Saints without repercussion.
Even now, scholars debated the teachings of the Ancients, the notion of a true maker, and even more radical ideas, such as whether the Ancients had ever been real at all or whether the stories were inventions of the Elves to give them superiority over humans.
And now Lansius found himself entangled in all this. Worse, the war with the Monastery had pushed him into the light, making the conflict seem like a struggle between an old faith and a new one.
The pilgrims saw him not as a noble, but as someone beyond ordinary mortals. Many even whispered that he carried the blood of a Grand Progenitor.
Lansius drew a deep breath while Audrey continued to watch him with a steady gaze. “I fear this’ll become complicated.” He met her eyes. “Why did the chief never tell me about that? And you as well?”
“The chief bailiff thought it helped, since it lent his court an added air of authority.”
Lansius could only exhale noisily. He then recalled how stubborn the pilgrims could be. In their first meeting, they had told him that blessings did not require him to be aware of them.
“You are blessed by the Ancients,” they had said.
“We are here to see the man blessed by the Ancients,” another repeated, again and again.
Both made it clear this was not something Lansius could control.
Their devotion required no acceptance on his part, for it was never about him. It was about the blessing. He was merely the vessel.
Even if Lansius denied it, the blessing remained valid in their eyes. They had come for the blessing, not for the man. Thus, it became almost impossible to dissuade them.
Still, he could not deny it had its uses. At the very least, it gave him a solid base of support to counter those still too proud to accept a foreign-born lord. History offered him little guidance in this matter. Most rulers embraced such devotion, even leaned on it.
But he knew better. He was only human. Humans made mistakes. Humans grew old, dull, even senile. The last thing he wanted was a crowd of yes-men who saw him as flawless. That would be the death of any administration.
“This cult of personality will come to haunt us,” he muttered.
“You fear too much,” came the reply, solid and measured, her beautiful eyes watching him with quiet care.
“If it comes to that,” she added, “you can always rely on me. I am certain I can talk some sense into them.” Her eyes radiated, just slightly, toward gold.
Lansius immediately shook his head. “Drey, promise me you will not. They even picked me even when I had nothing. If they ever saw your eyes or heard the truth of what you have done, they would worship you too.”
Audrey took a moment to think before quipping to lighten the mood, “Lans, every woman loves attention. And I think I would enjoy being worshipped, certainly more than you. I will tell them to start work on my land and deliver me grains, wine, and honey.”
Lansius sighed and chuckled lightly, careful not to wake Mother Arryn or the baby. “I give up.”
Probably only Valerie would understand. Where to even begin explaining the danger of such worship?
“Good, let us not talk about this topic,” Audrey said. “Ah, the castle entrance is near.”
Just as she said, the castle gate and its outer curtain wall loomed ahead of them.
***
Lansius
As Audrey and Mother Arryn carried baby Gilly carefully toward the master chamber, Lansius took reports directly from Sir Omin. The Banneret assured him that nothing critical was amiss and that Lord Robert, Lady Astrid, and the three young ladies, Lady Ella, Lady Eleanor, and Lady Tanya, were all in good health and well protected. Meanwhile, Francisca received her own set of reports from her kin and the Orange Skalds. With nothing urgent demanding attention, Lansius retired to the guest chamber.
When he reached the guest chamber, the usual servant and maid greeted him. Lansius found it airy and clean. The lantern was already lit, and nothing appeared out of place. Still, Margo and two guards gave it a thorough inspection while Lansius waited outside.
Only when they finished did Lansius step inside, saying, "Margo, you must be sleepy. Just put more jugs of water on the table, and that will be all."
The squire dipped his head deeply and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
Lansius finally released the pent-up exhaustion from the long journey and undressed. Even inside the carriage, he had worn a brigandine lined with a single metal plate. It resembled a modern carrier plate, and since the metal sheet did not need to overlap like traditional designs, it stayed much lighter. Being made from the first successful batch of steel from the crucible house, it could still withstand blades and stop anything short of a full-size crossbow bolt from fully penetrating.
Naturally, it was not as protective as a full plate, but it was easy to wear and far gentler on the body. If he had worn a bulky brigandine, it would have made him look as if he expected an ambush, which would ruin the sense of peace he was trying to build.
Chest bare except for the silver necklace with the gemstone of strength, Lansius splashed his face with the still-warm water in the silver basin. Using a coarse cloth and a little scented floral oil, he wiped down his body. He did not know what herbs they mixed into it aside from the flower oil, but it felt soothing and clean, not sticky or greasy.
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After drying himself, changing his clothes, and brushing his teeth, he finally collapsed onto the bed. Its brass springs were soft and bouncy, and the linens smelled of flowers and sunlight. Valerie’s scent had been washed out of them, and he did not know how to feel about that.
No. Don’t even think about it.
He reined in his imagination. After a week of sleeping in a different chamber each night and being stuck in carriages, he was mentally exhausted. Strangely, the command tent he had used on campaign had offered more comfort than any of these rooms. But what bothered him most was that, with Mother Arryn and the baby naturally sharing their space, he and Audrey had no chance to be alone.
Still, it did not trouble him too much. And it was not as if riding in a carriage was anywhere near as exhausting as marching on foot like he had done last year.
“Man, I’m getting soft,” he muttered to himself.
Staring at the ceiling, he said, “I need to train again. Last time, with the assassin and the rebellion, was too damn close for comfort.”
Feeling drowsy, he drank a cup of water, checked that his sword was within reach, returned to the bed, and pulled the blanket up. For safety, the lantern was placed in the corner, giving off only a faint light to fill the room without brightening the bed.
It was probably only around eight o’clock, but sleep finally pulled him in.
...
Sometime before midnight, he woke, as he often did when he slept too early. He was not concerned. He knew he would drift off again soon. Without him realizing it, Audrey was already there, sharing his bed.
He could not resist and wrapped his arms around her.
“Mm… you are awake?” she murmured.
“Gilly?” he asked, enjoying her warmth.
“I fed him well. He will be fine until dawn.”
Just like that, the two of them continued their sleep until an hour or two after midnight. As was natural for people of their era, their bodies followed the habit of waking in the middle of the night, the quiet pause that sat between the first and second sleep.
Lansius, still with sleepy eyes, pressed himself against her, and Audrey embraced him, her arms warm around his back.
It eased them into a quiet conversation. “Say,” she began, “do you want me like this, or should I start slimming down?”
“Mm…?” He wasn’t sure what she meant.
“It’s not gluttony if I keep it,” she said softly. “I want to work it into muscle instead of losing it.”
“Muscle?” he echoed, unsure if he had heard her right.
“Yes. I am still fat right now because of the pregnancy. Most ladies slim down afterward, and many have suggested that already, but I am thinking of training and turning it into strength. Unless you do not like this figure.”
“Drey,” he whispered with full conviction, “thick in the right places is always better.”
She blinked in surprise, then slowly went in for a kiss. His answer had clearly pleased her.
To Lansius, a little more in the right places was perfect. And even now, her figure remained shapely, complementing her height in a way he could not help but admire.
Height?
Lansius only then realized that he often saw her seem slightly taller. “Drey, are you still growing taller?” he asked as she settled on his chest, with him caressing her hair.
She frowned. “Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s a good thing,” he reassured her. “But do women or men even keep growing at our age?”
“I’m not sure,” she pondered. Then her lips curved into a grin. “But honestly, I want to be as tall as you if I can. I want to look you in the eye when we speak.”
He was amused by that answer, then remembered her earlier request. “Why do you want more muscle anyway?”
She met his eyes, her gaze surprisingly innocent. “For battle, of course. I want to handle a greatsword like Sir Morton.”
Lansius snorted. He had probably just signed his own death warrant.
“Will you be my training partner?” she asked, exactly as he expected.
He chuckled before replying, eyes closed, “I still love my limbs.”
She giggled and shifted a little closer. “How about here? Shall we… train?”
Lansius opened his eyes and met her warm gaze, then moved over her gently. She loosened her simple night robe and revealed the translucent white silken nightgown beneath it, plain except for a thin trim along the top and hem.
A different one? Just how many did Valerie order?
Only then did he realize Audrey had put another lantern on the table, closer to the bed. She had prepared for this.
Yet she turned her face aside. Wearing something that sheer was, in its own way, more embarrassing than wearing nothing. He pulled her robe aside and watched her closely. There was nothing wrong with her body. Her added weight only made her slightly soft, while her arms were toned but not muscular.
Sword training shaped the body to be lean and agile, not bulky.
That was likely the last clear thought he had before both of them surrendered themselves to desire.
***
Imperium Eastern Border, Edessa
A new day dawned over the serene eastern fringes of Edessa. After a harvest season that offered as much as the land was willing to give, folk across the towns and farming villages were up on ladders, patching their thatched roofs, fixing windows, and mending the fences in their fallow fields in preparation for the coming winter. Some went to the orchards, for a few late-blooming trees still held fruit ready to be taken. Others were making fermented food for the winter, a staple in many homes.
Meanwhile, some, having already secured their homes and land, went fishing or visited the provincial city for goods and services.
This time of year was the most peaceful. Even with the fall of the Imperium and the civil war in Midlandia, the people of Edessa lived in considerable tranquility.
Out here on the fringes, pressed against one of the Eastern Kingdoms, the Imperium meant little to their daily lives. Thus, the news of the scorched Capital did not shake them much. People talked and discussed it on the streets or over the dining table, but the tone was not one of fear or panic, but simply news from afar.
For many, their nearly self-sufficient Margravate was a whole different reality.
Nobody who lived there was familiar with the Imperium as a whole. None but a few had ever visited the Capital. Even the stories of the Ageless Emperor were treated as children’s tales, honored for tradition’s sake only.
Thus, there was no panic or even concern amongst the populace. Even the poorest understood the news had nothing to do with them. Some even welcomed it.
There was growing support among the low nobility and the wealthy class for the ruling house to declare independence and gain autonomy and freedom from the Imperium's taxes. The sentiment was that they had been levied coins for nothing. As a matter of fact, little had come from the Capital in three hundred years.
There had been only stagnation.
Meanwhile, every Edessan who was part of the nobility had spent their youth in the border garrison as men-at-arms. Their Houses, who had been successful entrepreneurs, owning large swaths of private farms, orchards, workshops, or their own animal holdings, still could not escape the obligation. Thus, the notion that they still had to pay tax to the Capital was revolting, if not outright insulting.
The old rule was deeply disliked, and over the centuries, many had married into Midlandian Houses and migrated out of the province while still retaining their family holdings.
This loophole remained unaddressed for centuries, with officials from the Capital taking bribes and turning a blind eye.
Still, even with the flow of nobles and their wealth toward Midlandia and without assistance from the Imperium, Edessa continued to grow. Trade to Navalnia, once scant, had become profitable after roads and resting places were built. In competition with neighboring Midlandia, provincial rules were added, and regulations relaxed, bypassing much of the archaic Imperium bureaucracy.
With these favorable changes, trade flourished.
Salt, incense, and spices from faraway islands were brought by Navalnian traders into Edessa to be traded for linens, silk, glass beads, and hard cheese. Many of the spices were considerable luxuries and gained premium prices in the Imperium. As the first intermediaries, the province gained great wealth from such trade. And more than simply making the effort to trade more, they had discovered that the scarcity drove prices higher. They had since banded together in a bid to control the market from the shadows. And the Margrave was all too happy to back them and pocketed the lion's share of the profit.
It was not without issue. With invented scarcity at play, smuggling and the black market thrived, which the Margrave’s men combated in a game of cat and mouse.
But beyond that, everything was quiet.
The land fallowed and green. The granary filled. The mead tasted sweet.
Yet, when the air was barely chill, in one of the eastern villages mostly unconnected by road, where travelers were rarely seen, and little ever happened, rich standards in bold, striking colors rose into view as they crested the distant hill.
"Chief, this is serious, a noble is coming to visit," one uttered, hat clenched in a hand darkened by soot. He had been cooking breakfast when this happened.
"What the kids told us since yesterday is true," his neighbor added. His kids were among the few who had spotted groups of men in the nearby forest.
"Shouldn't we make preparations?" another suggested hastily, knowing a noble could be brutal if villagers failed to welcome them.
"But why?" the aging but not yet hunched chief countered in confusion while trying to look across the distant plains from the porch of his house, searching for the banners they spoke of. "Even a hunting expedition would not stray this far into our village," he muttered.
In his long life, no nobles aside from an old squire had ever visited their village. They had no reason to. Only officials from the nearest manor ever came, and they grumbled when the village had little to give. Living on the fringes was not a choice. The land was rocky and harsh. Only vegetables, rye, and barley could survive. They even needed to get flour for making white bread from a distant neighboring village.
However, even with his aging eyes, he could slowly perceive colors in the distance. Meanwhile, more of his people from the houses surrounding the village came running toward his home, which was already crowded with dozens of adults, not including the children who seemed to find joy in this impromptu morning gathering that pulled them away from the dull routine.
"Men on horses are coming," one of the approaching villagers shouted with ragged breath.
The village’s baker came to them, asking, "Who is coming? Are they wearing hunting clothing?"
"Do they carry crossbows?" the old stone mason next to the Chief asked.
"I... I didn't get a good look at them."
"We were fishing at the pond when we saw them," his friend answered between heavy breaths. "Do you think they're using our woods as a hunting ground?"
The Chief looked concerned, then looked at his people and said, "Get all your kids accounted for. Ask whether they saw their siblings or a neighbor wander into the woods. If yes, tell us, and we'll send a party. Pray to the Ancients that we find them before things get hairy."
Then, turning to his second son, he said, "Get the white flour your brother got from bartering last week and take it to the baker." He turned to the baker, who gave him a firm nod and rushed to his oven. The rest did the same. They knew better than to welcome a noble empty-handed, especially after a harvest.
As the villagers scrambled to prepare a welcome or retrieve their missing children in the forest, two groups of horsemen entered the village while another circled it at a gallop with unclear intent.
When the Chief saw that some of them were armored, he knew he had made a terrible mistake.
Old men who had gathered in the plaza to welcome the guests exchanged glances, knowing something was amiss.
But they were too late.
The powerful thundering hooves of horses drove children into their mothers' embrace before the first group of nineteen halted. Ten riders dismounted and began to surround the villagers. Others moved toward the people’s houses with unclear intentions. Many wore ringmail and gambeson and carried spears and swords. When they opened their mouths, it was clear from their accent that they were not from Edessa.
"Men gather on the left, women on the right. Children go with the women," ordered the one who stepped forward, clad in dark blue brigandine.
"Move now. We have little patience," another man in polished ringmail added, his hand resting on the hilt.
But their voices were soon overshadowed by the approaching second group of riders. Their hats and clothing, even the decorations on their horses’ bardings, were exotic to the villagers’ eyes.
Amid the neighing and the clop of hooves, the man with authority rode forward, still in his saddle, and addressed the villagers who were unsure what to do. "Who is the chief?" he asked calmly.
The old man nervously raised his hand just enough.
"Congratulations," the man said, his voice silky yet carried by a thick, foreign accent. "You are fortunate to be taken by our Master, His Excellency the Prince. You will offer him your unquestionable loyalty. Pray that he is merciful, that he will spare your life and not separate a child from his mother."
Hearing that, many let out panicked gasps. The villagers pressed together out of fear and disbelief. They instinctively knew their lives were at stake.
More men riders and began to methodically search every house in the village. The first wave had already found the baker and the others and dragged them out, accepting no excuse.
"I beg your pardon," the Chief dared to say, "we are just humble farmers. We do not understand."
"Peasants," the man on the saddle said as his restless horse shifted beneath him. He guided the animal a few steps closer to the shaking, nervous crowd, then leaned toward the old Chief and whispered slowly, as if sharing a cruel joke, "Understand this. We. Are. At. War."
Hearing him, the riders around him laughed loudly, while the children cried without even understanding, reacting only to their parents’ fear and panic.
The man on the horse straightened himself in the saddle, then added in his normal voice, "Do you know what happens in war?"
The chief, already terrified, shook his head while his people clutched their children tight, doing their best not to offend these warriors.
"As I said before, you are fortunate. Our Master needs a base camp for the invasion, and you will offer him your humble village and your loyalty. Be grateful, you will be the first to join the Empire." He turned his head to the march of approaching troops in the distance. Soon, they would build thousands of tents for the advance guard.
"W… what will happen to this village?" the Chief asked, not daring to meet the man’s eyes.
The man raised a finger to his lips as if to shush him. "Do not worry about mundane things. This is all but your previous life. Think about your next one. Even old, you will pledge the last of your years in service to the Prince’s Royal House. Worry about that, not these rotting hovels you call houses. And believe me when I say you are fortunate."
His voice and rhythm were so alluring and keen that the listeners knew he wanted them to be curious. Curious enough to look him in the eye, wanting answers.
Only now did they truly see him. The man, in his thirties, had a long and pale yet hard face, with a long gash on one cheek, and he sported a curling moustache and a hat bespoke with strings of pearls. He looked at them with a gentle yet unsettling gaze. "The other villages and towns will not be as fortunate. I hope you do not have family in the neighboring towns. Because before the day ends, they are going to reduce them to cinders and ashes."
As he spoke, sporadic trumpets drifted across the distance as six packs, each roughly a thousand irregular horsemen, poured over the hill and flooded the green landscape. Even at that distance, it was easy to see that their movements were uneven and unruly. Some groups carried banners, others did not. Some spurred their mounts forward, eager to descend, while others lagged behind, riding with a careless ease.
They were the freebooters, the plunderers, the raiders. Unpaid horsemen who joined the war for the chance of plunder, loot, captives, and whatever goods they could seize, including women and children.
The invasion of the Imperium by the Navalnia Empire had begun.
***
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