Chapter 191: The Beginning of a Dance

Chapter 191: The Beginning of a Dance

The Beginning of a Dance

Ingrid stood in the damp cellar, clutching her hands as she witnessed the exchange between Lady Audrey and the prisoner. The air felt suffocating, though she couldn’t tell if it was from the physical space or something more sinister. As if possessed, the prisoner screamed in terror, his body writhing in agony while Francisca and Farkas held him fast against the iron pillory.

And all that, to most, would seem caused by a mere stare. A Hunter’s Eyes, they believed. But Ingrid knew it was something far beyond that—something even a trained mage like her couldn’t fully comprehend.

Whatever it was, the prisoner’s reaction was evidence of immense pain. The way his back arched, his entire body convulsing as if struck by lightning, was beyond faking. His screams tore from his throat—high-pitched and animalistic, filled with the fear of someone losing everything.

Ingrid’s heart pounded, fearing the man would drop dead at any moment. Something was tearing at his source, burning from within.

Suddenly, the prisoner’s body sagged forward, his limbs going limp, his face utterly drained, his breathing shallow and ragged. The arrow wound in his chest seeped blood through his tattered tunic.

Ingrid’s heart raced as she glanced at Lady Audrey, who stood unblinking, her gaze now returned to normal.

The prisoner, slumped and broken, continued to heave shallow breaths. The look in his eyes said it all—he would tell them everything, anything, to stop the pain. He tried to mutter something, prompting Ingrid to step forward. The prisoner had been injured in the chest, and his source was likely compromised, making it unlikely for him to wield magic—but there was always a risk. For any seasoned mage, taking air from someone's breath at close range was child's play—one reason why they were, ironically, the better assassins.

Certainly, Lady Audrey could hold her own, but Ingrid wouldn’t allow such a thing to happen to her.

“Speak,” the Lady commanded, her voice chillingly cold.

The single word sent the prisoner shivering and trembling uncontrollably. "I’ll answer, I’ll answer, anything."

The staff exchanged glances, surprised and amazed that the Lady’s stare had broken the prisoner’s stubbornness.

Farkas had told them that the jailers had already tried a few techniques to convince the mage to speak, but they had proven useless. The man was defiant, clearly conditioned not to answer upon capture. Despite being injured and stuck in the pillory, he could evidently still draw strength and offer resistance. As a result, the jailers requested permission from Farkas to employ stronger measures.

However, they were also concerned they might kill the prisoner outright, especially with the arrowhead lodged inside him. This was why Farkas consulted the Lady directly, leading to the current situation.

Now, against all expectations, just as the prisoner was about to speak, Lady Audrey redoubled her efforts. Her eyes glowed once more, and instantly, the prisoner recoiled, trembling in fresh waves of pain.

"My Lady," Ingrid urged, feeling compelled to intervene, "he’s willing to speak."

“I heard,” the Lady replied, her gaze still locked on the prisoner as his screams filled the cellar. “But just in case he tries to lie.”

The iron pillory rattled as the prisoner desperately tried to escape, his screams growing louder. No matter how strong he might have been, Francisca and Farkas held him firm. His eyes, wide, reddened, and filled with agony, seemed frozen—unable to close, no matter how hard he tried.

"My Lady, you're hurting his source," Ingrid tried again.

"Then there's less chance of him hurting one of us," the Lady replied with scorn, but relented, stopping her stare.

The prisoner, as before, slumped, his body limp and drenched in sweat. Without pausing for breath, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. His eyes darted frantically around the room, briefly landing on Ingrid. She could see the raw fear on his face, pleading to be freed from the pain. There was no fight left in him, no pride.

Suddenly, he found his voice. "I'll answer. I'll answer." His words were slurred as if his tongue were too heavy to articulate properly.

The Lady clicked her tongue. "You're probably going to feed me lies and make me ask twice. Maybe a little more of this will help. It’s just a stare, after all—it shouldn’t hurt."

The prisoner's face contorted, his chest heaving, more blood seeping into his tunic, tears streaming down his face. He was clearly breaking.

Ingrid noticed something more: the man’s source was flickering like embers losing their flame. She wondered if this was the cause of the pain and the ethereal burning heat she felt.

Then it hit her—she had been struggling with her own magic for some time. Her source had become harder to wield, more elusive, and scarce. She’d thought it was because of her age or the natural limits of her source. But now she remembered that it had first happened in Umberland, the night of the half-beast ambush—the same night she’d seen the Lady’s eyes glow for the first time. A chill ran through her.

"My Lady, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in the corner," Ingrid said as calmly as possible, not wanting to offend the Lady.

The Lady turned to her and nodded. "You may wait outside if you wish."

Her eyes, once terrifying, were now warm and caring. It seemed her control over them had improved since studying magic under Ingrid, and that realization filled Ingrid with both pride and relief.

Ingrid bowed her head and reassured her, "No, I'll stay right behind."

"Please," the prisoner’s desperate plea filled the chamber. "Please," he repeated, offering nothing more as if that word was all he could manage.

"Fine," the Lady said, and Farkas promptly brought her a chair. She sat down, leaving Francisca to hold the prisoner.

"Time. Slowly. My tongue... hard to speak," the man struggled to explain, his effort palpable.

"Fetch him a drink," the Lady instructed, sitting back in her chair.

They gave him several minutes and two cups of water before the Lady heaved a sigh. The man’s back jolted in response. "I-I'm being ordered by the Lord of Edessa. I'm a mage for hire. I do things for money. I came with a hunter, a woman. Then, a male hunter joined us several nights ago. That man is the one who fought the Lord of Korelia."

The Lady raised an eyebrow. "You said, the Lord of Edessa?"

"Yes, I met his steward directly. He paid me."

"How much?" she inquired.

"I-I received seven gold coins, and he promised me eleven more after the job was done."

"Eighteen gold coins!" the Lady snapped. "You tried to kill my husband for eighteen gold coins?"

Only then did the mage realize who he was facing: the Lady of Korimor. It was as if a part of his soul left his body. His eyes lost focus, his mouth hung open, frozen in fear. The sight was disturbing enough that Farkas shook him until the prisoner mage blinked back into reality, trembling.

"My Lady, My Lady," he stammered, and in a moment of desperate genius, he added, "Your humble servant was a fool to accept. But they paid the hunter more than me. It’s worth far more than just eighteen—probably if combined, closer to a hundred gold."

Somehow, the mention of a higher price on the Lord’s life seemed to appease the Lady.

"It was a bad, bad deal. I feel deceived. I’d never consider it again, not even for a thousand gold and a manor." His tone carried a hint of honesty.

The Lady smirked. "It seems you've found your voice. Now, my good canary, sing me a song. Tell me who’s truly responsible for this grave mistake, because I'll plan a visit."

The mage gulped and quickly said, "It's the ruling House of Edessa, no doubt."

"I’m looking forward to that, but let’s not use the eyes against me," the half-breed teased.

"Why?" the Lady asked.

"It’s too scary! I don’t want to be seen writhing in agony," Francisca giggled, wagging her tail happily.

The Lady chuckled softly as they reached the wooden stairs.

Farkas stood straight and bowed his head. "Please look after the Lord, My Lady," he said, more out of formality, without expecting an answer.

"Rest assured, I will not fail," the Lady replied firmly. With Francisca's assistance, they ascended the stairs.

Her words caused Farkas to take a deep breath, clearing his thoughts. Then, one of his assistants, a Black Bandit member, reported, "One of our affiliates recognized the dead woman. They traced her to an inn. The innkeeper confirmed there were only three of them. Two had been renting rooms for more than a month, and the other just arrived."

"It fits," Farkas remarked. "Perhaps there are only three, and they acted alone without support."

"Is it possible to do something like this without a support group?" the assistant mused aloud.

"They’re either overly confident in their strength, or they worked alone to prevent leaks."

"A frightening opponent," the assistant muttered.

"Indeed." Farkas turned to him and said, "You’re smart, born into an esquire’s family, and talented with a gittern."

"Captain, why do you speak like that?" the man asked, troubled and suspicious.

"The guards let not one, but three assassins into the city," Farkas replied grimly.

"But Captain, you're not to blame. We weren’t dealing with that."

"Still, I feel responsible," Farkas shrugged. "The Lord might forgive me, but—"

"You talk shit for someone I picked," a clear voice called from the entrance. The two guards and others turned to see a stalwart man in flamboyant attire and a young girl beside him.

"Captain Sigmund!" they all shouted in surprise, moved by his presence.

"Yes, I’ve returned," the skald replied cheerfully. "And it seems my services are urgently needed."

Behind him, two men in bright troubadour clothing, their muscles concealed beneath the fine fabric, stepped forward. One had a beautiful sittern strapped to his back, and the other carried flutes, but both had blades discreetly hidden. Their easy, confident smiles were charming, and often used to distract others from their keen, observant eyes.

Farkas recognized them—they were his tutors. Their return signaled that the Orange Skald, a cross-province spy network, was ready for action.

***

Lansius

Even with everything that had happened, Lansius kept his calm. Against even his own expectations, it wasn't difficult, as he had seen how his wife and retainers reacted and knew that justice and vengeance in the name of honor were beyond question. His position as their leader demanded that he act rationally. Ironically, an army needed a cool head to direct both his and his men's anger in a precise, effective, and orderly fashion.

Because anger alone didn’t win wars. Victory required immense preparation. "Veni and Vidi, before Vici," Lansius muttered as he walked, with some effort, to his desk. His brown wig was placed nearby. It would need delicate hands to clean out the pasta flour and repair it.

He groaned softly as he sat down, his broken nose bleeding again. He carefully pressed a cloth against it, wincing as the pain stung. The swelling had also blurred his vision somewhat.

As the discomfort subsided, he returned to his thoughts, focusing on Midlandia. Though investigations were still ongoing, he had enough written evidence to believe Sir Reginald was likely responsible.

"Responsible," he repeated, feeling the word on his tongue.

Truthfully, the letter alone provided enough justification. Sir Reginald was either a fool or too arrogant to consider the consequences. But Lansius could understand. It was simply unthinkable for a mere power in Lowlandia to challenge the might of Midlandia. Even at the height of the succession crisis, it was a laughable idea.

Lansius glanced at the window, wanting to crack it open, but the aching in his body made him relent. Still, he couldn't help but notice some of his men outside, standing guard, their X-bow ready. He sighed. "To be drawn into war again," he lamented.

Midlandia was on a different scale compared to his previous campaigns. Compared to Lowlandia, the province was vast, wealthy, and heavily populated. It boasted dozens of cities, hundreds of towns, and likely thousands of villages. It would be a massive undertaking.

While he had better training, superior doctrine alone didn’t win battles. Campaigns were won by skilled commanders, courageous soldiers with high morale, and, most importantly, a sound, robust, and flexible logistical chain.

Without those, one or two battles might be won through experience, feats of strength, or bravado, but the campaign would eventually be lost. The greatest work in war, therefore, lies in the humble yet complex art of logistics. As they say, an army marches on its stomach.

This was the reality of large-scale war and campaigns.

The Veni part of the campaign would be the hardest, but it was often overlooked. What troubled him most, however, was that victory didn't always manifest when one side claimed it. In a war against a large population, even after he secured a victory, he could still face serious resistance. Resistances that his small force couldn't possibly handle in the long run.

Even the Shogunate was small compared to Midlandia, with limited resources and manpower.

He sighed and pushed that train of thought aside—it was going nowhere. Opening a drawer, he found what others might consider unimportant writings, but to him, they were his prized war plans. He had created them during moments of idleness, constantly revising them with new knowledge or changes in the situation. Like the great generals he admired, Lansius believed in having a plan for everything—even for his allies.

Be polite, be courteous, and have a plan to kill everyone in the room.

He couldn't help but recall the famous quote. As he read his notes and carefully reviewed the latest report on his realm, he drew a long, deep breath. "The numbers don’t lie," he concluded.

All his efforts since taking Korelia and preparing her for war had come to fruition. He had enough provisions for a short campaign.

Even without him knowing, the preparations had already been completed. Sir Justin, Calub, and Cecile had proven themselves capable administrators. Moreover, Lansius had underestimated the strength of a united Lowlandia, with its growing but powerful horse-driven trade routes and caravans.

As a result, the Vidi part he had been worrying about turned out to be a non-issue.

With his heart beating faster, Lansius pulled out another parchment from the drawer, filled with scribbles, markings, and scratched-out notes. It looked like a child's drawing, but it was his latest strategy against Midlandia.

He looked at his writings and focused on two words he had circled. "Decapitation Strike," he read, as he began to visualize the movement of his armies: the vanguard, the auxiliaries, the logistical component, and the special forces. Someone had cast their dice against him, likely expecting him to play along, but Lansius wasn't planning to join. Instead, he planned to upturn the table—and while he was at it, burn the entire gambling house down.

***