Chapter 27

Made of Desires and Fears

> The land surrounding Centria is largely owned by Gens Verdentia, the family holding the primary agricultural contracts with the Magisteria. Verdentia-owned farming peasants benefit from a generous cropshare, averaging two percent per annum—far more favorable than the shares granted in other great cities. Yet, despite this advantage, the land remains underproductive. Peasants still speak of forced conscription and the capricious sadism of the patricia, horrors that have kept the fields empty directly outside of the walls, even as such practices have notably decreased in recent years.

>

> — Historie and Geographie of the Provincia Empiris

>

> Gaius Elvianus

Briscus scowled, clearly annoyed by the interruption. His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the woman in dark robes. "What’s this about?" he growled.

The woman inclined her head slightly in apology. "My deepest apologies for the disturbance, Sergeant. However, given the rarity of the Cursis Celer’s failure to deliver Imperial mail on time, the local administrators felt it necessary to extend an apology—along with a personal delivery of young Godfrey's introduction package."

Her voice was calm, professional, but Briscus’s irritation was still palpable as he glanced at Godfrey, then back at the woman.

Briscus narrowed his eyes, clearly skeptical. "Why would the Cursis assume the boy would induct through the Grain Gate?" His gaze flicked between Godfrey and the woman. "And why, exactly, would they send a full Listener to extend an apology? Surely you have better things to do, Lady...?"

The woman offered a measured smile, her voice calm. "The Cursis prides itself on prompt delivery, Sergeant. Any failure, however rare, requires heightened effort to address the grievance properly."

She paused briefly before adding, "And, please forgive me. I am Listener Friscia."

At the sound of her name, Briscus glanced at the two men nearby. They exchanged a look, one of them shrugging as he leafed through a packet of documents—likely what Friscia had handed over. Briscus bristled, his expression hardening.

"I don’t enjoy being placed on the board," he muttered, casting a sharp look at both Friscia and Godfrey.

Godfrey blinked. He knew what this altercation was about, generally, but the specific subtext was lost on him. "I don’t know what you mean, Sergeant. I wasn’t aware of any delay in delivery." His mind raced for a way to diffuse the tension. Turning to Friscia, he added, "While I appreciate the delivery and the apology, I’d prefer to continue with my induction, if that’s alright."

Friscia smiled again, her expression calm. "Apologies once more for the disturbance. I extend an offer for a meeting with the local administrators to determine where the Cursis went wrong and how we might rectify the mistake."

Briscus’s voice was steady, though tension lingered beneath the surface. "You heard the boy. He wishes to continue with his induction. As do I. So, if you could kindly take your leave..."

Friscia glanced at him with an inscrutable expression, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if committing every detail of his face to memory. Briscus shifted awkwardly, his initial fire faltering under her gaze.

With one final smile, she turned to Godfrey, then gracefully descended the stairs and left. The room remained silent until the sound of the door closing reached them.

Briscus let out a long breath, his gaze locking onto Godfrey. "If there’s some kind of game going on here, tell me now."

Godfrey, recalling only that Rinthess had mentioned preparing the way forward for him, had no intention of sharing that with Briscus. He could, however, deflect the man’s growing suspicions. "I don’t know. She clearly wanted to tell me something, or maybe tell you something, but your guess is as good as mine."

Briscus shook his head, cursing under his breath. "You better not drag me into whatever game you’re a piece in." His eyes narrowed, a hint of frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Godfrey raised his hands, a gesture of surrender.

Briscus glanced at his compatriots, who exchanged another shrug, seemingly as confused as he was. With a sigh, Briscus turned back to Godfrey. "Alright, follow me."

He led the way to a small side table set into the corner of the room. Two simple benches flanked it, and a cup of various writing instruments sat atop the table.

Briscus gestured for them all to sit. "Let’s get this over with," he muttered, before introducing the two men at the table. "Sitting on the left is Soldier-Corporal Donovan," he said, nodding toward the nondescript man sitting on the left. "And this is Soldier-Corporal Hadriq," he added, indicating the second man, whose darker complexion and name marked him as hailing from Somara. The indicated men nodded, still silent, as Hadriq laid out the package the Listener had delivered.

The indicated men nodded in silent acknowledgment. Hadriq, without a word, began laying out the package the Listener had delivered, spreading the documents neatly across the table.

Briscus picked up a couple of the documents, flipping through them casually. "Godfrey Marcellus, bastard scion of the Gens Marcellus plantations northeast of Centria," he muttered, his eyes scanning the text. He glanced up at Godfrey. "Isn’t Marcellus a client family of Gens Decimus?"

Godfrey nodded simply, hoping that would suffice. Internally, he cursed himself again for not paying more attention to John’s late-night history lessons.

Briscus nodded, seemingly satisfied, and continued leafing through the documents. "Trained by ex-Hand, huh? That must’ve cost a fucking fortune. Looks like you’re the Marcellus family’s last hope for a bit of limelight, aren’t you?"

Godfrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don’t know, sir. I only hope to fulfill whatever role my family asks of me."

He measured his words carefully, knowing that a show of humility was his best defense, revealing as little as possible about the fabricated past now hanging over him. Rinthess clearly hadn’t thought this part of the plan through. With no idea what these documents actually contained, he was left relying on quick wit to keep himself afloat. John would have had a field day dissecting this blunder—never leave things to chance. Clearly, something had gone wrong, and now Godfrey was wondering if his insistence that the Tongue leave the building had been wise.

Briscus rolled his eyes, continuing to leaf through the documents, clearly uninterested in Godfrey's attempts at humility. Hadriq, however, spoke up, his voice sharp and direct, and slightly accented. "Tell me, Godfrey, why were the Loyalists routed at Greybridge?"

Godfrey assumed this was the next phase of the test. "Overwhelming force," he responded confidently. "There’s speculation that the Separatists aimed to destroy both the morale and the fighting strength of the Loyalists in one decisive action. However, in my opinion, the Separatists were simply exhausted and sought to end the conflict as quickly as possible, and only today is the action viewed as a masterstroke simply for the natural consequences of it."

Hadriq nodded thoughtfully, taking a charcoal pencil from the cup on the table and making marks on one of the documents before him. He said nothing further, but his quiet approval was clear.

Donovan, sitting on the left, glanced at Godfrey. "Have you ever ridden a horse?"

Godfrey’s mind flickered back to riding Alaric Windermere’s old pony, before it had passed away. "I have ridden," he admitted, "but I don’t know anything about tack or properly saddling a horse."

Donovan nodded, seemingly unfazed. "That’s typical."

Briscus sighed, his impatience showing. "Honestly, the knowledge portion of the test is nominal."

Hadriq bristled at that, fixing Briscus with a sharp look. "Some areas of knowledge can be memorized, sure. But others contain important lessons—lessons that carry into other realms of life." He paused, then reluctantly continued. "But fine."

He turned back to Godfrey. "Your talent is at the level of a senior Squire. You should write your family and thank them for the expense of those ex-Hand trainers. And if you aren’t aware, that sort of training is typically illegal."

Godfrey shifted uncomfortably in his seat at that comment, but the three men all laughed.

Donovan chimed in. "Illegal per se, yes, and don’t get caught doing it in the city. But, retired Hand are allowed to supplement their pensions; officials look the other way. It’s only truly illegal for active-duty Hand."

Godfrey felt some small relief. "Are you supposed to be telling me so much about the test?"

Briscus laughed heartily. "You passed, Squire," he said, grinning. "No harm in letting you know now."

Leaning back in his seat, Briscus’s chest puffed with pride. "I took third in the Upper City Fete of Strength just last month, so it’s pretty damn impressive you didn’t immediately shit the bed. To be honest, you passed the moment you dodged my first move. That would’ve caught someone truly untrained off guard."

Godfrey felt a complicated pride swell within him. He was in unknown waters, barely keeping his head above the waves, but if he kept paddling, he knew he’d eventually reach the shore.

Donovan stood, a grin spreading across his face. “Briscus was very excited about ‘confiscating’ your weapons and armor if you failed the test.”

Briscus laughed, shaking his head. “Just doing my duty, making sure any new Army inductee is properly outfitted in uniform and service weapons.”

Godfrey, still curious, asked, “Are possessions really confiscated?”

Donovan gave him a look as if he were stating the obvious. “Of course. The Army is the Army. Regulars don’t even get to own anything until their fifth year of service. The Hand, well, they allow a bit more leeway, but it’s still a military organization.” Donovan paused, considering. “Briscus, Hadriq, and I were stationed at this induction post as punishment. Don’t speak to higher-ranked Hand the way you’ve been speaking to us. During the induction tests, nobility get some time to acclimate, but your family name means nothing now—not until you retire or die. You’re just a cog in the manufactory, a faceless piece of the puzzle. Address those above you properly. Your trainers should have already told you all of this, but it never hurts repeating.”

The group then ran Godfrey through a quick introduction on how to speak to superior officers. Afterward, Godfrey, still processing, asked, “What’s expected of me now?”

Briscus responded, “Donovan will stay with you until a wagon arrives to bring you to the Institute. The Institute is massive, it covers most of the Upper City, about a mile on either side, from the Garrison Gate to the respective Lower City gate. I think Centria’s Institute branch is the largest, even including the Capital, at least by size.”

Godfrey nodded but hesitated as Hadriq, already heading downstairs, called back, “Nice to meet you, Godfrey.”

Briscus noticed the look on Godfrey’s face and said, “Go ahead, ask your question. You might not get another chance.”

Godfrey cleared his throat. “Do peasants really never leave the Lower City?”

Briscus chuckled. “Of course. You wouldn’t want those creatures roaming the Upper City. The ones who escape already cause enough trouble.”

Even Donovan cracked a smile and shook his head, while Godfrey forced a small chuckle, feeling the unease.

Briscus clapped Godfrey on the shoulder. “I need to head downstairs in case someone else shows up for induction.” He grinned. “One last piece of advice, and it’s the most important you’ll hear from any Hand: Don’t trust the Lower City brothels. You’ll catch three types of itches just walking through the door!”

He boomed with laughter, wiping tears from his eyes as he began making his way downstairs.

Donovan shook his head and pointed to the table. “Wait here. The wagon doesn’t come through that often, and not many Hand inductees are processed at this post. I’d say you’ve got a few hours before the next one rolls by.”

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He gave Godfrey a sidelong glance. “If you’ve got any sense, you’ll try to catch some sleep before you hit the Institute grounds. That first week? They’ll break you down and build you back up again, and trust me, sleep will be a luxury.”

Donovan stood, ready to leave, but added, “I’ll grab your gear. Be sure to let your assigned quartermaster know about your armor. He’ll see it serviced and returned when you go on expeditions. Request armored training sessions, too—it shows initiative.”

Godfrey, sensing the camaraderie in Donovan’s words, thanked him. “I feel like you’ve been more helpful than most would be. I appreciate it.”

Donovan shrugged, his tone growing more serious. “I don’t care much for the games the Paladins and Heralds play. That Cursis representative? She could’ve handed that package off to Hadriq without the theatrics. Kid, you’re on someone’s board. You’re not alone in feeling like a pawn in this. Just…keep your head up.”

XXX

After Donovan returned to the first floor, Godfrey took him up on his advice. He laid on the padded floor and went through the techniques John had taught him, and slipped into his dream world.

In the dreamworld, Briscus loomed larger than life, his eyes burning with fury. He brandished his weapon, pointing the blade at Godfrey with a venomous sneer. "You slept with my wife, you bastard!" he bellowed, the accusation echoing through the surreal landscape.

Without waiting for a reply, Dream Briscus charged. But this time, Godfrey was ready. He knew the rhythm of the attack, the angle of the sword as it lunged forward. He adjusted, positioning the teeth of his parrying dagger to catch the blade.

The first attempt ended in failure. The blade slipped past his defenses, sinking into his chest with brutal precision.

The second attempt was worse. As Godfrey tried to block, the sword severed his fingers cleanly before finding its mark in his chest once again.

On the third attempt, he caught the blade—only to be bludgeoned by the shield, sent staggering backward, and impaled once more. In the chest, of course.

But on the fourth try, something clicked. Godfrey felt the rhythm of the battle align. He caught the blade with the teeth of his dagger, twisted into Briscus’s guard, and with a reverse grip, planted his longsword through Briscus’s throat. The accusation of adultery died with him, the dream fading as Godfrey stood victorious.

XXX

Godfrey awoke to a light kick from Donovan, who dropped his heavy pack beside him. "Wagon's here," Donovan said, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Godfrey stretched, feeling the stiffness in his limbs from the uncomfortable nap, then belted his tools onto his left hip. With a grunt, he hoisted his pack onto his shoulders, the wrapped armor inside clanking faintly as he adjusted it.

Godfrey nodded at Donovan, who returned the gesture. The man might share some troubling views on common blood with Briscus, but he had done right by Godfrey. That earned him Godfrey's limited respect, at least.

As Godfrey moved ahead of Donovan down the stairs, he spied Hadriq and Briscus lounging at a corner table. They offered seated salutes, the corner of their right fists to their temples. In that moment, Godfrey realized just how limited his education had been. He returned the salute as best he could, and it seemed sufficient—neither man made a comment before returning to their conversation.

Godfrey stepped outside and saw the wagon, sturdy and pulled by four of the strange bird creatures he had yet to hear named. The wagoneer, a squat man with a long black beard and beady eyes, glanced at him with imperious indifference, belying his rough appearance. "Get in," the man ordered in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

Clambering into the back of the wagon, Godfrey nodded to the only other occupant. The young man, though seated, was clearly head and shoulders taller than him. He had long, wavy blond hair braided around his head and pulled back into a ponytail with a strip of black leather. His face had an almost angelic perfection—like a living statue of an old Thaliric god, brought to life. A close, clipped beard of tight curls accentuated his powerful jawline.

The man’s piercing blue eyes met Godfrey’s with a curious intelligence as he returned the nod. For the first time, Godfrey felt unsure of himself. He had always been on the shorter side among the men of Oakvale, and sitting across from this giant of a man—presumably a fellow inductee—had him second-guessing whether he was outclassed from the start.

The young man extended his hand, his grip powerful yet not overwhelming. “Adrian Phaedrus,” he introduced himself, his voice calm and friendly.

Godfrey met Adrian’s gaze and gave his false name. “Godfrey Marcellus.”

Adrian nodded again, his enthusiasm palpable. “Wonderful to meet a fellow inductee to the Hand of the Empire! Tell me, what tools do you prefer?”

Godfrey hesitated for a brief moment before answering, "Longsword, and a specialized parrying dagger with swordbreaker teeth—designed by my uncle."

As he spoke, he couldn’t help but tell the truth. Adrian’s open demeanor, his face shifting rapidly with interest, invited honesty. There was no hint of deception in him, and Godfrey found himself drawn into the conversation.

Adrian’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Might I humbly request to see such a weapon?”

Godfrey nodded and drew the parrying dagger from his hip, handing it over. Adrian admired it openly, turning it over in his hands as he examined the craftsmanship. “Remarkable,” he said, running a thumb over the swordbreaker teeth. “Tell me, are these strong enough to catch and hold a two-handed blade? Or perhaps…a greataxe?”

Godfrey chuckled. “Maybe a two-handed blade. But a greataxe? I’d prefer to just move out of the way.”

Adrian erupted into booming laughter, so loud that the wagoneer shot them an ugly look over his shoulder. Wiping a tear from his eye, Adrian grinned. “Too true! So many men lack the heart to admit when to retreat, always thinking only of the advance. You’re right—there’s no sense in closing the distance when your longsword’s reach allows you to stay clear of a savage attacker.”

He paused, his expression growing curious again. “Tell me, and please don’t take offense: you’re quite short, yet you’ve been inducted alongside me. How would you approach a duel with me, knowing nothing of my abilities beforehand?”

Godfrey raised an eyebrow, unsure of how to take the question. Adrian quickly raised his hands, his tone apologetic. “You misunderstand me! A fellow inductee such as yourself must have some great skills to balance your deficient reach and strength, and I only wished to hear your opinion—how would you approach a bout with me, given your first estimation?”

Godfrey chuckled at Adrian’s earnest apology, giving the question some thought. “Well, you’re quite large, so my first instinct would be to dance around you—keep moving, get some small cuts in here and there. Then, when you’re tired and overextended, move in close and use my dagger’s advantage.”

Adrian’s eyes gleamed with interest, and he smiled. “Perfect. Now, assume you’ve just seen me pick up a glaive and a round greatshield. How might your analysis differ?”

Godfrey considered the question, the image of the larger man wielding such a weapon forming in his mind. “If I could,” he said slowly, “I’d probably seek a different foe.”

Adrian burst into laughter again, nodding. “There’s no shame in acknowledging a poor matchup.”

Godfrey grinned, then continued, “But if I couldn’t avoid it, I’d throw my dagger into one of your joints and hope that’s enough to end the fight.”

Adrian frowned, considering Godfrey’s words. “I haven’t faced an opponent who spent time learning how to throw daggers well. I’ll need to consider that in the future. You’re right—if that blow landed on my right elbow or knee, the fight would be over. But if you miss? You’ll have to flee or die. Quite a gambit. And, unfortunately, not a duel many would pay to witness!” He chuckled.

The wagon rolled through the Upper City, its surroundings virtually identical—columns, doors, and more columns, as if every building were made from the same blueprint. Occasionally, a garden or gated restaurant broke the monotony. They passed through a gate, across a quiet thoroughfare, and through another gate, where more restaurants and varied entertainment establishments lined the road.

Godfrey turned to Adrian. “Have you been to Centria before?”

Adrian nodded. “Many times. I’m from Grecia, but my family has heavy commercial ties with many of the Gens here. They always knew I’d try for induction at the Centrian Institute. I adore this city.”

Godfrey, curious, asked, “Have you been to the Lower City?”

Adrian smiled, a touch of wistfulness in his expression. “Many of our peers would disagree with me, but the Lower City is the jewel of Centria—the reason I’m inducted here. It’s a place of great misfortune and suffering, yes, but also life. I noticed your disappointment with the Upper City’s architecture. Brutalism, such a ridiculous concept.” Adrian scoffed. “The Lower City, though? It’s organic, wonderful, terrible...and most importantly, filled with common women.”

Adrian looked away toward the Lower City, a look of effervescent bliss crossing his features. Godfrey felt a twinge of unease. He wanted to like Adrian, but if he held some degrading belief about the women of the Lower City, that would be impossible.

Sensing Godfrey’s discomfort, Adrian turned back and smiled. "Ah, I see the concern on your face. I know what you’re thinking—how most of our peers think." He waved a hand dismissively. "But I, Godfrey, am, above all, a lover of people. Men, women, anything in between. Noble ladies? Yes, they can be capricious, spontaneous, even downright debauched. I agree with you, all of that is beautiful and exciting."

Godfrey blinked, unsure of what Adrian meant. Before he could ask, Adrian continued, his voice softening. "But common women… they are different. You must convince a common woman that you are worth her time—without revealing your nobility, as that muddies the waters too greatly. That is the true challenge: to invite passion, to invite love, to learn each person before you make love to them. Anything less is base copulation, and I do not stand for it."

He leaned in slightly, his voice full of conviction. "Noble ladies think differently, as you know. To truly be captivated by a common woman, you must earn her respect, her attraction. And I yearn for that."

Godfrey, feeling truly lost, decided to take a chance. "Honestly, Adrian, I have no idea what you're talking about. I've been immersed in training for most of my life, and the few attempts I've made with women... well, they both ended badly."

Adrian stared at him in wonder. "But Godfrey, you're beautiful. Your face is like the knife that cuts the heart—even if you are a bit short. You've never thought of these things?"

Godfrey shifted uncomfortably. "My upbringing was focused on other things."

Adrian leaned back and whistled, considering for a moment before giving Godfrey a once-over. "I could teach you a thing or two if you'd like. I think you're the perfect size."

Godfrey quickly waved that off, choking. "No, that's not necessary. Please, let's not bring that up again."

Adrian chuckled. "Of course, don’t worry, Godfrey. There are plenty of fish in the sea."

Adrian’s expression shifted to one of concern. "From where do you hail, Godfrey?"

Godfrey hesitated briefly before answering. "A plantation in the northeast of Southern Brella."

Adrian nodded thoughtfully. "What kind of plantation?"

Godfrey’s mind raced, scrambling for a believable answer. "Many crops," he said slowly, "and cattle and sheep as well. My father was... a bit of an eccentric investor."

As the words left his mouth, Godfrey felt a flicker of hope. More facts, he thought, rather than fewer. If he could provide just enough detail without locking himself into something easily disprovable, maybe Adrian would leave it at that.

Adrian nodded thoughtfully. “No female servants? Most of our peers begin with them.”

Godfrey scoffed in disgust and blurted out one of Hawker’s old sayings. “A man who needs someone to dress him, bathe him, and hold his cock for a piss isn’t a man at all.”

Adrian blanched, and for a moment, Godfrey feared he’d made a terrible mistake. But then Adrian burst into laughter, louder than before, tears rolling down his face.

“Ah, Godfrey, that is too good! You’re right, absolutely! One should know exactly how to dress oneself and which oils to apply to enhance one's appeal. Such things shouldn’t be left to anyone else—they can never fully understand, can they?”

Godfrey wasn’t sure Adrian fully understood the intent behind his outburst, but he was relieved that, at the very least, Adrian had not taken advantage of a servant girl. Though he knew he shouldn’t make waves here, he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge such practices as anything but abhorrent. If Adrian’s need for genuine romance precluded those actions, it was, at least, a start.

Adrian’s laughter died down, and he frowned, a hint of seriousness in his voice. “Godfrey, if you’re truly without carnal knowledge, you must be careful. I don’t know what you’ve heard—or haven’t—under that training helmet of yours, but our peers? Lascivious by nature. I imagine you’re the trained hope of your house, sent here to become powerful and return home dripping in gold and glory, yes?”

Godfrey nodded, the remnants of a blush on his face. This was not a conversation he thought he would be having; weaving between sex and destiny like a titillating tapestry.

Still, it was a good enough excuse, his being the ‘last hope of a dying family’, as a dying family would be relatively unknown here, and if two people had already come to that conclusion, it would serve him well enough.

Adrian leaned in, his tone more urgent. “Keep your wits about you, Godfrey. The great Gens, such as my own humble beginnings? They Sculpt their children to be dominant, irresistible. If you’re untrained in such ways, it’s like walking around with a dagger to your throat. The minor nobility, like your family, that can raise scions like you? They’re rare. Depending on what class you’re placed in, you could be the only one who wasn’t able to afford a Sculptor.”

Godfrey frowned, confused. “Why are you warning me about this? Shouldn’t I be more concerned about the size, strength, and speed advantage of the Sculpted inductees?”

Adrian shook his head. “The classes are mixed. What, did you think the Hand trained alone and expected its Soldiers and Knights to somehow know how to work with Tongue support on the field?”

Adrian shifted in his seat, his expression growing more concerned. “I remember the first time I met young men and women like me—Sculpted. I was struck dumb, unable to speak, despite the fact that I looked similar to them. Tell me, you said you had some experience with women, right? Do you remember how, sometimes, you couldn’t think clearly around them? Made foolish choices?”

Godfrey’s mind started to drift toward a blank numbness, a defense mechanism against resurfacing the sharp, wounding memories. His eyes darkened as he simply nodded, saying nothing.

Adrian gave him a look of understanding. “I know how you feel, my friend. Now, I was a lost cause from the start. I’m terrible at playing games, and therefore I’ll make a terrible politician. But as the third child, I get to play Knight while the important work is shunted to my brothers and sisters.”

He leaned in, his tone more serious. “Believe me, the children of the great Gens know the games their parents play, and they all want a seat at the table. Our peers are dangerous, Godfrey. They’ll use whatever tools they can to get an advantage—including sex. I’m warning you because you’re particularly susceptible to such things. If I were you, I’d regularly visit the brothels in the Lower City—"

Godfrey had heard enough. He snapped at Adrian, “Mind your own fucking business. Just because I come from some backwater doesn’t mean you get to patronize me.”

Adrian blinked, taken aback. “I meant no offense,” he said, his tone apologetic.

Godfrey sighed, his frustration ebbing. “Well, you gave it, Adrian. But I understand you’re trying to help, so I thank you for that. If this ever becomes an actual problem, I’ll come to you for advice.”

He leaned in, suddenly razor-serious, his tone shifting. “But if we’re talking about disadvantages, I’d like to know something else… Does Sculpting impart greater dexterity as well as strength? And is that increased strength similar to a normal man’s build, or is it enhanced somehow?”

Adrian, taken aback by the abrupt shift, blinked but smiled. Godfrey continued peppering him with questions as the wagon rumbled along the nearly identical roads, taking them ever closer to the Institute.