Chapter 33
Nothing So Becomes a Man
> A sand wyrm, responsible for the destruction of an Imperial supply train, was hunted and killed one half league from Outpost VII. Significant losses to personnel and material incurred. Immediate requisition for steel, timber, and rations is submitted to restore the logistical capacity in the region. Further monitoring of the area is recommended to prevent future disruptions.
>
> — Report AXVII
>
> Scribe Augastalia, Year 331
Godfrey awoke with a start, the weight of his armor pressing uncomfortably into his body. He'd managed to strip off his gauntlets and leg plates before passing out, but the rest of his armor clung to him like a stubborn second skin. A crust of stale bread rested on his chest plate, a mocking reminder of his hasty meal before exhaustion claimed him. His neck throbbed with the kind of ache that could only come from sleeping in an awkward position on a too-firm straw mattress.
With a groan, he sat up, brushing the crumbs from his armor as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His mind was clearer now, sharper, and he figured it was time to rid himself of the rest of his plating. Easier said than done. The fastenings for the breastplate were cleverly hidden beneath his pauldrons, and those very pauldrons prevented him from getting the right angle to free himself.
After a few failed attempts—some involving a ridiculous amount of twisting and cursing—Godfrey gave up. His arms simply wouldn’t cooperate with the contraption that had seemed so practical in the field. So, with a resigned sigh, he accepted defeat and found himself wandering through the quiet halls of the brothel, half-armored and wholly frustrated, searching for someone to lend a hand.
He reached the kitchen first, but it was empty, save for the lingering smell of last night’s stew. No luck there. Shrugging, he made his way to the parlor room, his boots clinking softly on the worn wooden floor. He couldn’t help but imagine how ridiculous he must look—half-dressed for battle, yet entirely out of place.
Godfrey had at least the presence of mind to remove his sword belt and grip the scabbarded blades in hand as he entered the parlor. There was no need for concern, as there were no patrons this early in the day. However, neither was there anyone to assist him. He sighed inwardly and headed toward the back door, hoping for better luck outside.
The backyard was a cloistered little space, charming under the glow of moonlight but serving a much more mundane function during the day as a playground for the children of the working girls. As he lumbered through the door, his right pauldron snagged on the frame, causing him to stumble forward with a grunt before catching himself.
Scarlet was seated at a small wooden table near the back, her hair gleaming in the sunlight as she brushed it. Lysandra and Acantha, the girl who had first brought him to the brothel, sat with her, enjoying the quiet morning. As Godfrey approached, awkward in his half-armored state, Scarlet looked up and smiled warmly.
“Godfrey! How do you feel?” she asked, her voice light and teasing, though concern flickered in her eyes as she took in his appearance.
“Like I slept in a full breastplate,” Godfrey groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, I don’t want to impose, but would one of you be willing to help me get this off? The fasteners are damned sm—”
Before he could finish, Lysandra and Scarlet interrupted in unison, blurting out, “Yes!” and “Of course!” with enthusiasm.
They both stood quickly, clearly amused by his predicament but eager to help. Godfrey couldn’t help but chuckle at their immediate responses as he turned his back to them, bracing for the tugging that was about to commence.
Godfrey couldn’t help but notice that Lysandra and Scarlet seemed a little more thorough than necessary as they unfastened the pauldrons, their hands lingering over his sides and back. Still, they got the job done, lifting the armor away with a playful ease.
He moved his hands to finish the task and unfasten the breastplate himself, but before he could, they both slapped his hands away with a teasing grin. “We’ve got it,” they chimed, efficiently freeing him from the remaining pieces of armor. Godfrey’s body reacted involuntarily to their touch, and he quickly cleared his throat, stepping back as soon as the breastplate was off.
“Thanks,” he said quickly, collecting the armor in his arms. “I appreciate the help.”
Scarlet and Lysandra exchanged knowing glances but said nothing as Godfrey turned and made his way back into the brothel. As he headed toward his room, his mind raced, and he reminded himself—this was his place of employment, and he shouldn’t make waves here. Best to keep things simple, professional, and focused. Better yet, he would keep calm, and de-escalate any security situations that reared their heads.
Yes. This would be an easy couple of days.
XXX
Godfrey was sitting at the bar that evening, the soft glow of lanterns outside casting a warm light into the mostly empty parlor. It was that quiet time before the first patrons started filtering in, and for now, the place was still. Antonia, dressed in her usual fine silks, was behind the bar, polishing glassware with the kind of meticulous care that spoke of long years of routine.
“Godfrey,” she began, pausing to glance at him with a teasing smile, “you’re telling me that you’ve never had a drop?”
He shrugged, leaning on the bar. “Well, I’ve had sips here and there—cider or ale. The taste never really appealed to me.”
Antonia chuckled, setting down the glass she’d been polishing. “Godfrey, you don’t drink for the taste, you drink for the feeling.”
She placed a bottle and a small glass in front of him, raising an eyebrow as if daring him to give it a try.
“I’m on duty, Ma’am,” Godfrey said quietly, smirking. “I wouldn’t want to dull my senses when you’re paying me to keep this place safe.”
Antonia tilted her head, amused. “Godfrey, I haven’t actually paid you anything yet.”
He pause, and let the silence hang for a moment before exhaling softly, playing along. “Oh, well… in that case, why not?”
Antonia poured him a small amount of clear liquor, sliding the glass across the bar with a knowing smile. “Throw it back and swallow as quick as you can,” she instructed.
Godfrey smiled faintly, but there was a flicker of nerves behind it. He picked up the glass, hesitating for just a heartbeat before throwing the liquid into his mouth. Instantly, his body reacted, the harshness of the drink catching him off guard. He gagged, holding it in his mouth for a painful moment before finally forcing it down.
The burn was immediate, searing down his throat and settling in his stomach with a fiery warmth, like a hug that was just a little too tight. He coughed slightly, blinking as he tried to regain his composure.
“Not quite like cider,” he muttered, voice hoarse.
Antonia laughed, her voice bright and tinkling as the sound filled the empty parlor. Just then, Scarlet and Acantha entered, both dressed in their working clothes, the soft click of their heels against the wooden floor barely registering to Godfrey as he fought down the wave of nausea building in his gut.
"Are you okay, Godfrey?" Scarlet asked, her voice cutting through the fog in his mind.
Antonia answered for him, a mischievous smile on her lips. “Godfrey just had his first shot of vodka.”
Scarlet and Acantha exchanged amused glances before congratulating him in unison. “Welcome to the club!”
Godfrey waved them off, trying not to let his discomfort show as his stomach churned angrily. He muttered something half-hearted, excusing himself before making his way to the balcony. There, he sat heavily, the cool evening air a welcome contrast to the heat in his chest and throat. His eyelids grew heavy, and before long, he found himself dozing off.
XXX
He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but he was jolted awake by the sound of raised voices drifting up from the parlor below. Something was happening.
Godfrey sat up, rubbing his eyes before peering over the balcony. Below, a group of four young men in the familiar black and red of the Institute were seated at a table, their laughter loud and mocking. Squires, he could tell by the cut and color of their clothing. They jeered at a second group—a cluster of young nobles—who stood a few feet away, their faces a mix of apprehension and barely restrained anger. The nobles looked poised on a knife’s edge, uncertain whether to fight, which Antonia would hate, or flee without paying their bar tab, which Antonia would despise.
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He cursed under his breath, frustrated by his earlier stubbornness. His inability to properly armor himself gnawed at him now—he was too proud to ask for assistance, even though armoring oneself cap-a-pied was no simple task. At least he had the wherewithal to carry his weapons.
Godfrey descended the short staircase, moving quietly as he stepped into the narrow passage that led onto the parlor floor. He slipped behind the stage and hopped down from the platform, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. His eyes were locked on the group of Institute men, their laughter cutting through the air like blades.
He straightened his posture, his stride purposeful but calm as he approached the table. This would require a delicate touch.
Godfrey plastered a false, shit-eating grin on his face as he strode up to the table. "Adrian! Is that you?" he called out, his voice loud enough to break through the raucous laughter.
The four young men glanced over at him with wary eyes, their postures stiffening at first. But when they saw his uniform, the tension eased, and their expressions shifted to something more casual, though still guarded.
"Ah," Godfrey said, his grin softening into something less forced, "I was mistaken. Thought I saw my friend with you. How fares your evening?" His tone was light, conversational, as he kept a close eye on their reactions.
One of the young men, likely the leader of the merry band, leaned back in his chair, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “I heard there was some fine cunt here,” he said loudly, clearly enjoying the crudeness of his own words. “And sometimes the whores put on a little show—play a song, dance around nude.”
He erupted into laughter, and the others quickly followed, giggling like schoolboys. The slight tension that had crept into the air when Godfrey approached dissipated, replaced by their shared amusement.
“But get this, comrade,” the leader continued, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “That table over there—” he gestured toward the nobles, his voice dripping with mockery—“they’ve been buying drinks for the whores. Actually spending money to flirt with them, instead of just taking what they paid for!”
The others burst into another round of laughter, clearly enjoying the idea of the nobles treating the women with even a shred of respect or kindness. To them, the whole concept was absurd—why bother with charm when you could simply demand what you wanted?
Godfrey laughed along with the men, nodding as if sharing in the joke. "Well, comrade, sometimes people work at different speeds, if you catch my meaning."
The leader of the group chuckled, slapping his knee. "Too true."
Godfrey's expression brightened as he leaned in conspiratorially. "I’ve got to say, I enjoy one of the girls here quite a lot—her name's Scarlet. A true delight." He let the words hang in the air for a moment before adding with a grin, "But I’ve got her tonight, and every night henceforth if I can help it."
The young men smirked, nodding in approval.
"But," Godfrey continued, voice dropping a notch as though sharing a secret, "I can tell you the Honeyed Pot is hosting a Somaran troupe this evening. Drinks are all imported from the East, half price too. Some kind of event, I don’t know, but it sounds like a good time."
The men exchanged interested glances, the allure of something new and foreign piquing their curiosity.
The leader leaned back, a gleam of curiosity in his eyes. "Any of you had a Somaran before?"
One of the other Squires, a quieter one until now, piped up with a thoughtful tone, as if sharing some sage knowledge. "They can twist up into pretzels."
The table burst into laughter again, the men clearly amused by the image. Godfrey chuckled along, though his mind remained focused on keeping things light.
Godfrey kept his tone casual, offering a final nudge. “Well, let me know how it goes over there tonight, but I think the girl who plays the flute isn’t here tonight anyway.”
The leader scoffed, rising from his seat with a smirk. “Thanks for the tip, comrade.” He glanced around at his companions. “Boys, shall we?”
With a chorus of agreement, the group stood, laughing amongst themselves as they made their way out of the parlor. The front door swung open, and the chill of the night air swept in as they stepped out into the cold, eager to pursue their evening’s exotic adventure.
Godfrey watched them leave, exhaling softly as the door closed behind them.
Godfrey made his way over to the bar, his steps quiet now that the noise from the Squires had faded. Antonia was there, pouring a tall glass of wine, the rich red liquid swirling as she stoppered the dark green bottle. Her gaze followed the young men as they exited her establishment, a hint of amusement and mild irritation playing on her features.
“Quite the crowd,” Godfrey remarked, leaning against the bar.
Antonia smirked, setting the bottle aside. “You’ve got a real knack for handling them,” she said, her tone teasing. “I suppose I owe you thanks for keeping things civil.”
She paused for a moment, her eyes narrowing playfully. “But tell me, Godfrey—how do you know about special events at other brothels? Are you stepping out on me?”
Her words hung in the air with a light, playful accusation, the smirk on her lips growing wider.
Godfrey gave her a plain, steady look. “I was on a forced march yesterday,” he began, his tone matter-of-fact, “after a long bout of intensive... training. There wasn’t much else my comrades were talking about other than special events at brothels.”
He shrugged slightly, a hint of dry humor in his voice. “One would begin to think the intrepid entrepreneurs of the Lower City time these events specifically for weary new Squires and Scribes to enjoy.”
Antonia chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “Clever, aren’t they?”
“Convenient,” Godfrey said, leaning against the bar. “At least for getting them out of here. That was what you wanted, right?”
Antonia leaned against the bar, her eyes thoughtful as she nodded. “It’s rare to find a Squire with coin, and even rarer to find one who won’t hurt you, even accidentally. You’re significantly stronger than other men, you know.”
Godfrey shook his head, his voice steady. “Actually, we’re not. We can make ourselves stronger, but only temporarily.”
He paused, then added, “I imagine the Squires you’re talking about were either intentionally showing off, or intentionally hurting you, or both.”
Antonia’s expression shifted; first, contemplation, then a troubled look darkened her eyes. “You probably shouldn’t be handing out state secrets like that, Godfrey,” she said softly, though her tone remained gentle. “As much as I appreciate your trust in me.”
Godfrey blinked, momentarily thrown. He hadn’t considered that. Perhaps the Empire wanted nothing more than to have its special forces viewed as indomitable titans of strength. A myth to keep the masses—and their enemies—in awe.
Godfrey shrugged, brushing off his own mistake. It didn’t matter to him what secrets the Empire wanted kept. They’d lost their claim to his loyalty long ago, when they sent Corvin to butcher thousands of innocent villagers for the crimes of a few.
“Doesn’t really matter,” he said, his voice low.
Antonia gave him a knowing look. “Well, be careful with your words, Godfrey. This is Centria, after all.”
As she turned to walk away, she stopped and glanced back, her smile widening. “Oh, and on that note, I think Scarlet heard what you said about her out there earlier. So, I expect you’ll be seeing her soon.”
Godfrey frowned, confused by her comment. Before he could ask for clarification, Antonia laughed lightly and moved on, heading to serve a patron at the other end of the bar.
XXX
As Godfrey opened the door to his small room, something felt off. His body reacted instinctively, pulling in the cocktail of humours, his pupils dilating as his senses sharpened. His dagger was in his hand before he even realized it, and he backed into the door with a thud, fumbling for the handle as his eyes adjusted.
The room came into focus, and there she was—Scarlet. She lay on his bed, barely visible in the dim light, naked, her arms crossed behind her head, her legs casually crossed at the ankle. Her lips curled into a knowing smile, and something in her gaze, deeper than usual, held him there for a moment longer than he intended.
His body tensed in response, and he quickly sheathed the dagger, forcing himself to ease out of the stance he’d reflexively taken.
“Scarlet,” he said, his tone steady but edged with restraint, and a touch of heat, “this is not what I intended by my presence here. I didn’t come seeking… any of you girls as compensation for my services, whatever my services even are, here.”
Scarlet rolled her eyes. “Godfrey, get over yourself,” she said, her tone light but direct. As she spoke, she slowly leaned up onto her arms, the movement graceful, her bare skin catching his eye and refusing to let go. She stretched back languidly, and he started to lose focus.
“I’m here because I want to be,” she continued, her gaze locked on his. “You’re wound tighter than a bowstring. Stop overthinking it.”
Scarlet stood up slowly, her bare feet padding softly across the floorboards toward him. Each step was deliberate, her eyes never leaving his. When she reached him, she placed her hands on his chest, her touch gentle but firm, and looked up at him—just slightly—an invitation clear in her gaze.
For a fleeting moment, Godfrey clung to the last thread of his resolve, thin and trembling. But as her warmth wrapped itself around him, that thread unraveled, dissolving like mist in the sun. His hands moved to her without thought, an unspoken pull, and together they drifted into the straw mattress, their bodies guided by something older than choice.
Her touch was a question, curious and soft, tracing the map of him as though seeking answers in the contours of his skin. His hands, in turn, pressed with a quiet insistence, demanding her unspoken consent, and she gave it willingly, freely—without hesitation. They became entwined, breathless, woven together in the quiet rhythm of their bodies.
Only after the heat of their union had cooled from sun to ember, when his hands now rested in the damp tangle of her hair, and her fingertips lay still by his side, did he hear it—a sound, soft and distant at first. It began in her heartbeat, then his own, the two pulses merging in the closeness between them. It was the melody of life, there again to bless his ears, gone for so long; beating faster and softer, a quiet hum woven into the silence.
And there, lying together, bare and unguarded, he could feel it—the song. It brushed the edge of his awareness, elusive but tangible, and with the faintest touch of his lips and tongue, he gave it voice. In the half-light of wakefulness, he sang in ancient Thaliric, the words a gentle lullaby, a twisting whisper of a promise carried by the night for whomever might listen.
Scarlet’s eyes fluttered open, her hands trailing across his shoulders as she listened. And as sleep finally claimed him, a peace that had evaded him for so long slipped into place, filling the empty spaces inside him, if only just for the night.