Midarion learned, within the first ten minutes, that Viktor Fritz did not believe in mornings.
The man arrived late, coat half-buttoned, glasses slightly askew, carrying a stack of folders under one arm and a cup of something dark and steaming in the other. He waved off the salutes he passed with lazy familiarity, stepping around two officers who straightened too fast, nodded at Midarion like they were meeting at a café instead of the Bastion's administrative wing, and kept walking.
A few Sentinels exchanged looks as he passed.
Not disapproval. Adjustment.
"You're punctual," Viktor said without looking back. "That's either a strength or a flaw. Haven't decided yet."
Midarion adjusted his posture and followed at an even pace. "Good morning, Commander."
"Acting Captain," Viktor corrected, then sighed. "Unfortunately."
"Yes, Acting Captain."
"That makes it worse."
Midarion blinked once, then inclined his head. "Noted."
They stopped in front of a narrow office door that looked older than the surrounding stonework, its surface scratched by years of use. Viktor pushed it open with his foot, narrowly missing a leaning stack of ledgers, dropped the folders onto an already chaotic desk, and finally turned fully toward him.
The room smelled faintly of ink, metal, and old parchment. Maps layered the walls in no clear order. A chair lay overturned. A half-dismantled device hummed quietly in the corner.
"So," Viktor said, studying him openly. "You're Aelyss's miracle worker."
"I'm her attendant," Midarion replied calmly.
"Mm. See? That's the problem. You make it sound boring."
He gestured vaguely at the room. "Welcome to command. If you can find a clean chair, it's yours."
Midarion scanned once, moved two scrolls, relocated a brass instrument whose purpose he didn't recognize, set aside a stack of annotated reports—and sat. He placed his hands neatly on his knees.
Viktor watched this with visible amusement. "You're going to hate me."
"I don't believe so, Acting Captain."
"That confidence is adorable."
Midarion accepted the comment with the same composure he accepted everything else.
The first task was simple enough: reorganizing dispatch schedules delayed by Aelyss's departure. Viktor leaned over his shoulder as Midarion worked, offering commentary that ranged from genuinely insightful to wildly unnecessary.
"She's terrifying, you know," Viktor said, sipping his drink. "Efficient. Precise. Makes people feel like they're underdressed just by breathing."
Midarion nodded as he adjusted an entry. "She values clarity."
"See? You're doing it again. Reframing."
"It helps," Midarion said.
"For you or for her?"
Midarion paused only a fraction of a second. "Both."
That earned him a laugh—real, unguarded. Viktor leaned back, stretching his arms over his head, chair creaking beneath him. "All right. I see why she kept you."
They left the office shortly after, Viktor deciding—on a whim—that the day required movement. He ignored three waiting messengers and led Midarion through inner corridors, then outward toward one of the sanctuary's elevated causeways.
Hydros opened beneath them.
Layered terraces of pale stone curved around flowing water. Canals whispered against their banks. Wind chimes rang softly from distant balconies. Sunlight fractured across glasswork and polished tile, scattering reflections like falling stars.
Midarion had seen the sanctuary of the tides in fragments—routes, corners, reflections caught between duties. Today, unhurried, it felt different. The city breathed. People moved without noticing him. Laughter drifted up from below.
Alive in a way duty rarely allowed.
"You ever get time off?" Viktor asked casually, hands folded behind his head as they walked.
"Occasionally."
"That's not an answer."
Midarion considered. "I don't often need it."
"Hm." Viktor glanced at him sideways. "You're either lying or very dangerous."
"I hope neither."
They stopped near a food stall tucked beneath an archway. The vendor greeted Viktor by name. Viktor ordered without asking—two simple meals, fragrant with spice and steam. He handed one to Midarion, who accepted it with quiet surprise.
"You don't mind?" Viktor asked. "I forgot to ask about preferences."
Midarion shook his head. "It's fine."
"Good. Because I never remember."
They ate standing, watching people pass. A pair of children raced along the canal's edge. A Sentinel paused to greet Viktor, then blinked in surprise at Midarion's presence before moving on.
The conversation drifted—weather patterns affecting patrols, staffing gaps, the odd habits of certain officers. Viktor spoke of them fondly and critically in equal measure. Then he tilted his head slightly.
"So," he said, tone deliberately light, "important question."
Midarion looked at him attentively.
"What kind of women do you like?"
The question landed without malice, but without warning. Midarion blinked once, then took a moment longer than usual to answer—not from embarrassment, but from sorting sincerity from excess.
"I don't have a specific type," he said finally. "I like people who are kind. Or trying to be."
Viktor stared at him.
Then he exhaled sharply, laughing. "Oh, thank the stars."
"For…?"
"For not lying," Viktor said. "Or worse, posturing. You'd be shocked how many young men think this is a test." He waved a hand at himself. "And yes, before you ask, I've earned the reputation."
Midarion studied him with quiet curiosity. "Does it bother you?"
Viktor shrugged. "It's camouflage. People underestimate what they think they understand."
Midarion nodded, accepting that.
They resumed walking, the tone lighter now, something settled between them. Viktor led him toward a section of the city Midarion had never entered—a discreet entrance marked only by a sigil half-faded into the stone.
The Research & Intelligence Division did not announce itself.
Inside, the air changed. Cooler. Quieter. Hallways branched in deliberate angles, walls etched with layered diagrams and runes that pulsed faintly. Rooms opened onto arrays of instruments—listening basins, mirrored surfaces capturing distant reflections, charts mapping movement, probability, and absence.
Midarion slowed, eyes taking it all in.
"This is what keeps Hydros alive," Viktor said, voice lower now. "Not the walls. Not the Sentinels."
He gestured toward a chamber where analysts murmured over shifting projections—faces half-lit, expressions intent. "This."
Midarion watched without speaking.
"We see threats before they arrive," Viktor continued. "We prepare for betrayals before they're chosen. We assume people will fail."
A pause.
"Because some of them will."
They moved deeper. Viktor spoke of redundancies, false routes, controlled leaks. Of information withheld as carefully as information shared. Midarion noticed a map marked with districts—and shadows where no markings existed at all.
Something in his chest tightened.
At last, they stopped before a narrow window overlooking the city's heart. From here, Hydros looked serene. Untroubled.
"Kindness is valuable," Viktor said quietly. "But it's slow. It assumes time we don't always have."
Midarion folded his hands behind his back. "Preparedness doesn't exclude kindness."
"No," Viktor agreed. "But kindness alone doesn't stop a blade."
Silence stretched between them—not tense, but weighted.
Midarion felt something shift. Not a fracture. A widening.
"I don't think kindness is enough," he said slowly. "I think it's necessary."
Viktor looked at him then. Really looked.
"Most people don't know the difference," he said.
They stood there a moment longer, city breathing beneath them, secrets humming in the walls.
When they turned back, Viktor's expression had changed—not softened, but sharpened with interest.
"Stay observant," he said. "And don't lose that."
Midarion inclined his head. "I won't."
As they walked away, he carried the thought with him—not as doubt, but as gravity.
Kindness, he realized, did not mean blindness.
And for the first time, he suspected Viktor Fritz knew exactly why that mattered.