With the meeting with Gertrude over, Lacey and the other two were on their way back to headquarters.
Salem's night wind carried a chill, stirring the shadows cast by the street's kerosene lamps.
Taylor walked at the rear, wary of any movement around them.
Serafina walked shoulder to shoulder with Lacey. She glanced at him several times, only to see him staring calmly ahead, as if the high-stakes gamble that had just decided the fate of a noble family was nothing more than a casual after-dinner chat.
She finally couldn't hold it in any longer. "You don't seem nervous at all," she said.
"Why should I be nervous?" Lacey retorted, his pace not faltering in the slightest.
"The pieces are already on the board. All that's left is to follow the planned moves, one step at a time. Nerves solve nothing; they only make you make the wrong move."
"But that's an innocent life, and… we're using Miss Gertrude's ambition to achieve our own goals." Serafina seemed a bit shaken. "This goes against our original ideals…"
"Yeah, boss, are we really gonna work with a noble…" Taylor the blacksmith chimed in, "and one who wants to kill her own brother at that."
Lacey stopped and turned to look at them.
"Serafina, Taylor, I know what you're thinking."
"But I want to say this: from ancient times to the present, no reform has ever been bloodless."
Serafina fell silent. She knew Lacey was right; logically, she agreed completely. Yet, deep down, the soft part of her that was "Serafina Ivanovna Petrova" still felt a sting of pain.
Lacey changed the subject. "What did you 'see' from that woman?"
Serafina's brow furrowed slightly as she recalled the emotions she had sensed: "Ambition, hatred, anxiety."
"She's like a wolf forced to the edge of a cliff, willing to tear out anyone's throat to survive—including her own."
"She was telling the truth. She really does need us."
"Good enough." Lacey nodded.
"As long as she has desire, she isn't a threat. Desire is the best leash."
...
Back at headquarters, Lacey immediately summoned the core members of the Action Team.
In the spartan meeting room, he laid out the entire plan for Wischeim, but omitted the part about the assassination. He only emphasized that the Workers' Party would cooperate with the new leader of the Strollo family to establish a base in Wischeim and eliminate the local Witch King remnants.
For the rank-and-file members, this was exhilarating news.
It meant the Workers' Party was no longer a grassroots organization confined to the slums of Salem.
The crowd was fired up, with many volunteering for the mission.
Lacey looked at Taylor. "Taylor, I need you to pick fifty of the most reliable and skilled people from the Action Team. They must be absolutely loyal and follow orders without question."
"Starting tomorrow, begin high-intensity secret training."
Taylor didn't ask a single question, just nodded heavily and replied in his gruff voice, "Leave it to me."
Next, Lacey assigned several quick-witted party members to disguise themselves as vagrants and merchants and infiltrate Wischeim in batches. Their mission was singular: gather intelligence.
Everything about Cole Strollo—the places he frequented, the configuration of his guards, his route home.
And everything about the Witch King remnants—their strongholds in the city, the patterns of their members' activities. Not a single clue could be overlooked.
By the time the meeting ended, the night was deep.
Lacey returned to his room alone. The furnishings were simple: just a bed, a desk, and mountains of documents.
He felt no desire to sleep. Under the dim lamplight, he continuously circled and marked a simple map of Wischeim, gaming out every detail of the plan.
After a long while, there was a soft knock on the door.
Without looking up, Lacey casually said, "Come in."
Serafina entered carrying a tray on which sat a bowl of steaming meat congee and a small dish of pickled vegetables.
The aroma of the food instantly dispelled the stuffy air in the room.
"You've been busy all day. Eat something." She placed the tray on the desk, then naturally tidied the mess of papers Lacey had drawn all over.
Lacey looked up, somewhat surprised.
Under the lamplight, Serafina's smile was gentle and warm. Her eyes, which could see into the hearts of others, now held only concern.
He picked up the spoon and took a bite. The congee was cooked to perfection—the rice soft and glutinous, the meat fragrant. A warmth flowed down his throat and into his stomach, chasing away the fatigue of the past few days.
"You're a good cook," Lacey praised sincerely.
"Back in Ursus, I often had to take care of the kids younger than me." Serafina sat down across from him, resting her chin in her hands and smiling as she watched him eat ravenously.
"Back then, I used to think that if I could open a small restaurant someday, make delicious food for customers every day, and see their satisfied expressions, I'd be very happy."
"And now?" Lacey asked.
"Now?" Serafina's gaze fell upon the map covered in markings, and her eyes grew distant.
"Now, I want to prepare a much larger banquet, so that everyone who doesn't have enough to eat can sit down and fill their bellies with dignity."
Lacey's eating slowed. He looked up at Serafina and suddenly smiled. "You're so good at taking care of people, you make me feel like a child who hasn't been weaned."
Serafina was amused and couldn't help but roll her eyes at him. "What nonsense are you talking about!"
"You're the backbone for all of us. If you collapse, this banquet can't happen."
Joking aside, the atmosphere had become much more relaxed.
The two chatted, their conversation drifting from the progress of the Workers' Party's literacy classes to the procurement of medicine for the new clinic in the slums.
It then turned to that maverick artist, Arturia, and the latest antics she had gotten up to at headquarters—apparently, she had tried to purify the soul of the cafeteria's head cook with the sound of her cello, only to be chased around by the cook wielding a spatula.
Before they knew it, the bowl of congee was empty.
Serafina cleared the dishes, preparing to leave.
"Lacey." She stopped at the door and turned back, her smile gone, her expression solemn.
"You are not the blade. You are the hand that holds the blade."
"You are important. Very important."
"Promise me, no matter what, you'll protect yourself."
With that, she closed the door and left quietly.
Silence returned to the room.
Lacey stared at the closed door, motionless for a long time.
He looked down at his own hands. They were rough and covered in calluses, marks left from his daily training during the War of the Four Emperors.
He probably couldn't draw a bow across cello strings anymore, could he?
Lacey shook his head, clearing it of such stray thoughts, and turned his gaze back to the map on the desk.
________________________________________
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