Caelus woke to a sharp crack inside his head, as if thunder had exploded within his skull. The darkness was thick, damp, and smelled of sour wine, dried blood, and sawdust. He tried to move, but his wrists were bound with coarse ropes, tied so tightly they cut off his circulation. He was seated on a rough wooden chair, its back broken and one leg creaking under his weight. The cold from the stone floor rose through his torn boots, and a trickle of sweat mixed with blood ran down his temple.
He remembered the hand – or was it a boot? – that struck his jaw. After that, only shadows or distorted voices. And questions. Questions he didn't know how to answer.
– What do you know about the map, Caelus? – a delicate voice had said, hours before, perhaps days.
– Do you know anything about these armbands?
– What is your affiliation with Pisodorato?
But he knew nothing. He could say nothing except the truth – and the truth, in that place, was a useless lie.
Now he was alone. The silence was heavy, broken only by the intermittent drip of a cracked barrel somewhere in the gloom. He tried to focus, to breathe slowly, but each breath brought a stabbing pain in his ribs. One of them, maybe two, were broken.
Then he heard – not footsteps, but the absence of them. A whisper of movement, like the breathing of a shadow. A blade gleamed for a moment as the door creaked open softly. He blinked; the light from a recently extinguished candle still flickered in his tired eyes.
– Shhh – said a female voice, firm and low.
– Bia? – The word came out dry as sand.
She knelt before him, her hands quick to cut the ropes with a dagger. Her eyes, green like wet grass, showed neither surprise nor fear, only urgency.
– How... how did you find me? – he whispered, more astonished than relieved.
She lifted her gaze for a brief moment, her lips curling into almost a smile.
– Now is not the time for questions, Cal. Not yet.
She helped him to his feet. He staggered, but she held him firmly. Together, they climbed a narrow, muffled, silent corridor. Bia seemed to know every shadow, every hidden corner. They passed a side door, then an alley where the moon peeked between worn rooftops.
When they finally reached the Black Raven tavern, the night was already late. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, beer, and muffled murmurs. Bia guided him between tables and curious glances to a dark corner by a cold hearth.
– Now, rest – she said, filling a mug with warm water.
Caelus wanted to ask questions, but his eyes began to close, overcome by exhaustion. The warmth of the tavern, the distant murmur of conversations, and Bia's presence beside him – for now, it was the closest thing to peace he had known in days.
The warmth from the unlit hearth did little, but still, Cal felt as if he was burning inside. The wounds throbbed like embers beneath his skin, and every movement was a silent protest from his body. When Bia returned, she was not alone.
The woman behind her did not seem to belong to that world of shadows and hidden blades. She carried herself like someone used to command – not soldiers, but pain. Dark-haired, with an oval face and piercing gaze, she carried a worn leather bag and a silence heavy with intent. Her eyes, dark brown like the aged timber beams of the tavern, rested on Caelus's wounds as if she already knew them before seeing.
– Isabella Conti – she introduced herself, without ceremony or smile.
She sat opposite him, unrolling bandages with steady hands, and began cleaning the wounds without useless questions. The smell of alcohol and crushed herbs filled the corner of the room. The pain returned fiercely when she applied a thick ointment to the cut by his rib.
– You've been well treated – she said, with dry irony in her tone. – Was this the result of a dance with a drunken bear?
Caelus let out a grunt that might have been an attempt at a laugh.
– You could say that. At least he didn't ask questions I couldn't answer.
Isabella said nothing. She focused on her work, quick but careful. She was neither young nor old, at that undefined age where experience had eclipsed illusion, but not hope. There was hardness in her, yes, but no coldness.
Just as she finished bandaging his torso, the door creaked with the sharp sound of someone who either didn't know or didn't care about discretion.
He saw a man tall as a slender pine, thin as a sabre, with blonde hair so immaculately combed it seemed hand painted. His uniform, red and green, was clean but showed no ostentation.
– Captain Edouard Lefevre – announced Bia, as if presenting a playing card that could change the course of the game.
Lefevre approached with long, confident strides, his ice-blue eyes assessing Caelus like a general surveying a battle map.
– I heard you held up well under interrogation – he said bluntly. – That counts for more than you know. Men who don't break easily are worth more than men who know everything.
He sat opposite him, crossing his legs with studied elegance.
– I'll be direct, Caelus. We're building something. Not just any rebellion, nor another coup sponsored by landowners who only want to swap one crown for another. I'm talking about a true revolution. A new world.
He paused, letting the idea settle like a stone thrown into a calm lake.
– We want to strip the King of Calentia of all his powers. It's not enough to dethrone him. We want to cut out the rotten roots of the throne and plant a republic in its place. A government made by the people, and for the people. No crowns. No birth privileges.
The words hung in the air like sparks from a fire that hadn't yet begun to burn.
– And you need me for that? – Caelus murmured, suspicious.
Lefevre smiled, but it was a smile without warmth.
– I need many people. But some are hard to find. Like you. Like… her.
He made a vague gesture with his hand, and his eyes glimmered for a moment.
– Isabela Pisodorato. You know who she is, don't you? Eyes like a storm, the sharpest tongue in all the realms. She could move crowds with a gesture. And, if she agreed to lead, maybe this dream has a chance to become real.
Caelus nodded slowly.
– But she's been reluctant – he said, guessing the end of the sentence.
– Not reluctant, no. Cautious. Perhaps too lucid to get caught in the promises of men like me – Lefevre's tone was not bitter, but full of acknowledgement.
– And you? – Caelus asked. – Are you a dreamer, or a player in this game of kingdoms?
The captain leaned forward, with his eyes half-closed.
– I'm both. Like any man who wants to change the world.
Edouard stood, leaving his offer hanging in the air, and offer that left Caelus thinking. He did not have to think for long, for his body gave way like tilled earth and Caelus's sleep was made of shadows and murmurs. He wandered through dark alleys and nameless faces. When he finally woke, he did not know if hours or days had passed. The smell of cheap wine, stale smoke, and old bread filled the air of the tavern. The sunlight pierced through the windows like golden blades, cutting through the dust dancing in the air.
Bia was sitting on a chair by the door, her feet resting on a barrel and a bitten apple in her hand. Her gaze fell on him even before he got up.
– You slept like the dead – she said, spitting the core onto the wooden floor. – I almost thought I'd lost you again.
Cal rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly, feeling the weight of the bandages and the dull ache in his body. The plank he had slept on was as hard as stone.
– How much time has passed? – he asked, his voice hoarse.
Bia raised an eyebrow.
– Two days until I found you. This morning makes three since the attack.
Caelus nodded, his mind still trying to piece together the lost time. He stood with effort, and together they left the tavern and made way to the street.
Pisum was in mourning without tears. The pale stone houses, covered with red roofs and wrought iron balconies, seemed shrunken under the weight of tragedy. At every corner, there were signs of recent violence: broken windows covered with cloths, dry stains on the cobblestones, and the acrid smell of burnt wood still lingering in the air. The markets were silent, and the few inhabitants who ventured onto the streets walked quietly, eyes downcast and faces ashen.
– I never thought I'd see Pisum like this – Caelus murmured. – It used to be a city that never slept.
– Now it's awake to a nightmare – Bia replied.
A sound came from afar. First like the rumble of restrained thunder. Then, it became clearer: hooves, hundreds of them, echoing through the narrow stone streets.
From the western gate, an orange torrent advanced through the city. The Cavalry of the Rising Sun, a thousand horsemen, marched with relentless precision. Their uniforms gleamed under the morning sun – deep orange tunics embroidered with gold on their shoulders and chest, and light capes fluttering with movement like flames in the wind. Their lances were raised, and their polished helmets reflected the sky like rounded mirrors.
At the front of the squadron rode the Captain-General, a tall man in armour adorned with sheaves of wheat. His face was cold as sculpted marble, and his voice, when he spoke, cut the silence like a steel edge.
– In the name of His Majesty, King Rafael Calentiflor, I declare martial law over the city of Pisum. All residents must remain in their homes after sunset. Any act of rebellion, collaboration with enemies of the kingdom, or obstruction of justice will be punished by immediate death. May Solarius guide us.
The silent crowd began to retreat, whispering among themselves like leaves stirred by an invisible wind.
Among those present, Caelus saw a solitary figure by the square's fountain: Isabela Pisodorato. Her eyes were fixed on the riders with an unreadable expression – it was neither fear nor anger. It was something older, deeper. It was as if she already knew that this moment could come any day.
– Do you see her? – whispered Bia.
– I do – Caelus replied, clenching his fists. – Now, the question is: what is she going to do?
All eyes in the square – soldiers, peasants, merchants, thieves – knew, with an instinctive chill, that something was about to begin. Or to collapse.
The square of Pisum was enveloped in a thick silence, as if the city was holding its breath before the captain's words. When he finished the proclamation of martial law, no voice rose immediately. None, except one.
– No – the word sounded like a blade drawn from its sheath. Clear. Unquestionable.
Isabela Pisodorato stepped forward, her hair loose over her shoulders, her face as stern as granite. She had her arms crossed and a firm voice of someone who owed nothing to kings or armies.
– Pisum is under my jurisdiction. I am its governor and all authority over these lands rests on my shoulders. If the king wants order, he should send diplomats, not soldiers.
The captain raised an eyebrow, with the cold arrogance of men accustomed to obeying only the throne and the sword.
– Duchess Pisodorato – he replied without raising his voice, – by direct order of His Majesty, you have been removed from your position until further deliberation by the Royal Council. You are ordered to return to Calentis. From now on, Pisum will be governed by me until order and loyalty are restored. Thus spoke His Majesty.
The cavalrymen pulled their reins simultaneously, like a school of steel. The square opened to let them pass, and soon they scattered through the streets like embers on the wind. The people retreated in silence, fear written on their faces.
When the orange banners disappeared from sight, a slender figure emerged from the shadows of the tavern's porch. Edouard Lefevre, the rebel captain, approached with a light step and a smile full of intent.
– A bold proclamation, Lady Pisodorato – he said, leaning against the fountain. – But words alone do not stop sabres. More than ever, you need allies. Join us. The republic…
– No – Isabela cut him off without even looking at him. – I've said I want no part in conspiracies. My loyalty is to my city, and to it alone.
– But the city burns, Lady. And the king's men have already raised the green vine banner of the king above the bell tower.
She finally turned, her eyes flashing.
– Then take this as a warning. You and your men must leave Pisum by nightfall. If you are still here when the stars rise, I will order you to be hanged as traitors.
Lefevre held the smile for a brief moment, as if considering a reply. Then, he made an almost ironic bow and disappeared down the alleyways.
Isabela remained still for a few moments, watching the city centre like a sentinel before a crumbling wall. Then, she turned and spotted Caelus a few steps away. Her face softened, if only slightly.
– I saw what you did for the city. You were torn to pieces but refused to yield. That means more than flags or titles.
Caelus was left speechless. He still felt caught halfway between the wounded soldier and the lost dreamer.
– Therefore, I declare you my personal steward. You will serve me directly. From now on, you answer only to me.
– My Lady… – he tried to protest, but she raised her hand.
– No formalities. Go to the captain of my guard. He will provide you with a uniform, weapons, and a mount. We leave for Calentis in two hours.
And with that, she turned her back, allowing no further questions.
Shortly afterwards, Caelus found himself by the guard stables. He had been given a breastplate, a sabre, and a flintlock pistol, along with powder and bullets. It had been hard to put on the breastplate, as his body still ached with every movement, but the colours of House Pisodorato – deep green with golden trim – now contrasted with his red scarf, and the soldiers saluted him with respect.
Bia waited outside, sitting on a low wall with her coat draped over her shoulders and her gaze fixed on the ground.
– Are you really going with her? – she asked before he could speak.
Caelus nodded. His voice caught in his throat, but he forced himself to speak.
– I don't know when I'll return… or if I will. But I swear to you, Bia, by all that remains to me, that I will find my way back to you. Wait for me. All I ask is this of you.
She stepped closer and laid her hand on his chest, over the emblem worked into his cuirass. Then, she rose onto her toes and kissed him on the lips, a brief caress full of love.
– Then go, Steward. Go fight for the fools who still believe in justice.
He smiled. And left.
The orange sky announced the day's dusk. Caelus rode beside Isabela Pisodorato, the calm gallop of their mounts echoing along the cobblestones of Pisum's main street. The city was preparing to obey the curfew, wounded but alive, with the eyes from windows silently watching.
Behind them, a dozen men and women made up the Duchess's personal guard – veterans with hard eyes, mounted on fine horses, all clad in the deep colours of House Pisodorato. Some smiled. Others kept their gaze fixed on the worn stones of the road.
Turning a narrow corner where the houses closed in tight with shadows and high walls, the sound of horseshoes ceased. A moment of absolute silence hung in the air – heavy, unnatural, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
It was then that Caelus saw the banners: burnt orange, with a sheaf of golden wheat gleaming like fire in the sunset.
The Cavalry of the Rising Sun awaited them.
About fifty soldiers lined up in tight formation, shining cuirasses, cloaks light as veils of ember, and the muzzles of their carbines already raised. The trap had closed with cruel precision.
– Protect the lady! – shouted someone from the guard, but it was already too late.
The crack of the first shot echoed like a sharp thunderclap.
A bullet grazed Isabela's temple, drawing a thread of blood and a stifled scream. Before she could recover from the impact, she raised her arm to give orders, and, at that moment, a second bullet pierced her left hand, opening a red, raw hole, her fingers curling like burnt leaves.
Caelus pulled the reins sharply, but there was no time to think, only to react.
– Don't kill the Duchess! – roared a voice among the opposing soldiers. It was the captain of the Cavalry of the Rising Sun, mounted on a grey charger, his face pale with restrained fury. – Kill her dogs! Clear her entourage!
Chaos followed. Bullets flew like swarms of wasps. A guard fell from his saddle with a slit throat. Another collapsed with a shattered leg, dragging his horse down with him. Isabela had been pulled by two of her still-living men, who tried to shield her with their bodies, but blood already stained the ground beneath their feet.
Caelus barely had time to draw his blade. He shouted the name of his city, but the sound was lost in the roar of gunfire.
Something struck his chest with the force of a hammer. He felt no pain, only a deep shock, as if the world had cracked inside him. He fell from the saddle like a rag doll, his arms powerless to catch him. The ground approached with brutality, cold and dirty, and then… darkness.
Not the black of the approaching night, but a nameless, timeless void. And all became silent.