From a distance, metal fences capped with sharp points outlined roads of finely cut stone. Unlike Prima-Village, the infrastructure here betrayed ambition: Secunda bore almost urbe-like traits. Residents even hung banners of deep red, displayed proudly beneath windows and balconies, swaying in the mountain's cold breeze. Is that the symbol of the Triple—or of Secunda alone? Santvic wondered, doubting the old unity of the villages. This place has grown far more than Prima-Village.
Farther ahead, Santvic made out a marker tower—something she had never seen in a village—rising like a seal of local authority. Posts lined the main thoroughfares, and from them hung firefly lanterns suspended by chains, used both to light the streets and to ward off Anthemic and Miracular creatures.
"Looks like Prima-Village got stuck in the past," Hallow remarked, bringing Chestnut to a halt. "Right. Let's change your clothes, boss."
"What? Why?" she shot back at once.
He dismounted calmly and looked at her as though the explanation were almost insulting in its obviousness.
"You can't walk into a village dressed like a Capitanian. They'll charge us eight hundred Valets just to step into a bar."
Santvic sighed. Deep down, she knew he was right. Still, the idea felt profoundly humiliating. She dismounted, loosened the buckle of the case strapped to the saddle, and removed the green overcoat, folding it carefully before slipping it in with the rest of her belongings, visibly irritated.
"Take the cloth off your neck too. The gloves, the jewelry, the hairpin, and those glasses."
"The glasses?" She looked up, already folding the cloth and setting it aside. "What? Are you going to tell me that outside the Capital no one has bad eyesight?"
"The problem isn't your eyesight," he replied flatly. "It's your face."
"My face?"
"Trust me."
Santvic sighed again. She didn't trust him with her own life, much less with a single Valet. Still, following his instructions seemed the lesser risk for the moment. The slight blur in her left eye was a small price if it meant avoiding the wrong encounter.
Carefully, she removed the glasses and placed them in a small wooden case in the corner of the satchel, snapping it shut with a heavy click. What remained of her now was a high-collared white blouse which, despite its noble cut, had suffered from the journey. Excess fabric pooled beneath the long black skirt with its high waist. She removed the pin holding her fringe aside, letting her brown hair fall over her eyes.
"The gloves," Hallow insisted.
Santvic shook her head.
"I can't."
"Boss… that's exactly the worst part."
"They'll have to endure my elegant hands, Vanhallow. I'm sorry." She picked up the satchel, fastened it back onto Mouse's saddle, and mounted with little dignity she still had left. "There are two guards at the gate. Do we tell them we're from the Capital?"
"For them, it's not a problem," he replied, mounting Chestnut. "We don't intend to stay anyway. But expect gossip after. They'll definitely warn their friends."
Santvic straightened her posture in the saddle, already resigned. If there was one thing inevitable that night—aside from the cold—it was that her arrival would not go unnoticed.
As they drew closer, she immediately recognized the patterns of Satus's guard: spherical helmets with a sharp spike extending down the nape, squared pauldrons, well-kept gray metal—far too expensive for a peripheral village. The spears, thick and long, carried a notable weight in their hands, sagging as if ready to tip. They spent good Valets here, she thought, and not a few. How many more of these were scattered throughout the village? Bought from Satus, or found?
"Halt," one of the guards ordered, driving the blunt tip of his spear into the stone with a dull thud.
The two men were a mirror of disproportions. One, tall and broad, had a massive, heavy body, chest puffed out like a rhinoceros standing upright. The other, far too thin for his armor, looked as though he might vanish inside it at any moment. The large one fixed his gaze on Santvic with focus; the small one, tense, struggled to maintain his posture while Hallow stared back at him, trying to be respectful but frightening the poor man all the same.
"What brings you here?" the larger guard asked.
Santvic answered with a steady voice.
"Passage to Tertiary. We're looking for an inn—for us and for the horses."
"Where are you coming from?"
"The Capital."
"Residents, or…?"
"I work for the Null State."
The larger man shot a quick glance at his companion. The scrawny guard flicked his eyes toward his superior for an instant, then immediately returned them to Hallow, afraid he might be attacked if he stopped looking for too long. He was holding back a laugh.
"And for what purpose do you pass through Secunda?" the guard pressed.
"We have an assignment to fulfill in Tertiary," Santvic explained. "A plague has struck the village. My job is to investigate. This man beside me is my knight."
"That explains the equipment…" the man muttered, now narrowing his eyes toward Hallow, suspicion seeping into his voice. "You'd best not lie, my lady." He paused—long enough to chill the air. "Is your knight an Antebeing?"
The smaller guard swallowed hard, his shoulders trembling slightly in the silence that settled in. Tension thickened the air as Hallow tugged at Chestnut's reins and drew a slow smile, his armor clinking—the only sound besides the chirring of insects.
"Whether he is or not is none of your concern," Santvic said. She nearly finished it with a 'none of your business', but held back, letting out only an impatient huff. "Let us pass."
"I thought as much, judging by the quality of the equipment," the larger guard said, staring at the knight. "The Antesystem blesses him, does it?"
Hallow lifted his chin, meeting the man's eyes. He kept the sharp smile, and weighted his voice with a threat strong enough that he spoke it low.
"You're going to let us through?"
The rhinoceros of a guard gave a short laugh and stepped aside. The smaller one took a second to understand, then quickly followed suit, nearly tripping over his own haste.
"Welcome to Secunda."
Santvic exhaled and rode on without looking back. Hallow followed close behind. The horses moved forward restlessly, as though they had understood the conversation in its entirety.
They had thought they would feel more at ease upon reaching Secunda, leaving behind the darkness and the melancholic air of abandonment. Instead, the sensation only worsened. Now they felt hunted by the looks the residents cast as they passed, and time once again seemed to close in around them.
"So I have to strip down, but you get to keep your flashy armor?"
"First of all, it's not just flashy, boss," he corrected, forcing a light tone to mask his nerves. "Quality metal is essential for my line of work."
Daric Vanhallow was naturally threatening—and that came naturally to an Antebeing. There was always the unsettling sense of standing before something that looked human, but whose remaining humanity could no longer be measured. His dark skin was traced with scars running from face to feet. Wavy hair was tied into a low bun, and he moved wrapped in dark metal armor trimmed with gold, emphasizing his tall, imposing frame. His silver eyes seemed to drink in what little light there was. Like the blade-blind Highness, he cared little for keeping his beard neat, letting sparse stubble threaten to overtake jaw and upper lip. Helmetless, with only the long sword at his waist and a careless ease that insulted any would-be challenger, his appearance alone justified every suspicion. When he opened his mouth, it only got worse.
"And where exactly was I supposed to shove this armor?" Hallow continued, still defending himself. "It's not like it fits in your case."
Santvic held back the reply that immediately sprang to mind, allowing only a small smile to slip through. Where else would he shove it?
"Well, then let all of Secunda know," she said at last, frustrated, letting out a long sigh. "The lunatic Capitanian brought an Antebeing into the village. Let's hope we manage to sleep tonight, at least. We leave at dawn. As early as possible."
They rode in search of an inn, asking at open taverns and of residents crossing the streets with bags, buckets, and baskets, and answers were plentiful. Secunda seemed to have too many inns for a village of its size—at least, the size Santvic remembered.
She did not recall it being this large, nor its architecture so close to that of Satus. Light wooden façades, carefully worked arches, lampposts with plants growing up from the stone—all of it felt out of place for an ordinary village. There were fragments of Satus's culture here that she had never seen before. For a moment, she wondered whether Secunda had grown enough to draw the attention of the Congregated.
No, no, impossible, Santvic thought. Not enough years had passed for such abrupt change. It was far more plausible that they were merely imitating Satus—trying to appear larger, more relevant, more worthy of being visited.
"Santvic, look." Hallow tugged Chestnut's reins and nodded with his chin. "New Grind Inn."
He brought the horse to a halt by the roadside. Santvic waited for a carriage to pass, then got a clear view of the building: three stories tall, windows adorned with well-tended plants, and beside it a large stable where two workers moved back and forth without pause. Loud music poured from within—violins and a lively piano; it hardly felt like an ordinary night. Through the open double doors and the ground-floor windows, she saw that the first level served as a bar. Men and women danced across the hall; mugs of rum and beer passed from hand to hand; loose laughter, raised voices— the typical atmosphere of Grinders and their favorite topics. Women, beasts, and swords. The favored triad.
"Do you think it's Grinders-only?" Santvic asked, wary.
"No, no." Hallow shrugged. "I mean… doesn't hurt to ask, right?"
Santvic rode up to the stable. The entrance was well lit by lanterns, but the back sank into a dense darkness, likely meant not to disturb the horses' rest. A thin boy—still very young—emerged from that gloom. He wore a small beret, overalls, gloves, and watched the horses attentively. On a little bench at the edge of the structure, an older man chewed on a strand of hay; when he noticed the pair approaching, he lifted his chin to observe them. He was dressed identically to the boy.
"Good evening, madam, sir… welcome!" the boy said.
"Good evening." Santvic tried to smile, failing in a way that was almost awkward. The gesture did not come naturally to her. "Does this inn accept Grinders only?"
"No, no!" the boy quickly shook his head. "It's just that the owners are Grinders, madam!"
"Excellent." At last, a genuine smile escaped her, relief softening her voice. "What's the nightly rate for the stable?"
"Forty Valets, madam. I take very good care of the horses!"
"I believe you," she replied—more a technical assessment than a warm compliment.
"For the chestnut, sixty," the old man said from the far side of the entrance.
Both riders turned their horses toward him. Arms crossed, the man wore the same overalls and gloves as the boy. A single firefly lantern hung above his head, casting just enough light to sharpen the angles of his gaunt face.
"Why?" Hallow asked before thinking, frustration leaking into his voice.
"The mark on the beast's muzzle." The old man removed the hay from his mouth and pointed at the horse's nose. "I know that breed. Mel-Púrpura. He'll try to tear the whole stable apart trying to bolt. The extra twenty's for the trouble."
"I'll pay fifty. Not sixty."
"Sixty," he repeated, flatly. This was not a negotiation.
Santvic noticed Vanhallow's restrained snort and stepped in before the situation soured.
"We'll pay double if the chestnut causes any damage, sir," she said in a measured tone. "We'll sleep at the inn and leave at dawn. Will fifty do?"
The old man sized her up from head to toe. Perhaps Hallow had been right about the change of clothes. At last, he glanced at the boy, who had followed the exchange in silence, and received a discreet nod in return.
"Fine." The boy jerked his head toward the stable. "Hand over the reins!"
The boy stepped forward eagerly. "You'll need to sign a paper with Mr. Stuart, just so we have the names… and enjoy your stay, alright!"
"Thank you."
The hall celebrated yet another day's end. Nothing special had happened—every bit of revelry honored nothing more than the sunset itself. The heavy smell of beer, flushed faces, relentless dancing, and a band grinding through its cloying melody made it clear they were standing in the cursed heart of the village. Grinders, peasants, vendors, and idle onlookers packed the place, all equally committed to turning Valets into empty tankards. The round tables were completely full, the counter throbbed with crooked conversations, and it was impossible to take two steps without bumping into a spinning lady or a laughing man.
They made their way to the bar. The attendant—well dressed, gray-haired, tall and slender, with a ratlike cast to his face—opened a smile at them. His partner poured tankards in silence.
"Welcome. Travelers?"
"Fine band," Santvic said at once, sidestepping the question. "There aren't many wind players left."
"And we've got the best!" he puffed out his chest. "Flute, trumpet, harmonica, harp—"
"Harps are string instruments, not wind," Santvic corrected him with a smile. The attendant did not seem pleased to have his musical knowledge challenged. "You hang the red banners as well. Are they from the village?"
"Oh, yes, yes! Since we split from the Assembly, things have improved greatly—very greatly indeed. We're proud to have chosen red as our color. The noblest of colors!"
"It is a fine village," Santvic allowed. "We're looking for lodging, sir, just for one night. We're passing through to the Tertiary."
"Tertiary?"
A man so large that Santvic worried for the bench's structural integrity turned slowly toward them. He was wide in every conceivable direction. Bald, his head gleamed under the lantern light, and he sported a single strand of golden beard above his upper lip, as though someone had forgotten to finish his face. His smile was open, almost childlike. The mug of rum looked like a pencil between his enormous fingers.
"I wouldn't recommend it," he said, leaning closer, conspiratorial. "There's nothing in Tertiary."
Santvic blinked.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," he confirmed, confident. "Absolutely nothing."
The attendant nodded along, equally convinced.
"Nothing worth the trouble, at least."
"I heard a blight hit them," Hallow finally cut in, leaning over the counter. "We want to take a look. We're curious, you know how it is. Aren't we?"
He gave Santvic two light taps on the shoulder—a warning not to drag the conversation out. The attendant arrived with two tankards already full, foam threatening to spill over.
"Slimes!" he announced proudly, setting them down. "Slimy things. Blue critters."
Hallow didn't hesitate: he lifted the mug and wet his lips. Santvic watched, unmoving.
"The Antesystem pays well for them, doesn't it?" the bald man remarked, raising his own mug. The question was more of an assertion—a cheerful reminder. The attendant gave a short laugh and nodded.
"Well…" Hallow replied after swallowing a gulp. "From personal experience, raising slimes isn't worth it. You saw what happened in Tertiary."
The bald man twisted on the bench, wood groaning, and pointed his mug at them.
"Look, I'll tell you something, young Grinders…" he leaned in, conspiratorial again. "You're going after the slime farm there, right?"
No one answered.
"Then listen: don't eat anything. Nothing." He raised a thick finger, serious now. "The food there's all spoiled."
"Blue," the attendant added solemnly.
"Blue," the bald man confirmed, satisfied. "But the slimes are still worth the trouble."
"They're not worth it," Santvic cut in.
Both men turned toward her at the same time, as if only then noticing she was there. The attendant frowned; the bald man tilted his head, curious.
"They're a blight," Santvic continued, unwavering. "Infestations of that kind are not permitted—should never be. Slimes don't respond well to blades, drain nullic resources, and rot the surrounding land."
The silence that followed was brief, but heavy. The attendant blinked.
"…but they pay well, right?"
The bald man nodded thoughtfully, as though weighing something genuinely complex. "And they're blue, on top of that. Hah, girl!" He burst into a broad, carefree laugh. "Why all the worry? That's exactly why we go there and kill them!" He grinned wide, yellowed teeth on display. "They're slimes. That's not a problem."
He took another swig from his mug, wiping foam from his nonexistent mustache with the back of his hand.
"Besides, they already called the Capital to take a look at what's going on…" he went on casually. "Now that they're gonna stick their fingers in it, we'll have to look for another village."
Santvic turned her gaze to the hall. People dancing without rhythm, loud guffaws, tankards slamming into greasy wood. The heart of the village pulsed there—alive and noisy. Grinders everywhere—hungry for hunts, for resources, for Valets. If the red banner yielded anything when burned, it would've turned to ash long ago. She thought, without a shred of fondness, that those were the real persistent pests.
"Well…" the attendant leaned over the counter, excited by his own thought. "Who knows, maybe you could lend them a hand?"
Santvic looked back up.
"You thinking of moving the caravan there?" he added, proud of the question.
"We'll go wherever the wind takes us, my friend!" The bald man raised his mug in a crooked toast. "Maybe we'll even help those folks a bit."
He turned to Santvic and Hallow, grin still wide.
"And you?" He pointed the mug in their direction. "Join us! Grab a sword, come along. We rest a few days, then head out hunting around Catharsis when the time feels right. That way you'll make a lot more money!"
Hallow rapped his tankard against the counter, drawing the attendant's attention.
"Our rooms."
"Oh—yes, of course. Two beds?"
"Yes," Santvic cut in. "Just for tonight."