“Your crime was simple: you sent your people to their deaths, but they didn’t die. This would be easier if you made sure they actually died.”
-Records of the Sibyllan Era, Book 1
Aster was heaving by the time he spotted the back of a familiar, pristine white coat. He found him sitting on a random tree stump, hunched over, lost in thought.
“General!” He called out. No answer.
His back was smaller than Aster remembered it, but perhaps that was what happened to big shots once they were alone. The weight of responsibilities shrinking down to the size of human shoulders.
“General Ettore!” He called again. The figure didn’t look back. He also didn’t show any signs of movement – could he have frozen? Or maybe he’d fallen asleep?
Aster forced himself to close the distance between them, putting a hand on the General’s shoulder. “General,” he spoke in a rush, “I–”
“AHHHHHH!”
Black liquid spilled on the snow, along with bits of parchment. Instead of the General, a new, unfamiliar face blinked back at him. The man had a round face and a look of incredulousness splashed all over it, making him look almost comical.
“Watch it!” The man hissed out, “You made me spill my ink!”
Aster stared at the mess of papers that fell off the man’s hands, down to the ink beginning to seep to the ground. He didn’t have the chance to learn how to read, given that his line of work rarely preferred other technical skills, but even he could see that the man was hard at work, having filled pages upon pages of parchment.
Despite his injuries, he knelt down and began picking them up. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I thought you were the general.”
The man scoffed, but he knelt down and joined Aster anyway. “Do I look like a general to you?”
Upon closer inspection, he should have noticed that this man’s hair was a shade darker, and his frame was more lean instead of built. He had quite the comely appearance – with sleepy brown eyes and full cheeks. Could he have been a soldier?
“But you were wearing the general’s coat!” Aster defended. So maybe he’d failed to spot some finer details. So what?
The man rolled his eyes, “There’s no such thing as a general’s coat, idiot. Everyone here is wearing the standard issue fur coats issued by the empire’s treasury.”
For the first time since his past life, Aster felt a shameful burn on his cheeks. He had been plenty sure that this coat belonged to General Ettore – simply because no other soldier could keep their coats as pristine as his. On the other hand, he didn’t have time to explain such a thing to this random, scribbling man, and he had better things to do.
“Sorry that an outsider like me has no idea what you capital people do,” he snapped back, letting sarcasm drip from his voice. “I just needed to find the General. Do you know where he is?”
It was only brief, but he could see the slightest widening of the man’s eyes at the mention of their societal differences. Aster expected some form of retaliation – after all, the man had an aura of a spoiled, young master who found themselves in the middle of nowhere.
Instead, the man’s voice softened. “He’s out on patrol. Won’t be back until afternoon.”
Aster sighed.
“I can, however, get him for you.” the man added. “In exchange for one small favour, of course.”
So he IS some kind of noble! Aster felt a wave of smugness rush over him. At least he got one thing right.
“What’s the favour?” He jutted his chin up.
The man gave a small, half-smile. It reminded Aster of the moon – half bright, half-dark.
“You’re the one who killed all those bandits, correct?”
Aster did a double-take, surprised that the man managed to put two-and-two together. But then again, the wounds were probably a dead giveaway.
“Sure,” he said. And then, for some reason, he also blurted out, “you got a problem with that?”
“Not at all,” the man chuckled. “Actually, I’d like to hear all about it.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The man scooched a little closer to the edge of the stump, making space. He tapped the spot next to him. “I heard one man got maced and had his skull crushed,” he said, “and I’m very curious as to what kind of person could do that…much less put down twenty more people. The logistics are quite…fascinating.”
The way he said it made it seem like he had other, more offensive terms to use than fascinating. Aster didn’t know what to feel about that. He never bragged about his skills because he always thought the results spoke for themselves, but now here comes a stranger doubting his results, despite the evidence literally painting the village red.
“The General said something along those lines,” he answered seriously, “but with all due respect, I’d appreciate it if you believed that I was able to do it.”
We wouldn’t want to increase the body count, he almost said. Thankfully, he remembered that he still had his mother and sister here. Better to be safe than sorry.
The man seemed to pick up on this. He cleared his throat. “I imagine it sounds like condescension, and I apologise if it did. But please understand that our curiosity is genuine. Imagine what it’d mean for the army if we had someone like that!”
Oh.
Oh.
An idea started to form in Aster’s head, a notion so ridiculous that he couldn’t help but laugh. “Please. Me? This empire won’t be saved just because you have me in your ranks. You can have twenty people with the same skillset as mine, and I promise you, nothing will change unless you find out where the real problem lies.”
He didn’t even realise that he’d already sat next to the man – a stranger whose name he hadn’t even gotten – and had begun sharing his story without a care. Nevermind that he’d basically revealed his occupation as an assassin – he actually shared his opinion! Him! A hunter on the outskirts who should have no idea of the inner city’s intricate politics!
Before the man could start questioning Aster, he immediately switched to recounting the details of his fight, hoping to overload him with information. The man scribbled on his parchment the entire time Aster told his story – perhaps he wasn’t even listening.
“So what is it, then?” He asked, still not looking up from his paper.
“What?”
“The real problem,” the man said. “You said nothing will change as long as we find out the real problem within this empire.”
The man had such an intense look in his eyes as he said those words. It reminded him of a particular person a lifetime ago, whose cold and infallible mask had cracked open at the thought of multiple failed assassinations. Almost as if he was disappointed that he couldn’t be killed.
“What does it matter to you?” He asked, “You obviously came from Elyssia. People like you don’t need to think about problems. Or maybe…could there be trouble in paradise? Finally opened your eyes?”
He didn’t mean to take out his frustrations on this stranger, but being sent back on Taratus reminded Aster of the painfully wide gap between the factions. Had it not been for this gap, his mother and sister wouldn’t have to live in such dangerous territory. They would be allowed to enjoy the security and warmth provided to the residents of the inner city, and probably lead different lives.
“Elyssia is far from paradise,” the man told Aster, looking far ahead. “People from Aphos and Taratus think their lives will change once they get there…but it doesn’t. Even the city is cruel to its own.”
Aster remembered his friend in the fortress saying something similar. That person had just learned about Aster’s attempts to kill Emperor Sibylla, but instead of laughing at his failures, he had thoroughly dissected the political implications had the assassination succeeded.
Sometimes I wonder what else is worth saving from this place. The empire is rotten to the core, and it won’t change even if you chop a monarch’s head off. It won’t change even if you replace everyone in the court.
Emperor Sibylla was a tyrant, much worse than his predecessors. He had the brains that the previous emperor lacked, and all the brawn that no one could have expected from a mere courtier. His journey to the throne, bloody as it might’ve been, was made for the books – he went from nobody to the Imperial advisor, discreetly orchestrating schemes to get the Imperial family to fight against each other.
Then, when the family had all but ripped itself apart, he swooped in like a vulture and took the crown. No one contested his claim as he held the empire’s courts by the neck, and no one contested him when those necks lost their heads, either.
“You have an awfully unorthodox view for a noble,” Aster praised. “Could you be one of those pacifists? We get a few of those every once in a while, you know, giving out donations and shit.”
It was indeed crazy. There were some nobles in Elyssia who think they could absolve their guilt of being born privileged by traversing across the lands, doing good deeds like some kind of saviour. Sometimes, a few would make it as far as the outskirts of Taratus, but even then those nobles had long been hardened by the road, robbed of all they were worth and what’s left of their dignity. Aster had escorted some of those in his previous lives – most of them had turned their back before they even left Aphos.
“Me, a noble?” The man laughed. “What would a noble be doing out here?”
Fair point.
“Hey!” A voice called out. A few feet across them waved a familiar figure, cutting their conversation short.
“General,” the man bowed.
“I told you, stop that, already,” General Ettore patted the man’s head. It was a gesture that felt almost too intimate to watch, yet Aster kept his eyes open, absorbing this tiniest bit of information.
“You stop that,” The man swatted the General’s hand away, but not without the telltale flush of red in his cheeks.
Aster snickered.
The General seemed to notice the presence of a third party for the first time, as he immediately straightened up and put some distance between him and the mysterious man. He flashed Aster a polite smile. “Oh, and if it isn’t our little hero! What brings you outside? You should be resting!”
Aster found himself scowling at this. He may be some hulking general, but Aster he was only an inch shorter! He was only a few frames smaller! Give him a few more years and he’ll definitely be able to put this man to the ground – the General should have seen Aster once he properly grew up to the living weapon he was meant to be.
“If you’re worried about the village,” the General began saying, probably in an attempt to rectify an offence he couldn’t quite identify, “then please don’t worry, I’ve scoured the area. My soldiers are also guarding your people.”
“About fucking time,” he mumbled.
“I know,” the General held his stare. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about earlier.”
Aster hadn’t meant to say it loud, but he didn’t plan on taking it back either. He kept silent just to prove that he stood by his words. Eventually, the General picked up on the silent offer and gestured at the man beside him.
“We’ll need some time by ourselves, Florence.” He said to the man. The man – Florence – simply nodded.
“Of course,” he bowed again. “I’ll see you later, General.”
Both men waited until the sound of crunching snow faded away, and they were left alone to discuss affairs. Aster watched as the man disappeared from view, relieved to finally be free from his scrutiny, but no less intrigued.
He didn’t remember any Florence in the General’s army.
“Who is he?” Aster found himself asking the General. A close friend? A special charge?
Could they be…lovers?
When he turned to look at the General, it was no surprise to find him looking in the same direction. However, there was a weight in his gaze that hadn't been there before – an expression achingly similar to the General that Aster had met in his past life.
You survived for a reason, even if that reason is to kill.
“He’s a scribe sent to record everything that transpires here,” the General answered quietly. “Today, he writes about this village. In the future, once we all die, he’ll be the one to write our names in history.”
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