Florence found it almost hilarious, how easily the tables turned. 

Just the other day, Aster, Florence, Marzio and the commander had sat at the same table, wined and dined, and acted out their low-budget play of a master and servant. Florence and Aster sat next to each other, with the lieutenant across from them. The commander sat at the head of the table, offering food to his guests like some kind of benevolent ruler. 

Today, Aster and the lieutenant found themselves sitting next to each other. Florence occupied the sole seat at the other end of the table, and while the commander continued to preside, anyone with eyes could see that Florence’s seat was closer to the commander than the other two. 

Let it be known that the tables didn’t flip. 

The people did. 

Lieutenant Marzio let out a loud cough, a sad attempt to break through the tense atmosphere. “It, um, appears that Master Sibylla and I had trouble with the seating arrangements.” He started to get up from his seat. “My apologies, we can switch before we start—” 

“No need,” the commander cut him off. “Master Sibylla insisted on this arrangement.” 

Both Marzio and Aster’s head snapped towards the scribe’s direction. 

Florence then realised, despite his anger, he couldn’t look those two in the eyes. 

“What’s this about?” Aster demanded, leaning forward as if he could grab the scribe all the way from the other side. His ribs didn’t fare well with the sudden motion, causing Aster to clutch his abdomen in pain. 

Florence had to steel himself to remain where he sat. He clenched his fists. 

“I’ve agreed to work with the commander.” He gritted out. “With a few conditions.” 

He didn’t know what expression he was wearing, but whatever it was, it had been enough to make Aster fall back to his seat and shut his mouth. Good. 

“That’s…that’s good news,” Marzio breathed out, disbelief evident in his voice. He tried to reach out for Florence’s hand, which rested over the table. 

Florence retracted it. 

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple, my friend,” the commander interjected. If he saw that little bit of action, he didn’t let on. He gestured a hand towards the scribe, an encouragement for him to take the floor.  “We should all hear about his conditions first.” 

You ask for much, the commander had told him. 

I ask for little, he had replied, in exchange for giving everything I have. 

Florence cleared his throat. 

“First–no unnecessary deaths in Ambrosian soil,” he spoke out loud. “This includes women and children, elderly, the disabled and sick—innocents. Deaths are restricted to people with relations to the Imperial Court.”  

The atmosphere in the meeting shifted. The commander’s captains, who stood behind their seated leader, suddenly put their hands in their swords. 

Florence pretended that he didn’t see Aster do the same, in perfect response to the murderous intent rising among the ranks. 

Murmurs rippled among the remaining soldiers. 

“Sir,” someone spoke up, “This man has disrespected us long enough—” 

“After what their soldiers have done to us!” 

“The gall of this man–” 

The commander raised his hand. Silence fell upon the table. 

Those sharp, amber eyes honed in on Florence. He was no longer the gallant, benevolent, and naive commander that offered Florence food from his table – or maybe he never was. The person that cut Florence with a mere stare was someone who’d seen perhaps a hundred battles, and suffered the losses of such. 

“I said this to you before, Master Sibylla. And I’ll say it again: you ask for much. Did you know how many innocent lives that your soldiers took? Do you know that this ground you call ‘Ambrosian Soil’ once belonged to innocent people of Vera?” 

Florence clenched his jaw. “I know.” 

The commander leaned his elbows at the armrest, then interlaced his fingers together. “If you know, then how dare you ask such a callous request? Would you deny us justice?” 

“I deny unnecessary deaths,” Florence said, keeping his voice even. “Justice is an entirely different matter. Or would you rather reclaim what’s yours in the same manner it was taken from you?” 

The commander paused, pretending to ponder on the scribe’s words. They’d discussed this already. But for the sake of show, and to make the Verusians understand–Florence has to remain firm on his stance. 

“You have more grace in you than your rulers,” he said finally. “Such a shame that the crown is lost to a dimwit.” 

“Not for long, I hope,” Came Florence’s easy reply. If he had his way – and he will have his way – the next person to sit there would be someone worthy of the title.  Someone who cared about the people. Someone who hopes to save everyone, no matter how futile, at the cost of himself. 

“You sound like you already have a person in mind, Master Sibylla.” The commander joked, but Florence wasn’t laughing. 

“What if I do?” A challenge. 

The corners of the commander’s lips tugged into a smile. “Then I hope we’re thinking of the same person, Sir Scribe.”  

He could feel Aster’s eyes on him. Perhaps a part of him thinks that Florence is still playing the role of a compliant noble, as Florence said he would. But Aster had probably given it all away the moment Marzio made a better offer – something better suited to his interests. Florence couldn’t blame him. 

After all, he was the same. 

“Moving on to our next condition,” the commander announced. “Master Sibylla requests that General Percival Ettore receive full pardon and amnesty from his crimes against the Kingdom of Vera. He is to receive full protection once war breaks loose.” 

This sent the whole meeting table into chaos. 

“Percival Ettore?! That bastard?” 

“He killed some of our captains!” 

“Amnesty for the enemy general? Is he mad?”  

Unlike before, there was no consoling the captains and soldiers – everyone of them, including the villagers who heard,  went to the commander, begging him to slay Florence right where he sat. Or if not, then perhaps orders to cut out his tongue, to prevent him from saying such blasphemous words into existence. 

As the commander struggled to regain control of the situation, Marzio finally spoke to Florence, disappointment evident in his voice. 

“You didn’t trust me, after all,” was all he said. The nerve of him to act like he was the one who got stabbed in the back. 

Him and Aster – both of them, wore mirrored expressions of hurt. Over what, Florence will never know. 

Who was it that went behind his back this morning? They’re probably disappointed that their plans to get rid of the general didn’t work. 

“The people need their white knight,” he said, almost nonchalantly. “Who am I to take that away from him?”

“The people,” Aster repeated, “Or you?” 

There’s a vague sense of wrongness in Florence’s throat, and for some reason, he felt compelled to explain himself. Aster wasn’t wrong – Florence needed the general in practical ways. Influence. Camaraderie. Protection. But somehow, the way Aster had phrased it, it didn’t seem right either. 

“That’s not–” he started to say. 

That’s not true.

You’re misunderstanding.

You don’t get it. 

What was he supposed to say? 

But Marzio beat him to the punch. 

“He’s right, Florence,” the lieutenant said, “Don’t even try to deny it.” 

He only ever cared about the general, Marzio’s earlier words repeated itself in his mind, as sharp and clear as an accusation. As if Florence didn’t go all this way to see if the lieutenant was okay. As if he wasn’t prepared to risk his life to drag him back. 

How dare he. 

“What in the world do you even mean by that?” Florence shot back, voice aggrieved.

“SILENCE!” The commander’s voice cut through the noise, slamming his hand over the table. “And you, Master Sibylla, please sit the fuck down.”  

He didn’t even realise that he was already on his feet, looming over Aster and the lieutenant. Florence stood there, frozen in time. 

“Master Sibylla,” the commander repeated, bordering on a threat. 

One of the soldiers guided him to sit down–although it was more of a shove than anything. Florence even bumped his knees on the table. 

For the second time that day, the commander cleared his throat. 

“I understand everyone’s concerns about…Master’s Sibylla’s request. I too, find it ridiculous that we should spare one of our most formidable enemies. But if we must decide…we should first hear what Mother Charon has to say.” 

What?  

Florence whipped towards the commander in protest. This was not part of the plan. They’d talked about this already – the commander intended to spare the general provided he joined their cause. Florence would just have to convince him or die trying. 

And he was prepared to die. 

He was not prepared for…whatever this is. 

Mother Charon stepped into view, assisted by several village girls and women. Their heads were hung low in respect for the healer, and even the soldiers dipped their heads in reverence. The old woman took off her cloak, scanned her surroundings, until her heterochromic eyes found Florence. 

She smiled. 

“Ah, if it isn’t His Highness. Long time no see.”