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Feeling the muscles in his neck seize with stiffness, Varkas leaned back against the headrest of his chair.
Spread across the mahogany desk—eight kvets wide—lay the list of heretics compiled by the investigators, alongside a map marked with the suspected assembly points of the looters.
Varkas scanned them thoroughly before addressing Beirof, who sat across from him.
“When is their next gathering?”
“The coming new moon. It appears a large-scale meeting will take place at an abandoned mine on the outskirts of Heswen.”
“That leaves little time.”
Varkas rubbed his chin, lost in thought, before his eyes shifted to the list of apostates.
“Have you determined the size of their force?”
“According to the interrogations, they claim hundreds or even thousands will gather, but… the testimonies vary so widely that they are difficult to credit.”
Beirof added with a cynical edge:
“Ignorant commoners often mistake a hundred men for a vast host. Realistically, we estimate between two hundred and fifty and three hundred.”
Varkas let out a dry, scornful scoff. That was no mere band of brigands; it was large enough to function as a military unit.
While inconsequential compared to the forces of the Grand Duchy, the true concern lay in the fact that the Zram had managed to assemble an armed host in the very heart of the East.
‘There may be cells like this scattered throughout these lands.’
Swallowing a heavy breath, Varkas gave his orders in a clipped tone.
“Contact the local lords. We will let them assemble, then purge them in one stroke.”
“Do you intend to take command yourself, Your Grace?”
“Yes. I will personally pull the weeds taking root in my own yard.”
Answering coldly, Varkas rose from his seat.
As he turned toward the door, Beirof spoke cautiously.
“What of the heretics?”
“Keep them under close watch for now.”
His hand on the latch, Varkas looked back over his shoulder.
“If we round them up now, word may reach the looters. We wait for the right moment and seize them without warning.”
“…Their numbers are considerable. There could be fierce resistance from the townsfolk.”
“Even so, we cannot simply watch the heretics run wild, can we?”
Varkas countered sharply.
“Leave the apostates alone, and the Central Church will dispatch its inquisitors. Far better they face a heresy trial before the Eastern Church than have their limbs torn apart by the inquisitors of the capital.”
Beirof held his tongue, unable to dispute the point. Turning away from his aide’s troubled expression, Varkas strode out of the barracks.
A fine drizzle drifted over the training grounds. He stepped into the damp air, setting a brisk pace to clear the tangled thoughts in his head.
Ever since being incorporated into the Empire, the people of the East had received formal baptism and lived as followers of the Imperial Church.
Those who refused, clinging to the Great Spirit Religion, had been driven to the fringes of the East to live as pariahs.
That they were now spreading their influence across the East once more was an ominous sign—a crack widening in the Empire’s governing order.
‘First the North… and now the East unravels.’
He dragged a hand through his wet hair. A quiet futility washed over him, like desperately trying to shield a sandcastle against an incoming tide.
After gazing up at the leaden sky with dark, brooding eyes, Varkas made his way across the training grounds.
He passed through the garden, heavy with the scent of damp earth, and entered the main keep. A servant lighting candles in the hall hurried over with a cloth. Taking it to dry his hair, Varkas asked,
“Where is the Grand Duchess?”
“Her Highness has not yet returned.”
Varkas stopped and fixed the servant with a stare.
“She left the keep?”
“I do not believe she left the grounds. She mentioned going to Marisen’s hut earlier, so she is likely there….”
He frowned.
He knew she visited the healing sorceress often, but since his return, she had never remained away from the main palace for this long.
“Where is Marisen’s dwelling?”
“At the edge of the rear gardens, north of Raedgo Castle.”
Varkas turned on his heel, crossed the hall, and stepped out through the rear doors.
Cutting through a wide, rain-slicked yard and along a forest trail shrouded in gray shadows, he came upon the spring where they had met again.
After a brief glance at the water’s surface, stippled with rain, Varkas followed the muddy track toward the ramparts.
Soon, a tended herb plot and a small stone cottage appeared through the mist. Stepping up to the door, Varkas knocked without pause. Before long, a calm voice drifted from inside.
“Enter.”
He opened the door. Marisen, who had been grinding herbs at a table, rose in startlement.
“G-Grand Duke? What brings you here…?”
“I was told my wife was here.”
Varkas took in the interior.
The spacious room held a workbench, shelves bearing hundreds of jars, and racks hung with drying herbs, all in immaculate order.
His eyes drifted past them to rest upon a modest cot. Talia lay curled on her side in a thin blue summer dress, fast asleep.
After gazing down at her defenseless form for a moment, his eyes fell upon a book discarded by her pillow.
The word ‘Punishment’ was stamped in gold across the leather binding.
A furrow appeared between his brows as he picked it up and turned the leaves. It was the memoir of Elixir, a hero of the Empire’s founding era said to have returned from the depths of hell.
‘…Her taste hasn’t changed at all.’
She had buried herself in grim, morbid tales as a child, and the habit had evidently clung to her into adulthood.
Glancing over a passage that described the torments of sinners cast into purgatory, Varkas tossed the volume straight into the hearth.
Seeing the rare, costly tome swallowed by fire, Marisen let out a sharp gasp.
Varkas fixed her with a silencing look. Staring in dismay at the fireplace, she promptly closed her mouth.
He turned back to Talia. She was sunken so deeply in sleep that she did not stir, her breathing quiet and faint.
“Did you administer a sedative?”
“Her Highness mentioned the rain was worsening the ache in her legs, so I gave her a somewhat potent analgesic,” Marisen whispered.
Varkas studied her face for a long time, then bent low and gathered her limp form into his arms.
“Where is the wolf?”
“K-Khan is….”
Marisen hesitated, moistening her dry lips before steadying her tone.
“She had him placed in the kennel prepared at the detached palace for the time being.”
“The kennel?”
Varkas’s brow twitched.
Over the past few days, the beast had refused to part from her side for even an instant. Talia herself had doted on it obsessively, making such a measure feel decidedly out of place.
“What made her decide that?”
“I… advised her that Khan’s recent agitation stemmed from an excess of protective instinct toward Her Highness.”
Marisen lowered her eyes and went on carefully:
“Moreover, now that Your Grace has returned, I suggested Khan ought to grow accustomed to being apart from Her Highness… and she agreed to keep him separated, at least at night.”
At that, a strange stiffness settled over Varkas’s lips.
END