"We are ruled by thieves who penned laws that made their theft legal. And yet, the people kneel - worshiping the hand that robs them, calling it divine intervention." - Arnold Friedrich

"Ugh...my head..." Isabel muttered weakly, her eyes struggling to remain open in a losing fight against the mid-noon sunlight peering through the window.

Straightening her stance, Isabel leaned against the wooden edge of her bed for support, looking around.

—That lady...

She immediately reached under her garments, worried when she couldn't find the particular talisman she received. She couldn't afford to let Leopold find her. While she didn't trust the mystery lady, she doubly so didn't trust Leopold.

—As they say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. For now.

She looked to her bedside and saw the talisman lying there on the countertop.

—Good, they were none the wiser.

Isabel took it, hanging it around her neck once more, hiding it under her garments as she stood up off the bed and began dressing herself.

The door swung open, where now stood Sir John saluting.

"Y-you're awake! That's really good news. I must tell the--"

"Wait. What happened with the mission?"

"Failed successfully, is how I would put it. The Pope, however . . ."

"Explain."

"Well, by the time we arrived at Soden, the beastmen left of their own volition."

"And the First Captain?"

"Alexa? She's the one who found you. She said they just let her go. The rest of her squad was found . . . dead. Stripped of their armor and weapons."

Sir John looked away awkwardly, turning around and heading back towards the door.

"Sir John."

He paused in between the door and the corridor, startled and clearly on edge.

"Where is Alexa?"

He gulped, and started very slowly turning around.

"W-well . . ."

.

.

.

"Ma’am!" Two soldiers who stood by a dreary staircase suddenly stiffened up into a salute, holding onto their lances firmly.

"At ease, men." Saria said, walking past the two.

She made her way down the uneven stairs, into a forgotten part of the castle. It is said that before Leopold saved the Empire's people, there ruled a mad king who would use these dungeons for all sorts of . . . entertainment.

The further down Saria got, the more limited the torches grew, and the greater the distance between them. It took her eight minutes to reach the bottom, with a single torch awaiting her at the end of the corridor beyond all the empty cells.

By the relatively lit cell sat a man with his beer-gut almost spilling out the sides of his armor. He was snoring loudly, an empty bottle swinging idly in his left hand.

Saria kicked his shin, causing him to stand at speeds usually unrecognizable to such a sizeable man.

"M-My Lady! H-how great it is to see yo--"

"Save it. How's the heretic?"

"She's been refusing to cooperate."

"Still? It's been a week, hasn't it?"

"Aye, ma’am. May I ask,"

The man shifted a bit, looking meager under the gaze of his commander.

"How do we know she conspired with the enemy?"

Within a second of him finishing the sentence, a sharp blade found its way mere inches from his throat.

"Are you saying you doubt the word of the Pope? Need I remind you he has been specifically chosen by our Lord Savior?"

The man's face has a red hue to it, clearly he was still drunk. Saria knew normally he wouldn't have asked such a foolish thing.

"N-no ma’am! Y-you’re absolutely right, j-just a slip of the tongue."

Saria lowered her blade, turning her cold gaze to the heretic tied to a red wooden chair.

The heretic was bound by her arms and legs, her long blonde hair dried out with many split ends. She wore rags and was missing her nails. Her body was scarred and bandaged awkwardly, as if attempting to prolong her suffering. The chair's original brown peeked out in some places, but not many. The heretic hung her head.

"I know you . . ." The heretic spoke weakly, raising her chin to gaze at the two standing beyond her cage, a single red eye peering between strands of bloody hair.

"Saria . . . you were so kind to me always. To everyone. This-- this isn't--"

The heretic coughed as Saria shook her head.

"Heretics deserve no kindness, you should have known better than to conspire with filth."

"Lies!!"

The heretic called out, tears sliding down her face in anger.

"I did no such thing! They let me go!!"

"Then why did they kill the rest of your squad? Why leave only you alive?"

The silence was damning, the heretic looking away. Saria got her — they both seemed to know she had no answer to that.

"In the end, you really are just like your father."

"Leave him out of this!"

The heretic cried out, her hands gripping at the edges of the chair, splinters clinging to her skin and causing her to bleed anew.

Saria stepped away, turning her chin to the guard.

"Do what you will with her, it is clear the cult has a tight grip on her throat. Just don't kill her, not without express permission from me."

"JUST YOU WAIT!"

Saria turned to look at the heretic, now sheathing her sword.

"WAIT UNTIL COMMANDER ISABEL HEARS OF THIS!"

"Oh don't worry, her time will come just as yours did."

Saria's steps echoed up the hall as she made her way up the stairs.

Step,

           Step,

                        Step.

Isabel practically stormed through the castle halls, forcing people aside with her gaze as Sir John struggled to keep up, apologizing to anyone she crashed through.

"C-commander, please! Wait up!" he cried behind her, as she kept stomping angrily.

"I will not accept the transfer of my First Captain to a different legion. Not without prior notice and consideration from me."

Isabel turned to look at Sir John, not pausing her stampede, as he let out a sigh and rubbed the back of his head.

"Well, to be fair, you were out for a week, right?"

"Your point?"

"The doctors . . . they weren't actually sure if you would wake up. They said they could barely sense your soul. If it weren't for Princess Diane . . ."

"Princess Diane?"

"Well, yeah."

"She returned? When?"

"At the recommendation of the Pope, she returned early from her studies in The Protectorate of Baluga."

"Then she must be quite pissed."

"A-aye."

Isabel suddenly turned the corner, pulling Sir John in after her, standing in mid air so they could see eye to eye.

"Something smells fishy here. You know the system as well as I do, transfers do not happen this quickly, not even at the order of the Church."

Sir John gave a cautious nod.

"Find out who issued the transfer, and find a way to contact whoever leads the legion she was moved to. I want everything, Sir John. Documents, signatures, letters. Anything slightly suspicious, you bring back to me."

Sir John saluted firmly, turning to leave.

"And, John."

Sir John turned around, his eyes surprised at the soft look on the commander's face. She almost looked her age now.

"Keep it on the down low. I can't risk losing my second in command soon after my first is shamelessly stolen from me."

Sir John smiled, giving a final salute and disappearing into the main corridor.

—I trust in you, John. Find the truth, for the both of us.