You Have to Help Me Help You

The carriage rattled as it rolled along Counselor Street.

Inside the vehicle, cutting through the damp wind to the steady rhythm of hooves, the light of a thaumaturgic lantern revealed the impassive face of Daniel Grace, leaning back against the crimson-upholstered seat, arms crossed over his chest. He wore nearly the same attire he had upon arriving at Dragon Wharf weeks earlier: a white linen shirt buttoned to the collar, a dark gray vest fitted neatly to his torso, black trousers, and polished leather boots.

Over it all, a long overcoat of heavy fabric replaced his previous jacket and cape, the deep blue so dark it was almost black. The collar was folded up and fastened with two metal buttons, shielding him from the chill of the night. Nothing in his appearance was ostentatious — everything functional, clean, carrying a discreet elegance — enough to avoid the vulgarity of a nouveau-riche before the city’s old aristocracy.

Across from him, Sallustia sat perfectly still, her back straight, her face half-hidden beneath the hood of her long cloak. That night she wore more somber attire: a long black tunic of plain fabric, unadorned, covering her body to the ankles, sleeves narrow and tight at the wrists. At her neck, a silver brooch in the shape of the eye of Convergence secured the gray mantle, allowing only part of her face to be seen. No jewelry. No unnecessary ornament. Only discretion and efficiency, as was typical of her.

For a long while, the only sounds were the horses outside and the occasional creak of the wheels. Both remembered well their last argument, shortly before Gupta had caused a scene in the mercenaries’ tavern.

“I was right about the Half-Full Mug” Sallustia finally broke the silence, not looking at Grace. “We nearly got ourselves killed for nothing.”

Daniel sighed.

“The situation was under control.”

“Lais nearly blew us all up.” Her tone was firm, voice even. “That woman is completely insane.”

Grace rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, breathing deeply before answering.

“I’m not going to explain it again. We needed information. We still do. Or do you ignore how dangerous Prebito is?”

She didn’t answer immediately, only kept her gaze fixed on the window, where the lamplight inside fought against the darkness outside.

“It’s the mission, Daniel Grace. I cannot fail the Princeps.”

He nodded slowly, his expression hardening with frustration.

“Of course. But I’m the one in command here, am I not?”

“You are” she replied without hesitation, though with a trace of caution in her voice.

“Am I really?” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Will you do everything I order you to?”

Sallustia narrowed her eyes, studying him as if seeking traps in the question.

“I will do what I can.”

Daniel leaned back again, spreading his arms.

“Then strip completely” he ordered firmly. “Now. And kneel before me.”

Her gaze faltered, her face going pale for an instant.

“What?!” Sallustia seemed not to believe what she had heard.

“Am I in command?” he repeated, staring at her.

The paladin hesitated at first. Then she nodded once, a tense movement of the head. She began to undo the brooch of her cloak, her face rigid, but obeying.

“Stop!” Grace’s voice cut the air before the tunic could slip from her shoulders.

The silence that followed was heavy.

“That’s it.” Daniel drew a deep breath before speaking. “The brutality of slavery. Reducing someone to the point of obeying even the vilest command. Sallustia, listen carefully: I don’t care what orders the Princeps gave you. You cannot blind yourself to them!”

She froze, fingers still on the brooch, as if undressing even without him asking would disprove his point. As if to prove to this traveler from another world that he knew absolutely nothing of Ordinem Finis.

“The First Citizen promised me vengeance” she confessed in a whisper.

Daniel frowned.

“Vengeance?”

“My sister. Allania.” Sallustia raised her eyes to him, and there was something more human than Daniel had ever seen in her before. “She was the Princeps’ bodyguard. A slave-paladin, like me. The two of them… they had an affair. He was going to free her from slavery. They were going to marry. The first in our family, in centuries, to be free.”

The carriage turned down another street. The sound of wheels echoed inside the vehicle, filling a terribly long moment of silence.

“But the Swords sent assassins. She died protecting him. The attempt failed; the First Citizen survived. And he gave me an opportunity: to serve you until the mission’s end. If you died, I would return to Arx Noctis. Others would finish the job. And my vengeance would belong to him alone.”

Daniel watched her for a long moment.

“I’m sorry” he said at last.

Sallustia looked away.

“Just don’t help our enemies, Grace. The Swords’ job is to kill you — and Vega, for example, already knew who Fidenzio de Lio was. Don’t make it easy for them.”

The Custos Tecit nodded.

“Listen” he said, voice dropping an octave. “I promise I’ll hear your advice. Maybe I misjudged you. But don’t let this consume you. Your life is not only about vengeance.”

“And you are not only a mission” she admitted, almost inaudibly. “Perhaps I’ve been too harsh.”

Both took a deep breath, and for an instant the atmosphere felt lighter, despite the weight of the monumental task still before them.

“We’ll get him” Daniel assured. “Prebito won’t even know what hit him.”

At last, the carriage slowed and stopped as they reached their destination.

***

The Verdant Theater rose before them.

Lit by rows of thaumaturgic lanterns casting a steady halo upon the damp pavement, its façade combined dark wood paneling with bands of exposed brick. Four tall columns guarded the entrance, their capitals carved with laurel leaves and small tragic masks. Green and gold banners fluttered in the night, fastened to bronze masts; the fabric rippled in the constant wind descending from the upper streets. From beyond the revolving doors came the sound of the orchestra tuning their instruments, like a persistent whisper.

Pure anticipation in broken notes.

The lobby was spacious, its polished wooden floor reflecting the golden light of chandeliers and sconces. Moss-green carpets covered the twin staircases, splitting around a marble bust darkened by time. The ceiling fresco — gods and heroes with outstretched hands above a stormy sea — gained depth beneath the glow of lamps.

Attendants in green tailcoats and white gloves guided patrons with economical gestures, collecting cloaks, murmuring schedules, requesting silence in low voices.

The corridors bustled.

Nobles in embroidered coats gleaming with metallic threads at cuffs and collars crossed the hall accompanied by ladies in dresses of vivid colors — crimson, cobalt, silver — their stiff skirts parting like sails filled with sea wind. Jewelry sparkled everywhere: a short pendant here, a bracelet of opaque stones there, a string of pearls woven into hair.

The air carried a distinct blend of expensive perfume, beeswax, and polished wood.

Daniel and Sallustia ascended to the box level by a side stairwell, guided by an usher who asked no questions. The upper corridor was narrower, lined with heavy curtains concealing private lounges furnished with small tables holding crystal goblets and printed programs on parchment. Above each doorway, a numbered medallion gleamed in green enamel.

At the center, near a tribune reserved for the First Citizen — empty that evening — lay the box of Cnaeuso Nuseban Ciniana. The dark wood balustrade was carved with vines and small pomegranates; the family crest appeared discreetly as a coat of arms free of unnecessary ostentation.

Two men stood at either side — no liveries, only sober clothes and clean boots. Not official guards, yet their posture betrayed vigilance, ready to quell any disturbance.

Ciniana had been seated but rose when he noticed the visitors’ arrival.

A man in his middle years, black hair combed back, temples touched with gray, he wore a short beard that sharpened his jaw and thin lips. There was order in every line of his face, as though he trimmed not only errant hairs but every unnecessary impulse of emotion.

His high-collared wine-red coat, embroidered in silver with branching patterns, hung neatly. Unlike many senators present that evening, he was not necessarily a traditionalist. Beneath it, a black vest shaped his torso without excess; mother-of-pearl buttons catching the light like tiny stars.

Gray trousers without a single crease vanished into light leather boots. On his index finger, a signet ring bore his family’s golden crest.

His armchair, the fixed seat of this immensely wealthy man who had led House Nuseban for over two decades, stood a pace back from the balustrade, sending a clear message: he watched without being fully seen, yet everyone knew precisely who occupied that place of honor.

On stage, to the left, surrounded by a semicircle of chamber musicians preparing the opening scene, the famed singer Cilla Inius warmed her voice, still facing the pianist rather than the audience.

Young, fair-skinned beneath the magical light, blue-eyed — her gaze seemed larger at a distance — and with blonde hair pinned in a polished bun, two loose strands framing her temples.

Her pale blue silk gown fell straight along the bodice, opening into clean lines below, the waist marked by a simple silver sash without excessive gleam. Small earrings and a modest tiara completed the ensemble.

There was in her a quiet focus, attention fixed on the conductor’s cues and the notes an assistant passed her in a small notebook. Her hands, clasped together, trembled slightly as she repeated a passage. Without affectation.

“Fidenzio Crisci de Lio” Ciniana spoke first, his voice low. He indicated a chair without inviting closer approach. “Our new celebrity. Sit.”

Daniel studied the man as he sat, measuring the distance to the curtain, the angle of the balustrade, the positions of the two men at either side. Sallustia remained standing a step behind, hood half-lowered, likely conducting the same analysis with twice the precision and far less charitable intent.

The usher withdrew as discreetly as he had arrived, the curtain falling half-closed.

“I hear Prebito has been… pressuring you” Daniel began bluntly.

The skin near Ciniana’s eyes twitched toward a smile. He did not smile. His hand, however, traced the armrest, as if gauging the memory of an old scar.

Below, Cilla Inius began the first act of The Tragedy of Plicia and the Dragon Talusea:

In the northern hills, where the winds flay,

“Blackmailed” the aristocrat corrected, syllables falling heavy with his condition. “He obtained documents on old business dealings of mine. Not entirely honest, I admit, master de Lio. But a noble does what he must to preserve his House. If he exposes them, I lose half my wealth. And the Empire loses half the economic power the Coins require to maintain commercial control over the provinces.”

It was no empty threat nor idle boast.

From the balustrade, one could see rows of boxes filled with people who owed Ciniana favors — or owed debts to those who borrowed in his name. The theater was the city in miniature.

“Then we’ll take them out of his hands” Daniel said firmly, each word placed like a precise strike in a street brawl — except here words cut deeper than fists. “In return, I want your support for the Coins.”

The orchestra rose from the pit — slow octaves in the bass, woodwinds climbing scales — and their conversation lowered further still.

Cilla now stood motionless, breathing to the conductor’s counts. Footlights painted her face in warm gold. A violinist tested a harmonic; silence followed. The woman continued, her voice weaving the epic to life:

Oh, Piuso, Sentuseius Suiluso,

“If I do this, Prebito will try to kill me” Ciniana said evenly. It was no dramatization, only a fact set upon the table. “And you as well.”

“And who says he hasn’t already tried?” Grace countered, tone unchanged. “If we don’t act, he’ll destroy us both anyway. And worse besides. I’ve heard troubling rumors.”

Ciniana’s eyes drifted to the singer mid-scene. Cilla adjusted her waist sash slightly, breathed, and the harp confirmed the chord.

Talusea, lord of mines and dread,

The magnate turned back to Daniel.

“You always arrive with final solutions.” It sounded like a criticism, though not a mocking one. “You and he are alike in that sense. And you expect me to believe you without proof. What have I to do with rumors riling the rabble of the Middle and Outer Rings?”

More than you or these other arrogant fools imagine, Grace thought, though he did not say it aloud.

“No.” Daniel leaned closer, just enough to close the distance to a whisper. “I ask Your Lordship to choose a side before someone chooses it for you.”

A short silence.

The murmur of the audience settling into their seats. A delay in the third bell’s toll, a flaw only regular patrons would notice.

The two men at the flanks exchanged glances with those patrolling the corridor. Sallustia observed the cuffs of their coats: unhemmed, practical cuts, calloused fingers.

Cilla Inius bridged the orchestra’s slip by shortening a verse, returning to the refrain:

Oh, Piuso, Sentuseius Suiluso,

“Bring me those documents” Ciniana spoke slowly, separating each syllable with a cadence leaving no escape. “And you will have my support.”

He did not ask how Daniel would manage it. Nor did he promise anything beyond what the traveler requested. It was enough.

The curtains threatened to close mid-scene as Cilla sang with mounting drama, drawing a collective sigh from the audience. But the conductor raised his baton, and a low theme climbed again beneath her, almost subterranean, as though ascending narrow steps toward the clarity of an oboe.

Music filled the wooden vaults, rose through the boxes, clothed the Verdant Theater from within. Cilla stepped forward, her face beneath the lamps gaining depth. Her voice rang clearer with each note.

No tremor betrayed nerves. Her diction was sharp, every consonant and vowel shaped without violence:

In the frozen wastes, in the sundered tower,

Daniel and Sallustia traded a quick glance. This was no place to prolong negotiation.

Ciniana leaned back half a hand’s span, signaling his men to refocus on the stage. With his thumb, he touched the signet ring, a gesture betraying contained anxiety.

Onstage, Cilla crossed the diagonal, embodying her role with measured economy. The conductor expanded the dynamics until the wood beneath musicians’ feet vibrated, the final trumpet-call of the prelude locking seamlessly into place:

The audience breathed as one, the first applause rising, restrained. Ciniana clapped twice, unhurried.

“He keeps the papers in a vault?” Daniel asked quietly amid the stir.

“No.” The noble clicked his tongue, minimal even here. “A copyist scattered them across three locations. Prebito never trusts a single point. I would have done the same.”

“Locations?”

“A warehouse in the Outer Ring, near the docks. An office above a gaming house in the Middle Ring. And a records room in his own tower.” He paused briefly, weighing whether the final detail merited the breath. “The copyist’s name is Verel.”

Daniel closed his fingers around the printed program, feeling the raised ink of the typography. Sallustia pushed back her hood slightly, letting her face catch the box’s light.

The city outside continued with its pacts. Inside, they forged a loyalty soon to change hands, with the same ceremony a conductor grants a soloist the tempo.

The final melody of the act filled the Verdant Theater.

The audience’s breathing and the polish of high society could not hide what mattered: measured risks, and a new task for the Custos Tecit’s band.

The shadow war in Castra Devana had only just begun.