Siegfried stepped forward, his green irises meeting those of his lieutenant without blinking.

  "My Lieutenant, as you demanded, we tracked the rebels in the Southwest I zone and neutralized them."

  He signaled to his brother who deposited the heavy crate on his superior's desk with a dull thud.

  "Twenty-seven in total, entrenched in a warehouse near the old theater. They were preparing an attack against the Orchard of Hél?a. Their plan was to take advantage of the knights' change of guard to infiltrate through the gutters under the ramparts using this substance."

  He indicated the crate with his chin.

  "We eliminated them without giving them a chance to act."

  "The Orchard again, huh?" said the lieutenant, tapping his fingers on the table in a dry rhythm, a slight irritation making itself felt in his breathing. "These miserable rats still dare to target the reserves, thinking only the Upper City benefits from them. But when will they understand that if they destroy the gardens, it won't just be the nobility who suffers but all of Solheim? What do they think, that we knights eat grisbouc thighs and juicy papayagas every day? These good-for-nothings make me sick!"

  He was about to continue his usual tirade when his gaze fell on the crate. Frowning, he lifted the lid. A single glance was enough to understand and his expression changed imperceptibly.

  "This steel..." he murmured, more to himself than to the squadron. "It doesn't come from the lands of Istalith."

  He raised his eyes to Siegfried then plunged his hand into the crate to retrieve one of the pouches. He withdrew a handful of blackish powder that he let flow between his fingers, observing the substance with mistrust. A brief grimace passed over his lips, almost imperceptible.

  "And this?"

  "An alchemy that was given to them by the Eclipse and which they claimed was capable of breaking metal, my lieutenant," his knight explained. "We tested the substance—nothing. It seems inert, but they insisted on its destructive power. There must be an activation method we're unaware of."

  Lieutenant Di Fiorenze let the powder fall back into the pouch and turned toward the wall map, his pupils lingering on the meanders of the Outskirts.

  "The Eclipse..." he finally murmured, his finger tracing the contours of the Lower City. "If these dirty rats manage to bring in shipments from outside, there aren't thirty-six ways for them to do it."

  He reflected for a brief moment, then his fist struck the area of the canal and maritime warehouses of the capital.

  "So they've managed to infiltrate there too?"

  "With everything we import from Emporium, my Lieutenant, it would be the easiest and fastest way for them to obtain or receive merchandise," the paladin confirmed. "But with what money? Such weapons from..."

  "Lieutenant H?lw?nd thought they were financed by someone powerful. This may be the proof," his superior cut him off.

  He turned around, headed toward the crate, took one of the powder pouches and violently closed the lid.

  "I'll take this to the High Clerics of the Academy later. I won't ask if there were any survivors or fugitives, I already know the answer. Any other facts I should be made aware of, Knight Vaan Hart?"

  Siegfried shook his head slightly in negation.

  "No, my Lieutenant," he answered with assurance. "We destroyed everything related to their mission. What they knew died with them, I can guarantee it on my honor."

  "Excellent."

  Di Fiorenze nodded.

  "Rest until tomorrow, you've earned it. As usual, be in the briefing room before the third clarity. The March of Expiation will begin at the fourth. Dismissed, knights."

  He struck the table with his gloved fist in a sharp sound like a shutter slamming in a gust, and signaled them to leave with a brusque gesture. Squadron VIII saluted their lieutenant with the solar salute as one man, right fist against the solar plexus, left hand behind the back, bowing their heads—a reflex born of routine more than obedience. They left the basements of the Index. Before they crossed the Gate of Dawn, Siegfried stopped to speak, his warriors gathering around him.

  "The lieutenant's leave gives us until the seventh clarity. Do me the pleasure of going down to N?rr's tavern. A hot meal and a good beer will do us the greatest good before heading home."

  "I'm with you, my brother," Juuh'ma agreed in his deep voice.

  Raising an eyebrow, the Noohrikane asked, a hint of exasperation making itself heard in her voice.

  "Again at your cousin's? Don't you want to change a bit and go eat somewhere else?"

  "Do you perhaps know a place where the music and beer are better?" her chief retorted.

  R?chard adjusted his quiver, located behind his right shoulder and added.

  "He's not wrong, specter. And besides, to tell the truth, I don't really feel like walking. I'll have you know I followed you from the rooftops all day. My legs are asking me for only one thing, rest. So I vote for N?rr's place."

  Heading toward the exit, his ashwolf skin following his confident gait, Siegfried motioned for them to join him with his hand and without even turning, he said.

  "Since I'm paying, I choose! Direction my cousin's!"

  "Hmph! Works every time..." the Noohrikane murmured to her young friend who stood beside her with mischief and a smile that could be discerned through her cloth mask.

  The Stoneskin gently pushed the two warriors, inviting them to move forward, shaking his head with a small laugh, seeing how his brother let himself be manipulated. They left the Upper City, descending the Northern Stairs, bringing them back to the misery of the Outskirts.

  At the edge of this slope, the Brawny's tavern stood, a squat building of light wood, anchored in the Outskirts like a rough island at the foot of the climb. Its roof of disjointed tiles bent under the star, and a sign—a crudely carved muscular arm on a plank—swayed on rusty chains, creaking in the arid wind. Inside, the air vibrated with an odor of roasted grisbouc meat, sour m?l beer and sweet smoke coming from a massive kitchen located at the back of the tavern, open to the main counter. A melody filled the space, drawn from a detuned lute by an old man in a corner, his jarring notes mixing with the laughter and voices of regulars—soldiers, workers and merchants from the lower quarters. The tables, carved from rough wood, bore knife notches and mug marks, while suspended iron lanterns adorned the ceiling, used only for decoration in this world without night.

  N?rr Vaan Hart, a broad man with graying red hair and an aquiline nose, wiped a mug behind the counter. His squinted green eyes recognized Siegfried, and he let out a friendly grunt, a wide smile stretching his lips.

  "Still alive, my cousin?" he called out to him in his gravelly voice piercing the hubbub of the room. "Bring your squadron, I have stew and fresh bread—not that old dry crust they serve you in the Guard kitchens."

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  The knight sketched a rare smile, approached the counter, taking his cousin by the nape of the neck, who did the same, pressing their foreheads together—the Vaan Hart clan salute. Then he guided his companions toward a table near the kitchen, somewhat away from the main tumult.

  They settled in, the wood creaking under Juuh'ma's weight. N?rr quickly brought them the meal: juicy meat, golden bread still warm, a cloudy beer with a bitter taste and a fruit-based drink for R?chard. The first bites passed in silence, each savoring the simple pleasure of a hot meal after exertion.

  The colossus tore a piece of bread with his massive hands and shared it with his brother.

  "Your cousin cooks better than half the inns in the Upper City," he began by saying with satisfaction.

  "That's because he doesn't serve nobles," he replied while dipping his bread in the stew. "He cooks for people who are hungry, not for people who play with their food."

  Mei slightly lowered her mask to drink a sip of beer, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

  "And especially because he doesn't charge you the real price."

  "Family privilege," her chief retorted with a shrug.

  R?chard ate in silence, savoring each bite. The atmosphere was relaxed, almost light—a rare moment of normalcy in the midst of their martial existence.

  But the weight of the day finally bore down. Siegfried set down his mug, his gaze losing itself in the amber liquid.

  "Those weapons," he thought aloud. "That powder."

  The atmosphere changed instantly. Gazes fixed on him.

  "What do you think about it, Sieg?" asked the Noohrikane, becoming serious again.

  The Vaan Hart crossed his arms, frowning slightly.

  "The steel doesn't come from Istalith. We're almost certain of it. So someone, somewhere, is supplying the Eclipse with military-grade weapons."

  "Lieutenant H?lw?nd was right," the boy intervened. "Someone powerful is financing them. A noble, do you think? A rich merchant from the Upper City?"

  Juuh'ma nodded slowly.

  "Possible. Enough money to buy weapons of this quality and especially this... alchemy."

  Siegfried shook his head in negation, his expression becoming more grave.

  "No. It makes no sense."

  The others looked at him, surprised, before he continued.

  "Think about it. If it's a financier from Solheim—a noble, a merchant, whatever—why arm a resistance that would want to destroy the Orchards? Despite what the people of the Outskirts think, we know that the reserves feed the entire capital. Nobles, knights, common folk. Everyone. Destroying the gardens would weaken all of Solheim, including a rich traitor. So what would be his interest?"

  Mei narrowed her eyes, thinking.

  "He might want to overthrow the Order. Create chaos to seize power afterward."

  "You may be right," Siegfried conceded. "But don't you find that to be an enormous risk? Let's imagine. If the reserves fall, it's the entire city that collapses. Even an ambitious person would have nothing to gain by ruling over ruins."

  He paused, his gaze sweeping over his companions' faces.

  "An external enemy would make more sense, no? Someone who wouldn't have the power to wage war but who would still want to see Solheim collapse from within. Someone who would have everything to gain if the capital burned."

  "You're thinking of lands beyond Istalith, Sieg?" the young archer murmured. "A kingdom we don't know?"

  "Or one we know too well," the specter added darkly.

  Juuh'ma took a large gulp and set his mug on the table.

  "How can we know, little shadow? However, it serves us nothing to think about it too much, that's not our place."

  His deep voice resonated with tranquil wisdom.

  "We're only knights. We obey orders. The lieutenant passed on the evidence. The Academy will study it. The High Command will decide."

  While spearing a piece of grisbouc meat, he continued.

  "The best we can do is stay on our guard. More than usual."

  Siegfried nodded slowly, as if the Stoneskin's words brought him back to the reality of their condition.

  "You speak true, my brother."

  Then, as if to escape the weight of these thoughts, Mei cleared her throat and pointed to the old man with the lute.

  "Someone should offer him a beer so he stops massacring that melody, no?"

  "Or so he massacres another one. At least we'll have variety," the young archer chuckled.

  The two brothers sketched a smile and the conversation drifted toward lighter subjects—anecdotes from past patrols, jokes about other squadrons, N?rr's tales about the tavern's eccentric customers. The atmosphere became more relaxed again, even if a shadow persisted in their gazes. They spoke of everything and nothing, savoring this moment of respite like the Golden Lances could savor a sip of water in the middle of desolate lands.

  The hubbub of the tavern enveloped them, the laughter and voices forming a reassuring cocoon against the uncertainty that awaited them outside. Finally, as the flow of customers began to dwindle and fatigue began to weigh on their shoulders, Siegfried emptied his mug in one gulp and set it back on the table with a dull sound.

  "It's time," he said simply.

  The others nodded. No need to specify. They stood up, Siegfried placing a few coins on the table—more than necessary, as always. N?rr gave them a wave from the counter, his smile tired but sincere.

  Exchanging a tacit glance before separating, Juuh'ma, Mei and R?chard vanished into the alleys of the Outskirts to rejoin their clans and refuges, their short shadows swallowed by the zenithal light.

  Now, Siegfried climbed the stairs leading to the Upper City. The quarters of the squadron leader knights stood a few steps from the Hanging Gardens, an ochre block embedded between more refined edifices. The walls, gnawed by centuries of clarity, bore fine cracks like filaments beneath the surface. The narrow skylights, closed by metal shutters, let through beams of hard light, tracing sharp lines on the flagstones.

  Approaching, he slowed, his gaze caught by a scene behind a low wall. Under a light canvas stretched between two cracked columns, a row of children stood aligned, their gray tunics dulled under the rays, their weathered faces gleaming with sweat, during their pre-sleep lesson.

  A thin cleric, dressed in pale linen, chanted before them, his monotonous voice rolling in the heavy air.

  "Thus Solar?s, in his infinite splendor, fixed the sun at the zenith to chase the darkness from the world and from the hearts of Men," he intoned before being seized by a coughing fit to finally continue. "Offering to his faithful a world where the sins of Nihibell could not be nourished and where the day would never set."

  He headed toward his quarters, a corner smile, remembering himself also having been like these kids, listening to the psalms of a High-Fire cleric until knowing them by heart, impregnated in soul and flesh. Then he opened the door with a light shoulder push, a wooden door paneled with iron that groaned in the heat.

  The room, austere, suited a fighter. A narrow bed rested against a wall, its worn sheet folded carefully on the matte stone. A rickety table, marked with notches and dark stains, sat in the center, flanked by a chair with a gnawed back. A carved niche sheltered a dulled knife, a dented cup and a worn purse. The clarity pierced through a thin skylight, a neat rectangle projecting a vivid line on the floor.

  Siegfried closed the door with a sharp blow, the impact resonating like a discreet death knell. He removed his equipment with thoughtful slowness, each piece falling with a dull sound. The breastplate, soiled with coagulated blood, struck the table, raising a cloud of particles. The pauldrons followed, their fastenings creaking under his rough hands, then the bracers, striped with ancient blows. Freed, he stretched his shoulders before removing his damp veil sticking to his skin, a hoarse breath escaping from his throat.

  Rid of metal and his sacred cloth, he knelt near the bed and began his exercises, a discipline of strength in this cramped space. His fists split the air, precise and rhythmic, a deep rumble vibrating in his chest. He bent his body, muscles taut, until sweat beaded on the floor, small drops absorbed by the stone. Each movement pushed away the visions—the rebels' blood, the foreign weapons, the mysterious powder, the lieutenant's words. He straightened up, breathless, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, his eyes riveted to the hard light through the skylight.

  The Knell of Rest rang out, a deep melody rising in the air, a vain song under this eternal brilliance. Siegfried crossed the room to seize the metal shutters. The iron groaned under his grip, pushing back the clarity to leave a tenuous half-light. He wasn't fleeing the day—he had known only it—but sought an appeasement for his eyes and his soul, a semblance of rest in a world without night.

  He lay down on the bed, the fabric crackling under his weight. His pupils fixed on the cracked ceiling, blurred lines like sketches of a lost past. His mind drifted despite himself toward the unanswered questions: the external enemy, the Eclipse, the powder, the weapons. What was really being plotted in the shadow of Solar?s?

  His breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed, but his mind remained haunted. Sleep came, light and troubled, in this imperfect shadow he had sculpted under the inflexible gaze of Solar?s.