Konrad woke up stiff—in more ways than one.
His tent made sleeping a pain, and what the tribesmen provided was anything but luxurious.
He'd let the girls stay in the duke's carriage between soft cushions, but knew better than to spend a night with them. He might've never seen daylight again if he did.
If not a heart attack, exhaustion would've done him in.
Or shame. Those girls were fierce.
He already knew that about Lily, but the duke's daughter and Eyna showed him a new side.
Could he even keep up with them?
Their demands were flattering—and so so arousing—but he didn't want an audience for the start of his harem life. He preferred things slow and without the added pressure.
With everything balancing on a knife's edge, and the Tribal Council's expectations—
He'd only jumped their first hurdle yesterday, having them accept him as an equal to Nimrod.
Victory was still far, and Konrad had so much work ahead of him. For that, he needed to focus.
Leaving his tent in the chilly morning air, he cursed the archangel under his breath.
What did she get him into? He knew little about Maou Midori—though the angels weren't that much better off. The one thing he knew was that he had to become stronger.
Whoever his enemy was, if people made up so many legends, he must've been a real menace.
Konrad couldn't even take back control over his life.
Did he ever have some?
Lu—that Lucifer from the Bible—was up to something from the start. Konrad was never meant to be his sister's tool in the plot against Maou, but his guardian also had his own agenda.
And a relationship with Lily that he couldn't explain—so many unanswered questions.
Gabrielle might've left for Aset, but the chaos she stirred was still there, and brewing.
It took him too long to calm Eyna down after that, the purple-eyed beauty acting jealous for the first time. And with her around, he couldn't exactly start Lily's interrogation, either.
Now, he had a tribal army to organize and their shaky logistics to sort out.
Planning and acting all-knowing for the elders was one thing. Putting his plans into practice required a lot of hard work, and he needed his head back in the game.
Focused, calm—not distracted by his bickering haremettes or pondering about fate.
First, he had to greet the warriors and convince all five hundred of them of his plan.
Thinking about anything beyond that was pointless.
He'd find the answers later, and hoard as many spells as possible. Now, he had to figure out how to split the army into three groups without crippling it.
Everything else would come after.
Who knew how much time he had left to sort things out before the Church made a move?
***
Stella's nightmare didn't end with waking up.
'You have to start following your heart—let our powers guide you.'
"NO!"
No good night's sleep for the damned, her cell still dark.
Her years of devoted service and the habit of starting her days early didn't let her sleep in now.
Not even after the Inquisitor discarded her, taking away her only purpose in life.
'That life is yet to start. Don't sell yourself short—you'll find true purpose soon enough.'
"Argh, everything is that bastard's fault," she spat through clenched teeth.
It didn't matter how hard she squeezed her ears with both hands or what she said.
'Don't let the light scare you, we'll show you the way—you've been in the darkness for too long.'
She wouldn't usually grumble—not out loud—because the Inquisitor would punish her.
But he wasn't there, and the voices got louder inside her head.
She thought they were all gone by now, that serving the Church cleansed her.
How wrong she was.
'Don't be afraid. Fear is a chain, and you have the power to break it.'
She got up, reaching for the same whip she used on the Prodigy, but her hands trembled.
Whipping herself was always a good way to silence those whispers before, but now?
What were they even saying? She tried to ignore them for so long, but they were always there.
Inside her heart, inciting her to rebel, to run away, to survive—to do everything Otto forbade.
What was their true meaning? Where did they come from?
Did she lose her mind?
It all started on that day—when she met the Inquisitor, and her family ceased to exist.
'Your mind was never lost, but you were too afraid to see reason. There is no shame in that, but we can now give you the strength to change, if only—'
Stella shook her head, raising the whip, but then—
Steps echoed on the corridor, right outside her cell.
They didn't come for her, but she'd still stand up straight, a habit she learned the hard way.
She hid the whip in her sorry excuse of a bed, waiting for the steps to die down.
"Take the ore, hire all the mercenaries you can find." The voice didn't come from her head now. Otto? "I don't care what they cost. If we let those savages fester, they'll become stronger."
Her curiosity got the better of her, sneaking to the door and flattening her ear against it.
"Won't the capital send another bishop to deal with them?"
That sounded like the Templars' captain, and something else. Sobbing?
"No, some revelations or another," Otto answered, a scoff in his voice. "The saints don't want to get their hands dirty—but they gave us free rein over the heretics."
Why was she even eavesdropping? The Inquisitor would whip her for less—
Though she was about to do it herself.
Where did that weak, sobbing noise come from? She wanted to take a look, to open her door and see what was going on, but was too afraid of any creaking she might cause.
"That sounds like a terrible omen, my Lord," the captain noted, his armor rattling as he moved.
"Only tribesmen believe in omens—these are politics. And my kind of politics involves fire and blood," Otto claimed, sending a chill through her. "So, unless you want to send your men—"
"Understood, I'll find some mercenaries for the dirty work."
The armor rattled again, and Stella could almost see the captain bow. Still, her imagination was not the same as actually seeing things. She took a deep breath, pushing the door open a smidge.
Though it creaked a little, the armored officer storming off made way more noise.
That should've left the Inquisitor standing alone in the corridor, but—
He held something, or someone.
Golden strands of hair swayed in the wind, and the sobbing got louder, too.
A little girl—no more than six or eight. The same age she was when Otto Ostfeld burned her family. Her parents, her siblings, their entire manor, leaving only her alive.
Alive to serve—to become the Inquisitor's only attendant for the next decade.
And now, there was another, looking almost the same, and even more terrified than she was.
Something in her mind clicked; the devotion, the fear—gone.
All that remained were the voices, stoking a fire inside her she never knew she had.
It replaced her constant urge to please with jealousy, her fear with the need to protect.
Her devotion—a longing for revenge.