Inside, clerks sit behind polished counters, their quills scratching neatly over parchment. A faint scent of ink and incense hangs in the air. Aldo approaches one of them and pulls out six silver coins. He places three pairs on the counter, each with a small nod. "I'd like to pay for three information adventures. Kraken hunting. Dragon hunting. Witch hunting."
The banker, a thin man with a pointed beard and gold-framed glasses, accepts the coins and writes the request with swift, precise strokes. He informs Aldo the results will arrive in "two weeks to one month, depending on risk-category and distance."
Aldo nods, turns, and begins to leave—but something catches his eye. The symbol above the bank's entrance. A six-pointed star inside a circle. A symbol he thought he'd never see again. He stops in place, breath catches, eyes widening.
He steps back outside and stares at the sign. A citizen passing by notices his expression.
"You're not from here, are you?"
Aldo shakes his head. "The sign…"
The citizen laughs softly. "That's a Jewish bank. It belongs to the folks from Chadash Jerusalem. It's part of a legal settlement for Freed Citizens, they moved here decades ago and have been running things ever since. Pretty tight-knit community, actually.", Aldo blinks. The memory of the officer's words flickers through his mind…Citizenship for Earthlings. Something that felt like a distant rumor suddenly gains weight, texture, proof.
The citizen continues casually, adjusting a basket on his hip. "Chadash Jerusalem's over in Palantine Savatier, right next to Heilop. It's a pretty big financial center, actually, those smart people, really organized, and they stick together. Every few days they gather money, mostly for these manumission funds that, well… kind of cleverly help free more of their own. Gotta admit, it's impressive how they manage it all."
Aldo stands still for a long moment, watching the morning crowd move past him. [Even after being summoned, stripped from their lives, their world… they stay united. They rebuild, and they thrive…]
A faint heat stirs in his chest—not anger, not envy, but something caught between admiration and bitterness. [If Earthlings can become citizens here… then maybe… there's a path. Not yet. Not for me. But someday. I will go for it.]
He walks on, letting the crowd swallow him.
As he moves further into the city, he begins noticing the soldiers. Not the polished ones guarding noble gates or patrolling the clean districts—but a different group entirely. A handful of native soldiers slumped against a stone wall, their armor dented, uniforms torn, faces drawn with fatigue. Dark circles bruise their eyes; their clothes are dirt-stained, frayed; some have makeshift bandages wrapped around their arms or foreheads.
They look like they've returned from hell.
Aldo slows his pace, observing them carefully. Their insignias—faded silver-thread crests—identify them as belonging to Palantine Heilop. The same insignia as his Lieutenant Colonel's regiment. The same insignia as the officers who ordered him, judged him, rewarded him.
He hesitates for a brief second, then steps toward them. The worn wood beneath their boots is damp, and one of them lifts his head slowly, eyes unfocused.
Aldo kneels slightly to match their height. "Excuse me… you're Heilop forces, right?"
One soldier, lean and unshaven, scratches his neck and nods. "We are." His voice is hoarse, tired, carrying the weight of a man who's seen too much.
Aldo studies their faces—exhaustion etched into every line, a heat of desperation flickering in their eyes, shoulders slumped with a heaviness that feels older than any battlefield. Something is wrong. Something more than fatigue. [These aren't soldiers returning from a normal patrol. These are men pulled apart and stitched back together by chaos.]
He glances at the ragged straps of their armor, the missing plates replaced by cloth or rope, the dirty bandages that should have been changed days ago. The city around them bustles with life, commerce, movement—but these soldiers sit in a pocket of silence, ignored by all.
Aldo clears his throat softly. "What happened?"
The soldier looks at him with a hollow stare—like he's surprised someone asked, surprised someone cares enough to ask. His jaw tightens, breath catching slightly as if choosing between silence and confession.
His eyes flicker once, faintly, like a dying ember struggling to glow.
The soldiers speak, their faces etched with exhaustion, eyes hollow from long campaigns and endless missions.
"Ten missions… we've been out there nonstop. All of us except you, Aldo. Don't worry, your turn's coming soon. It's getting ridiculous...", the old veteran sighs.
"Ten missions already—yeah, we've basically been deployed the whole time. And while we're breaking our backs, Sevan le Heilop's busy throwing parties, playing with his mistresses and acting like the world isn't on fire. My family's paying taxes like we owe them our liver, and I'm running on smokes after all these ops.", the sarcastic newbie groans.
"We've completed ten missions so far…. Almost the entire team has been deployed, with the exception of you, Aldo… Your Earthling-slave-soldier team rotation will come soon enough. Meanwhile, Sevan le Heilop continues focusing on entertainment and festivities, seemingly detached from the pressure the rest of us deal with…like that Evan told…I don't think I could bear more…", the one sitting on the right rolls his eyes.
"Parties, drinks, pretending there's no weight on their shoulders…", he taps his lap.
Their words hang in his mind, simple, almost dismissive, yet loaded with implication. These aren't idle threats; this is the machinery of the Palantine, grinding through the people and soldiers alike, indifferent to individuality, indifferent even to survival. Aldo feels a small pulse of unease, a chill that creeps into his spine despite the warmth of the morning sun. The morning sun climbs higher, scattering its pale gold across the cobblestones of Polih, but it brings no warmth to Aldo's thoughts. He sits on the edge of the low stone wall bordering the market street, the four remaining silver coins cold and heavy in his palm. His eyes follow the movements of the few residents who wander the streets, their heads bent under invisible weights, hands carrying baskets brimming with produce or tools, shoulders tense from labor. Each step seems measured, each breath economical. [They move like slaves in another way, though they are not slaves,] Aldo thinks, his jaw tightening. [No magic sigils, no chains, yet the taxes and the debts bind them just as surely.]
[So this is the system. Sevan le Heilop indulges, parties, ignores the burdens pressing down on everyone else, and yet it's the same Palantine that rewards me with coins and leave for obedience and cleverness. Cleverness—yes—but cleverness is survival, not power. Survival alone does not guarantee the future.] Aldo's fingers curl around the coins, pressing them into the palm of his hand as if he could weigh not just their material value, but the measure of his own agency. The city feels too quiet, too empty in comparison to the stories the soldiers shared. The shutters of the shops are only partially open; the markets have too few vendors; the bell of the central church tolls, but faintly, like a pulse echoing through empty streets. It is fertile land, Aldo knows; fertile minds and fertile soil, yet productivity is bent beneath the weight of incompetence and exploitation.
He thinks of the "gigs" the soldiers mentioned—the missions to pacify rebellions, to slay monsters in distant Palantines, to chase the remnants of uprisings through forests and mountains. Aldo doesn't flinch at the violence implied; he understands it. The gears of power in Mikhland are lubricated with lives like his own. But he feels a different unease now, a creeping awareness of systemic failure, of the rot beneath the gilded surfaces of palaces and courts.
[And I… what am I? what am I? what am I ? what am… I ?]
[A coin in that machinery, a lever for efficiency, nothing more? Or could I—could I carve something else from this world?]
The question trembles at the edge of his mind, urgent yet terrifying.
He studies the remaining coins again, flipping one between his fingers. They are small, insignificant in the grand scope of wealth, yet they represent agency in a world that offers so little choice. [Ten coins for a three-day leave. Two invested, two saved. The rest…spent. How strange it is, that a soldier, a slave-soldier, can feel the weight of choice in mere metal discs. And yet, what difference does it make if the Palantine system will swallow any initiative?] He can almost feel the shadow of the previous night's battle pressing against him, the ghosts of former slaves, the deafening roar of magic bullets, the heavy silence of comrades who survived while others fell. Memory and fear intermingle, and for a moment, the coins feel like a talisman against both.
He closes his eyes for some moments.
Aldo stands and walks, boots echoing softly against the stone street. He does not hurry, though each step is deliberate. His gaze drifts to the distant towers of the Palanton's mansion, faintly outlined against the morning haze. The architecture is imposing, its angles precise, the walls clean and unbroken. Inside, somewhere, decisions are made that ripple outward like shockwaves, and Aldo imagines the Palanton Sevan Heilop sitting idly with wine and courtiers, unaware of the grind he has set in motion. [Will there be a coup? Will the people rebel? Will the soldiers rise in chaos? Or will the Palantine bend them all beneath its inefficiency and indulgence?] The thought is almost comic if it were not so dangerous. He shakes his head, forcing the thought away. [No. A slave-soldier survives, adapts, obeys, and outlives. That is the plan. Complaining or plotting would be reckless.]
He reaches the bank, again, a small, imposing building of polished stone, its windows reflecting sunlight in blinding glints. Aldo enters, coins clinking softly in his hand, and approaches the counter. The banker looks up, recognition flickering, though quickly masked by professional detachment. Aldo sets two coins on the counter, the faint clatter echoing in the quiet hall. "Deposit. Two coins for investment ventures, two coins for personal saving," he says, voice low but firm, careful to respect the rituals of commerce that govern even the free citizens. The clerk nods, accepting the coins with mechanical efficiency, recording them with quill and ink.
Aldo watches the pen scratch across the parchment, imagining distant Palantines being pacified, monsters slain, guilds funded—all through the weight of his small silver. The sensation is almost surreal: he has contributed, however indirectly, to the machinery of this world while remaining a cog in it. And yet, it is action, a thread of control in a tapestry otherwise dictated by the whims of Tri-Monarch, Committee, Parliament, and Palanton alike.
He exits the bank and breathes in the morning air again, the sun higher now, illuminating the city in a crisp clarity that brings every shadow and imperfection into relief. The streets are quieter than expected. Children do not run and play; laborers do not linger. The city is alive, but the pulse is measured, weighed down by debts, taxes, obligations. He feels the weight of all those invisible burdens pressing on him as he walks back to the barracks.
The thought of taking action to change things, to intervene in the machinery of Mikhland or even in this Palantine, pulses alongside the desire to simply survive, to rest, to breathe without fear of summons, magic bullets, or orders.
His hands twitch at the edge of the path. One way feels solid beneath his feet—safe, predictable. The rhythm of it hums through me, steady, almost boring. [Routine, survival…] it whispers that nothing will change if he stays. But the other way… the shadows twist, uneven. It smells of rain on stone, of smoke, of things he can't name. A thrill sparks in his chest, prickling, and he can't tell if it's hope or fear. [Life? Death? Maybe both.] His pulse quickens. [Which way do I take? Which way is really mine?]
As he approaches the barracks, the low hum of activity reaches him: soldiers preparing for the day, earth slave soldiers moving quietly, some already awake, others still curled beneath blankets, eyes half-shut, shadows of yesterday etched into their features. Aldo hesitates at the door, hand on the latch. He can feel the pull of two paths, one leading to the comfort of inaction, the other toward the ambiguous pulse of possibility. He exhales slowly, the air filling his lungs, smelling faintly of dust, dew, and the hint of morning fires from the kitchens.
He steps inside, boots silent on the wooden floor, and places the coins on the small table by the doorway. [For now, this is my action. Small, controlled, insignificant to the world, yet a statement. A reminder that I exist, that I can influence, however slightly, the paths of things I touch.] His eyes linger on them for a moment, reflecting faint sunlight, before he turns toward the rest of the barracks. Comrades stir, faces pale and marked by fatigue, but there is a quiet reassurance in the presence of a leader who moves calmly through the chaos.
Aldo leans back, mind racing and resting simultaneously. The coins are gone from his control, invested and saved, but the thoughts they sparked remain, swirling: the city weighed down by mismanagement, the Palanton's indulgence, the soldiers pressed into service, the slaves seeking freedom, the possibility of intervention, the need to survive, the nagging spark of agency.
He sits in that delicate balance, neither fully part of the world around him nor entirely detached, feeling both the weight of Mikhland's machinery and the fragile pulse of his own emerging purpose. The barracks are quiet now, the morning light spilling across worn floorboards, the faint scent of dust and sweat lingering, and Aldo feels the sharp, uncomfortable thrill of the choices he can make—choices that may matter, choices that may end nothing, choices that mark him as alive in a world determined to render him disposable.
He retrieves a copper coin and resolves that if it falls heads, he will rebel; if tails, he will remain loyal. He flips the coin, but it lodges in a narrow crevice, refusing to land on heads. He exhales slowly and tells himself that only time can reveal the path ahead.