…boots crunching through snow, fur brushing against his coat. The air feels tighter around him, tension coiling unseen.
Behind him, Irina's stare burns into his back.
Ahead of him, his soldiers work—counting, lifting, surviving.
Aldo breathes in cold air, lets it fill his lungs until the ache grounds him.
[I did not choose praise,] he thinks. [I chose continuation.]
The fur weighs heavily on his shoulders as he moves forward, the ceremony finished, the transaction complete, the meaning still unresolved.
The fur lies in bundles on the packed snow, tied with coarse rope that bites into the thick pelts the same way restraints bite into wrists. The morning light is pale and flat, revealing texture without warmth. Breath fogs in the air. Boots scrape. No one speaks at first.
Aldo steps forward where everyone can see him.
He does not raise his voice. He doesn't need to. The units drift closer by instinct, forming a loose semicircle. The 204th and 205th companies stand shoulder to shoulder, with a few from the regiment lingering at the edges, eyes alert, posture formal. Comtois stays a step behind Aldo's right shoulder, helmet tucked under his arm, expression unreadable.
Aldo gestures once toward the bundles.
"Distribution," he says. The word is clean. Administrative. "Listen carefully."
The murmurs die.
He points to a chalk board propped against a crate, numbers already written in neat columns.
"Regiment receives forty percent," Aldo continues. "They took the heaviest losses during the push. Artillery crews included."
A ripple passes through the ranks. Not protest. Calculation.
"The 204th receives thirty percent."
A few heads lift. Someone exhales sharply.
"The 205th receives twenty-nine percent."
Now eyes flick sideways. Counting begins immediately—men tallying injuries, remembering who bled where.
Aldo pauses. Lets the silence settle.
"One percent remains with command," he finishes.
The pause afterward is longer.
Someone coughs. A soldier in the second row blinks, surprised. Another frowns, waiting for the correction that doesn't come.
Tyrone, leaning on a crate with his arm bandaged, lets out a short, incredulous laugh. "Sir," he says lightly, "you're terrible at self-interest."
A few chuckles ripple through the formation, nervous but genuine. The tension loosens—not gone, but redistributed.
Aldo doesn't smile. He nods once. "That one percent covers transport losses, spoilage, and future contingencies."
[Optics matter,] he thinks. [Fairness is a myth. Predictability is cheaper.]
A soldier steps forward hesitantly, reaches down, and touches one of the fur bundles. His fingers sink into the dense pelt, testing its warmth like something unreal. He pulls his hand back as if embarrassed, then grips the rope again, firmer this time.
Arguments don't erupt. They flicker and die before reaching the surface.
Someone mutters about ratios. Someone else shushes him. The structure holds.
Quartermasters move in, cutting rope, retieing bundles into smaller shares. Names are called. Units step forward in order. No scrambling. No hoarding.
Aldo watches faces as carefully as he watches numbers.
Relief shows in shoulders easing. Suspicion shows in narrowed eyes but it stays contained. Gratitude appears awkwardly, poorly worn.
"Thank you, sir," someone says, too formally, like reciting a line he's not used to speaking.
Aldo nods, already turning away.
Comtois finally speaks when the flow stabilizes. His voice is low, pitched only for Aldo. "Clean ratios," he says.
Not generous. Not kind.
Aldo accepts the assessment with a tilt of his head.
[Loyalty purchased cheaply spoils fast,] he thinks. [Loyalty maintained costs planning.]
As the last bundles are claimed and secured, Aldo looks once more at the remaining pile—the sliver set aside. It looks almost symbolic now. Insignificant. Yet deliberate.
The return journey to Polihland stretches long and flat, the mountains receding behind them as the land opens into fields stripped bare for winter. The climate softens. The air loses its edge. Rivers cut dark lines through pale farmland, slow and navigable, carrying grain and debt in equal measure.
The city rises from the plain like a ledger made of stone.
Gothic arches loom over wide streets. Spires stab at the low clouds. Banners hang limp, colors faded by weather and age. Slaves move everywhere—Earthlings and locals alike—hauling crates, dredging canals, standing in market rows with price tags hanging from their necks. Debt slaves with hollow eyes. Contract slaves with rigid posture. All visible. All normalized.
No one looks surprised to see them.
The administrative hall is colder than the battlefield.
Stone walls bare of decoration. Papers stacked higher than weapons racks. Ink stains everywhere: on desks, on sleeves, on fingertips. Officials sit behind long tables, their faces smooth with indifference, eyes moving from document to document without ever fully settling on a person.
A bell rings once.
"Rewards distribution review," an official announces, already bored.
Aldo steps forward. Comtois remains beside him. The soldiers line up behind, silent.
Another official clears his throat. "By decree of Palantine Heilop fiscal authority," he reads, "eighty percent of all external rewards are subject to seizure for debt stabilization."
No one reacts.
The official continues, voice steady. "This adjustment is temporary."
A stamp comes down hard on paper.
The sound cracks through the hall like a gunshot.
"Outstanding obligations include," the official drones, "logistical support, armament depreciation, transport maintenance, administrative oversight—"
Stamp.
"—and emergency stabilization costs incurred by recent unrest."
Stamp.
Ink spreads across the parchment, seeping into fibers.
A soldier clenches his jaw. Another stares straight ahead, eyes glassy.
[Chains made of numbers,] Aldo thinks. [Harder to break. Easier to justify.]
"Net remainder," the official finishes, "will be redistributed through authorized channels."
No cheers. No protest.
Comtois' hands tighten slowly at his sides. He doesn't speak.
A low voice mutters somewhere in the line, "So that's it."
No one answers him.
The paperwork is signed. The ledgers close. The violence is complete.
Later, far from the hall, Aldo moves through the market under a hood pulled low. Comtois walks beside him, unarmed, posture relaxed but alert. They don't look like officers. They look like men with business.
Stalls crowd close together here, the illegal ones tucked behind legal fronts—grain sellers masking fur traders, cloth merchants hiding gold scales beneath bolts of linen. Voices stay low. Hands move quickly.
Comtois nods once to a vendor with sharp eyes and a scar down his cheek. No greetings. Just recognition.
The fur disappears behind a canvas screen. Coins appear. The exchange is swift, practiced.
"30 Silver Coins per kilogram ?" the vendor murmurs.
Aldo inclines his head. "Acceptable."
When they leave, the weight in Aldo's pouch is noticeable. Heavy. Real.
Comtois exhales softly once they're clear. "Oversight's weak this quarter," he says. "But it won't last."
"It doesn't need to," Aldo replies.