Theasuke
I'm simply one hell of a human
CÉLIO DE LUCENA
THE GENERAL
LOCATION
Marencia's forestSomething was wrong.
It was with that feeling that Célio had marched upon Marencia with half of his own army and half of others' in an effort to defend against a supposed enemy assault. It came to be known that the Duke of Vylårithil was planning to ambush Torense’s food reserves, aiming to cut the supply chain at its root. After all, Winter was approaching.
What first alerted Célio to possible foul play was not the attack itself, as he had long come to expect it, but the absurdly convenient timing of it all. It was the sheer notion that Prince Vasil’s plans, the 4th Successor of Aradin, the Scourge of the Frozen Tempest, would fall so promptly into his hands one Monday morning, right after Noreia had called for a meeting. Prince Vasil, the one who had obtained the title of Duke at 22, the one who had managed to drag this war for 15 years, and the one who had carved a vicious scar still etched deep across Célio’s chest less than a decade ago. That Vasil. There was every chance these "war plans" were nothing more than an elaborate fabrication to get him away from Lucena and into other Houses' territories, even if the papers and the ink had been confirmed to be extremely hard to obtain outside of Aradin.
It was clear as day. Something was wrong. And yet, he’d had no choice but to heed to this obvious trap. One, as the Lord of Lucena, he was in no position to deny help, not with evidence—albeit dubious—of Prince Vasil’s plans and the international scandal that would unfold were Marencia's port to be openly attacked; two, Célio believed this was the result of internal struggles, not Aradin’s doing, and there was no better way to uncover a petty scheme than willingly experiencing it firsthand.
In other words, somewhere along the way to his desk, there was a spy.
The night had started to settle.
Following the seaside cliffs and beaches, where the ocean cut inland, flowed the Tânia river, and at its mouth sat the currently most populated harbor in all of the continent. Despite being known as the door to Khuuria, built on the riches of local merchants, foreign traders and booming tourism, Marencia was a relatively small city. Its classical, horizontal buildings and bright lights gave way to a luxurious central plaza, packed with stalls upon stalls of fabric, foreign gadgets and fresh produce. Fishmongers slapped their wares onto stone slabs, their pungent catch mingling with the aroma of roasting spices and salt air. A colossal ship emerged on the horizon, its towering frame eclipsing the setting sun, casting a long shadow over the pier—even with the threat of war, the royal family had kept the borders open. Hundreds of people came pouring out onto the wooden boards, moving about the crowds like headless flies until they became inevitably lost in the city's belly.
Beyond the outskirts, where the rugged terrains, steep hills and low mountains began, several dirt roads disappeared below the dense canopies. It was said Marencia had numerous paths into the other provinces, which facilitated the old-fashioned supply chain transportation by land—the river canal was still the cheapest, more popular option after the modern invention of magic-powered ships—currently being used for war efforts, though the routes and methods were publicly undisclosed. And the public, confined inside the city walls, deafened by the clinking of shoes and boisterous haggling, remained unaware of everything that transpired within that throng of pine trees.
It just so happened that at the edge of the forest, on a clearing atop a hill, sat a small makeshift camp. Two miles ahead, there was another. And then another. It went on and on, covering the entire length of the river and the most remote of paths. If the enemy wanted to rely on furtivity, said Célio that morning, the only way in was through Tânia, and by then they'd be standing on low ground, clearly at a disadvantage. Even so, they should not underestimate Vasil Zephalyndōr. Their priority was securing the supplies, not take the enemy down.
The sun dipped below the horizon, and dinner was served.
Lucena’s lieutenant colonel had taken up patrol duty by her own insistence—too many unsavory men to endure in close quarters, she reasoned. The young soldier previously assigned to the post lit up with relief, darting away as though fearing she might change her mind. The woman paid him no mind, extending a finger towards her lantern. Something unseen flowed from her fingertips and got caught in an invisible web of intricate calculations, whirring the transparent core to life. It then stilled, radiating a dull bluish glow.
As the sky deepened, faint lights illuminated the tents, casting moving shadows on the fabric walls. The patrolling official returned from her first round, having noted no strange movements, people or distress signals in the proximities. She glanced around, admiring the way everyone stuck to orders and kept considerably silent; perhaps in her eyes, the other Houses were a bunch of incompetent fools only capable of dragging them down.
But just as she planned to leave, something caught her attention.
Célio's pavilion tent was of notoriously higher quality than the rest, despite being a very discreet man; such arrangements were unlikely to have been made by his own men. Even the glow of incandescent light would dull behind the dense linen walls, their threads woven so tightly one might question whether air could even seep through. And yet, there was something moving inside, something red and yellow and white, caught in the middle of shifting silhouettes.
It was magic. Blindingly hot fire magic.
The general couldn't have lost control now, right?
She quickened her pace and lifted the curtain. A figure came flying in her direction, crashing directly into the post just inches from her side. The body crumpled to the ground, motionless. In that instant, sound that she hadn't realized had been missing returned to her in a deafening rush—the whistle of General Célio's blade slicing through the air, the harsh clash of steel on steel, the hiss and crackle of fire, the labored breaths and guttural grunts of pain.
The lieutenant searched the walls. The back of the curtain, she noticed, had a symbol written on it, so translucent it was nearly invisible unless one knew to look for it. It lit up before vanishing in a thin wisp of smoke, leaving no trace behind.
The spell came undone.
Célio tightened his grip on Laverna, the infamous dagger resting firmly in his hand. Though not the Lord of Lucena’s signature weapon, Laverna was renowned for its resilience, able to endure egregious amounts of heat despite its slender and small build. The hilt fit snugly and the fire flowed naturally along the blade, as if forged for his fingers alone. Its surface was polished to a faultless sheen. It was so smooth that streaks of red splattered across the fabric walls and the half-eaten meal on the table with a single flick of the wrist.
Célio glanced at the dumbfounded woman. His eyes pointed to his aide—previous aide, effective as of right now—sprawled next to her, whose choice to tamper with the general's food had abruptly ended a decade of loyal service to the Lucena House, and then back at her. Now that the commotion could no longer be contained, the rest of the troops would soon realize something was amiss, and reinforcements would come, either as allies or enemies. Neither side had much time.
The lieutenant colonel hesitated, observing the tall man standing across the tent. His chocolate-brown hair clung damply to his forehead, his chest rising and falling in steady, deep breaths. Yet, despite the apparent exertion, his face betrayed no hint of weariness; only a heavy, almost suffocating air of desolation. She immediately understood. Without a word, she dragged the unconscious man out after making sure he still had a pulse, leaving the general alone with the perpetrators.
It had been a while since she had conducted an interrogation.
"Next." Célio's voice cut through the air as he shifted his focus to the two remaining men and got into position. The dagger pulsed with a faint crimson glow and the men knew, although the general was holding back on using magic, if a single move connected, their flesh would be searing hot.
"H-How...?" One of the soldiers stammered. He couldn’t fathom how the man moved with such ease, as if the influence of the drug didn’t even graze him; the dose hadn't been light by any means! Gritting his teeth, he slammed his hand into the soil, chanting something under his breath. The ground groaned in response, and thick vines erupted from the earth, writhing wildly towards the general.
Célio's grip tightened around his dagger. Instinct screamed for him to unleash Laverna, to cut through the tendrils like a hot knife through butter. However, he ducked to the side, letting the other man attempting to backstab him stumble into the coils' grip instead.
With a thrust, Laverna sizzled. And just like that, it was over.
"Tell Her Majesty," Célio said, tossing the burnt body aside as though it were nothing more than trash, "she ought to come up with something stronger next time."
Without a single glance at the kneeling man, he turned away. The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. Célio wiped his blade clean on his clothes, then sliced through the linen at the back of the tent, vanishing into the night.
Unlike the snow-draped landscapes of the north, Marencia had never known the grace—or curse—of winter's frost. Instead, the season brought an oppressive humidity, frequent downpours, and a river breeze that clung to the skin.
Célio bent his knees and let gravity carry him downhill, propelled by the wet soil and slick grass, steadying himself against the trees. Tiny raindrops dotted his cheeks, growing into a steady drizzle before turning into a relentless downpour that seeped through his cloak. When he reached the base of the hill, he sank against a tree, the rough bark pressing into his back as he pulled his hood up, shrouding his face in shadow. One would even think there was nothing wrong with the man apart from labored breaths blending seamlessly with the rhythm of the falling rain.
But beneath the calm exterior, it was chaos. The rain could do nothing to quench his boiling blood. As a dragon descendant, his body always ran hot, but this heat was something else entirely—a blaze surging toward impossible heights, as if a volcano threatened to erupt. He even had the impression that at this rate, his blood would melt the drug away in no time.
Célio reached up, unfastening the top of his tunic to let the cold drops trail down his chest, and closed his eyes. He could hear Tânia in the distance and the splash of water striking water. There were no boats, and no troops marched onto land with raised weapons. No one was coming, he was sure of it now. Even so, if Aradin soldiers were to appear at this very moment, he would take them on himself. Better to face them alone in this volatile state than risk sparking internal strife that could plunge their defenses into ruin.
It was with that feeling that Célio had marched upon Marencia with half of his own army and half of others' in an effort to defend against a supposed enemy assault. It came to be known that the Duke of Vylårithil was planning to ambush Torense’s food reserves, aiming to cut the supply chain at its root. After all, Winter was approaching.
What first alerted Célio to possible foul play was not the attack itself, as he had long come to expect it, but the absurdly convenient timing of it all. It was the sheer notion that Prince Vasil’s plans, the 4th Successor of Aradin, the Scourge of the Frozen Tempest, would fall so promptly into his hands one Monday morning, right after Noreia had called for a meeting. Prince Vasil, the one who had obtained the title of Duke at 22, the one who had managed to drag this war for 15 years, and the one who had carved a vicious scar still etched deep across Célio’s chest less than a decade ago. That Vasil. There was every chance these "war plans" were nothing more than an elaborate fabrication to get him away from Lucena and into other Houses' territories, even if the papers and the ink had been confirmed to be extremely hard to obtain outside of Aradin.
It was clear as day. Something was wrong. And yet, he’d had no choice but to heed to this obvious trap. One, as the Lord of Lucena, he was in no position to deny help, not with evidence—albeit dubious—of Prince Vasil’s plans and the international scandal that would unfold were Marencia's port to be openly attacked; two, Célio believed this was the result of internal struggles, not Aradin’s doing, and there was no better way to uncover a petty scheme than willingly experiencing it firsthand.
In other words, somewhere along the way to his desk, there was a spy.
The night had started to settle.
Following the seaside cliffs and beaches, where the ocean cut inland, flowed the Tânia river, and at its mouth sat the currently most populated harbor in all of the continent. Despite being known as the door to Khuuria, built on the riches of local merchants, foreign traders and booming tourism, Marencia was a relatively small city. Its classical, horizontal buildings and bright lights gave way to a luxurious central plaza, packed with stalls upon stalls of fabric, foreign gadgets and fresh produce. Fishmongers slapped their wares onto stone slabs, their pungent catch mingling with the aroma of roasting spices and salt air. A colossal ship emerged on the horizon, its towering frame eclipsing the setting sun, casting a long shadow over the pier—even with the threat of war, the royal family had kept the borders open. Hundreds of people came pouring out onto the wooden boards, moving about the crowds like headless flies until they became inevitably lost in the city's belly.
Beyond the outskirts, where the rugged terrains, steep hills and low mountains began, several dirt roads disappeared below the dense canopies. It was said Marencia had numerous paths into the other provinces, which facilitated the old-fashioned supply chain transportation by land—the river canal was still the cheapest, more popular option after the modern invention of magic-powered ships—currently being used for war efforts, though the routes and methods were publicly undisclosed. And the public, confined inside the city walls, deafened by the clinking of shoes and boisterous haggling, remained unaware of everything that transpired within that throng of pine trees.
It just so happened that at the edge of the forest, on a clearing atop a hill, sat a small makeshift camp. Two miles ahead, there was another. And then another. It went on and on, covering the entire length of the river and the most remote of paths. If the enemy wanted to rely on furtivity, said Célio that morning, the only way in was through Tânia, and by then they'd be standing on low ground, clearly at a disadvantage. Even so, they should not underestimate Vasil Zephalyndōr. Their priority was securing the supplies, not take the enemy down.
The sun dipped below the horizon, and dinner was served.
Lucena’s lieutenant colonel had taken up patrol duty by her own insistence—too many unsavory men to endure in close quarters, she reasoned. The young soldier previously assigned to the post lit up with relief, darting away as though fearing she might change her mind. The woman paid him no mind, extending a finger towards her lantern. Something unseen flowed from her fingertips and got caught in an invisible web of intricate calculations, whirring the transparent core to life. It then stilled, radiating a dull bluish glow.
As the sky deepened, faint lights illuminated the tents, casting moving shadows on the fabric walls. The patrolling official returned from her first round, having noted no strange movements, people or distress signals in the proximities. She glanced around, admiring the way everyone stuck to orders and kept considerably silent; perhaps in her eyes, the other Houses were a bunch of incompetent fools only capable of dragging them down.
But just as she planned to leave, something caught her attention.
Célio's pavilion tent was of notoriously higher quality than the rest, despite being a very discreet man; such arrangements were unlikely to have been made by his own men. Even the glow of incandescent light would dull behind the dense linen walls, their threads woven so tightly one might question whether air could even seep through. And yet, there was something moving inside, something red and yellow and white, caught in the middle of shifting silhouettes.
It was magic. Blindingly hot fire magic.
The general couldn't have lost control now, right?
She quickened her pace and lifted the curtain. A figure came flying in her direction, crashing directly into the post just inches from her side. The body crumpled to the ground, motionless. In that instant, sound that she hadn't realized had been missing returned to her in a deafening rush—the whistle of General Célio's blade slicing through the air, the harsh clash of steel on steel, the hiss and crackle of fire, the labored breaths and guttural grunts of pain.
The lieutenant searched the walls. The back of the curtain, she noticed, had a symbol written on it, so translucent it was nearly invisible unless one knew to look for it. It lit up before vanishing in a thin wisp of smoke, leaving no trace behind.
The spell came undone.
Célio tightened his grip on Laverna, the infamous dagger resting firmly in his hand. Though not the Lord of Lucena’s signature weapon, Laverna was renowned for its resilience, able to endure egregious amounts of heat despite its slender and small build. The hilt fit snugly and the fire flowed naturally along the blade, as if forged for his fingers alone. Its surface was polished to a faultless sheen. It was so smooth that streaks of red splattered across the fabric walls and the half-eaten meal on the table with a single flick of the wrist.
Célio glanced at the dumbfounded woman. His eyes pointed to his aide—previous aide, effective as of right now—sprawled next to her, whose choice to tamper with the general's food had abruptly ended a decade of loyal service to the Lucena House, and then back at her. Now that the commotion could no longer be contained, the rest of the troops would soon realize something was amiss, and reinforcements would come, either as allies or enemies. Neither side had much time.
The lieutenant colonel hesitated, observing the tall man standing across the tent. His chocolate-brown hair clung damply to his forehead, his chest rising and falling in steady, deep breaths. Yet, despite the apparent exertion, his face betrayed no hint of weariness; only a heavy, almost suffocating air of desolation. She immediately understood. Without a word, she dragged the unconscious man out after making sure he still had a pulse, leaving the general alone with the perpetrators.
It had been a while since she had conducted an interrogation.
"Next." Célio's voice cut through the air as he shifted his focus to the two remaining men and got into position. The dagger pulsed with a faint crimson glow and the men knew, although the general was holding back on using magic, if a single move connected, their flesh would be searing hot.
"H-How...?" One of the soldiers stammered. He couldn’t fathom how the man moved with such ease, as if the influence of the drug didn’t even graze him; the dose hadn't been light by any means! Gritting his teeth, he slammed his hand into the soil, chanting something under his breath. The ground groaned in response, and thick vines erupted from the earth, writhing wildly towards the general.
Célio's grip tightened around his dagger. Instinct screamed for him to unleash Laverna, to cut through the tendrils like a hot knife through butter. However, he ducked to the side, letting the other man attempting to backstab him stumble into the coils' grip instead.
With a thrust, Laverna sizzled. And just like that, it was over.
"Tell Her Majesty," Célio said, tossing the burnt body aside as though it were nothing more than trash, "she ought to come up with something stronger next time."
Without a single glance at the kneeling man, he turned away. The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. Célio wiped his blade clean on his clothes, then sliced through the linen at the back of the tent, vanishing into the night.
Unlike the snow-draped landscapes of the north, Marencia had never known the grace—or curse—of winter's frost. Instead, the season brought an oppressive humidity, frequent downpours, and a river breeze that clung to the skin.
Célio bent his knees and let gravity carry him downhill, propelled by the wet soil and slick grass, steadying himself against the trees. Tiny raindrops dotted his cheeks, growing into a steady drizzle before turning into a relentless downpour that seeped through his cloak. When he reached the base of the hill, he sank against a tree, the rough bark pressing into his back as he pulled his hood up, shrouding his face in shadow. One would even think there was nothing wrong with the man apart from labored breaths blending seamlessly with the rhythm of the falling rain.
But beneath the calm exterior, it was chaos. The rain could do nothing to quench his boiling blood. As a dragon descendant, his body always ran hot, but this heat was something else entirely—a blaze surging toward impossible heights, as if a volcano threatened to erupt. He even had the impression that at this rate, his blood would melt the drug away in no time.
Célio reached up, unfastening the top of his tunic to let the cold drops trail down his chest, and closed his eyes. He could hear Tânia in the distance and the splash of water striking water. There were no boats, and no troops marched onto land with raised weapons. No one was coming, he was sure of it now. Even so, if Aradin soldiers were to appear at this very moment, he would take them on himself. Better to face them alone in this volatile state than risk sparking internal strife that could plunge their defenses into ruin.
code by @Nano
