In Hayla Bornbrook’s assessment, birthdays, by virtue of coming only once a year, were a thing to celebrate. As the cart slowed and jerked to a complete stop, she knew the best part of their evening was upon them.

We’re here. Oh, this will be perfect. Days like this ought to be lavish, entirely impractical, and wholly absurd.

All of this was a relatively new realization, brought on by her chance attendance at the ball held for Her Highness Renner. The proceedings - though modest when compared to the grander balls that normally accompanied the changing of the seasons - struck Hayla as positively sublime, and induced her to do something for her daughter Yilere. A proper ball was out of the question - her husband was scrimping and saving to host one for the winter solstice - but a night out was perfectly possible. Thus had Hayla, her daughter, and family friends Baronnesses Illiana and Poment all hopped in a carriage and alighted from their demesnes to travel to Re-Robel for a day of shopping, exquisite meals, and as Yilere was herself turning fourteen, her first taste of Laira.

“Girls, as the Imperials say, carpe diem.”

The door to the cart opened, the driver having dismounted to bid them out. Yilere looked at her mother expectantly, only for Hayla to gently smile and gesture for her to go first. They all stepped out into the night, the street lights and fog blown in from the sea conspiring to halo the quartet in a gentle haze. Hayla turned and found their destination, a chic little Laira den cross smoking lounge she had made a point of visiting every time she went to the city. It was discrete, windows shuttered and sign nondescript. The doorman spotted them, greeting them as they approached.

“Ladies, are you here for our smoke lounge or for our other services?”

“Other services.”

“And all four of you?”

“That’s right. It’s my wonderful Yilere’s fourteenth birthday.”

“Mother…”

Yilere nudged her, embarrassed. Hayla went for a cheek grab in response, wrapping her arm around her daughter and pulling her abreast as she did so.

“Well, we’ll be glad to host the rest of your jubilations. Though, there is an unpleasant matter.”

“Oh?”

“Ladies, my deepest apologies, but, I regret to inform you that the price of admission has unfortunately increased.”

Oh this is a right shame. We hopefully still have the money for it.

“How much?”

“My lugubriousness on this cannot be overstated. It’s been increased from a silver standard to a full gold coin per person.”

Ten-percent? That’s it? And he’s groveling like that? This poor man must have been blasted straight to damnation and back by the last patron.

“That’s perfectly acceptable. The usual? I’ll need an inkwell.”

“We would prefer if you did the transaction in metal this time.”

Ah, they need coin. Finance trouble. I’ll mention this to Grant. He’ll eat it right up.

“That’s perfectly fine. Four gold, then?”

“Yes, that would work perfectly.”

Or perhaps issues with the law? There are rumors of specters haunting the trade. Ah, no matter. This is her night.

Hayla dug through her handbag, quickly finding and grabbing a handful of coinage. She dropped them in the hands of the doorman, who then bowed, stepped over to open the door and bid them in. Hayla turned to her fellows.

“Come, darlings. Let’s lose a night together!”

—

Jared Parh looked at the parchment that had just been slid over to him. He decided then that this was the worst day of his life.

“And that’s it - at least there about. I have the remainder of your account balance right here: three gold, eighty-eight silver, and twelve copper. I just need you to sign here.”

The experience was surreal. A month prior, he’d had his best night yet, moving over four hundred patrons through his tavern in the course of a single evening. Anything that fattened his pockets was cause for celebration, but this was something special, and he decided to get thoroughly drunk and throw money at the local cockfighting ring; when he woke up the next day, he decided to do it again. What followed was a weeks-long bender; He had won and lost pittances, then fortunes, then pittances again, first in E-Naru, then in Re-Illisian, and finally in Re-Robel.

What the fuck was I thinking?

The dates were indistinct, but he had at some point slipped from the black into the red, and after a night of particularly disastrous dice and ill-advised lines of credit, he was thrown to his knees in a back alley with a blade placed inside his open mouth by men demanding repayment ‘or else.‘ So went the tavern, though only half the proceeds from its sale were necessary to repay his debt; what remained was enough to purchase an establishment in a smaller town and once again become a proprietor. Jared had instead chosen to go back to the tables in the hopes that he would win big, repurchase his tavern, and gain the wealth and influence he deserved. This did not happen. Instead, he was now at the Higara Exchange staring at a form to sever his ties with the Merchants Guild, close out his account with its bank, and formally disincorporate his business.

At least I had the sense to sober up and do this, instead of taking out another loan.

The clerk snapped him from his recollection.

“Sir?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“I need you to sign here.”

“I um- I have a seal.”

“Ah, of course.”

The clerk gestured to the candlelit wax melter to his right. Jared looked, finding that it was empty. He lagged for a moment, before turning back to the clerk, who was himself looking at Jared expectantly.

“Were you going to seal, sir?”

“I don’t have any wax.”

“Oh! We sell bars of wax for five silver pieces, ten for specialty colors. Would you be interested in trying some of our new lapis lazuli formulation? It’s quite the verdant blue, bound to make any business communiqué or contract quite stunning.”

Jared stared at the clerk dumbly.

“No. I’ll… I’ll just sign.”

Jared did just that, and the world seemed to blur. He reached out and swept the remainder of his life savings into a coin purse before turning ‘round and wandering off. He left Higara in a daze and stepped out into the night feeling directionless and hollow. He decided then that being sober was a mistake, one he ought to fix as soon as possible. It wasn’t hard to find a dealer, one lurked right outside the hall for men just like him. He was in fine dress, but Jared had an intuition for such things. He walked over and greeted the man curtly.

“You got dark?”

“I got everything. Elf, Dark, Anvil-Dust, Pipe-Weed, Morning-Breath-”

“Morning-breath.”

“That’s the stuff. Prices are a bit higher this week. Ten silvers per aurum.”

“How ‘bout eighty-eight and change for nine.”

“Done.”

The men shook hands, Jared feeling relief at his lack of shame.

—

The thunk of a crate broke the silence of the night, though Gerald struggled to hear it through the pounding of his heart. Turning around, he walked back across the pier and halfway up the gangplank before he heard his supervisor shout at him.

“Ger! Ger! The ship is empty. We’re done for the night. Come get your pay.”

Gerald stopped, half waving his hand as acknowledgment. He faced the sky, breathing heavily as he felt the gentle rise and fall of the boat. He spent a minute just like that, resting, letting his pulse fall and the sweat roll off of him. Eventually he turned, disembarked back onto the docks and wandered over to the foreman. There was a line, each man being doled out their pay for the day's labor. Gerald got at the back, slowly working his way up to the front as each man was hailed, paid out, and dismissed. Upon reaching the front, he held out his hand for payment.

“Ger, eight, plus another five for the overtime. One coin reserved for the guild. You did good work today.”

Twelve? A whole twelve?

Gerald silently accepted, catching the coins with his palm, before walking off. As exhausted as he was, he felt little but happiness. The pay was stellar, more than any job he had held in the pace; guildwork was safe, secure, and lucrative. Slipping the money into his pocket, he looked round, considering what he wanted to do for the night.

Gonna get my family a meal, a nice one. Some meat skewers, fried potatoes, honeyed apples, maybe some milk if they have any. All that should come out to about four silver pieces. And- and maybe some dust for myself, something to help my back after all this. Barely have any left.

Reassured as to his course of action, he turned round, finding a friend leaning against the warehouse they had spent the night loading. Gerald approached him.

“Gerald.”

“Alec.”

“I just hate warm days like this. Hate working in heat.”

“It’s summer, what do you expect?”

“I hate working in summer.”

“And if it's cold.”

“Hate working in winter, too.”

“Sounds like you just hate working.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Yeah, ain’t that the truth. Hey, look, you got any more of that stuff?”

“You want some Forge Scale?”

“Forge Scale?”

“Forge Scale, Dark, Bliss-Ash, Black Dust-”

“Black Dust, that’s it.”

“Whatever you wanna call it. Anyway, what do you want?”

“Two aurums.”

“I got you. That’ll be ten silver.”

“Ten?! What?!”

“Prices are going up. It’s five per aurum now.”

“But still, ten?!”

“Yes, five for an aurum.”

“It was three last week.”

“That was last week.”

“C’mon man, this isn’t fair! I need this stuff, I haven’t gotten a hit in over a week.”

“I just saw you get the money. You want it or not?”

Gerald seized, waffling in his mind. He was roiling, filled with senses of duty to his family, the want to provide for them, and the deep desire to be a good husband and a better father; all that versus the itch creeping back into the edges of his consciousness.

Maybe- maybe I’ll skip the honeyed apples tonight.

Gerald thought for a moment longer, then nodded in sheepish acceptance.

—

He was shaking, doing his best to put one foot in front of the other. His last hit was two weeks ago. He struggled to pull in a full breath, his chest refusing to obey his mind’s command. His last hit was two weeks ago. His legs suddenly fell out from under him, sending him careening to the ground. His last hit was two weeks ago. His last hit was two weeks ago. He emptied his stomach’s contents into the grass, the smell melding with that of the petrichor. His last hit was two weeks ago. The bile was foul, yet clear. He had not eaten breakfast. He did not remember the last time he had eaten breakfast. He could barely remember his own name.

Get up, Edward! Get up! Get up! Get up damn you!

He fought his way up, first splaying out an arm, before raising himself onto his knees; then, his feet. The midsommar symphony of rural insects filled the dawn, his home village of Horbal caught in the wavering rays of the day’s yearling call. The beauty was completely lost on him. He needed to get to his dealer.

How far am I?

Leveling his head and straining his eyes to keep them open, he spotted a daub dwelling but ten paces away; he blinked, realizing that he had already made it. Shambling forward, he rounded the entrance, the door kept open to abate the heat of the day. His dealer, Reynolds, was standing in the front room preparing for the day to come when he spotted Edward stumbling in.

“He of the Smoldering Stump, you look like shit! Did you take a fall or something? You have vomit all over your shirt.”

Tell him you need a quarter.

“Q-q-q…”

“What?”

“Qu-qua-qua-”

“Quarter aurum? You want a quarter aurum? That’s it?”

“Y-y-ye-ye.”

“Twelve copper-”

What?! I only have nine!

“You sa- sa- s- y-you said last week that it would be ei-eigh-eight. Why twel-twe… twelve?”

“Prices are up.”

“You f-fucking liar!”

“Prices are up! What do you want from me?! Look, they charged me a lot this time.”

“Th-then give me everything you can. An- an-”

“Come on man, you expect me to sell you an eighth? That’s what you're getting for eight copper.”

“G-giv-give me it!”

“Fine, fine.”

Reynolds dug into his pockets, retrieving a small satchel tied at the end with twine. Edward eagerly took a step forward, losing his balance as he did so. He toppled both himself and Reynolds, sending the pair to the ground as the copper pieces in his hands scattered against the floor. The bag of Black Dust struck the ground, a little puff of its contents escaping as Edwards greedily snatched it up. He fumbled in his pockets for his pipe, finding it in his left. He grabbed it, and as Reynolds cursed him out for his clumsiness, finally stuffed it and prepared to smoke.

—

Hilma stretched languidly in her chair, drawing her arms as high as she could above her head before letting them slump over the back of her chair. This would have been fine, except she had been holding her pipe as she did so; its mouthpiece poked the flesh of her other arm and sprung out of her hand, only to clatter to the ground in a comical bout of dexteral incompetence, prompting Ampetif Doll, who was sat across her desk painting his nails, to raise an eyebrow. She let her head fall backward in defeat, looking up from her chair to trace the subtle lines embossed in the copper shielding above.

“Cocco. My life is falling apart.”

Two months ago, had she been asked to describe what had been done to the Narcotics Division by the Blue Roses, she would have used the word “damage.” After the Black Night, she would have described it as “devastation.” The last week made her suspect that her answer would soon change to “destruction.” The inflow of coin was nearly nonexistent, and every aspect of her operation, be it growing Laira, processing it or distributing it, was under constant threat. Price raises had provided a minor reversal in revenue, but with the continual specter of that five-woman group hanging over her, she doubted it would last long.

What the fuck am I going to do?

“You want some boys? Got some new product in from the Empire, some exotic skin tones. Would you believe that there is a race of men whose origins lie farther south than the Draconic Kingdom and which have flesh tones darker than the Warrior Captain’s? I pulled him out of the usual rotation as soon as I saw him; he’s quite stunning.”

“I appreciate the offer, but no.”

“Suit yourself, though, I do have an elf for you if you want it.”

Hilma snapped forward in her chair, bringing her head down to look at Cocco Doll again.

“Wait, seriously? How?”

“Elves are quite dexterous, double jointed. You’d be surprised at how small the boxes you can fit them in are. A caravan bearing slaves in barrels marked brine managed to slip right across the border into Corelyn county and reached my distribution network. I think I’ll make quite a killing with them.”

“You’re going to give me an elf slave for free?”

“The elf? No, not free, but half price.”

An elf? I’ve always wanted one. Something about the sharp cuts of their faces. Keep a slave like that in the house, train them to be a housekeeper, and I’ll have a loyal servant for life. Well, provided they were processed properly. Don’t want to get stabbed in the middle of the night by a fucking knife-ear.

“As good as it sounds, I decline. Only fools run to their vices in times of crisis.”

The problem is that they stay young forever - at least as long as I’m kicking - so they’ll never be- wait, can I get an older one? Do middle aged elves even get captured as slaves? Probably, but they’d be a bitch to break, and it's not like any family that’s actually had one for a few hundred years will give it up to me.

“That much I agree with. So, Hilma, what are you going to do?”

Hilma spent a moment processing his words, and when she finished internalizing them, felt nothing but ire. Cocco Doll was pressing for information, faking concern to draw out critical intelligence about her division’s stability, its place in the council, and the validity of her challenge for the head seat. This was nothing out of the ordinary, the pair having wordlessly come to an understanding that their pleasantries were purely mercenary, but his attempt to wrench answers from her this time was laughable. He was playing at something as divisional heads were wont to, but he was doing so badly, and that was enough to sour the moment for her.

He seriously thinks he’s going to bait me with the offer of a half-price slave? One he’s had his mitts on? I might as well cut out the middleman and just commit suicide on the spot. How little does he think of me? I don’t have a fucking death wish.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“Did I stutter? Get out. I don’t need your carionism in a moment like this.”

Cocco Doll lurched for a moment, then sneered.

“Getting a little pissy on our period, are we?”

“What? The fuck are you- y’know what, nevermind. Get out of my fucking office, you freak.”

Cocco Doll shot a rude gesture before leaving his chair and exiting the room, slamming the door as he did. A moment later, it reopened, her door guard peaking in with a quizzical look on his face. Hilma waved him off, finding no need to have Cocco Doll harried to the exit. The door closed again, more gently this time, leaving her in silence.

Asshole.

She sighed, before turning around to retrieve her pipe from the floor and pinch up the spilt tobacco. Wiping it down, she replaced and relit its contents, pulling in a breath and tasting it.

What am I going to do? What can I do?

Hilma thought for a moment, before pushing her chair back slightly and opening the front drawer to her desk. Finding a stack of vellum, she drew off three sheets, then found and removed a small rack filled with vials of pigmented ink and a number of fresh quills. Setting that on her desktop, she closed the drawer, and drew her chair forward again.

Reframe the problem. What’s actually at issue here?

She laid out one of the pieces of vellum, then removed the stoppers from two vials of ink: one red, one blue. Dropping fresh quills into each, she let them wet, before withdrawing them and beginning to draft. It was a technique she had picked up years prior when she had just wrestled control of the division from Garland Echeart, something she needed to make sense of the production process for Black Dust. Connecting boxed words with colored lines had helped her learn the inflow of crops and their components, alchemical precursors, mundane ingredients, and the outflow of byproducts and waste. Now, she put those skills to use in determining exactly how and why she was losing.

Two things: the ability of my enemy to locate targets, and the ability of my enemy to successfully assault those targets. Those things operate in a loop: intelligence as to the location and composition of targets is received and deciphered, an attack is launched on said location and then intelligence is yielded from investigation of the site and interrogation of prisoners. I am unable to reasonably interrupt the processing of said intelligence, but its generation?

She drew a line down the center of her page, bisecting it. She began filling in the left half, writing every possible way she thought her enemies could acquire information from her; then on the right, every potential solution to the leaks. Some things were feasible - increasing compartmentalization of information or otherwise tightening patrols - but most everything came down to one point.

How do I fight the Blue Roses?

This was a question she had asked herself again and again, and yet she felt no closer to finding an answer than she was three months ago.

Whom do I hire? Security division teams? Maybe as support, but they can’t do jack shit when it comes to actually solving this problem. Six arms is a lost cause. They couldn’t kill Gazef in a six verses one fight, stripped his equipment, in a surprise attack, boxxed in a fucking allyway, after a night of merryment and drinking; I don’t see how they’re supposed to take a six versus five fight against a fully equipped and prepared team made of people who have killed hundreds in the last three months with a consistent streak of victories. The Death Spreading Brigade was up and pasted by a vampire, however the fuck that happened, and it’s not like any other bands of such calliber exist in-country. Imperial workers? Maybe, but the language barrier makes it hard, and I’m not about to expose myself just to serve as a translator.

She flipped over the page, dividing it into five boxes.

The five of them all have their own challenges; the crusader, the brute, the twins, and the witch. Lakyus is the team priestess, so in an ideal engagement you would down her first, but she wields Kilineiram which can purportedly attack at range, and she has those floating blades of hers; it’s not like we’re in the possession of Sfiez or something to level the game - and that armor too. It’s like- ah, shit.

Hilma sighed, stared indecisively at her page and scratched out what she had written.

There’s no point in going line by line here for all of them. It doesn’t matter what I think. All of them are chiseled veterans of adventuring, and now they’re all chiseled veterans of this war; each is stupendously dangerous, equipped out the ass with magical trinkets, weapons, armors; each is extensively experienced in their craft. If I’m not mistaken, that Aindra has spent almost half her life in the trade, and she may be the least seasoned of the bunch. Do I even fight them?

Perhaps I don’t confront them directly - if ever - but the heat on my operation is insane. I need to get them off my back somehow, even if just for a time. How would I do that? Deterrence? I don’t see what I could do to deter them besides perhaps taking hostages, but besides that putting a massive target on my back, who the fuck would I kidnap? Considering Aindra’s uncle is also an adamantite adventurer, no one - I don’t have a death wish. Does the brute even have a family or did she just come into being one day like an elemental, ready to fuck anything that walks? The Twins and Evileye I know the least about - no names, much less family ones; all three are completely impenetrable.

There’s no way to prevent them from attacking and winning, but perhaps I can lead them elsewhere. Perhaps I provide them with an easier target. Give them leads to the smaller crop fields. No, they wouldn’t go for it. At this point, they’re addicted to large victories, warehouses razed or committed to the soil.

The last month had vastly changed Hilma’s perception of her enemy, not for what retaliations came against her, but those that didn’t. Her conviction that there was no mole in Eight Fingers, but rather an external intelligence arm to her enemy, had driven her into rapid action. Lakyus’s visits to the palace under cover of meeting the princess, as well as the tacit approval of Eight Fingers by both the Empire and the Theocracy seemed to point to only one thing: the nightmare scenario of the Blue Roses collaborating with the Butcher of the Mist, Knight Marshal Theiern. This had spurred her to act as violently as she did on the night of the sixteenth, a desperate gamble to get in close and slake herself on him. He did not die, and she cringed, bracing for retributions on the part of his men.

I don’t lead them to my own, I lead them to others. Create notes that implicate other divisions, leave them on site. Write about valuable targets in letters, false accounts and the like; when discovered, that should lure them away. All that does is create time. Time to do what? Hilma, you won’t end this with a waiting move. Accept it, if you can’t fight them off, your division will burn down over your head. Of course, this is to say nothing about their sixth member.

Then, none came from Theiern; no assaults on convoys, no raided gambling halls, no razed warehouses; every attack could be traced back to the Blue Roses. Hilma was at once relieved and concerned; her opponent was less numerous than she thought, yet remained an unknown quantity. This had renewed that same question in her mind: whom, exactly, were the Blue Roses collaborating with?

It can’t be more than one or two people, can it? I’ve heard no word about this at all, no gossip coming from the maid's gaggles, nothing at all. Any large organization would have shown some sign by now, some telltale sign. It’s someone they meet, someone with deep pockets and a detailed knowledge of tradecraft. Perhaps a small circle of associates. I haven’t run afoul of Slane, have I? Agh, this is impossible.

Hilma dropped her quills back in their wells, setting her elbow on the table and using her hand to brace her head. She was exhausted. She was scared. Things she had slowly and painfully acquired over years - capital be it in coin or in company, bondsmen by will or by blackmail, influence on the council - were all burning away before her eyes. Hilma was terrified.

How do I end this? If I somehow crush the Blue Roses, their sixth member will simply acquire someone else to continue their work. Another adventurer team, Red Drop, or even an Imperial band. If I, by luck, find and end their sixth, the Blue Roses will continue to acquire targets on their own with redoubled ferocity. I need to solve both problems at once.

Hilma grabbed a fresh page, then reached around blindly, running her fingers along the spines of books behind her until she found the one she wanted. Pinching, she swiftly withdrew the tome from its place on her shelf, and swung it round onto her desk before it could slip from her grip. It flopped down with a thump, one of her most dangerous and illegal possessions, a copy of the Imperial War College instructor's manual “Battlefield Tactics, Twenty-first Edition.” Being found in possession of one when not an Imperial Academy instructor carried a sentence of enslavement without future emancipation, and for the leaker was a capital offense. She owned the last six editions, as well as the thirteenth edition.

Line by line then: Lakyus, Cleric of Elydro so she can provide healing and support, can effectively engage in close-quarters via sword, short range with Kilineiram’s curse, and medium range with her floating blades; Gagaran, can only engage in close quarters but has long reach; the twin killers, nothing definite but presumably close quarters only as well, maybe they have access to thrown weapons or crossbows; Evileye, based on reports from Six Arms, can engage without line of sight at unlimited range and everything in between, get in close and she’s dead.

The gap in her ownership had been an honest mistake. Once only updated every two or so decades, their release had become an annual affair under the Nix Dynasty. She had assumed this to be an excess of his propaganda, opting only to smuggle out a copy of the thirteenth edition. As luck would have it, she had a chance encounter with the sixteenth, and upon reading, found its contents to be wholly unrecognizable. She now went out of her way to acquire each update to the books, each filled with innumerable changes: hard counters being found to tactics formerly thought surefire, theory crafting from one year panning out into entire domains of battlefield thought by the next, and hints of future innovation leaking from the Ministry of Magic. It was an invaluable tool, one she held in reserve for moments like this.

They cover each other's weaknesses too well, I would need to strip them off and isolate them - kill them one by one. Gagaran would be the easiest target, and perhaps I could catch the twins in a trap. I get them stuck at the wrong end of a battlement filled with crossbowmen or a spell battery, that should be all I need. I’d need a killzone.

Hilma flipped open the tactics manual, skipping sections one after another, before slowing to search page by page. The last few editions had begun to include tactics on fighting "mixed-composition lances," a barely disguised euphemism for worker teams. Of note to Hilma were the case studies, exhaustive combat reports of actual Imperial Legion engagements with the names, locations, and unit designations censored. The consensus was simple.

Wide space, long engagement distance, multiple angles of attack, cover for those angles, inability to breach or bypass those lines, anti-air to deal with the red-runt. Problem is, they're smart enough to not door-knock. They need to go into this unprepared, or perhaps underprepared. Ah, I'm not going to figure this out now, are I? That’s fine. I’m giving myself time; time to hunt the mastermind and time to destroy the Blue Roses. Sounds simple when I put it like that. I can plan the details while I breathe. Now, the question becomes, what locations to leak?

Hilma paused, nervously tapping her quill against the page, leaving an inkblot. A realization came. She clicked her tongue, snatched and binned the two marked pages, pulling a key stuffed in her corset as she did so and unlocking her drawer. Drawing out the book on cryptography, she opened it, pushed aside the tactics manual, shuffled around the last remaining sheet of vellum, and began to write.