Fog rolls low over the surface of Lake Admonito, thick and unmoving, like something that has chosen to stay rather than drift. It clings to the docks, wraps itself around the rotting wood, slides between the gaps of timber houses, and settles into the lungs of anyone who breathes too deeply. The lake itself is barely visible beyond a gray-blue blur, its edges indistinct, its silence heavier than it should be.
The village sits there, caught between that lake and the forest behind it, like something wedged into place by forces stronger than itself.
Boots press into mud.
Two columns of soldiers emerge from the tree line, their formation loose from the march, their pace slowed by the terrain and the fatigue that never fully leaves their bodies anymore. Armor creaks. Leather straps stretch. Muskets hang heavy at their sides.
The 204th and 205th.
Two companies. Two histories. One shared exhaustion.
They look young.
Too young.
Fourteen. Fifthteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.
Their accents slip when they talk, fragments of another world that still cling to them no matter how many months pass. Earth lingers in the way they curse, in the rhythm of their speech, in the glances they exchange when something feels absurd enough to remember where they came from.
But they walk like soldiers now.
That part has settled in.
Not cleanly. Not proudly. But firmly.
The village notices them immediately.
People stop working—not fully, not openly, but just enough. A fisherman pauses while pulling his net. A woman slows while carrying water. Children stop mid-run, watching from behind fences or doorways. Dogs bark, then hesitate, uncertain whether to approach or retreat.
The road—the thin ribbon of hardened dirt—carries the soldiers directly toward the tavern.
Eyes follow them.
Not welcoming.
Not hostile.
Calculating.
["Two hundred…"] someone whispers under their breath.
["Armed…"]
["Not merchants…"]
["Not knights…"]
["Slaves…"]
The word doesn't need to be said loudly.
It hangs anyway.
Comtois walks near the front of the 205th, shoulders loose, expression deliberately casual, like he refuses to let the weight settle on him even now. He glances left and right, taking in the village with quick, practiced movements.
"Bro… this place is depressing as hell."
His voice is low, but not low enough.
A few villagers glance away immediately.
Aldo walks slightly behind, eyes moving slower, more deliberate. He doesn't respond immediately. He watches the docks. The nets. The way the boats are tied.
Some are missing.
More than a few.
["Taken…"]
He doesn't say it out loud.
The smell hits them as they move deeper—fish, damp wood, smoke, and something faintly sour underneath it all. Not rot. Not exactly.
Just… persistence.
Survival without comfort.
The elder approaches them near the tavern.
He doesn't stand tall.
He doesn't greet them with ceremony.
He simply steps forward, head slightly lowered, hands clasped together like he is trying to hold something from falling apart.
His eyes don't rise fully to meet theirs.
"The lake fed us for centuries."
His voice is steady, but thin.
"Then the serpent came."
A pause.
Wind brushes across the water behind him.
"It takes the boats."
His fingers tighten slightly.
"It takes the men who go out alone."
Silence follows that.
No dramatics.
No embellishment.
Just facts laid bare.
"We wrote to your master because…"
He hesitates.
For a moment, it looks like he might say something else.
Something heavier.
But he doesn't.
"…we had no one else."
The words land quietly.
Comtois shifts his weight.
["Yeah… that checks out."]
Aldo nods once.
Not sympathy.
Acknowledgment.
The tavern door creaks open.
Warmth spills out.
Not comforting warmth.
Functional warmth.
The kind that keeps people alive.
Inside, the air is thick—smoke, broth, damp wool, and something fermented lingering in the background. The hearth burns wide and steady, casting uneven light across the room. Tables are filled, but not crowded. Conversations dim as the soldiers enter.
Every seat feels occupied by someone who is watching.
Calculating.
The two companies spread slightly, some taking positions near walls, others remaining standing. No one fully relaxes.
They've learned better.
Aldo steps forward.
Comtois follows.
Near the center, a man sits alone at one of the long tables.
He doesn't look like the others.
His posture is too straight.
Too controlled.
A cloak drapes over one shoulder, pinned by a broken sigil. Not decorative.
Broken.
Deliberately worn.
He lifts his gaze as they approach.
Eyes calm.
Too calm.
Teufel Windsor.
He doesn't stand.
He doesn't need to.
"You're the ones they sent."
His voice is quiet.
Measured.
Almost gentle.
Aldo nods slightly.
"We are."
Comtois drops into the seat across from him without invitation, leaning back like he owns the space.
"So… you're the ex-knight, right?"
Teufel doesn't react immediately.
He studies Comtois for a moment.
Then—
"Once."
He lifts his cup, takes a slow sip.
"They stripped my name for loving the wrong man."
The words are said without hesitation.
Without apology.
Without visible anger.
Just… fact.
Comtois blinks.
Then grins.
"Bro, you are gay knight."
A few nearby soldiers choke slightly on their drinks.
Someone coughs.
Aldo doesn't react outwardly.
Teufel tilts his head slightly.
"I don't know what 'gay' means."
A beat.
"But if you speak of my forbidden love with my man… then yes."
Another sip.
"That is correct."
Silence settles briefly.
Then—
Comtois leans forward, elbows on the table, grin widening.
"Damn. Respect, honestly."
["Dude just says it like that…"]
Aldo exhales slowly through his nose.
["Stay on task…"]
The tavern noise slowly resumes around them, quieter than before but no longer frozen.
Teufel sets his cup down.
His fingers rest against the wood.
"One dead serpent…"
He looks toward the window.
Toward the fog-covered lake.
"…and maybe the halls will forget I existed."
There's no bitterness in his tone.
That's what makes it heavier.
Comtois leans back again.
"Aren't you just slaves?" Teufel asks suddenly.
The question isn't mocking.
It's direct.
Flat.
Comtois snorts.
"Bro, we're literal property."
He gestures loosely to himself, to Aldo, to the room.
"But hey — this should be like the wolf job."
His voice lifts slightly, energy forced back into it.
"Bag the lizard, get the bonus, citizen papers sooner."
A few heads turn.
Hope.
There it is.
Still alive.
Still stubborn.
"205th's done twelve suppression runs already; we know how to finish shit."
He taps the table once, firmly.
Then he speaks.
"We kill what they point at. That's the job, isn't it? No questions, no hesitation. You want the same thing I do—something simple, something finished. That's enough."
His tone is calm. Measured. Not cold—just controlled.
He meets Teufel's gaze directly, holding it there without challenge, without backing down.
A pause settles between them. The fire cracks behind their backs, filling the silence with a dry, restless sound.
"Let's just get it done clean," he adds, quieter now, but no less firm. "Like the last joint. No mess, no dragging it out. We finish it, and we go home faster."
The word lingers.
"Nothing about wolves was clean."
The thought cuts through him, uninvited.
Images flicker—
Snow.
Blood staining white into something darker.
The chaos of it—half their squad gone before they even understood what they were fighting.
Then the shift.
Turning it around.
Fighting back.
Winning.
Surviving.
Barely.
None of it reaches his face.
Teufel watches him closely, as if searching for something beneath the surface. Then he nods—slow, deliberate, like each movement is weighed before it's allowed to exist.
"Clean," he repeats, testing the word. Turning it over. "Clean… right. We'll call it that."
Like he knows it doesn't quite fit. But accepts it anyway.
He extends his arm.
Aldo grips it. Firm. No hesitation.
Comtois slaps his hand into the clasp with a grin.
"Alright then, ex-knight bro—guess we're doing this your way. Let's go kill your lake lizard and be done with it."
Teufel almost smiles.
Almost.
Outside—
The lake laps softly against the docks. Slow. Rhythmic.
Like breath.
Like something alive.
The fog shifts. Just slightly.
Aldo's gaze drifts toward the window again.
...
Confidence.
Not natural, not something that simply exists on its own. It is constructed piece by piece, reinforced through repetition, and maintained with quiet discipline, like a structure that will collapse the moment attention slips.
Aldo watches him for a moment longer, though his gaze does not linger on the man himself. Instead, it drifts past him—drawn toward the gray, unmoving surface of the lake outside, a surface that reveals nothing of what lies beneath it, yet suggests far too much.
[A creature that takes boats, that chooses its targets carefully—those alone, those vulnerable—and something more… something that can shape the water itself, or at least move through it with unnatural control. That isn't chaos. That isn't instinct alone. There's intention in that. There's structure.]
His fingers tap once against the table. A small, almost imperceptible motion. Light enough to go unnoticed by anyone not already watching him closely.
"It's not random. It never is. There's a pattern here—there is always a pattern, even when people don't want to see it, even when it hides beneath fear and confusion. You just have to look long enough, think long enough… and it starts to show."
Comtois pushes himself up to his feet with a stretch, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the moment.
"Alright, here's the plan—nice and simple so even we don't mess it up. We eat, we rest, we put something resembling a plan together, then we go out there, kill the thing, and get the hell out. Easy."
Simple.
Too simple.
But simple has a way of working, at least in the short term. Complexity can wait until it becomes unavoidable.
For now, it holds.
Around them, the soldiers begin settling in more fully. The initial tension loosens its grip, giving way to routine. Some sit, finally allowing themselves to rest. Others unwrap rations and eat in silence or in low conversation. A few remain standing, keeping watch out of habit more than necessity, their eyes still scanning as if expecting something to emerge at any moment.
They talk quietly among themselves.
Jokes that don't quite land but are told anyway.
Fragments of home, spoken in half-finished sentences.
Memories of past missions, stripped down to their simplest forms.
Names—familiar to them, meaningless here.
They are not rookies anymore. Not really.
But they are not veterans either.
They exist in the space between—experienced enough to survive most of what comes their way, but still inexperienced enough to believe that survival guarantees something more than just the next mission.
Aldo leans back slightly, his posture loosening just enough to seem at ease. His eyes fall half-lidded, but they never truly close.
He listens.
He watches.
He thinks.
[A dragon—that's what they call it. But that word is wrong. It's too large, too mythical, too distant from reality. Words like that make people careless. They make things feel unreal.]
A faint shift of his gaze.
[No. This is a lake predator. Something that hunts, something that adapts, something that exists within rules—even if we don't understand them yet. That makes it smaller. That makes it something we can manage.]
And yet—
[Why us? Why this unit, at this time, in this place? That part doesn't fit. Assignments like this don't just happen without reason. There's always a layer beneath the order, something unsaid, something we're not being told.]
The question lingers, unanswered and persistent.
He glances toward Comtois.
Laughing too loudly, gesturing as he talks, filling space with energy that borders on forced. Confidence worn openly, like armor meant to be seen.
Then his gaze shifts to Teufel.
Quiet. Still. Contained in a way that suggests effort rather than ease. Carrying something heavier than he allows to surface.
Then, finally, the soldiers.
Kids.
All of them, in one way or another.
Even now.
[We are not supposed to fight something like this. Not really. This is beyond the scale we were built for, beyond the rules we were trained under… and yet here we are, walking toward it anyway, because that's what we've been told to do.]
His gaze returns to the lake.
The fog thickens, slow and creeping, until the surface of the water begins to disappear from view. Edges blur, shapes dissolve, and for a brief moment it feels as though the lake itself has ceased to exist.
There is only absence.
Something unseen.
Waiting.
Listening.
[One more clean mission. That's what we tell ourselves every time, isn't it? One more, just one more, and then it's over. Then we walk away, and we don't have to come back.]
The thought echoes, familiar in a way that makes it dangerous.
"…and then we're free."
Aldo exhales slowly, the breath leaving him in a measured, controlled release. His hand tightens, just slightly, fingers pressing against the edge of the table as if grounding himself in something solid, something real. For a brief moment, the tension lingers, subtle but present, before it fades and his grip loosens again. Outside, the lake carries on in its steady, quiet rhythm, its surface undisturbed by anything beyond its own natural motion. It remains unbothered, unconcerned, as though it has witnessed this same fragile strain of hope countless times before, and has long since learned to recognize its shape, its weight, and precisely how it inevitably comes to an end.