Aldo narrows his eyes, the memory of their last major engagement rising to the surface of his mind. He leans in closer to the officer. "If that's the case... what about Knight Teufel?"
Officer Watkins's face goes instantly serious, the lines around his mouth deepening into hard trenches. He looks over his shoulder toward the heavy iron doors at the back of the Rotunda before responding.
"The PCA is still holding him in the lower cells," Watkins says softly."Since you handed him over a few weeks ago after defeating him and Drakolimne, he has remained completely unconscious. The chirurgeons can't wake him. His heart beats, but his mind is completely gone. And his armor... his armor is entirely missing from the inventory."
Aldo nods slowly, his mind piecing together the chaotic final moments of the battle. "Comtois used Teufel's armor as bait to kill Drakolimne. He needed something that possessed a massive magical signature to draw the beast out of the upper atmosphere."
Watkins's eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise. His head tilts back. "How? How does a man use an enoromous suit of black iron plate as bait for an airborne terror?"
"According to Comtois's own account of the engagement," Aldo explains, his voice rhythmic and precise, "the armor couldn't handle the thermal stress. It burst into flames in the upper atmosphere during the descent."
The officer blinks in utter surprise. He slowly raises his right hand, pointing a single, ink-stained finger toward the high, vaulted ceiling, pointing through the stone toward the blue sky beyond.
"Let me get this straight," Watkins says, his voice strained with disbelief."Comtois flew high up into the clouds with the armor, killed Drakolimne mid-air, then flew back down but dropped the armor from the heavens, and it turned entirely to ashes before it even hit the dirt?"
Aldo nods once, his face expressionless. "That is exactly what he told me. The friction and the magical discharge consumed the metal entirely."
Officer Watkins lets out a long, whistling breath through his teeth. He shakes his head, a mixture of horror and profound respect clearing the fatigue from his eyes. "He's a true Southern slave-soldier, Aldo. Utterly, beautifully insane. Only a man born in the southern trenches would think to turn a king's ransom in enchanted steel into a temporary firework."
The two men fall into a heavy silence. They stand side by side against the cold stone pillar, their eyes drifting back to the center of the Rotunda. Below them, Clark Yolan and the dozen other nameless clerks continue their endless, monotonous work. The scratch of the quills, the rattle of the wire baskets, and the dry thud of ledgers fill the space, creating a strange, rhythmic drone that feels entirely disconnected from the violent, bloody reality of the world outside the stone walls.
Aldo watches a young clerk carefully file a death warrant into a neatly labeled oak cabinet. "I've been thinking about the structure of this organization, Watkins. I feel like the PCA is more like a highly organized mercenary group than a legitimate national army. You and I... we are both currently being chased across three palantines for outstanding bounties, yet here we stand, drawing a state salary inside a government building."
Officer Watkins smiles, a small, cynical twist of his lips that doesn't reach his gray eyes. He looks down at his ink-stained fingers.
"No man in the PCA calls it a regular army when the doors are closed, Lead," Watkins says softly, his voice barely louder than the rustle of the parchment below. "We know what we are. We even actively compete for high-paying security and elimination missions with the Adventurer Guilds. We steal their contracts right out of their taverns." He pauses, his smile widening slightly. "The Adventurers... they absolutely hate the PCA for that. They think we're taking the bread right out of their mouths with our military discipline."
"And aren't we?"Aldo asks.
Before Watkins can answer, a loud, cheerful shout echoes from the main entrance of the Rotunda. The heavy oak doors creak open, and Comtois comes striding into the golden light. He moves with a loose, easy grace, his long coat flapping against his boots, completely unbothered by the somber, bureaucratic atmosphere of the hall. He runs over to the pillar, his face split into a wide, bright grin.
"Aldo!" Comtois shouts, greeting the two men very naturally as he slides to a halt beside them. He immediately turns to Watkins, offering a crisp, slightly exaggerated salute that borders on mockery, though his eyes are warm. "And greetings to you, sir. I am Comtois, Commander of the 205th Company in southern Heilop, stationed out of Dravensk. I often cooperate with Aldo on these ridiculous, near-fatal endeavors."
Watkins straightens up, returning the salute with a polite, measured precision. "Commander Comtois. Your reputation precedes you. Especially regarding your recent... aerial logistics."
Comtois remains as nonchalant as ever, waving his hand dismissively in the air as if burning a legendary suit of armor was nothing more than spilling a cup of cheap ale. He leans his back against the pillar right next to Aldo, crossing his ankles and looking down at the clerks below.
"I couldn't help but overhear you two talking about the true nature of our employer," Comtois says, his voice dripping with amusement. "About what the PCA actually looks like from the inside. Personally, I think you're both wrong. It doesn't look like a mercenary group at all. I think it looks exactly like an oversized, over-funded Adventurer's Guild with better uniforms."
Officer Watkins turns his head, his face turning serious as he corrects the southern commander. "There is a fundamental structural difference, Comtois. Adventurer's Guilds only kill monsters for coin. They hunt beasts in the woods. The PCA... we also take on complex political missions. We participate in actual battles."
Comtois lets out a loud, mocking chuckle, his shoulders shaking beneath his coat. "Where do we participate, exactly? Are we sent into these grand, glorious wars between palantines, as you Terran folk call them—or rather, kingdoms, to use the proper Earth term?"
Officer Watkins remains completely calm, his voice steady and even as he guides the conversation back to the cold realities of statecraft. "That's precisely right, Commander. Sometimes the grand leadership of the PCA will send entire battalions of soldiers to support a specific side under a private state contract if a localized war breaks out between two neighboring Palantines."
Comtois's smiling face suddenly contorts, the amusement vanishing from his eyes, replaced by a deep, genuine confusion that twists his mouth into a sour line. "But wait a minute. Mikhland is supposed to be a unified federation. That's what the charters say. Why the hell are the individual states within the federation fighting each other in the open?"
Officer Watkins takes a slow breath, his voice maintaining its calm, instructive cadence. "You know Mikhland has a strict constitutional law against any direct federal intervention if two sovereign sides fight over a matter of internal succession, right?"
Comtois nods slowly, his brow furrowing. "Right. The non-intervention clause. To prevent the capital from choosing every local duke."
"Exactly," Watkins continues, his gray eyes locking onto Comtois. "And because of that clause, the various factions and external allies supporting the specific succession parties use that very loophole as a legal pretext for war. It is still considered entirely acceptable under the federal charter."
Comtois gapes, his mouth hanging open slightly in pure disbelief. He looks from Watkins to Aldo, then back again. "So... let me get this straight. If it's not for the explicit reason of succession, or supporting a legitimate succession claimant, then any inter-state warfare is strictly forbidden by the central government, right?"
Officer Watkins's face turns deeply serious for a split second, the shadows of the Rotunda seeming to lengthen across his features. Then, a slight, cynical smile touches the corners of his lips.
"Not necessarily, Comtois," Watkins says, his voice dropping into a low, smooth purr. "The participating factions can always invent a completely different, highly plausible reason for their mobilization. They can claim they are fighting for their sacred ancestral land, or they can march in the holy name of justice, or they can simply state they are sending troops to quell a violent local rebellion... as long as the stated reason is reasonable to the high court..."
He pauses, leaning in closer, his voice becoming a soft, barely audible whisper that carries the weight of a death sentence.
"...and as long as they ensure the conflict remains localized, without letting the violence spread to a whole region. The federation only cares about the appearance of peace, not the reality of it."
Comtois lets out a loud, disgusted groan, rolling his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling. He looks completely fed up after hearing the convoluted legal gymnastics of the northern lords, his hands throwing up in defeat as he prepares to turn on his heel and walk away from the conversation entirely.
"I need a drink," Comtois mutters, spinning around. "This whole continent is run by madmen with law degrees."
But Officer Watkins reaches out, his ink-stained fingers catching Comtois by the heavy wool of his sleeve with surprising speed and strength. He pulls the southern commander back into the shadow of the pillar, his grip unyielding.
"Not yet, Commander," Watkins says, his voice tight and commanding."You and Aldo have to stay right here. You need to prepare yourselves to greet a specific guest who will be arriving within the hour."
Aldo shifts his books to his other arm, his body instantly tensing as his tactical mind begins to run through the possibilities. His eyes narrow as he looks at the officer.
"A guest?" Aldo asks, his voice cold and sharp."Who is it, Watkins? Who is coming to the Rotunda because of us?"
Officer Watkins releases Comtois's sleeve, straightening his own brass pauldrons as he looks toward the grand iron entrance of the building. The golden light of the dawn has turned into a bright, blinding white, illuminating the massive oak doors like a stage awaiting its primary actor.
"You will find out soon enough, Lead," Watkins says, his face unreadable as he checks the small brass watch tucked into his waistcoat. "According to the central arrival schedule, the guest should be crossing the main threshold at any moment. Stand fast..."