The heavy wooden gates of Carravin creak shut behind them with a muffled thud that vibrates through the damp air. The grey morning sky over the great metropolis hangs low, bleeding a fine, steady drizzle that coats the cobblestones in a sleek, reflective sheen. Aldo and Comtois walk side by side, leading their horses by the reins as they step beyond the massive archways of the outer ring wall.
Behind them, the suffocating tapestry of the city slowly dissolves. The thick, acrid smoke rising from the iron foundries of Reginaldshire recedes into the mist. The furious shouts of barge captains wrestling their vessels along the timber wharves of Aldoria, the deafening bronze toll of cathedral bells in Edmundia, the rumble of thousands of grain wagons crushing iron axles against wet stone, and the sharp bickering of tax officials inspecting cargo under heavy hemp tarpaulins—all of it begins to fade. The disciplined pairs of city guards in leather jerkins and chainmail, whom Aldo spent two weeks training from the city's idle hands, remain at their posts, their straight postures growing smaller against the colossal stone gates.
Then, an unexpected silence descends. It is a quiet so absolute, so sudden, that it feels almost physical, wrapping around the two men like a heavy wool cloak soaked in rain.
Before them, the landscape opens into vast, undulating fields that stretch toward the misty horizon. Raindrops cling to the long blades of grass, gleaming under the pale, diffused light.
Aldo stops walking, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth at the edge of the road. His dark eyes sweep across the green expanse. [Fields aren't just fields,] he muses, his face impassive, his mind working through the silent machinery of the countryside. [They're wheat contracted to Crispinan mills, flax for Percivalis, charcoal for Reginaldshire, vegetables for city markets.]
Beside the road, a group of farmers in coarse linen smocks lean on their wooden pitchforks under the shelter of a wide oak tree. Their voices drift across the wet grass, light and animated. They talk about Carravin prices, their hands gesturing freely in the crisp air as they laugh about the profits they have made lately, driven by the insatiable demand of the metropolis for wheat, pigment, coarse cloth, wood, and charcoal.
Aldo turns his head slightly toward Comtois, his voice quiet, carrying the dry, analytical tone of a man who sees the world through the mechanics of supply and demand. "The effect of the Security and Rebuild teams we created is that the bakeries and blacksmiths produce weapons and food for the security teams, along with cloth and equipment for them."
Further along the thoroughfare, the infrastructure of an empire unfolds. Heavy timber toll stations sit straddled across paved lanes; sprawling caravan inns with smoking chimneys offer shelter to weary drivers; disciplined road patrols in dark cloaks pace in rhythmic steps; horse relay posts stand ready with fresh mounts; stone milestone markers carved with deep runes mark the distance; and endless lines of merchant wagons roll in orderly files.
Comtois stops in his tracks, his wide, bearded face cracking into an open grin as he looks down at the smooth, closely fitted stones beneath his boots. "This is Ferris the Second's Triad Road! Pretty good, not a muddy road!"
Aldo pulls his horse toward a small roadside rental post, handing a few silver coins to the stable keeper. "We ride from here."
They approach the mounts. The horses stand placidly in the rain, their dark eyes calm, offering no resistance as the two men grab the leather saddles. Yet, unused to the stirrups after weeks on foot, the transition is far from graceful. Aldo swings his leg over with a stiff, calculated effort, adjusting his center of gravity with a quick shift of his shoulders. Comtois, however, grabs the pommel too hard, his boot slipping off the wet iron stirrup. His heavy frame wobbles precariously over the saddle, his arms flailing as he emits a brief, strangled yelp before slamming down hard onto the leather seat. The horse merely flicks its tail, unbothered.
Comtois grunts, red-faced, hastily grabbing the reins and clearing his throat while glancing around to see if any of the passing farmers noticed. Aldo says nothing, his face expressionless, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away.
They press forward. As the miles fall behind them, the landscape undergoes a subtle, mesmerizing transformation.
The road widens significantly. The heavy, creaking freight wagons become fewer, replaced by lighter, polished wooden conveyances. Instead of dense, acrid smoke hanging low over crowded timber rooftops, elegant, perfectly spaced rows of tall cypress and flowering magnolia trees line the approach. The heavy stench of coal smoke, wet wool, and stagnant river mud dies away, replaced by the faint, sweet perfume of lavender wafting from manicured roadside hedges.
Before any city walls appear, the world turns into a serene, painted garden. Gentle rolling hills curve like sleeping beasts under the soft rain; tranquil, glass-like lakes reflect the grey sky; plumes of warm, white thermal steam rise gracefully from natural hot springs; sprawling vineyards slope up the embankments.
Every time a new vineyard comes into view, its vines heavy with ripening grapes, Comtois leans forward in his saddle, pointing a thick finger and shouting with pure, unadulterated glee. "Look at that one! Aldo, look at those grapes! They must yield barrels of the sweet stuff!"
Sprawling flower gardens bursting with vivid blues, purples, and whites yield to elegant stone villas that slowly replace the functional timber farmhouses. Outside the city perimeter, life slows to an unhurried drift. Open-air bathhouses constructed from pale limestone sit beside warm mineral streams. Wealthy villas with high archways dot the hillsides. People stroll along paved footpaths under silk parasols, walking instead of rushing. In open marble pavilions, itinerant musicians tune their lutes and harps, weaving soft, lingering melodies into the humid air, while luxury carriages drawn by groomed, white horses roll past with a soft, rhythmic crunch of gravel.
Then, the city of Flora materializes before them.
Aldo pulls his reins, bringing his mount to a dead halt. His dark eyes widen slightly, a rare flicker of genuine surprise passing over his usually stoic features.
There are no dark, winding alleys. No haphazardly built multi-story shanties leaning against one another for support. Every avenue stretches in an almost impossible, breathtaking straight line, crossing the next at perfect right angles with mathematical precision. From the western gate where they stand, Aldo's gaze travels unimpeded down a central boulevard so long and clear that he can see a massive, white-marble fountain spouting water nearly half a league away.
Instead of dirty rain puddles pooling in rutted tracks, the falling water vanishes instantly into intricate, carved stone drainage grates along the curbs. Instead of random, encroaching structures, elegant white-stone houses line up in flawless, uniform symmetry. Instead of crooked, narrow paths, broad roads intersect cleanly like the lines of a chessboard. Instead of urban clutter, lush green shade trees appear at exact, measured intervals. Instead of chaotic, shouting marketplaces, neat market stalls occupy designated, perfectly square plazas.
Comtois sits frozen in his saddle, his mouth hanging wide open, his eyes darting frantically from one straight street to the next. "Completely different from Carravin! I'm starting to fall in love with Flora, aren't I, Aldo? It's like two different worlds! This is what a fantasy city should be like!"
Aldo exhales slowly, his breath misting in the cool air as he looks down the endless avenue. "Yes, I'm very impressed. It's very neat, beautiful, and orderly."
Right beside them, a Carravin merchant wearing a mud-spattered wool coat stops his wagon, staring down a cross street in sheer bewilderment. "Where are the alleys?" he asks no one in particular, his voice filled with disbelieving anxiety.
Another merchant, sitting atop a crate of ironwork, shakes his head slowly. "There aren't any."
Aldo and Comtois watch the newcomers intently. It seems every soul arriving from the claustrophobic, intense pressure cooker of Carravin is just as overwhelmed, rendered silent by the sudden, radical order of the place.
The sensory atmosphere of Flora washes over them in gentle, unhurried waves. The air is alive with the soothing, liquid sound of chilling fountains cascading over polished marble, the soft chirping of birds nesting in trimmed cypress trees, the melodic drift of distant string instruments, and the low, calm murmur of polite conversation. The breeze carries a rich, intoxicating blend of jasmine, scented soap, lavender perfume, and the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked sweet bread. Beneath the horses' hooves, the clean stone pavement feels solid, immaculate, and devoid of mud.
Every third shopfront along the avenue is a sanctuary of refined luxury, displaying glass jars of fragrant oils, delicate perfumes, scented soaps, fine powdered cosmetics, embroidered silk robes, and polished brass bath utensils.
A group of merchants clad in fine wool stand near an arcade, discussing the city in low, measured tones.
One merchant mutters, pointing a ringed finger toward the perfectly carved stone gutters, "The Duke emptied another wagon of gold into these streets."
Another merchant, inspecting a flask of lavender oil, replies without looking up, "Worth every coin."
A third merchant, clutching a ledger to his chest, scowls slightly and answers, "Easy for you to say—you don't pay the taxes."
Comtois pays no mind to the talk of taxes. He remains utterly entranced, his eyes wide, his grin stretching from ear to ear. He nudges his horse's flanks with his heels, urging the beast forward. "GET IN, GET IN, SEE WHAT'S GOOD INSIDE, ALDO!"
They ride deeper into the city, surrounded by magnificent white marble statues depicting ancient harvests, gentle choral songs wafting from open garden courtyards, vivid floral paintings hanging outside art galleries, and well-dressed citizens gossiping comfortably on carved stone benches.
Near a grand fountain, two elderly noblewomen sitting under a silk canopy converse over porcelain cups.
"Without Lady Priscilla Lower, this would still be a muddy spa village," one remarks, fanning herself lazily.
The other smiles behind her painted fan and answers, "Without her, Ferris would've remembered Basbourg instead."
Aldo turns his head, observing the uniform facades, the spacious walkways, and the seamless integration of stone and plant life. It is the first city he has ever seen that seems explicitly designed for human beings to thrive in, rather than merely growing around them like a wild, suffocating weed.
Comtois lets out a long, contented sigh, his posture relaxing entirely in the saddle. "Great, even though we're Earthling slaves, we still have the chance to enjoy such beautiful things."
As they pass a brightly decorated stall, Comtois abruptly pulls his horse to a halt. A very young, fragrant girl with a friendly smile and a brightly embroidered apron stands behind a display of delicate glass vials and folded silks. Before Aldo can say a word, Comtois is leaning down from his saddle, tossing a heavy silver coin into her palm and snatching up a bottle of pale amber perfume and a small, intricately embroidered silk handkerchief.
Aldo scowls, pulling his horse alongside Comtois's mount. "Don't be so wasteful, you should spend it on more useful things like the baths I'll use."
Comtois chuckles, popping the glass cork of the perfume bottle and sniffing it with exaggerated delight before tucking it into his tunic. "It's all the same, brother. The bathing services here are diverse and high-quality; they're probably not cheap."
Aldo shrugs, his eyes tracking the pristine marble columns of a bathhouse further down the street. "Well, there's a price to it."
They ride along the straight, cobblestone streets, every angle presenting a view so meticulously arranged it looks like an oil painting. Reaching a local branch of the merchant guild rental shop they had used in Carravin, they dismount and hand over their horses to a polished attendant who greets them with a quiet, respectful bow.
Free of the mounts, they make their way to a nearby open-air restaurant set inside a shady stone arcade. The atmosphere is quiet, relaxed, and bathed in the warm scent of woodsmoke and herbs. A waiter in a crisp white linen apron approaches their stone table, bearing a wooden tray laden with freshly baked, steaming bread, a crock of rich honey butter, bowls of sweet and nutty mountain berries, fresh white cheese, and a steaming pot of refreshing herbal tea.
The waiter sets the dishes down with deliberate, gentle grace, smiling softly at the two battle-worn men. "Relax and enjoy the food, sirs. Savor every bite."
Comtois doesn't need to be told twice. He tears into the warm bread, slathering it with honey butter and shoving a handful of dark berries into his mouth, letting out a hum of pure satisfaction. Aldo eats more deliberately, taking small bites of the soft bread and sipping the warm, fragrant tea, feeling the deep, bone-weary tension of recent battles slowly melt away from his chest.
For lunch, the kitchen serves a platter of roasted root vegetables seasoned with mountain herbs, a delicate flower salad tossed in light oil, and slices of crisp, fresh fruit. Dessert arrives in small porcelain ramekins—a rich, silky egg custard burned dark on top. Around them, every patron eats very slowly, conversing in quiet tones, suspended in a state of absolute leisure.
After the meal, they wander into an adjacent wellness complex. In a private, softly lit room lined with smooth cedar wood, Comtois stretches out on a padded leather table. Professional masseuses with oil-stained hands work through the knotty, battle-scarred muscles of his back and shoulders.
One of the young women, feeling the thick, iron-hard muscle along his shoulders, looks up with an appreciative smile. "Sir, you have a remarkably beautiful, healthy physique."
Comtois buries his face in the soft linen pillow, chuckling with sheer delight. "Haha! Hard work and brutal training, my dear!"
Another girl, sitting near the window with a charcoal stick and a pad of thick parchment, looks over at his broad profile. "Sir, may I draw you?"
Comtois lifts his head, puffing out his chest proudly. "Of course, of course! Get my good side!"
While Comtois enjoys the pampering, Aldo wanders through the bustling, peaceful streets alone. Walking down a single boulevard, the sheer concentration of refined culture unfolds before his eyes.
He passes delicate perfume boutiques with crystal flasks shimmering in the sunlight; soap makers cutting thick, aromatic blocks of olive and lavender soap; flower sellers weaving vibrant garlands; silk fashion shops displaying flowing gowns; jewelers polishing silver and gems; quiet bookstores smelling of leather and fresh paper; elegant tea houses filled with soft laughter; music stores selling hand-crafted lutes and flutes; art galleries hung with vivid landscapes; pottery studios firing smooth ceramic vases; luxury bakeries displaying golden pastries; gift shops stocked with trinkets; stores selling polished wooden walking canes, fine silk parasols, and delicate decorative lanterns.
The public squares exist solely to keep people there, inviting them to linger rather than pass through. Aldo sees carved wooden benches placed under the shade of broad oak trees, street musicians playing gentle violin solos, small marble fountains tossing sparkling water into the air, young children laughing as they feed pigeons on clean flagstones, old men playing intense games of chess on carved stone tables, vibrant flower beds blooming in rich blues and reds, open balconies draped in ivy, white marble columns supporting shaded arcades, and uniform stone facades decorated with overflowing window flower boxes.
Aldo eventually steps into a quiet, two-story bookstore. The air inside is cool, scented with old parchment and drying ink. He walks past rows of poetry, drama, and philosophical treatises, his hand coming to rest on a thick, plain-bound volume. He pulls it from the shelf and opens it to find a dense, detailed work on military logistics, road network management, and supply distribution.
He sits down on a cushioned stone bench near a window overlooking a quiet courtyard garden, turning the pages slowly.
Why logistics?
Even here, surrounded by white stone, fragrant flowers, and soft music, Aldo cannot forget the reality beyond the borders of Thromium. Outside this gilded bubble, most of Heilop is dying under the weight of war, famine, and tyranny. He has not forgotten his revolutionary intentions, nor the heavy burden he carries. He knows that the people he recruited—like Gertrude Koch, whom he extracted from Ferris II's mansion, and Lourdes Renaud—have already arrived in Central Heilop to begin the dangerous, invisible work of building an army.
[They'd probably be furious if they saw Comtois and me relaxing here,] Aldo thinks, a faint, dry smile touching his lips as he turns a page detailing grain transport ratios.
Yet, for now, Aldo's mind is surprisingly calm. The quiet efficiency of the city acts as a balm against his frayed nerves. He looks up from the page, his gaze drifting out the window toward the orderly, sunlit street where citizens walk without fear or haste.
He exhales a long, slow sigh.
Well, in Flora, the greatest luxury must be time.
Merchants, exhausted after months of grueling, dangerous travel through the loud, chaotic markets of Carravin, come here for rest. Generals, hardened and bloodied by brutal campaigns, come here to wash the dust of war from their skin. The high nobility hold their long summer holidays under these cypress trees. Even scholars from Meaveburg, far off in the duchy of Hyeva, travel here to unwind and debate philosophy in quiet gardens.
Even Duke Ferris II himself—a man famous throughout the continent for his cold, ruthless emphasis on efficiency, profit, and control—sometimes strolls alone along Flora's perfectly planned avenues. Because, as the locals of Flora often say in their soft, knowing voices, though the Duke can control almost everything in Thromium with his ledger books and his armies, he cannot create peace of mind with power or money.
Aldo closes the book with a soft thud, resting his hands on the leather cover, and lets the peaceful silence of Flora wash over him.