The study fell into a prolonged, heavy silence.
Willow stood faithfully to one side. Though she could not see the contents of the note, she could feel it — that air of cold, crisp Order that had always filled this room now carried, inexplicably, a trace of scorching heat.
"So that is how it is," Sophia said softly.
She folded the note shut, her fingertips trailing lightly over the faint scent of dried herbs still clinging to the silk pouch.
She showed no anger at having been deceived. Instead, something surfaced within those pale golden pupils — a clarity bordering on the divine, suffused with a quiet, almost transcendent compassion.
A person reborn, then...
No wonder she always wore that look of someone terrified of losing everything. No wonder someone of her martial prowess would, for no apparent reason, have approached me from the very beginning.
But then — everyone around me, myself included, carries secrets that cannot be spoken aloud.
Transmigrators. Those reborn. Those reincarnated.
Yet since they have all been gathered here by me, that means every one of them shares the same destination.
Since what you seek is a prosperous age — since you have decided that I am that light — then I shall give you exactly what you wish.
----------
The winter wind cut like a blade. The withered grass of Iron Throat Valley was flattened against the earth by the night wind, clinging to the ground as though in submission.
This place was the only passage leading into the Kingdom of Olan — treacherous terrain, ideal for concealing one's movements.
General Delilah and her party had been traveling hard for two full days. They now lay in wait behind a cluster of boulders, the silver of their light armor buried completely beneath voluminous grey linen cloaks.
She had not drawn upon a single ounce of her martial ability. Even her breathing had been suppressed to its absolute minimum.
Her mind kept replaying the image of Her Majesty Sophia's hand, moving casually across a map just before their departure — that single circle, drawn in an instant.
"Take the old mine road, Delilah. If the spy's map has no errors, then this route is inevitable. The soil there is soft — carriages cannot pass — but any fast rider carrying contraband will never be willing to take the long way around."
"Hurry! Once we crest this slope, Olan's border patrol will be able to see our signal!"
Three grey-cloaked riders were pressing forward, their voices hushed and urgent. Their horses' hooves were wrapped in thick linen cloth, each footfall on the soft mine-road soil barely a whisper.
They clutched tightly to their chests several hardened, spent chunks of cement purchased at great cost from Mason's northern construction site, along with a hand-copied construction sketch drawn from memory.
But just as they believed they were about to escape — a silver arc flashed through the moonlight.
Shhk——!
The lead horse let out a muffled, agonized shriek. Its forelegs were severed clean by a trip-wire that snapped up with perfect precision.
Delilah erupted from the shadows. Her broadsword never even left its scabbard — three blows of the heavy sheath, three seconds, three spies face-down in the mud.
Delilah coldly fished the oil-paper-wrapped samples from inside their coats. The moment her fingertips touched that cold, hard surface, her heart skipped a beat.
Impossibly precise. Obscenely precise.
Her Majesty did not have Daphne prepare a single magical item for me. All she did, just before I left, was casually ask Chancellor Valery about the soil moisture in the northern outskirts over the past two days — and ask Irene about the running speed of the spies' preferred breed of horse in wet ground.
She had even calculated that these men, after stealing the samples, would be so eager to claim the credit that they would choose this most dangerous — but fastest — mine road.
I never stumbled upon them by chance. I was cast in a script Her Majesty herself had written — playing the final act that reaps the souls.
In Her Majesty's eyes, these spies are not living people. They are a handful of data points moving across a map.
She does not need to set foot on the battlefield. As long as she sits upon that throne, every shadow on this entire continent will come and report its own position to her.
Is this... the computational power of the sun itself?
----------
Meanwhile, back in the Royal City's Council Hall.
Sophia sat quietly, leafing through the inventory ledger Old Pierre had delivered.
Irene sat nearby, nursing a piece of dried fruit with a slightly sulky air — still a little deflated that Her Majesty had just vetoed her "citywide alchemy surveillance plan."
"Your Majesty, are you really not worried that those people will get away?" Irene mumbled around her snack. "That's our cement formula we worked so hard to develop!"
Sophia did not look up. A fingertip traced lightly across one page of the ledger.
"They won't get away. The Olan horse breed has poor tolerance for wet conditions. On a mine road with today's level of moisture, for every quarter-hour they run, the load distribution on the horse's hooves will shift by two centimeters. And Delilah — her greatest specialty is setting her trip-wire precisely where that deviation reaches its maximum."
Sophia set down her quill. Those pale golden pupils were utterly still.
"This is not prophecy, Irene. It is merely... simple logical deduction. When you understand your opponent's greed, the horse's limits, and the moisture content of the soil — the future becomes something that can be calculated. Besides, those few scraps of waste cement, even if they did reach their destination, may well be beyond their minds to reverse-engineer. By the time they've figured out even the tiniest fragment of it, Olan may have already fallen."
Behind Sophia, Willow — who had been about to refill the tea — found her hand frozen in place once again.
Simple logical deduction?
Her Majesty just described an interception capable of deciding the fate of a nation as though it were a mathematics problem.
While the rest of us were still anxious about the spies escaping, Her Majesty had already run a complete live simulation of those deathsworn in her mind.
She gave General Delilah no supernatural power because she has absolute confidence in her own tactical deployment.
Her Majesty does not need magic — because she herself is the most powerful law by which this world operates.
This battle hasn't even been fought yet, and Olan has already been utterly destroyed beneath Her Majesty's fingertips.
----------
Hailey was huddled under a small cloak in the stables, secretly feeding her new companion — an adopted duckling — while her pen scratched happily across a sheet of rough paper:
Spring. Late night.
Her Majesty has activated the silent encirclement known as: IQ Steamroller!
Delilah-jiejie caught the "little mice" out there — the courier on horseback just arrived at the gate.
Her Majesty called it logic.
I call it: "Her Majesty decrees you die at midnight — who dares linger until dawn."
----------
City of Hill.
This gateway city — commanding the vital artery between Mason and the Kingdom of Olan — rang with heavy, rhythmic blows in the thin morning mist.
It was the sound of cement fusing with stone. It was the pulse of Order spreading across the land.
Vasha stood atop the still-patchwork old city walls of the City of Hill, her red cape snapping in the morning wind.
She looked down. A "combat engineering squad" dispatched directly from the Royal City moved with a proficiency that was almost unsettling.
They had not only brought that grey powder Her Majesty called "Cement" — they had brought with them an entire construction procedure, precise down to every single breath.
Those massive stones that the local residents had always considered impregnable were, in the hands of this squad, rearranged like building blocks with astonishing speed. Grey slurry was poured into every gap, and within mere hours it hardened into something colder and more seamlessly unified than rock itself.
Holy Light above... is this the will of Her Majesty made manifest?
These soldiers don't even need the strange magic of someone like Daphne. Armed with nothing but this grey mortar and a standardized set of movements, they can repair in a matter of days what would normally take months of fortification work.
Her Majesty did not send them here merely to reinforce a city. She sent them to install a spine within the City of Hill — one that will never bend.
If the roads are smooth and the walls are hard, how can the people guarding this city afford even a single moment of slackness?
Vasha drew a deep breath, feeling the oppressive weight of efficiency that permeated the very air.
She turned around and looked at the local residents behind her, who were curiously eyeing the cement construction.
"Seen enough?" Vasha's voice was crisp, carrying an authority that brooked no argument.
She unfastened her cape, revealing the fitted leather armor beneath. Her longsword let out a soft, low murmur at her hip.
"Her Majesty is already forging the hardest armor for us — but if the thing inside that armor is nothing but a puddle of useless mud, then no matter how high these walls are built, they will be nothing more than a tombstone for the Olan armies! Starting today, there are no idle people in the City of Hill. I will personally lead the drills — starting from the most fundamental breathing exercises. Anyone who dares breathe a single word about being tired during training gets to spend a full day hauling mud sacks for the engineering squad!"
With Vasha's command, the Drill Ground of the City of Hill came alive in a way it never had before.
The local residents had never seen a City Lord personally take to the field to crawl through the mud alongside commoners like them.
At first, their motivation was fear. But very quickly, that fear transformed into a strange, burning fervor.
If that lofty Queen herself cares about their safety — if she has even bestowed upon them a Divine Miracle like Cement — what reason do they have not to give everything?
Those residents who should have been working in the fields were now chanting battle cadences in unison, drilling the basic techniques passed down from the Royal City.
"In the old days, we were rats hiding inside our houses when a war came. Now the City Lord is teaching us how to turn into eagles that can fight back. Her Majesty built the roads so solid — the least we can do is forge ourselves harder than that cement, and make ourselves worthy of that hot bowl of fish soup she gave us."
----------
It seemed Sophia had sensed the surge of faith rising from the local residents — and it gave her another idea for how to stoke their enthusiasm even further. So she sent for Irene.
Irene had already been in the thick of some rush project, but the moment she heard Her Majesty was calling for her, she immediately dumped everything in her hands onto the others.
All Willow saw was the door to Her Majesty's chambers swing shut — and inside, Sophia conferred with Irene alone.
Every inch of air across the Kingdom of Mason seemed to have been ignited by an invisible furnace, radiating a trembling urgency and sense of Order.
Two hours later, by Sophia's command, a decree bearing the name "Black Rose Work-Point System" detonated like a silent thunderclap — spreading instantly from the Royal City to the City of Hill and every surrounding town and village.
Before the notice board in the Palace Square, Bardess stood with a team of inspectors, face solemn, as she read the new regulations aloud to the gathered residents.
"From this day forward, every contribution will be quantified!" Bardess's voice was crisp and carrying.
"Gather one bundle of hemostatic herbs as designated by Lord Daphne — five work-points. Sew one bulletproof vest inner lining developed by Lord Irene — ten work-points. Work-points can not only be redeemed for premium deep-sea goods from Avalon — they will also determine your priority placement in the shelters in times of crisis, and the order in which your children may access education!"
The hearts of the local residents — which had been quietly unsettled by the gathering storm clouds of war — settled in that instant in a way that felt almost eerie. In their place rose a drive that bordered on fanatical.
Holy Light above... is this Her Majesty's ultimate deconstruction of human nature?
She did not use hollow slogans to stoke fear. She gave every single person a visible, tangible price.
Copper coins? Silver coins? Even gold coins? Those are worthless when disaster strikes!
When residents were busy sewing armor and drying medicinal herbs in exchange for work-points, they were no longer trembling refugees — they had become the most finely calibrated screws in this war machine.
Her Majesty was not merely distributing supplies. She was using this system to lock Mason's fate, every person's stomach, every family's future, into an indissoluble bond.
This thing called work-points was, in truth, a steel brand seared deep into the soul.
----------
Inside the West Tower, the clamor was deafening.
Irene — goggles strapped on — was directing row upon row of simple machine tools the likes of which had never been seen, the crash and clang of metal splitting the air.
"Faster! Even faster!" Irene waved the inventory list that Sophia had personally revised.
"This bulletproof inner lining isn't pretty, but it can stop Olan's powerful crossbow bolts! Her Majesty's orders — this entire batch must reach the City of Hill's first-tier militia within three days!"
In the workshop next door, Daphne had set aside the listlessness of girlhood. Her expression was set, her face composed and resolute in the reflection of the deep blue alchemical flame burning before her.
Crate after crate of hemostatic gel and high-concentration mental-restorative fluid was packed into specially made wooden boxes, each one sealed with the black rose label.
So when Her Majesty rejected Irene's idea the other day, it was to free up every available resource for this kind of saturated logistics.
Looking at these heaps of strategic supplies, I finally understand why Her Majesty remained utterly unmoved in the face of Olan's maneuvers.
She is waiting — waiting for Mason's muscles to harden completely, until they are strong enough to snap every blade thrown against them.
This kind of prescient preparation means that in Her Majesty's calculations, every move Olan makes has already been turned into a dead end.
She doesn't watch the front lines because the front lines have already been completely locked down in her own laboratory.
----------
Meanwhile, a thousand li away, at the border of the Kingdom of Olan.
Inside a dimly lit ancient castle, the atmosphere was suffocating enough to stop one's breath.
Earl Guderian of Olan sat with several envoys from neighboring small nations around a round table. Every face bore the same expression — a sickly greed tinged with a thread of unease.
"Gentlemen, the spies we dispatched to Mason have not sent back a single word of news in ten full days." Earl Guderian let out a cold snort, his aged fingers drumming against the tabletop.
"The last coded report mentioned that the silver-haired little girl is leading a band of commoners on a massive construction spree — laying roads as smooth as a mirror and piling up those grey block structures everywhere."
"Perhaps that queen knows disaster is coming and is busy building herself a lavish mausoleum?" An envoy from the Kingdom of Renault laughed in contemptuous mockery.
"I heard she's not yet eighteen. She's probably been frightened half-mad by Olan's fearsome reputation, and can only pin her hopes on those showy, impractical stone buildings."
Earl Guderian's eyes narrowed, a cruel smile curling his lips.
"Whether she's gone mad or she's already dead, Mason is a place we must take into our hands. Since the spies have gone silent, let our advance forces go and see for themselves. Issue the order — dispatch an elite light cavalry force of a thousand riders, using the pretext of searching for missing envoys to cross Iron Throat."
"If that silver-haired queen is still alive, let her kneel before Olan inside the very tomb she built with her own hands."
----------
At this moment, Hailey was perched on the palace steps, using the moonlight to verify the final batch of bulletproof vest linings entered into storage that day. Her little hands were smudged black with charcoal, yet her pen moved with extraordinary cheer:
Spring. Late night.
Her Majesty has activated the Supreme War Authority!
In the old days, people used to cry when they heard the word conscription. Now everyone is nearly coming to blows outside the palace gate just to grab a slot.
I get it now! The reason Her Majesty fed everyone so well was to make sure they had the energy to go and catch all those bad guys and turn them into work-points for her.
I bet that Olan earl — whatever his name is — is going to get torn apart alive by our residents who just want to earn enough points for dried scallops.
----------
Back in the Council Hall, Sophia was reviewing the "Territory-Wide Construction Progress Report" in her hands.
Since the decree on the Work-Point System had been proclaimed, the operational efficiency of all of Mason had ceased to be a matter of simple numerical increase — it had erupted into something closer to a geometric, near-frenzied multiplier.
Before the notice boards in the Palace Square, the residents no longer huddled with their necks tucked in, whispering to one another. They stood with their chests out, gripping tightly in their hands those small cowhide-bound booklets — the Black Rose Dedication Handbook.
Victor had written those by hand. Sophia had no idea what else he had been teaching Hailey while drafting them — she only knew that after Hailey came back, the way she looked at Sophia had become that of a fisherman beholding a fish capable of spitting out a hundred pearls in a row.
"Look at that — old Hans here pushed ten loads of the mud carts for the transport team today and racked up five work-points!" A farmer, his face glowing red, waved his handbook, his eyes blazing with fervor.
"Lord Bardess said that once I save up a hundred points, I can not only redeem dried scallops from Avalon — my rascal of a son back home can be sent to the city to learn the same skills as the Royal Guards!"
"That's right — I can send my daughter to the Palace to work as an assistant to the officials there. Not only can she earn copper coins, she can learn a set of practical skills to see her through life!"
Bardess stood amid the crowd, watching the people coming and going.
They showed no fear. What she saw instead was fullness — joy. Not just effort, but the palpable sense of reaping a reward.
This is Her Majesty's precise disassembly of the human heart.
In other territories, corvée labor is suffering. It is exploitation. But here, under Her Majesty, labor has been imbued with the hope of transcending one's station.
Her Majesty used these work-points to weave the residents — who were once as scattered as loose sand — into a vast, unified net.
When people discover that every drop of sweat can be exchanged for real meat and real standing, the productive force they unleash is terrifying.
This covenant of interests — requiring no magic yet more durable than any magic — is the deepest foundation of the Black Rose.
----------
The clamor inside the West Tower was deafening.
Irene had pushed aside her previous assortment of flashy alchemical experiments and poured every ounce of her energy into those enormous hydraulic forging presses.
"Listen up! Right now, beauty is not the priority!" Irene wiped a smear of grease from her face, jabbing a finger at the rows and rows of thick, layered composite armor.
"Reinforce the joints on the saddle padding — sew those thrice-quenched precision steel plates into the padded armor! The bulletproof inner lining Her Majesty demands is, at its core, a matter of using extreme thickness and layers to defeat the enemy's arrows!"
On the other side of the workshop, Daphne had shaken off her earlier girlish melancholy.
In front of her were no longer multi-colored reagents, but piles of bleached cotton cloth and intensely purified, pungent, high-grade bactericidal spirits.
"Every roll of bandage must be boiled in hot water. Every box of hemostatic ointment must be sealed with wax." Daphne's voice was slightly hoarse from exhaustion, but her eyes were absolute.
"We are not only going to win — we are going to make sure every Mason soldier has the chance to see the sun after victory."
----------
In a corner of the Drill Ground, the morning light broke through the thin mist and fell upon Sophia's silver hair, cascading like liquid moonlight.
"Hah — Shhk!"
The last precise horizontal slash split the air, sending a sharp, brief whistle through the stillness.
Sophia settled her stance with perfect control. The custom black-steel longsword in her hand — weighted by three extra fen — traced a sword-flower through the air before returning to its sheath with a clear, melodious ring.
Fine beads of sweat slid down the clean lines of her cool face. Those pale golden pupils — rather than scattering after such intense exertion — had only deepened, settling into a kind of piercing, forbidding profundity.
Willow had long since been waiting at her side, holding in both hands a white cotton cloth towel soaked in warm water, carrying the faint, clean scent of mint.
She approached with gentle steps, her eyes shimmering with a reverence bordering on devotion.
"Your Majesty, your sword stance is steadier than last week," Willow said softly, carefully dabbing the sweat from Sophia's brow as she offered quiet counsel. "But too much is as bad as too little — your body is Mason's most precious strategic resource. Please take care of it."
Sophia accepted the towel. The faint warmth transmitted through her fingertips gradually steadied her breathing.
"If I cannot even protect myself, then what is all this talk of guarding this land that has only just been hardened?"
Is this Her Majesty's self-imposed law?
While everyone else is working themselves into a frenzy under that terrifying Work-Point System — she who stands above all kings is tempering herself by the same near-brutal discipline.
She does not need Divine Miracles. She is in the process of forging herself into one.
The unflinching resolve behind each sword stroke means that in Her Majesty's calculations, it is not only the nation's defenses — even her own muscles, her own sweat, have already become weapons against chaos.
This extreme self-discipline is the true reason the Black Rose can make all living things bend the knee.
Just then, a fast rider galloped in trailing a cloud of dust and halted outside the training ground.
Willow's expression sharpened at once. She stepped forward briskly and received the top-secret letter sealed with Black Rose wax.
Sophia tore open the envelope with casual ease. Delilah's handwriting — forceful enough to press through the paper, carrying a faint killing edge — met her eyes.
"Your Majesty — the 'little mice' have all been dealt with. Samples recovered. According to the latest interrogation, Earl Guderian of Olan has dispatched a thousand light cavalry riders, nominally to search for missing persons — but in truth to probe Mason. Furthermore, the intelligence on the key individual mentioned in that coded report is inaccurate — this person is not currently in Olan, but rather in the legendary Avalon."
"Avalon?"
Sophia read those three characters. The corner of her mouth curled into an arc of glacial coldness.
That was the legendary island shrouded in mist — a mysterious forbidden land that even memories spoke of only in vague, incomplete terms.
Because the place was so remote and surrounded by dense forest, it perpetually generated all manner of fogs — and even poisonous miasma — making it a place no one ever willingly entered. Only indigenous locals had ever lived there.
Those greedy Olan dogs have stretched their claws all the way to a place like that?
"So that's how it is."
Sophia let out a cold laugh. Her fingertip tightened — and in an instant, the paper was crushed into powder.
"A thousand cavalry riders... Is Earl Guderian suggesting that the cement roads I've built are too clean, and he wants to add some color with Olan blood?"
"Willow."
Sophia turned, pulling on the cloak embroidered with the Black Rose pattern, her voice returning to that icy register that commanded life and death.
"Issue the order to Chancellor Valery — Mason's borders are to enter Level One combat readiness immediately."
"Send word to Vasha — the City of Hill is to go on full alert."
Sophia paused. Those pale golden pupils looked northward.
"Since they wish to search for their missing envoys — I shall make it so these thousand riders disappear alongside them."
The light inside the Council Hall seemed to freeze solid in that instant.
Willow stared at Sophia's profile — still cool, still calm, carrying even a hint of sardonic amusement — and felt her heart pound with a force beyond her control.
She had assumed Her Majesty would adopt some conciliatory defensive strategy — perhaps even use diplomatic means to make those small nations retreat in the face of difficulty. But what she saw in those pale golden pupils was only a cold indifference as deep and fathomless as an abyss.
"Your Majesty — surely you don't mean to..."
Willow's voice tightened slightly, carrying a quality that was equal parts anticipation and trembling awe.
"Since they wish to test the road with blood — I shall give them exactly what they wish for."
Sophia casually handed back the damp towel, her tone as unhurried as if she were announcing the evening menu.
"Willow, convey Our Royal Decree — Mason is officially commencing large-scale conscription."
Willow's expression hardened in an instant. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up — she dropped to one knee in a swift, fluid motion, her reply crisp and resonant:
"Yes! Your Majesty!"
----------
Within less than half an hour, notice boards printed with the enormous Black Rose emblem — each stamped with the Royal House's steel seal — were escorted by inspectors and swiftly plastered across the Palace Square, the City of Hill, and every village and town that had already received its paved cement roads.
In Olan or Leighton, a proclamation like this would ordinarily be accompanied by the wailing cries of families torn apart.
Yet here in Mason, at this moment, the decree landed like a flint dropped into boiling oil.
"Look! It's Her Majesty's summons! I knew that free fish soup wasn't given for nothing — it's our turn to fight for Her Majesty!"
"Her Majesty accepts no weaklings. Only a qualified blade earns the right to bear the Black Rose mark."
"Since Olan thinks they can bully us, let them walk in and try it for themselves!"
"My work-point book is already full — only the battle merit of killing enemies is worthy now of the glory Her Majesty has bestowed upon us."
"The roads Her Majesty built lead toward a prosperous age. Now someone wants to block them — so we'll crush them into rubble and pave them into the foundation."
"Don't push — I was one of the first to receive a goose! If I can't protect Mason, my goose is gone too!"
"Her Majesty gave us the dignity of being human. Now she needs us to call upon the ferocity of the dead to protect that dignity."
"What are Olan's heavy cavalry? In front of Her Majesty, their horse legs will snap faster than kindling!"
"We are not going to war. We are executing Her Majesty's Order — clearing the weeds from the road."
"The direction the Black Rose points is the battlefield where we willingly spill our blood — Long live Her Majesty!"
Willow stood on the terrace, looking down at the square below — where there was not chaos, but rather a queue stretching like a great dragon, every pair of eyes blazing with heat. The sight made her fingertips tremble.
Is this the moment Her Majesty has been waiting for all along?
She used the Work-Point System to fasten their stomachs. She used the cement roads to straighten their spines. She used logical deduction to give them the unshakeable conviction that they will win.
Those residents are not enlisting for military service. They are fighting for their own right to keep living.
Her Majesty did not even need a single measure of compulsion — she merely posted one sheet of paper, and these once-humble commoners have become a steel army capable of making the entire continent tremble.
Her Majesty is not conscripting soldiers. She is harvesting the faith she sowed.
In the face of this pure, collective will — a mere thousand light cavalry is not even fuel enough to paint the roads.
----------
Hailey clutched her little duckling, crouching in the shadows beside the conscription station, watching the residents rolling up their sleeves to demonstrate how tough they were and negotiating what official posts they might earn, while her pen scratched the sheepskin parchment hot:
Spring. Late night.
Her Majesty has activated the Supreme War Authority!
Back in the old days, people used to cry when they heard conscription. Today people almost came to blows outside the palace gate just to grab a spot.
I understand now! The reason Her Majesty fed everyone so well was so they'd have the energy to help her catch all the bad guys and turn them into work-points.
I bet that Olan earl — whatever his name — is going to get torn limb from limb by our residents who just want to earn enough points for dried scallops.
----------
Sophia sat at her writing desk, listening to the waves of cheering that drifted in through the window.
Her slender fingers traced lightly over the silk pouch Delilah had left behind. Her eyes held not even a trace of surprise.
The noise of the outside world was sealed away by the thick stone walls of the study. Only the occasional lingering echo of "Long live Her Majesty" seeped through, resonating in the air.
Sophia had only just set down her quill when the heavy door of the study was pushed open.
A cold wind swept in, followed by the measured, frigid footsteps of Victor.
Two Royal Guards soldiers dragged in a slight, pallid man and, without any ceremony, hurled him to the hard floor.
Thud!
The man was bound hand and foot. A grimy linen cloth was stuffed in his mouth, and the muffled whimpers he produced were feeble and desperate.
His clouded eyes were written all over with terror, and he was shaking and curling himself into a ball in the shadow of Sophia's throne.
Victor stepped forward, dropped to one knee, and spoke with a voice as even as if he were reporting some perfectly routine trifle — though his eyes betrayed a thread of bloodthirsty cold:
"Your Majesty. This individual was captured just now at the perimeter of the square. He had been embedded in the northern construction site for a full half-month — diligent enough at his work that he had even accumulated enough work-points to receive an official identity card. Even beneath the eyes of the inspectors, he performed every bit the part of Mason's most loyal citizen."
Victor paused. A contemptuous arc curled at his lips.
"But just moments ago — the instant the conscription order was announced, when the whole city was in celebration — he alone revealed a terror like that of a cornered rat. He attempted to use the chaos of the crowd to quietly slip away, even going so far as to try to slip into the shadows of the old mine road. After I detained him, I spent the night verifying his records and found that although his identity card was genuine, there is not a single blood-relative record for him across three generations in Mason. He is a hollow shell."
Sophia slowly turned. Those pale golden pupils came to rest on the frail man with an absence of warmth that was total.
She did not interrogate him. She showed no anger. That see-through, all-encompassing indifference made the man tremble all the harder, until he was nearly folding himself into the carpet.
____
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