Fallen Eagle-Chapter 31: An Absolute Madlad

Fallen Eagle-Chapter 31: An Absolute Madlad

Theodorus, Demetrios, and Stefanos’s shared laughter in the courtyard died a swift death at the armory door. It was good that they had managed to wring out a brief, joyous moment, because the situation within was no laughing matter, and it certainly brought no joy.
“This is…” Demetrios stood stock-still in the middle of the cavernous space, his voice a choked whisper. He ran a hand over a stack of kite shields, their new oak faces already filmed with a layer of fine dust, and came away with soiled fingers. “…an abomination.” He heaved a great, theatrical sigh that was pure, undiluted Demetrios.
The cavernous space was home to a variety of weapons like spears, swords, bows, shields, and halphazardly placed boxes of perishables like raw iron, wooden shafts, arrows, and whetstones. The armoury seemed to be well stocked at a glance, which meant the sheer amount of items they would have to sort through would be daunting. The state and disorganization it was in was the true blow.
Piles of raw iron ingots rusted quietly in a damp corner, their potential for spearheads and mail bleeding into the stone. Crates of unseasoned wooden shafts stood beside them, a forest of wasted pikes waiting to be warped. It seemed at odds with the cultivated neatness and organization of the garrison and officer corps. Lord Adanis clearly valued presentation, yet the state of the armoury was undeniably unseemly.
Their task, a simple inventory that Theodorus had imagined would take a few diligent days, now loomed as a week-long sentence of hard labour if they paced themselves.
Demetrios turned on Theodorus, his face a mask of profound, personal annoyance. “Why, my Lord, must you always drag me into these messes?”
Theodorus raised an eyebrow. “I did offer to leave you back in Mangup.”
“Can I take you up on that offer now and forget I ever saw this? My soul cannot bear this level of criminal neglect.” Demetrios seemed physically pained by the disorganization and arrangement of the fortress’s crucial weaponry. His time as Probatoufrorio’s strict quartermaster had ensured a meticulously organized distribution of the various supplies and forged in him a zealot’s devotion to order. To him, this room was sacrilege.
“Too late now.” Theodorus shot a smirk and a wink at Stefanos, channeling his inner Adanis. “Come along, let’s get to work. We certainly have a lot of it ahead of us.” Stefanos shot him an awkward smile as Theodorus moved away.
“You say that, my lord,” Demetrios pointed out as Theodorus turned and strode briskly out of the armory, “But you appear to be moving away from the problem, not toward it.”
“Ah, but Demetrios,” Theodorus’s voice echoed from the corridor, “Sometimes you have to take one step backwards to move two steps forward.”
Left behind in the wake of the enigmatic statement, Stefanos shot a questioning look at Demetrios. “I was just like you once,” The old servant said, placing a fatherly hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”
Time was a commodity, and one Theodorus certainly did not wish to waste. His two servants hurried after him as he stalked through the corridors with purpose.
“What exactly are we searching for, my Lord?” Demetrios asked.
“Manpower.”
“Servants?” Demetrios was surprised.
“We cannot possibly inventory that disaster by ourselves in the required time,” Theodorus said, his voice dropping. “We must delegate.”
“Required time, my Lord? Is there a timetable that I am unaware of?”
“Yes.” Theodorus stopped, turning to face them, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “This task, like every other I will be assigned, is, at its core, a test. I do not intend to simply pass it. I intend to excel. I will deliver a result so swift and so perfect that Lord Adanis will have no choice but to take notice.”
“We have two days to inspect the armoury.” Theodorus declared.
Stefanos, unaccustomed to the sheer audacity of his new Lord’s ambition, let out an involuntary gasp. “Two days, my lord? It cannot be done.”
“You will see, Stefanos.” A predatory smile touched Theodorus’s lips. “When the game is rigged, you do not try to win.” He turned dramatically, a man already marching toward his inevitable victory, leaving a dazed Stefanos in his wake. “You shatter the board.”
“The board you wish to shatter, my lord,” Demetrios said with a bored drawl, “Is that way.” He pointed his gnarled finger down a side corridor, entirely opposite to the one Theodorus was taking.
Theodorus shot him a questioning look.
“The stables,” Demetrios said simply.
“I was thinking the common hall-”
“You want strong, able-bodied men to haul crates and stack spears, do you not?” Demetrios asked, having already dissected his captain’s plan to its practical core. “Trust me, my lord. The stables.”
“Very well, then,” Theodorus said, slightly embarrassed at not having thought of it. “Indeed, there will be strong hands there.”
“And from the stables, we can speak to the porters at the gatehouse,” Demetrios continued, already two steps ahead. “They are the ones who truly know the rhythm of this place. They will be far more useful than any pampered house servant.” He paused, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “You should ask for help more often, my lord. You do not have to carry the world alone.”
“You are right, of course, Demetrios,” Theodorus said sincerely. He could sometimes get stuck inside his own head.
They found the stables awash in the organized chaos of the morning grooming. The air was thick with the smells of horse, hay, and oiled leather, punctuated by the rhythmic scrape of curry combs and the soft whickering of the destriers. Theodorus’s gaze swept the scene and settled on his target: the stablemaster, a stout man with a no-nonsense look and a tangled mess of shoulder-length hair, who was busy admonishing a young hand on the proper way to clean a hoof.
Theodorus waited, a picture of patience, until the lecture was finished. “Good morning, Stablemaster.”
“Milord.” The man grunted, not bothering to turn from his work.
“I’m in need of strong, capable workers.”
“For what kind of job?” He asked bluntly, his severe frown fixed on the stable hand, who was now nervously scraping at the horse’s hoof.
“Hauling weapons and crates from the armory. Simple but heavy labor.” Theodorus paused, letting the man process. “I am conducting a thorough inventory of the fortress’s supplies, as per Lord Adanis’s orders.”
The stablemaster finally turned, eyeing Theodorus with open skepticism. “And he told you to come take my men?” Theodorus could tell the man was trying to mute his brusqueness, but a lot of it still bled through. It was a wonder such a frontal man existed under the employ of a man like Adanis Nomikos, and in such an important position.
“No. The initiative was mine.” Theodorus fished a leather bag, heavy with the jingle of a few dozen copper folles, from a pocket of his brigandine and tossed it over to the stablemaster. “The work must be done with haste. I am willing to make it worth their while.”
The stablemaster’s gaze flickered from the coins to Theodorus, his expression unreadable. Unofficial work for extra pay was common enough. “I’ll spread the word,” he conceded. “But we have little time. The boys are free only for a few hours around noon and in the evening, between feedings and mucking out.”
“That is more than acceptable.” Theodorus’s smile didn’t betray his disappointment at the limited timeframe.
“What’s the pay?”
“A full day’s wage for three hours of hard work.”
The stablemaster’s eyebrows shot up, as did Demetrios’s. Theodorus left the stables shortly after, leaving the stablemaster staring at the coin pouch, a thoughtful look replacing his earlier suspicion.
“Awfully generous, my lord,” Demetrios said once they were out of earshot, the words clipped with disapproval.
“I require speed and quality, Demetrios. A motivated workforce is not an expense; it is an investment.”
Theodorus made a similar offer to the porters at the gatehouse, who said that for such rates, they could find four hours in the day if there was no incoming shipment. A day’s wage for a few hours of hauling? Their duties - exchanging torches and refreshing straw bedding in the servants’ quarters - could certainly wait. They promised to meet Theodorus at the armory within the hour.
Their last stop was the granary. They found Steward Theophylact in a cloud of golden dust, his smooth scalpel lined by a thin layer of glistening sweat despite the cold. He was in the middle of a frantic, one-sided conversation with a bailiff, his stuttering words a chaotic counterpoint to the quiet, dusty order of the storeroom. As a key stronghold, Suyren’s granary held the Prince’s due from the harvest, a vital reserve against the ever-present threat of siege.
Theodorus waited for a lull in the conversation, which occurred when the bailiff stomped out of the granary with a furious expression. “Steward Theophylact.” Theodorus’s voice was a calm island in the sea of the man’s anxious energy.
“Ah! M-Master T-T-Theodorus.” That fateful consonant, as always, gave the steward particular difficulty.
“Is something the problem?” Theodorus looked towards the fading figure of the outraged bailiff.
“Ah, t-that is no m-matter, Captain.” The Steward was quick to gloss over the incident. “A d-disagreement over t-taxes. What c-can I d-do for you?”
Theodorus let the matter drop, although he made a note of the friction. “Your permission, my good steward.”
“My p-permission?” Aethelred looked perplexed, his watery eyes blinking rapidly.
“I have recruited extra help for my inventory of the armory as I intend to complete the task in two days,” Theodorus mentioned casually.
“T-t-two days?” For once, Theodorus wasn’t sure if the stutter came from surprise or from the man’s condition.
“The Lord did emphasize the importance of the task,” Theodorus said, as if stating the obvious. “I do not intend to dawdle.”
“B-but t-two days?” The steward was acutely aware of the armory’s disastrous state. His gaze darted to the heavy ledger in his hands as if to find an answer there, his fingers fumbling with the leather ties.
“More than adequate, I trust,” Theodorus said with an air of regretful confidence. “Unfortunately, I doubt I can finish today. The stablehands and porters I’ve spoken to are only free for a few hours at a time. I plan not only to inventory the supplies, but to organize them for ease of requisition in the future.”
“As l-long as they p-perform their d-daily tasks…” Aethelred stammered, each new piece of information leaving him more bewildered. Theodorus watched as the steward’s mind tried to process the sheer audacity of the plan. A two-day inventory and a complete reorganization of the armoury, conducted by a patchwork crew of servants from other departments, and headed by an aide who had been present at the fort for barely a day. It was unheard of.
“Excellent. Thank you for your understanding, Steward.” With a courteous bow, Theodorus made his exit. He preferred to move in the open and obtain permission for the recruitment, as he didn’t want any misunderstandings arising. A reputation for fairness and transparency was a shield, and he knew a bewildered steward was likely to mention the unusual encounter to his liege. Let Adanis hear of his diligence. Let the word spread, it would work exactly to Theodorus’s favour. The more the servants knew him and the more unblemished his reputation, the less the Lord could sideline him from the workings of the castle.
They returned to the armory entrance. It was there that Theodorus would recruit his final tool. Two guards stood sentinel, their armor as immaculate as any in the royal court, deep in conversation with a familiar face.
“Ho, there, good sirs,” Theodorus called with an easy charisma.
They turned, offering perfunctory bows. “My Lord.”
The third man turned, his gaze sharp and appraising. It was Othon Zervas. The morning assembly must have concluded.
“I do not know if you are aware,” Theodorus began, his tone carrying the brisk efficiency of a proven commander. “But I am to conduct a survey on the weapons and armour at the armoury, on orders of Lord Adanis.” He let his gaze pass over them. “I have need of some extra hands to help identify the different equipment present in the armoury as to their state and condition. I’m looking for men who understand the importance of the task and are not afraid of a little extra work for adequate pay.”
The three men exchanged a look. It was Othon who spoke, a calculating gleam in his eyes. “And what does ‘adequate pay’ look like, my Lord?”
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“Fifteen copper
folles
an hour.”
Theodorus ignored the sharp, pained intake of breath from Demetrios. The men’s second exchanged glances were far more meaningful than the first. It was an exorbitant rate.
It was Othon who broke the deadlock. “That can certainly be arranged.”
“I require four men at a time, but I need them for the majority of the day, excepting the noon and evening meals.” He then focused his attention solely on Othon. Theodorus had ascertained that Suyren Fort was riddled with his kin and that any Nomikos held a special status in the fort. Othon in particular carried himself with an authority that hinted at more than just a sergeant’s rank. Theodorus decided to take a chance. “Can I trust you to organize such a schedule, Othon Zervas?”
The neat, middle-aged soldier straightened, his gaze intensifying. He understood at once. This was a test, and he could expect an additional reward for passing it. “You can count on it, Sir.” He gave a crisp salute. His curiosity was piqued by the young war hero’s unconventional strategy; he would see where it led.
“Good.” Theodorus gave a deep nod of appreciation. “I require four men, here, in three-quarters of an hour.”
Othon executed a sharp bow, then turned to the other two guards without a moment’s hesitation. “You heard the Captain. You two are with me. Find Stratios and tell him he’s on the second shift. Let’s move.” He strode away, already a commander executing an order, his purpose a palpable force in the corridor.
“What now?” Demetrios asked, the question a weary surrender to the mountain of chaos before them.
“Now, we bring order to it,” Theodorus stated, his eyes alight not with dread, but with the manic energy of a general surveying a battlefield. “We have the manpower. We have the means.”
“At a ruinous cost, I might add,” Demetrios grumbled.
“Money is a tool, Demetrios, meant to be spent. This is a two-day investment. The reputation I gain for swift, decisive competence is a commodity that will pay dividends long after the coin is gone.”
“As long as you have coin left to invest,” Demetrios muttered, but the protest was half-hearted.
Theodorus’s expression darkened for a fraction of a second. Their dwindling finances were a wolf at the door, but fear was a luxury he could not afford. “We will manage,” he said, his voice a blade cutting through the gloom. He began to pace the narrow pathways between the haphazard piles, his hands gesturing as he laid out his strategy.
“The secret to our speed will not be brute force, but flow. We are going to create a river. There,” he pointed to the far wall, where the arms and armour lay scattered. “Is the source. The porters and stablehands will do one thing and one thing only: bring items here and pile them. No sorting, no thinking. Just moving.”
He strode to the center of the room, miming a corridor down the middle. “This will be the channel through which they flow.”
Finally, he stopped near the entrance. “And here, Demetrios, is the reservoir. The men-at-arms will inspect swords, armour, ammunition. Everything and anything. They will assess the condition of each piece and sort them into three piles: serviceable, in need of repair, and unusable.”
He then gestured to their little group. “Finally, you and I will log everything. Every sword, every spearhead, every rivet. One man, one task. No wasted motion, no confusion.”
Demetrios, for his part, looked from Theodorus to the chaotic piles and back again, a slow, grudging admiration dawning on his face.
“For that to happen,” Theodorus concluded, the strategic gleam in his eyes hardening into a commander’s will, “this space needs to be ready. When they arrive in forty-five minutes, they will receive clear, simple instructions. There will be no hesitation.”
He turned, the time for planning over. He tore off his brigandine, tossing it onto a dusty crate, and began rolling up the sleeves of his tunic. He looked at his two servants, his expression now one of grim, unyielding determination.
“Well? Let’s get to work.”
“You will be split into four teams.” Theodorus’s voice cut through the nervous silence of the armory. He gestured to the four large trestle tables they had arranged in the center of the cavernous space, each an identical, empty island. “Each of the stratiotes will command one. Othon, your team will take this table.”
Theodorus’s gaze swept over the assembled porters and stablehands, their faces a mixture of confusion and apprehension. “The plan is simple,” he said, his voice sharp and clear. “Each table is its own operation. You men,” he addressed the laborers, “Will bring an item -
any
item - from the armoury to one of these tables. The soldier in command will inspect it, call out its name, make and condition, and assign it to one of three categories: Good Condition, In Need of Repair, or Unsalvageable.”
He pointed to the racks near the entrance. “Items in good condition go here, sorted by type. Spears with spears, swords with swords.”
He then indicated the racks along the midsection of the armoury. “Items in need of repair go there.” Finally, he gestured to a set of crates near the far wall. “Unsalvageable scrap goes there, to be sorted for salvage later. Is that clear?”
He was met with a sea of blank, overwhelmed stares. He saw servants exchanging lost looks, the multi-step process a tangled knot in their minds. He held back a sigh.
He softened his voice. “Do not worry. I will be here to guide you. We will start slow. You will get the hang of it.”
He organized the men into four teams. As the first attempts began, a steady, hesitant rhythm started to take hold. The soldiers’ sharp, clear calls began to impose a structure on the chaos.
Just as an acceptable speed of work began to settle over the armory, Theodorus raised his voice again, his tone deceptively casual.
“Oh, one last thing,” Theodorus called out, his voice deceptively casual. “I have set a goal for each team during their shift.” Theodorus had arranged for hour-long shifts due to the staggered servant and soldier schedule. Individually, each person could only contribute about two hours per day in between their busy schedules. Still, Theodorus’s generous terms had attracted quite a few workers. Four teams might not be present at all times; sometimes only two would be working, sometimes three - but he had managed to gather enough men to contribute, over the course of a day, the equivalent of a twenty-four-hour shift for a team of four men, or 96 manpower hours.
“Each item you process is worth a number of points, weighted by the time it takes to inspect. An arrow might be worth one point; a crossbow, twelve.” This system was to ensure teams wouldn’t race to grab easy items to meet their quota, something that could have happened had Theodorus set a simple item quota.
He let that sink in, watching the gears turn in their minds. “If your team meets its quota of two hundred and eighty points for the hour, every man on that team receives double their pay.”
A stunned silence fell over the armory as a dozen sets of wide eyes bored into Theodorus, not believing what they’d just heard. He would be spending hundreds of copper folles a day with this arrangement. But Theodorus's few remaining hyperpyra combined were worth literally thousands of the coinage. The gap between the nobility and the commoners was truly laughable; what was to Demetrios and any other peasant a fortune was a pittance to any middling noble of some wealth and renown.
“Be warned, however, Theodorus’s voice dropped, the casual warmth vanishing, replaced by cold iron. “Any man who damages an item in his haste, or any soldier who makes a careless assessment that I catch, forfeits his bonus and that of his entire team. I will be reviewing your work. If there are enough mislabeled supplies, all the teams' bonuses will be docked. Do not doubt it.” He cut an imposing figure, the velvet glove stripped away to reveal the mailed fist. He wanted speed, but he would not tolerate sloppiness.
The effect was electric. The slow, hesitant movements of a moment ago vanished, replaced by a frantic but disciplined ballet of motion. Men who had been shuffling now ran, their faces set with a grim, competitive focus. The air crackled with the sharp calls of the soldiers - “Spear, good condition!” “Mail hauberk, needs repair, three rusted links!” - and the hurried scratch of Demetrios’s stylus as he struggled to keep pace. The armory had been transformed from a dusty tomb into a thrumming, fiercely efficient machine, all powered by the simple, timeless engine of human greed.
“Pass the butter, I’m starving over here.” Kyriakos’s voice was a low command, his fingers, slick with mutton grease, casually popping an olive into his mouth. He was being his usual unpleasant self, gouging himself on the offered food with no thought for decorum or decency.
“Could you find it in yourself to ask, perhaps?” Apostolos fought back a deep breath of exasperation as he reached for the plate, only to have it snatched away at the last second by a dextrous swipe. He turned to the offender, his cousin Michail.
“My apologies, cousin,” Michail said, his voice a model of sober propriety that did nothing to mask the flint in his eyes. “I just recalled my own bread requires butter.” Even as he spoke, his other hand was deftly acquiring several more loaves from the communal basket.
Aiaiai
,
Michail.
Apostolos admonished in his head, watching his diminutive cousin with a familiar weariness. Michail was very capable of holding grudges, and in the years they’d served as aides with Kyriakos, quite a list of them had piled up. The petty acts of vengeance were a constant, daily attritional war, and Apostolos was the perpetually exhausted peacekeeper, struggling to keep Michail from stooping down to Kyriakos’s level. “Cousin,” he warned as Michail began to butter his still-growing hoard of bread with agonizing slowness.
“It’s quite all right, Apostolos,” Kyriakos drawled, wholly unconcerned. He’d already procured another dish of butter and was now spreading a thick, glistening layer onto his own loaf. “I’ve already found another plate to satisfy myself with.” His knife danced across the bread in a slow, dramatic fashion, his eyes never breaking their contact with Michail the whole while.“Let Michail have his butter. He certainly needs it.” Kyriakos craned his chin upwards, a deliberate, mocking gesture he used to pick at Michail’s small stature, which was a very sore topic for the aggrieved.
Michail moved to stand up with a jolt, but Apostolos had already placed a weary hand to restrain his fiery friend in anticipation. “That was a low blow, Kyriakos,” Apostolos said, his tone cold.
Kyriakos only grinned wider, his eyes alight with mischievousness. “Quite literally.”
Michail’s expression turned thunderously dark. “You must be used to those,” he said, his voice a venomous whisper that cut through the surrounding clatter. “Given your deadbeat father.”
The air around their small section of the long table seemed to crystallize, the officers and captains around them growing suddenly quiet as the noise of the hall faded into a distant hum. Kyriakos froze, the mocking grin wiped from his face, leaving a blank, stony expression.
At the head of the long oak table, Lord Adanis held court, a king in his own feasting hall. A lute player strummed a soft melody as servants refilled goblets with dark, spiced wine. Laughter spilled from the cluster of fawning courtiers surrounding their lord, their rich velvets and silks a stark contrast to the worn wool of the fortress guards. The centerpiece was a whole roasted boar, its skin crackling and glistening in the candlelight, a monument to the decadent ease that defined life at the heart of Suyren.
It was into this venomous silence that Captain Theodorus Sideris materialized. He moved with a quiet economy that was at odds with the hall's boisterous energy, his black undertunic and simple leather belt a stark contrast to the courtiers’ silks. His grey eyes, sharp with a predatory focus, swept over the table even as his mouth curled into a disarming smile.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” he said, his voice calm and clear. “Is there a space you could spare? I am famished.”
“Of course, Captain!” Apostolos tried to inject some false cheer; this was a good opportunity to move past uncouth conversations. He was quick to breach a space between himself and Kyriakos, inviting Theodorus to sit. The farther apart the two cousins were, the better.
The captain eased into his chair with a tired, contented exhale. “Ah, this food smells divine. I envy the men of Suyren who get to feast on such delicacies so often.” Apostolos understood the attempt at levity. No doubt the Captain had noticed the small bubble of somber stillness in the hall’s raucous atmosphere.
“You are one of us now, Captain,” Apostolos replied, eagerly pushing a platter of aged cheese toward him and pouring a generous cup of wine. “So please, help yourself.”
Theodorus accepted both with a gracious nod. “You needn’t have.”
“It is only polite,” Apostolos insisted, the echo of his mother’s relentless drilling on court manners guiding his hands. “But tell me,” He pressed on, desperate to keep the conversation flowing. “You look exhausted. You vanished from the courtyard early this morning, and we’ve scarcely seen you since.”
“I was given an appointment by our Lord,” The captain said, picking at his new plate with a courtier’s decorum. Apostolos had to say he had been impressed by the Captain so far in matters of courtly etiquette. “I have been hard at work to fulfill it. Though I trust once it is done, I will be assigned tasks that place me closer to you all.”
“What task was so vital you missed the noon meal entirely?” Apostolos inquired.
“A full inventory of the armory.” The statement sent a ripple of interest through the nearby aides and officers.
“Wait,” Kyriakos interrupted, breaking his sullen silence for the first time. “You’re the one who’s in charge of the race competitions?”
“Race competitions?” Theodorus asked, a flicker of genuine puzzlement on his face.
“The men say that every time they pass the armory, the entire place is a blur of men sprinting back and forth, trying to out-haul one another,” Apostolos filled in the gaps.
“Ah, that,” Theodorus said, looking almost abashed.
“What do you mean, ‘ah, that’? So it’s true?” Kyriakos asked, strangely fascinated with the idea.
“Nothing so dramatic,” Theodorus waved a dismissive hand, a gesture of profound modesty. “I merely set a minimum quota for the day. The pace required was… demanding.” A small, knowing smile touched his lips. “Though I did divide the men into teams. The work seems to have become competitive on its own.”
“Aha! So it was a competition!” Kyriakos’s eyes lit up.
Michail scoffed from across the table. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because where there is competition, there is opportunity.” Kyriakos flashed a devious smile, which faltered slightly at his companions’ blank stares. “Betting, my friends. Betting.”
“You want to set up an informal gambling ring?” Michail said, his tone dripping with disdain. “You’re delusional.”
“What can I say?” Kyriakos shrugged. “My win at our last game of chance left me feeling lucky,” Kyriakos said, leveling a pointed look at Michail. “And I’d quite fancy earning some more pocket change.”
“You wouldn’t have won if you hadn’t cheated!” Michail all but yelled.
“And what you’re proposing is highly suspect, from both a moral and a knightly standpoint,” Apostolos interjected, trying to steer the conversation away from another explosion.
“Why? It would all be in good fun.” Kyriakos skewered a cube of spiced mutton from a nearby kebab, unconcerned by the insinuation. “The wagers would be minimal. Even the senior aides get in on things like this all the time.”
“Surely the good Captain would not enjoy having his work disturbed by such shenanigans.” Apostolos motioned to Theodorus, who was finishing up his plate with deceptive speed. “He has many days of inventory ahead of him.” The appointment had puzzled Apostolos. Why send a decorated captain to do a steward’s drudgery? He didn’t envy Theodorus, but his Lord Father did not usually do these things without reason.
“In fact, I plan to be done with the task by tomorrow.”
The statement dropped into the conversation like a stone. “Tomorrow?!” The aides and officers at their end of the table spoke in a disbelieving chorus.
The armory was a notoriously neglected hoard. It was well known that while the Lord was very adamant about instilling polish and discipline in his corps, he was much more lax in the more…mundane drudgery of maintaining his castle.
“Yes,” Theodorus said, a small smile playing on his lips, as if he were in on a joke only he understood. “I’ve sorted through well over a third of the armory today. I intend to make up the deficit tomorrow.”
He set down his cutlery, his plate picked clean. “And on that note,” he said, using the astonished lull to rise from the bench, “I am afraid I must excuse myself, gentlemen.”
“Already?” Kyriakos asked, unable to hide his surprise. “You’ve barely eaten! Where are you off to at this hour?”
“I must review the day’s ledgers. The frantic pace may have allowed for mistakes, and I cannot have them in the inventory I deliver to the Lord.” He gave a short, formal bow. “Take care, my fellows, and good night.”
And with that, Captain Theodorus Sideris turned and walked away. He cut a straight, purposeful path through the raucous hall. The music still played, the wine still flowed, and laughter echoed off the high, shadowed ceilings. At the head of the great table, Lord Adanis paused mid-sentence, a cup halfway to his lips. His gaze, sharp and intense, followed the young captain’s retreating form until he disappeared from sight. Then, for a fraction of a second, his eyes slid down the length of the hall, settling on Apostolos before returning to the sycophant at his side.
“What an absolute madman,” Kyriakos breathed, a note of grudging awe in his voice.
As Apostolos watched the fading figure of the enigmatic captain, he couldn’t help but agree.
What an absolute madman indeed.

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Chapter 31: An Absolute Madlad