Fallen Eagle-Chapter 32: A Lethal Prowl

Fallen Eagle-Chapter 32: A Lethal Prowl

The roar of the crowd was a physical wave, a wall of sound that crashed over Mathaios like violent, foamy waves over a rocky cliffside - barely registering in his mind. He pounded down the corridor, the brigandine a dead weight on his shoulder, its hardened leather plates digging into his collarbone with every jarring step. His lungs were spent, his legs screaming a protest that had long since become a dull, constant ache.
He risked a glance to his left. Damianos, a young stablehand with the boundless energy of a colt, was a single, agonizing stride ahead, his own face a mask of strained effort as he clutched a heavy hauberk in his skinny arms. He couldn’t hear his own ragged gasps for air, only the thunder of the dozens of voices screaming his name, or curses from those who’d bet on Damianos’s team. The crowd packed into the armory’s wide doorway surged with them, a chaotic river of flailing arms and shouting faces.
“COME ON, MATHAIOS, YOU RATTY BASTARD!” It was a fellow porter from his own group, Team Burgundy, that shouted the words. They were a lash, driving him forward.
He surged, pulling level with Damianos just as they burst into the armory’s central clearing. The air was thick with the smells of sweat, old steel, and the sharp, metallic tang of the whetstone. He stumbled toward his team’s table, dropping the brigandine onto the scarred wood with a heavy thud that rattled the trestles.
At the head of the table stood someone he’d only glimpsed from afar or received distant orders from. Sergeant Othon Zervas’s salt-and-pepper moustache was damp with sweat, the collar of his shirt uncharacteristically misaligned. He didn’t waste a single second; he snatched the armor, his movements a blur of practiced efficiency honed over two days of this madness. His hands flew over the piece, checking rivets, testing straps, his eyes scanning for the slightest flaw.
At the next table, Damianos’s inspector was doing the same - a frantic, mirrored dance of assessment. The teams had subconsciously left the heaviest, most complex pieces for last, a final, brutal sprint at the end of an hour-long marathon.
In the center of it all, at a makeshift command table littered with ledgers, Captain Theodorus Sideris and his old servant were a vortex of quiet intensity. Their quills flew across the parchment, a frantic scratching trying to keep up with the quick shot appraisements.
“Brigandine! Two frayed straps, one loose plate on the left flank! Repair!” Othon roared, his voice cracking with exertion.
“Hauberk! Rusted links at the collar! Repair!” The other inspector bellowed at the same time.
They were for the same pile. Mathaios exchanged a single, brief look with Damianos. Their eyes, wide with exhaustion and competitive fire, told them this was it. Then they both snatched the armor from their respective tables and took off.
The “In Need of Repair” pile was a ten-pace sprint across the armory floor. Mathaios’s legs were lead, every muscle screaming for mercy, but he ran. He could feel Damianos at his elbow, their ragged breaths a shared, desperate rhythm. Three steps. Two. One.
Mathaios threw himself forward, a final, collapsing lunge that sent the armor skidding onto the rack of damaged gear a heartbeat before Damianos’s hauberk clattered down beside it.
A dozen bodies surged into the armoury in celebration, two dozen hands pulling Mathaios up to join the celebration. They had done it. They had won.
Theodorus watched the celebrations from the armory doorway, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. He gave a quiet sigh of exasperation at the theatrics, but it was colored with a grudging admiration for the beautiful, chaotic machine he had built. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kyriakos moving through the crowd of onlookers, shaking hands with a few of the better-dressed men-at-arms, a bag of coins passing discreetly from his purse to theirs.
True to his words, Kyriakos had organized unofficial bets on the different teams in the "competition". Theodorus had deliberately distanced himself from it, forbidding the betting from entering the armory itself. The talk of the castle was not of an inventory, but of the ‘Armory Sprints,’ and Kyriakos was its unofficial bookmaker. If blame were to be cast, it would fall squarely on the jester’s shoulders. Despite the drawbacks and scrutiny, Theodorus couldn’t turn away from the benefits of the gambling. The wagers had turned a menial task into a high-stakes event, and he was the prime beneficiary. The teams, driven by greed and pride, had shattered his initial quotas. And the courtiers, long accustomed to the prim and proper drudgery of Suyren, had been abuzz with the event, the eccentric Captain who organized it on everyone’s lips.
He had let them race, but he had not let them be sloppy. Last night e had personally inspected the work of every shift and found four wanting. He hadn't stripped the teams of their entire bonus to avoid demoralizing them, but he had halved it - a calculated act of psychological warfare. The message was clear: speed was rewarded, but sloppiness had a price, and he had come through on his promise; the men knew they would check the work. And it had worked. Today, the work had sharper, more orderly. And, as he had promised, it was finished.
“Gentlemen,” he called out, his voice cutting cleanly through the celebratory din. The teams, their faces slick with sweat and grime, turned to him as one. “I would like to congratulate you on a job well done.” A ragged cheer went up, but he raised a hand, silencing it. “We are nearly there. The final few racks remain. Any team that has finished their quota, I ask you to lend your hands to the rest. If we clear this armory before the supper bell, I will share a cup of vintage Sideris wine with every man here.”
The cheer that answered was a raw, unified roar. The men turned back to their work with a fresh, ferocious energy, the promise of good wine a more potent motivator than any coin. True to his word, Theodorus had done the impossible. Now, all that remained was to see how Lord Adanis would react.
The common hall was a sea of boisterous energy, the air thick with the scent of roasted boar and spiced wine. At the long table reserved for the fortress’s officers and aides, Kyriakos slammed his goblet down, his face flushed with a manic excitement that had little to do with the wine.
“What a great competition that was!” Kyriakos’s excitement was a palpable presence that spread through the supper table. The festive mood of the grand hall, music and dancers filling the space was, today, a fitting reflection of the mood at the section of the table where the aides were stationed.
“It wasn’t a competition, Kyriakos,” Theodorus said, his tone dry as he calmly sliced into a piece of roasted meat. He was determined to maintain a public distance from the circus he had quietly orchestrated.
“You turned a serious task into a public spectacle,” Apostolos muttered, his expression a mask of weary disapproval. He shared in Theodorus’s exasperation, but for a very different reason. He shot a nervous glance toward the head of the table, where Lord Adanis was entertaining a wealthy northern landowner. “Do you have any idea how this reflects upon us aides? I can’t believe you set up a gambling ring in plain view of the courtyard!” He whispered, distressed.
“And I can’t believe you didn’t place a wager,” Kyriakos lamented, his tone one of profound disappointment. “You even called it! You said Othon’s team would win!”
“The outcome was never in doubt.” The voice, soft with a lilting accent, came from the end of the table where the fortress’s sergeants and Nomikos bastards were seated. Othon Zervas, now scrubbed clean and impeccably dressed, raised his goblet in a mock toast. After the exhausting shift, the Sergeant had immediately excused himself to take a bath, citing a critical, pressing need to freshen up. A daunting prospect in the late autumn season.
“You were only one haul ahead of Team Crimson,” Michail muttered, his face a thundercloud. He had, of course, bet heavily on the losing team. “It could have easily gone the other way.”
“Better luck next time, my friend.” Kyriakos was quick to pounce on the chance to take a dig at Michail, placing a fatherly hand on his shoulder even as a predatory grin spread across his face. Michail’s only response was to flick a stray walnut into his open mouth with pinpoint accuracy. The gangly youth gagged, spitting the nut out with a look of pure, theatrical disgust that drew a round of choked laughter from the surrounding men.
“There won’t be a next time, I’m afraid, gentlemen,” Theodorus interjected, savouring the day’s menu, roasted boar with a side of creamed leeks. “The work is done. I have only to review the ledgers. And on that note…” He rose from the long bench, prompting a collective, disappointed groan from the assembled aides.
“Try not to miss me too much,” he said with a wry smile. The unexpected jest from the perpetually serious captain earned him a chorus of surprised chuckles.
He found Demetrios and Stefanos waiting on a bench just outside the kitchens, where the castle's lower staff took their meals in the smoky warmth of the ovens.
“Another late night?” Demetrios asked, a lopsided grin on his face.
“When is it not?” Theodorus replied, the day’s fatigue settling on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.
They were deep in the dregs of the work, cross-referencing the final tallies, when the scratching of Stefanos’s quill came to a frustrated halt. While Theodorus and Demetrios struggled to parse through a sizeable quantity of the objects, Stefanos had been tasked with practicing his letters. “Is this truly necessary, my lord?” The boy’s voice was tight with the effort of forming the letters, a task made all the more difficult by his missing arm and the late hour.
“It is, Stefanos,” Theodorus answered without looking up from the spear he was inspecting. “We have finished the work in record time. That will naturally raise questions about its quality.”
“But why is that so important?”
“Because the speed of the result is a statement,” Theodorus explained, setting his own quill down as he jotted down a small inconsistency that had been missed and turning to the boy. “It makes them look. But the perfection of the ledger is the argument.” He wanted to cultivate the boy's mind, and that meant answering his questions, no matter how tired he was. “It proves that the speed was not a product of haste, but of efficiency. It impresses upon Lord Adanis that I am a man who can deliver impossible results, flawlessly. It proves that I am a useful tool, one that would be wasted on menial tasks.”
Stefanos set the quill down, the serpentine shape of the letter ‘S’ a drunken, wavering line on the parchment. He flexed the fingers of his remaining hand, a knot of frustration tightening in his brow as he mulled over Theodorus’s words quietly.
“This is how we obtain the Lord’s trust, Stefanos,” Theodorus said, his own voice a low murmur, careful not to carry beyond their small pool of candlelight. “And a greater measure of influence in Suyren.” He ran a finger down a column of figures, his expression satisfied. “That is one of the reasons I involved so many men in the work.”
“How so, my lord?” Stefanos asked, watching as Theodorus picked up a different ledger, his focus absolute.
“Lord Adanis, in assigning me this task, hoped to isolate me. To observe me,” Theodorus explained, not looking up. “Instead, I used the work as an excuse to learn various names, their faces, their roles. And in the process, they learned mine.” He finally lifted his gaze, and even in the low firelight, Stefanos could see the cold, strategic glint in his eyes. “I have established a reputation as a man who delivers results and pays handsomely for them. Tell me, Stefanos, what do you imagine will happen the next time I have need of help?”
“Ah,” Stefanos breathed, the concept blooming in his mind with a sudden, startling clarity. “More men will offer their hands.”
“And that, Stefanos, is power,” Theodorus said, a thin, predatory smile touching his lips. “They know I reward hard work. They have seen my professionalism, but they have also seen that I allow them their games, their rivalries. They are more at ease with me, and that is a powerful thing to have.”
He had started to forge the connections he needed, to lay the first threads of a new web, just as he had in the capital. Only here, he knew, the stakes were infinitely higher. Here, his every move was being watched not just by a wary lord, but by the hungry eyes of the spiders who already called this web home.
“Th-this is…” Steward Theophylact stared at the neat columns of figures as if they were a form of arcane, unbelievable script. “Y-you mean t-to t-tell me you have reviewed over a th-thousand items? S-spears, sh-shields, armor… all of it?”
“And their ammunition and various miscellaneous supplies, as stated in the ,” Theodorus replied. His voice was a humble murmur, though his bloodshot eyes betrayed the two nights spent with little sleep.
It was a crisp, cool dawn, the threat of rain heavy in the October sky. Theodorus had ambushed the steward the moment the man had left his chambers, giving him no time to build a defense.
Behind him, Demetrios and Stefanos stood as silent witnesses, their own exhaustion a palpable presence next to Idaeus, the scrawny junior attendant working with the Steward. Stefanos, in particular, swayed on his feet, his eyes bleary and unfocused as he struggled to maintain a soldier’s posture.
“W-well,” Theophylact stammered, his gaze darting from the ledger to Theodorus’s placid face. “F-forgive my impertinence, C-Captain, b-but I will have t-to check the v-veracity of these s.” He looked genuinely apologetic. “I m-mean no offense.”
“None taken, my good steward.” Theodorus offered a small, understanding smile. He had anticipated this. “Allow me to accompany you to the armory at once.” He pressed, gently but inexorably, knowing the steward had a dozen other duties calling. But Theodorus despised idleness; he needed the next step, the next goal. To sit and wait was an inefficiency he would not permit.
“A-ah, b-but…”
“Come,” Theodorus placed a hand on the steward’s soft, round arm, his touch a firm, guiding pressure. “This way, the matter can be resolved immediately. I can then move on to other tasks our Lord finds pertinent, a swiftness I am sure he will appreciate.”
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Pulled along by this polite but undeniable current of will, the reticent steward found himself being escorted to the armory. And there, his skepticism finally shattered. The cavern of chaos had been transformed into a library of steel. Weapons were sorted onto newly cleared racks, armor was stacked in neat, accessible piles, and the floor was swept clean. To his credit, Steward Theophylact conducted a thorough inspection, his eyes darting from the ledgers to the physical stock, his initial disbelief slowly morphing into a profound, grudging admiration.
In the final tally, the for the Suyren Armoury read as so:
Spears
Total Tally: 350
Combat Ready: 200. Barely enough to arm the rotational levies, with no reserves.
Needs Repair: 100. A significant backlog of weapons with cracked shafts or loose heads, indicating a lack of maintenance.
Obsolete/For Training: 50. Old, heavy, and poorly balanced.
Sidearms
Wooden Blunted Swords: 100
Total Hand Axes: 50
Combat Ready: 25.
Needs Repair: 25. Many have loose heads, making them unreliable and dangerous to wield.
Ranged Weapons & Ammunition
Total Composite Bows: 30
Combat Ready: 15.
Needs Repair: 15. Many requiring skilled work that had clearly been postponed.
Total Crossbows: 50
Combat Ready: 25. A dangerously low number for effectively defending the fortress walls.
Needs Repair: 25. Most with frayed strings or faulty trigger mechanisms.
Ammunition:
Arrows: 6,000. A low total number. A detailed inspection revealed that a majority are effectively useless due to warped shafts, missing heads, or rotted fletching.
Crossbow Bolts: 5,000. Similarly, a high proportion is rendered unusable due to rusted heads that would shatter on impact.
Armor & Shields
Total Helmets: ~220
Combat Ready: 150. Insufficient to provide every levy with reliable head protection.
Needs Repair: 70. Mostly dented or missing crucial straps.
Total Body Armor:
Total Gambesons: 200.
Combat Ready: 130.
Needs Repair: 70. Torn fabric and compressed padding offer little protection.
Total Hauberks: 30. Reserved for men at arms and Sergeants.
Needs Repair: 10. Rusted metal and broken links.
Total Shields: 300
Combat Ready: 150. There are not enough reliable shields to fully equip the garrison
Needs Repair: 150. Mostly splintered or with broken straps, making them a liability in combat.
Raw Materials & Tools
Total Iron Billets: 12
High Quality (Steel): 6. Suitable for forging quality blades or critical components.
Lower Quality (Bloomery Iron): 6. Sufficient only for basic repairs like patching or rivets.
Total Wooden Staves: 160
Seasoned (Ready for Use): 60. Enough for less than half the needed spear shaft replacements.
Unseasoned (Requires Curing): ~100. Unsuitable for immediate use, representing a lack of foresight.
Total Leather Hides: 10
Good Condition: 6. Suitable for most repairs.
Aged/Cracked: 4. Use limited to non-critical straps or grips.
“T-the s-situation is…” Steward Theophylact’s hand trembled, the neat stack of ledgers rattling like dry bones. The numbers painted a picture not of a fortress, but of a gleaming, yet hollow shell. The armoury, while apparently well stocked at a glance, had been neglected enough that a great proportion of its supplies were rendered unusable or in need of repair. For a garrison meant to house three hundred souls, the lack of serviceable equipment was a death sentence waiting to be signed.
“Dire. I agree, my good steward,” Theodorus wore his own face in a grim mask that did not require much acting. “You see now why I had to bring this to your immediate attention.”
“I do, C-Captain. I will s-speak to t-the Lord.”
They found their lord taking his leisure in the southern gardens. Here, sheltered from the wind, the last of the autumn sun warmed the stone-paved loggia. Lord Adanis and a small party of attendants were laughing, their voices a light counterpoint to the rustle of the dry leaves. Servants moved among them with silver platters laden with late-season pears, their flesh honey-sweet, and dark, glistening figs preserved in syrup. At the center of this idyllic scene was a well-built, finely dressed man who shared Adanis’s sharp features, but wore them with a quiet confidence that was entirely his own.
Steward Theophylact, with an uncanny sixth sense born from years of navigating his master’s moods, waited patiently until Adanis’s grim odyssey of a hunting escapade turned wrong reached its triumphant conclusion when he personally shot down the ferocious boar.
“M-My Lord, I apolog-gize for the interruption.”
Adanis graced him with a sliver of his attention, a look of mild annoyance that shifted only when he saw Theodorus standing just behind the steward, his posture a ramrod-straight pillar of martial discipline.
“Ah, brother, allow me to introduce the newest aide sent to my service,” He said, gesturing casually toward Theodorus.
Up close, Theodorus managed to take a greater measure of the man. He carried himself with the coiled stillness of a predator at rest. His body, sculpted by training that Theodorus could only guess at, was a promise of violence held in perfect check. But it was his eyes - a deep, unsettling amber - that were the most striking. They were the focused, assessing gaze of a hunter sizing up new prey.
“I have heard a great deal about you, Captain. You won a stunning victory against the northern raiders, and for that, I offer my thanks.” The man swept into a bow of surprising depth, his loose, bourbon-colored robes swirling in the crisp air. “My own lands were spared from their scourge, my people left unmolested. All thanks to you.”
“You have nothing to thank me for. I merely did my duty.” Theodorus recited his practiced line, his eyes taking in the close-cropped, manicured beard and his simple, elegant clothing. “Though I thank you for the kind words, Lord…?”
“Ah, I have neglected to introduce myself.” If Adanis was a lion, august and arrogant, commanding his pride with effortless grace, this man was a leopard, lean and deadly, stalking you amidst the high grass. “I am Hypatius, younger brother to Lord Adanis. I hope you might indulge me sometime and explain what strategy you employed. So I might take some pointers.”
“Hah!” Lord Adanis’s laugh was a rich, cultivated timbre. “You understate yourself, brother. Hypatius here has bested many a man in both the jousting arenas and on the chessboard!” Lord Adanis stated with an effusiveness and warmth that surprised Theodorus.
“Those are titles won in peacetime,” Hypatius said, the easy confidence in his voice making the statement one of fact, not false modesty. “They mean little in the field. I hope I can learn much from your practical experience, Captain.”
“Thank you, my Lord.” Theodorus inclined his head. “But now my battles are with ledgers and armouries, not weapons and steel.” The subtle pivot was designed to steer them back to the matter at hand, to dictate the pace of the game.
“Ah, and are you encountering any difficulties?” Lord Adanis asked, languidly popping a glistening fig into his mouth.
“Not at all, my Lord. I have finished.”
The fig, half-chewed, seemed to turn to ash in Adanis’s mouth. He swallowed, his lazy grace evaporating as he fixed Theodorus with a stare of sharp intensity. “All of it?” he asked, his voice losing its drawl. “It has scarcely been two days.”
The sudden change in the Lord’s body posture did not escape Hypatius’s notice, his hunter’s appraisal deepening into a profound, analytical intrigue.
“Y-yes, my L-Lord, I have d-double-checked the figures myself.” It was Steward Theophylact who spoke, his voice a reedy tremor as he stepped forward, lending his own credibility to the impossible claim. He clutched the stack of ledgers to his chest like a shield. “And the n-numbers… it is b-best we s-speak in p-private.” He glanced nervously at the various attendants and courtiers still lingering in the garden.
Adanis waved a dismissive hand, and the courtiers and sycophants melted away like the morning mist, quickly and quietly. Hypatius, however, remained.
“Explain,” Adanis commanded, his brow furrowed not with concern, but with the distinct annoyance of a man whose pleasant morning had just been spoiled. Having to dismiss his guests in such a fashion did not paint a good image, and, in his mind, the good steward should have chosen a more opportune time to share these types of news.
The steward’s smooth, bald head glistened with a sheen of sweat, feeling the pressure. “Th-the is… d-disturbing, my Lord. W-we have n-not enough serviceable spears to arm a f-full levy. H-half of the c-crossbows are useless. The arrows… their heads are r-rusted through, the shafts w-warped. W-we have m-more broken shields than whole ones.” He swallowed hard, the litany of failures catching in his throat. “In s-short, my Lord,” he finished, his voice a near-whisper, “We b-barely have enough to train the recruits, l-let alone arm all the men for a siege.”
“That is indeed a worrying sign,” Hypatius commented, his gaze fixed not on the stammering steward, but on Theodorus.
Lord Adanis’s displeasure, born not so much from the state of the armoury, but from the fact that he had been bothered, was now aimed squarely at the messenger. “Weren’t you supposed to be on top of this, Theophylact? I designated the armory and its oversight to you. Now I am told it is a ruin and half its implements require repair?”
The steward executed a hasty, practiced bow, the very picture of a scared subordinate. “Apologies, my Lord, please forgive me.” The words came out smooth and clear, a line polished by years of use. But as Adanis’s expression darkened further, the stutter returned with a vengeance. “M-My other d-duties… I am s-swamped…” He seemed then to realize the folly of trying to explain that half a dozen scribes and an overworked steward aren’t enough to keep a castle’s administration running by themselves. “I-uh, o-of course, m-my Lord. I have n-no excuse.”
“Truly,” the Lord sighed, rubbing his temples as if staving off a headache. “And the cost to repair this mess… I shudder to think.”
“If I may, my Lord.” Theodorus interrupted, stepping forward at the perfect, calculated moment. His posture was servile, but his voice was the calm assurance of a man who has already solved the puzzle. “I have taken the liberty of compiling not only the inventory, but a full accounting of the projected costs in time and materials for the necessary repairs.”
“Oh?” Adanis looked up, his irritation melting away, replaced by a flicker of interest. He did, after all, appreciate lackeys who provided solutions, not just problems. “You have, Captain?”
Theodorus beckoned Demetrios forward. The old servant stepped from the shadows, handing a fresh set of parchments to Lord Adanis with a quiet, unobtrusive professionalism.
“I took the liberty of speaking with the local blacksmiths, shieldwrights, and woodcarvers, my Lord,” Theodorus explained as Adanis scanned the document, his interest piqued. “To ascertain the cost of materials and labor in the region.” In truth, it had been Stefanos who, during the chaotic armoury inventory, had been sent to question the various craftsmen.
Hypatius leaned over his brother’s shoulder, his own eyes taking in the neat columns. “You’ve even included the transportation costs for the shipment of the materials from the capital, Captain. You have certainly done your homework.”
Theodorus gave a deep bow, feeling Hypatius’s assessing gaze on his back like a physical weight. “I strive only to serve.”
Lord Adanis, however, was more worried about one particular detail. “Thirty-three Hyperpera?” He asked, his mouth a thin line of displeasure.
“That is only an approximation, my Lord. I believe that, with the proper steps, we could get the cost down significantly.”
This was the crux of Theodorus’s plan. He could never demand or petition for a more important task, which would seem desperate. He could, however, bring a relevant problem to Lord Adanis’s attention: as a Fort commander whose position and prestige were directly tied to his readiness and military strength, a depleted armoury was something he could not tolerate. He could then showcase his problem-solving skills by inventorying the armoury in record pace. Lord Adanis could, in turn, realize that perhaps this strangely competent captain, the one who seemed to already anticipate the next problem ahead, might the best man for the job.
You do not ask for a promotion; you simply become the only viable option to give it to.
“Oh?” Lord Adanis asked, a flicker of interest cutting through his annoyance. “How significant a reduction are we talking about, Captain?”For a man like Adanis who valued convenience and quick problem solving, Theodorus’s offer was very tempting.
“Realistically, my Lord, I believe we can trim the cost to twenty-five Hyperpera. Perhaps as low as twenty, under ideal conditions.”
The statement landed with the intended effect. Steward Theophylact, who had been a silent, sweating observer, let out a small, choked sound. “T-that would be m-marvelous, Captain. B-but f-forgive me for being s-skeptical.” He produced a handkerchief, dabbing at his glistening brow despite the cool autumn breeze. “Th-that is q-quite a s-substantial claim.”
“That is quite all right, my good steward,” Theodorus replied, his voice steady as he played his trump card. “You were also skeptical when I declared I would inventory the armory in two days.” He had already delivered one miracle; who was to say he could not deliver another?
A slow, appraising smile spread across Adanis’s face as he watched the exchange. He came to a decision. “Very well, Captain Theodorus. If you believe you can lower the cost so substantially, I am of a mind to grant you the authority to do so.”
“One moment, brother.”
The voice was Hypatius’s, calm and measured. He was still studying the cost analysis, a small, unreadable smile playing on his lips. He looked up, his amber eyes locking with Theodorus’s. “Allow me to oversee this… enterprise.”
Theodorus’s gaze sharpened.
“You, Hypatius?” Adanis sounded genuinely confused. “Surely this is beneath you.” Of course, Lord Adanis would think so.
“Nonsense.” Hypatius’s smile was flawless, revealing nothing. “If I am to one day serve as an adequate Hypostrategos for Suyren, I must understand every facet of its operation. What better way to learn the lay of the land than to delve into its very foundations?”
“And can you achieve the same reduced cost?” Lord Adanis questioned, as he was very much, solely focused on that aspect of the equation.
“I have some ideas, my Lord,” Hypatius said easily. He reached over and tapped a line on the inventory ledger Theophylact was still clutching. “For starters, the initial estimates assume we would pay for raw iron. But our good Captain has already, and most graciously, located a ready source of steel for us.” He looked to Theodorus, a flicker of amusement in his amber eyes. “We have plenty of useless scrap from the armoury rejects. A ready source of iron.”
Theodorus held the man’s gaze, his own expression a pleasantly placid mask. Inside, however, he was reassessing the man before him in real time. Theodorus had, in fact, deliberately inflated the initial cost by assuming the use of expensive raw materials, a classic tactic to make his own, more efficient solution seem all the more miraculous.
Hypatius had not only seen the trick in an instant but, instead of exposing it, had co-opted it, presenting the solution as his own insight. It was a display of competence for his brother, and a way to access the power of controlling the supply chain at Suyren, something that a man like Adanis would not value and easily give. He hadn’t discredited Theodorus. He had let him execute the heist only to then steal the prize.
“Ah, excellent then, it is true what they say,” Lord Adanis’s lazy indulgence returned, a pleased smile touching his lips. “A problem solves itself when you have the right men at your disposal.” He turned his full attention back to his brother. “Very well, Hypatius. The task is yours. See to it.” He then glanced at the still-sweating steward, barking out an order. “Theophylact, find another suitable task for our new adjutant. Something that befits his talents.”
“O-of c-course, my Lord,” the steward stammered, fumbling with his own stack of notes. “The n-new levy will arrive in t-three w-weeks. P-perhaps the C-Captain could d-draft the new p-patrol routes? To integrate them into our existing schedules?”
It was another perfect piece of administrative drudgery, but Theodorus knew it was the best he could hope for given the scenario. “As you command, my Liege,” he said, executing a flawless, deferential bow.
“Excellent.” With a final, satisfied nod, Adanis turned back toward the loggia, the matter entirely forgotten now that it had been resolved. Hypatius followed behind, all pleasant smiles and easy grins as their attendants materialized out of thin air to accompany them, their conversation already shifting to more pleasant topics, leaving a thoughtful Theodorus behind in the quiet of the garden alcove.
He had been defeated soundly, and as he had said once, a commander who does not learn from his mistakes is doomed to repeat them, his gravest mistake in the situation was clear - a lack of information on his adversaries. One he intended to rectify immediately.
As Theodorus, Demetrios, and Stefanos made their own quiet exit from the garden, Theodorus fell into step beside the still-flustered steward. “A question, if I may, Steward Theophylact,” He began, his voice a low, casual murmur. “Lord Hypatius mentioned the title of ‘Hypostrategos.’ I confess it is one I am unfamiliar with.”
“Ah, y-yes,” Theophylact said, relieved to be on the firmer ground of household history. “It is the t-title for the second-in-command of the fort. A Lord’s right hand, you might s-say. Every g-great f-fortress in Theodoro has one.” The steward, perpetually anxious and flustered was, Theodorus had come to realise, an exceptionally loose talker, not used to games of intrigue and shadow.
“Has the position been vacant long?” Theodorus asked bluntly, feigning simple curiosity. Something the stuttering steward did not question and accepted at face value.
The steward’s face clouded with a genuine sadness. “For five years now. Since the p-passing of Lord Kostakis.”
“The middle brother?” Theodorus probed gently.
“The v-very same,” Theophylact confirmed, his voice softening. “It was a g-great tragedy. A hunting accident. Lord Adanis… he loves his kin d-deeply. He left the p-position vacant in mourning. He would not hear of a replacement.”
“But now he has? What changed?” Theodorus questioned.
“I d-do not know. Lord Hypatius has only j-just been summoned from the m-main family estates in the south. T-t-to… to finally fill the void, I suppose.” Theophylact soon excused himself to attend to other duties, leaving Theodorus and his entourage at the garden’s entrance, their heavy silence at odds with the light beauty around them.
“The situation has changed.” Demetrios said grimly, his tone low and heavy.
“A new actor has entered the stage,” Theodorus agreed.
This was no longer a simple stalk against a lazy, arrogant lion. A second predator was on the prowl, one whose eyes saw the trap clearly, and whose teeth were just as sharp as his own. The hunt had just become infinitely more interesting. And infinitely more lethal.

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Chapter 32: A Lethal Prowl