The Tax Office stood absurdly out of place, a polished monument dropped into a town left to rot. Its walls gleamed with fresh plaster, windows clean and trimmed with ornate ironwork, the roof newly tiled so that not a shingle was out of line. Around it, the rest of Haustwitch sagged under neglect—crooked shutters, flaking paint, cobblestones split and left unmended. The disparity was so stark it bordered on mockery. Every coin drained from the weary streets seemed to end up here, preserving the office in pristine condition. It told Vierna everything she needed to know about the Baron of Haustwitch: a man who cared for revenue above all else, polishing his coffers while the rest of his domain withered.

  “Someone overcompensate.” Lina said as she smiled sheepishly.

  After they entered the building, they went to the admission. Vierna rang the little bell.

  The man behind the desk lifted his head slowly, as if even that motion cost him effort. His eyes were dull and rimmed with dark circles, the kind that came from too many sleepless nights. One side of his hair stuck up in a messy tuft while the other was combed flat, as if he’d tried to fix himself halfway through the day and given up. His uniform was wrinkled, his collar stained faintly with ink and sweat.

  He looked at them the way someone looks at another stack of paperwork—resigned, polite, but already exhausted by the thought of it.

  “Excuse me, we are looking for Tax Master Korrn.”

  “Ahh… yeah, and you two are?”

  “We are Aline and Crysta, new staff sent from Einhartturm here.”

  “Oh right, the office is directly in front of thestaircase,” he said, pointing toward a large staircase fit for a noble’s house. “You can’t miss it.”

  “Right, thank you, Herr.”

  “You’re welcome—and good luck.”

  They climbed the staircase, each step creaking faintly beneath their boots, until they reached a towering oaken door carved with intricate patterns of vines, beasts, and crowns. Gold leaf clung to the edges of some carvings, worn by time yet still catching the dim light like embers in the wood. The scent of oil and aged timber lingered in the air, the kind that spoke of wealth and centuries of polish.

  Vierna exchanged a glance with Lina before knocking.

  “Come in,” a voice called from inside.

  The girls opened the door. The moment they stepped through, both Vierna and Lina froze

  The office was absurd in its pretension—a showcase of wealth crammed into every inch of space. Marble tiles gleamed beneath carpets thick enough to swallow their boots. Velvet curtains draped the windows, their edges stitched with gold thread. Gilded frames crowded the walls with landscapes and portraits, the gilt catching the lamplight in gaudy brilliance. Even the desks and chairs bore inlay of polished stone and silver, as though wood alone wasn’t fine enough.

  Vierna exchanged a look with Lina. Compared to Albrecht’s mansion, the difference was slim—shockingly so. Neither of them had expected it. The mission book had been clear: Haustwitch was not a rich barony. Its worth lay in iron and gunpowder mines, nothing more. Yet this office screamed of another truth. The extravagance here was undeniable, proof of a wealth hoarded and hidden.

  The tax master himself matched the setting too perfectly. He was soft, his body rounded from indulgence, with the look of a man who had never worked for anything in his life. Black hair, slicked flat with too much oil, glistened almost like polished stone. The air reeked of perfume—so heavy it wasn’t a fragrance at all, but a chokehold, a rope of scent tightening around the throat.

  Vierna felt her jaw tighten. This was the man entrusted with the town’s lifeblood, a relative of the Baron, fattened on coin while the streets outside sagged under neglect.

  “So… Aline and Crysta, was it?” the tax master finally said, his eyes flicking over them with lazy disinterest. Those were the names they would wear until the mission was done.

  “Yes, Herr,” they both replied.

  “It says here you graduated from Arkanpfad Academy. How old are you now?” He glanced at the girls, though it was obvious the answer was already in the papers he barely skimmed.

  “We are currently eighteen, Herr,” Vierna replied.

  The tax master leaned back in his chair, lips curling faintly. “Why volunteer for this post? I am certain two pretty girls with records like yours could have found far easier work in Einhartturm.”

  “We… uhh…” Lina faltered, words stumbling.

  “We are not looking for an easy job, Herr,” Vierna cut in, her voice firm with conviction. “We want to serve the Reich, Herr. Everyone understands that soldiers have their limits, but at Arkanpfad Academy we were taught something important: Einhartturm survives not through swords alone, but through the stability of its taxes—and much of that comes from Haustwitch. To see that principle embodied here, through the work of the tax master who sustains the Reich’s border duchy, is something we’ve long admired. To be chosen by Arkmarschall Leopold for this post is not a burden, but an honor.”

  From the gaudy excess of his office, and from what the mission book had written about his character, she could piece together the sort of answer that would satisfy this indulgent man. She had rehearsed it over and over in her head before coming here, careful to make it sound natural. Her background as a bright military academy graduate gave the conviction needed to carry it off without doubt.

  “Haha, and here I thought you two were just another pair of pretty faces the Arkmarschall didn’t need. I see he finally saw reason.” The tax master rubbed his chin. “The job of a tax master is hard, especially with all those villages out there being the rebellious bastards they are. The moment you show leniency, they stop wanting to pay taxes.”

  “Must be a great burden, Herr,” Lina said.

  “It is,” the tax master replied. “Are you going to be here temporarily?”

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  “I don’t think so, Herr. The Count of Einhartturm has already given us transfer papers. We are officially residents of the Haustwitch Barony now, under the authority of Baron Ulrich.”

  “That’s delightful.” Korrn smirked. “I am the Baron’s relative. Stay in my good graces, and Haustwitch will be a heaven for you two pretty girls.”

  Both girls felt disgusted at what he implied, but they responded kindly. They still needed this man, after all.

  “Of course, Herr.”

  He raised his voice. “Mirelle, come here!”

  From the door, a woman entered. She looked a little older than the girls, perhaps twenty, with a striking face and a voluptuous figure that would have turned heads under better circumstances. But fatigue clung to her like a veil. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, her skin was pale and sallow, and the slump in her posture betrayed nights of little sleep. Whatever beauty she carried was muted by exhaustion—the mark of someone worked past her limits under the Tax Master’s hand.

  “You called me, Herr Korrn?”

  “Explain what kind of work we do to Crysta around here,” he said, pointing to Vierna. “I will explain it personally to Aline.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Also, lighten up. It’s a shame your beauty has been neglected like that. You should smile more.”

  As he spoke, Korrn reached out, brushing a strand of Mirelle’s hair back behind her ear with mock gentleness, then gave her shoulder a lingering pat. The gesture carried the weight of ownership, not kindness. Vierna and Lina understood exactly what it meant, even if the words themselves were cloaked in civility.

  “Of course, Herr Korrn.”

  As both girls witnessed the harassment unfolding in front of them, they were pained by the fact that they needed this man to complete their mission—and so they kept their silence.

  “Off you go, then.” Korrn waved his hand. Vierna left with Mirelle, but as she glanced back at the door, she saw Korrn moving toward Lina. Worry gnawed at her, yet she told herself Lina could take care of herself—she had to believe it.

  Mirelle showed her around the office, naming each room and explaining what was done there, sprinkling in simple bits of how taxes worked and what Vierna and Lina would be doing later. Their job was mostly filing and a bit of auditing—something Vierna had absolutely no idea how to handle.

  Along the way, Mirelle introduced them to a few of their would-be coworkers. Most offered polite nods or murmured greetings before sinking back into their ledgers and stacks of parchment. Vierna noticed the same thing in all of them—tired eyes, slouched shoulders, and ink-stained fingers that moved with the sluggishness of people run ragged. It was as if the entire department was held together by sheer necessity, painfully understaffed and overworked.

  They finally stopped in a room with a large map, showing the Haustwitch barony and all the villages under its jurisdiction. Mirelle pointed to one near the Schattwald Forest—the one they would be heading to later.

  “This village here is the most troublesome,” Mirelle said. “The Tax Master has to personally go there to collect, and he never goes alone—always with a squad of soldiers and staff. Rolbart’s a mixed village—humans, elves, dwarves, even some beastkin. On paper, that should make it lively. In practice… it’s tense. The air’s always heavy when we arrive, like everyone’s holding back something.”

  “Do all of us get sent there?” Vierna asked carefully.

  “Hmm, not everyone—and the tax master hasn’t told me whether you two will go or not.” Mirelle pinched her cheeks, trying to stay awake. “But don’t worry, I suppose your brownnosing will keep you safe from it.”

  “I’m sorry, senior. It’s just… I really need this job,” Vierna said, her tone somber. “It was so hard to find a non–frontline assignment, and honestly, I can’t stomach the blood on the battlefield.”

  Mirelle studied her for a moment, eyes narrowing with mild suspicion. “Hmm… but didn’t you go to Arkanpfad?”

  “Yes, but even then—during the mock battle I just couldn’t stop panicking. Luckily I managed to weasel my way into graduating early.”

  “I see.” Mirelle’s gaze softened after that. It seemed Vierna’s words—simple, honest, and unguarded—had reached her. The lie worked like a charm. “Well, I know the feeling a bit.”

  They walked for a while, visiting several named rooms. Finally, she exhaled. “Let’s take a little break, Crysta.”

  “Wouldn’t the Tax Master notice?”

  “No, not unless you tell him,” Mirelle replied. “Will you tell him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. Now let’s go.”

  The two of them went into a place that looked like a cafeteria. Vierna ordered bread, jerky, and a bit of soup, while Mirelle ordered the same.

  “That’ll be ten shingles,” the cafeteria worker said.

  Mirelle reached into her pocket, fumbling for her purse to no avail. She opened her storage rune, but it seemed she had forgotten it.

  “Just my damn luck,” she muttered.

  “Here, use my money.” Vierna handed her ten shingles—part of the money Leopold had prepared for her in advance.

  “Hey, thanks. I haven’t eaten since lunch hour; the work just keeps piling up.” Mirelle took the tray and walked toward a nearby bench.

  “No worries, Frau Mirelle.”

  “Just call me Mirelle. No need for that formality—we’re all cursed with the same fate, working for that pig.”

  “Uh… shouldn’t we talk quietly about that?” Vierna asked anxiously, glancing around the not-so-empty cafeteria.

  “No worries. Everyone here feels the same. If there’s one benefit of working here, it’s that we all know this career is a dead end. Nobody’s chasing the rat race anymore.”

  “I see. Does the office really lack that much manpower?”

  “Lack? We’re each doing the work of three people or more.” Mirelle buried her face in her palm, then dragged it down with a tired sigh. “No one in Haustwitch wants to work here. The pay is bad, but the social stigma is worse—who wants to be friends with a tax officer?” She let out a dry laugh, more like a cough, and tore a piece of bread with her teeth.

  Vierna stayed quiet, spoon hovering over her soup. She knew Mirelle was being reckless; speaking this openly could get her in trouble if the wrong ears were listening.

  “That’s why Korrn had to go over the baron’s head and ask the Arkmarschall directly for more staff.” Mirelle chewed, swallowed, and stabbed her jerky with unnecessary force. “The baron isn’t any better—he won’t deal with something he calls a ‘simple problem.’ Honestly, the man should have been stripped of his title years ago, but that’s not how it works.” She shook her head, muttering into her cup. “He’s got powerful backing, after all.”

  Vierna forced down a mouthful of bread, her stomach tight with unease. Mirelle’s words made too much sense.

  Mirelle leaned back and exhaled, as if the rant had bled some weight out of her. “That’s why, as long as you don’t stick out or upset the workflow, people here are generally open to you. Outsiders don’t understand our situation, so we just cope by sticking together.”

  “I will. Thanks, Mirelle. And I’m sorry for everything.”

  “Don’t be. One day I’ll get the hell out of this dump, and that pervert can eat shit.”

  “Oh? You’re planning on quitting one day?”

  “Of course. I can’t stand Korrn’s ugly mug every day until I die, you know.” Mirelle brushed her face with her hand. “I want to go to Rangdenfallt, become a writer or something, you know.”

  As she said it, Vierna saw the conviction—the belief that Mirelle really would one day follow her dreams. In a way, she sympathized with her and wished for her to succeed.

  “I hope that day won’t be much longer, senior.”

  “It won’t. Maybe two months or so. Honestly, I can’t wait.” Mirelle’s voice carried a spark of excitement—something Vierna hadn’t thought she had left in her.

  “Crysta, come with me this evening. We should eat together—you, me, your friend, and some of our coworkers. We’re in this together, and you’re a good girl. I can see it.”

  “Oh? Only for greeting me and Aline? You’re too kind,” Vierna said, clearly delighted by the invitation.

  “Haha, not only because of that. You see, Henry and Sylia are bound for Rolbart Village. They’re basically my closest friends. We always have a little farewell dinner before one of us gets sent there. It’s a troublesome place, and who knows what might happen?”

  Vierna thought, this would be a perfect chance to study more about the Rolbart village, and how the tax master handle everything there. So she thought what’s the harm on going on a little dinner?

  “Okay, I’ll tell Aline later. Thanks, Mirelle.”

  “You’re welcome. Also, make sure you keep an eye on Aline—it looks like Korrn has taken an interest in her, and nothing good can come from that.”

  “I will.”

  The two of them finished their lunch before finally heading back to the office—pencil-pushing didn’t wait for anyone.

  Do you want to work there?