Roots Beneath the Sun

  The day was bright, and sunlight poured over a corner thick with flowers and greenery.

  With careful hands, a young woman poured water onto the soil, tending each stem and petal with quiet precision. A soft hum slipped from her lips, a faint melody carried by the warmth of her smile.

  It was Amarantha, sixteen years old. She moved through different parts of the Erthus base, caring for the flowers and plants while singing under her breath.

  From a distance, Hedo Murem noticed her and decided to approach.

  “So, watering the flowers early again, Amarantha?”

  Without stopping, she replied,

  “Sunflowers, marigolds, petunias—they need frequent watering. They spend most of the day under direct sun, and they dry out quickly,” Amarantha said.

  Hedo listened in silence, attentive, as she continued without taking her eyes off the horizon.

  “The light dries their petals and heats the soil until it cracks, damaging the roots and keeping them from blooming. And yet, that same sun is what drives them to grow. It gives them the strength to become what they are. But without water, that strength consumes them instead of sustaining them.”

  Hedo said nothing. He simply watched her.

  “There are many species in Erthus that require different kinds of care,” she added calmly, “but these… these demand the most attention.”

  Hedo spoke.

  “I see Lucrecia taught you a great deal about flora—along with passing down her fondness for it.”

  Then he added,

  “She was the one who watered the plants with the same care you do.”

  At the sound of her name, Amarantha lowered her gaze slightly. A shadow of sadness crossed her face, though she soon managed a faint smile.

  “I like seeing them healthy… alive. They make the base feel warmer. More welcoming.”

  She paused briefly before continuing.

  “They bring me relief… a moment of peace.”

  As she spoke, she brushed the edge of a sunflower with her fingertips.

  “That’s why I try to make the most of moments like these.”

  A soft breeze stirred the petals; sunlight bathed the flowers, and the delicate texture of the sunflower rested beneath her touch.

  The memory began to fade.

  She was still touching the sunflower… but now it was a corridor lined with flowers inside the palace, lit by daylight.

  Her face remained blank beneath the mask of a Cloth maid.

  As she remembered that moment in Erthus, doubt crept into her thoughts.

  “Did I make the right choices?”

  She withdrew her hand from the sunflower and continued down the corridor, having already watered the flowers along the way.

  Sunlight still fell across them, and the wind moved them gently, as if nothing had ever changed.

  The Rhinoceros' Frustration

  In one of the palace chambers, five men stood gathered.

  One of them remained upright, his expression severe.

  The other three stood before him, motionless. Sweating. Swallowing hard. They did not dare lift their eyes.

  They were Sovereigns.

  And they stood before Eliotas.

  Eliotas, Sovereign of House Dumstrein (53 years old)

  “What exactly did you say happened, Riptus?” he asked, without raising his voice.

  The man took a deep breath.

  “We were ambushed in Roterfuud…”

  He tried to continue, but the response cut through the air like a blade.

  “Silence.”

  Eliotas began pacing the room, a wine glass in his hand. His steps were slow, deliberate. He wasn’t shouting.

  That made it worse.

  He stopped in front of the first man.

  “I’m told your men were ambushed in Roterfuud… You left the western flank exposed for two hours.”

  The Sovereign lowered his gaze.

  Eliotas moved to the second.

  “Your garrison—the one guarding your trade routes—was reduced to ashes. No reinforcements. No foresight.”

  Then he looked at the third.

  “And you… lost an open engagement because you ‘didn’t think’ they’d have that many men.”

  He made a subtle gesture with his fingers as he said the words.

  Finally, he sat down. Took a sip. Pressed his hand to his forehead.

  “All three of you failed.”

  “All three of you were incapable of crushing a band of rebels.”

  “But, Eliotas—” one of them began.

  The glass shattered against the floor.

  “Silence!”

  Wine spread across the tiles.

  Eliotas rose at once.

  “Do you know which house you answer to?”

  No one spoke.

  “House Dumstrein.”

  He stepped forward.

  “My house.”

  His eyes moved across the three faces.

  “What good is it to be feudal lord of Refrhald if I cannot control my own territory?”

  He stopped in front of Riptus.

  “We were one step away from breaking part of their ‘army’ in Roterfuud. One step. It was a necessary display. For the houses in Drafta. For our allies. For our enemies.”

  He shoved him with both hands.

  “And you ruined it.”

  He straightened again.

  “We are Refrhald. Every defeat stains our reputation… and my name.”

  His voice lowered, more dangerous now.

  “My house.”

  The two Cloth maids, who had remained perfectly still, stared at the wine pooling on the floor.

  “What are you waiting for? Clean that up.”

  They moved quickly.

  Eliotas turned back to the Sovereigns.

  “Dismissed. And next time… do not fail me.”

  The men asked permission to leave and walked out without lifting their heads.

  When the door closed, Eliotas returned to his chair.

  “Useless…”

  The fourth man, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke.

  “Eliotas.”

  The feudal lord looked at him.

  “Their failure is inexcusable,” the Sovereign continued. “But I believe it’s time we stop treating Reydem as a low-level threat. They’re organized. And while they may not be a visible army marching in the open, they operate from the shadows—which makes them harder to confront. And they have more men than we initially believed.”

  Eliotas stared at him.

  “And? What’s your point? Are you suggesting we can’t handle them?”

  “I’m suggesting we stop treating this as a minor issue and start taking it seriously if we intend to eliminate them.”

  Eliotas walked toward the window as the Cloth maids cleaned in silence.

  “I’ve heard rumors,” he said. “They claim Reydem is hiding violet gold mines.”

  “How much truth is there to that?” Eliotas asked.

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  “It’s true the rumors exist—for now, they’re only rumors,” the Sovereign replied. “Several houses unaffected by the trade attacks have attempted to investigate, searching for these supposed mines Reydem controls. None have found anything.”

  Eliotas let out a quiet breath.

  “Rumors… I won’t wage war over myths invented by lesser houses. I don’t care about their gold. I care about wiping them out.”

  He turned.

  “They’re fleas. And fleas are exterminated.”

  The other Sovereign didn’t flinch.

  “And what if they aren’t rumors?”

  The room fell silent.

  “If those mines did exist, they would shift our position… but I don’t chase whispers born from the ambition of minor houses.”

  Eliotas held his gaze for a few seconds.

  “Until there is concrete proof, I will not chase shadows, Plabius. Our status is what matters. If other houses want to play treasure hunter, let them.”

  He stepped closer.

  “I will cleanse my territory.”

  Plabius inclined his head slightly.

  “Then I’ll take my leave.”

  “Go. And you know what to do.”

  Plabius walked toward the door, but before exiting, he added,

  “Reydem activity has also been detected in Rinnerhot. You may want to speak with Furher.”

  Eliotas did not respond immediately.

  The door closed.

  The feudal lord remained alone in the chamber, watching the faint reflection of wine across the freshly cleaned tiles.

  He stood in silence.

  Thinking.

  He noticed the Cloth maids were still there, unmoving.

  “That’s enough. Dismissed,” he said without looking at them. “I don’t want you in front of me.”

  The women lowered their heads and left the chamber quickly.

  Eliotas was finally alone.

  Delicate Hands Amid the Noise

  She woke before the light reached the tall windows.

  The room lay in shadow. The air was cold and heavy. She sat up without lingering on the ceiling. Her bare feet touched the slatted wooden floor; the boards felt rigid and icy beneath her soles.

  At night, those same feet stepped down from a carriage with care, careful not to make a sound against the stone.

  She walked to the washroom. The stone floor was damp. She opened the wooden hatch above the shower and water stored in the upper cistern spilled down her back.

  She closed her eyes.

  On another night, she moved among the guards in the inner courtyard. She used the blind spots between torches, slipping through with measured precision. She reached a carriage waiting partially concealed in darkness.

  Water ran down her neck, traced the line of her spine, curved along her waist, and streamed over her thighs before dripping to the floor.

  Wheels rolled over wet stone in the commercial district. The carriage stopped outside a merchant’s shop with faintly lit windows. She stepped down unnoticed and moved through the narrow passageways of lower Rousth.

  She worked her fingers through her hair, making sure no trace of dirt remained.

  Beneath an oil lamp, the merchant from Brokling handed her a heavy canvas bag filled with documents. Amarantha simply took it.

  She said nothing, only nodding..

  The merchant closed the shop hatch behind her, making sure no one had seen a thing.

  The water continued to fall until the cistern ran dry.

  She took a towel from the wall and dried herself slowly. Arms. Chest. Abdomen. Back. Hips. Thighs.

  In a dark room, she opened that same bag over a table. She spread the sealed documents one by one. Palace blueprints. Routes marked in red ink. Names written in abbreviations. Schedules.

  She tucked everything beneath her inner jacket, fastening it tight against her torso so nothing would shift.

  From a corner, hood drawn low, she watched the carriage yard, leaning against a damp wall. She waited for the exact moment to cross without drawing suspicion.

  She dressed in her servant uniform. Tightened the corset until steady pressure settled against her ribs. Smoothed her skirt. Flattened the apron so not a single wrinkle showed.

  At night she adjusted a black hood over part of her face before crossing the street toward another meeting point.

  She stepped into the palace corridor and lifted a tray of thick glass goblets and a dark wine decanter.

  She walked the main hall with lowered eyes, her steps steady and controlled.

  In narrow streets she followed men entering neglected-looking establishments. She stayed in the shadows, memorizing the names carved into wood above each door.

  She entered the hall where the Sovereigns gathered around a long, heavy wooden table.

  She poured wine with precise movements. Set down appetizers without interrupting conversation. She listened—names, trade routes, complaints, veiled threats.

  In her room, she spread palace maps across her bed: underground tunnels linking storage vaults, sewer systems running beneath the gardens, hidden access points that allowed entry and exit without crossing the main gates.

  Meanwhile, in the palace, a drunken Sovereign began singing, spilling wine across the table before collapsing onto it. She and the other Cloth maids moved in to clean the mess while the Sovereigns laughed and celebrated.

  In another room far from the palace, Victor laid out the manuscripts sent by Amarantha across a wide table. He examined them carefully. On a map he marked specific locations, cross-referenced other reports, analyzed each detail to connect it with the rest. He drafted new instructions in fresh manuscripts.

  “Cloth maid. More wine.”

  She stepped forward. Bent to fill the cup.

  “Come here, pretty thing.”

  A large hand gripped her thigh and pulled her against him. She did not resist.

  “Serve me too,” he muttered, breath heavy against her.

  The hand slid lower without hesitation. Moved along the inside of her thigh over the fabric. Rose sharply. A hard squeeze at her hip.

  Her fingers held the decanter steady as she poured.

  She did not raise her eyes.

  Elsewhere, Victor mapped the next steps, sealed the manuscripts, marked them with coded levels—one or two—according to their classification. He blended into the crowd and delivered them to different men across the city, speaking only what was necessary. The men accepted the instructions without question and carried them out.

  The man released her with a sharp slap.

  She returned to her place against the wall. Back straight. Hands folded over her apron.

  Later, older hands marked by scars took the manuscripts—Zeldrin’s hands. He spread them across a table, read them carefully, then tore them into pieces. Inside the tent, he fed the fragments into a burning iron brazier.

  In the hall, the Sovereigns clinked glasses, played cards over the wine-stained table, argued about trade, indulgences, territorial disputes. Loud laughter and clashing glass drowned conversations that, to most, sounded meaningless.

  Amarantha watched every gesture in silence, storing anything that might prove useful: troop movements, trade routes, the location of influential figures, family names, alliances and rivalries half-hidden in careless remarks.

  She learned to separate the trivial from the valuable, memorizing scattered details that, once assembled beyond the palace walls, revealed larger patterns. Anything that could be exploited without arousing suspicion was passed outward.

  The same routine, repeated in different halls of the same palace, beneath the same mask—listening without ever truly existing to those who spoke in front of her.

  Information in the Seams

  At another time, Amarantha found herself outside the palace. The supervisor of the garden Cloth maids had sent her to the middle district of Rousth to retrieve several assignments due to an issue with the carriage assigned to that route.

  She walked with apparent ease. She wasn’t wearing her maid uniform, but instead the understated clothing of a middle-class citizen. A polite, carefully crafted smile rested on her face as she moved through the crowd without drawing attention.

  She entered a shop that handled parcel shipments. She handed over a sealed envelope along with a few smaller packages. The attendant accepted them without question, and after exchanging a brief cordial smile, Amarantha took her leave and stepped back into the street.

  She continued walking calmly, though her awareness remained sharp. She noted how many people surrounded her, who glanced in her direction, any detail that felt out of place. When the flow of pedestrians thinned and she found herself briefly alone, she veered off the main road and changed course.

  She knew the area well. She moved into a series of narrow passageways between buildings, first ensuring no one was watching. Then she opened her bag, removed the Cloth maid uniform, and dressed quickly. Finally, she pulled up a hood before stepping back out.

  She returned to the commercial streets, blending once again among merchants and passersby as though she had never stopped. She made her way through different points in the district, collecting the items the supervisor had instructed her to retrieve.

  Some time later, she reached the wide entrances of the palace. At the gatehouse, the guards asked what she needed. Amarantha simply lifted her hood, revealing the Cloth maid uniform beneath her cloak, and displayed the distinctive collar she wore. That was enough for the guards to grant her entry into the gardens.

  She began walking without hesitation.

  One of the guards watched her closely.

  “Well… a Cloth maid. Now that’s something.”

  The other let out a laugh.

  “Of course. This palace doesn’t deal in cheap goods.”

  “Who would’ve thought,” the first added. “Nobility once… and now walking with their heads down like palace property.”

  “I wish I’d been born a Sovereign.”

  The other snorted.

  “Yeah. Don’t we all.”

  They both laughed.

  Amarantha heard every word. She did not turn her head. She continued forward beneath her hood as though nothing had happened.

  She walked through the gardens along carefully maintained green corridors. There, she removed the hood and put the Cloth maid mask back on.

  She moved down a corridor framed by trimmed hedges and marble structures before entering one of the inner sections of the complex. Several Cloth maids stood aligned while the supervisor conducted an inspection.

  She made them stand straight. Checked their hair, the fall of their garments, the cleanliness of their uniforms—every detail of their appearance.

  “You’ve passed quality control. Keep yourselves flawless,” she finally said.

  The maids inclined their heads slightly and withdrew in silence.

  Then the supervisor turned her attention to Amarantha.

  “L9, how did the errands go?”

  “Here they are, Mistress,” Amarantha replied, handing them over.

  The woman inspected them briefly.

  “Well done. You followed every instruction, correct?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  The supervisor nodded. She wore a mask as well, though not the uniform of a maid.

  “It’s important to maintain a low profile outside the gardens. Bandits abduct Cloth maids—they’re considered high-value assets. That’s why you’re permitted to remove your mask outside the grounds.”

  She paused before continuing.

  “But don’t forget. The mask represents the loss of identity and the mark of palace property. That’s why it may only be removed outside these gardens. Inside, it stays with you at all times. You know this well, but reminders are necessary. You are part of our holdings.”

  Amarantha answered without hesitation.

  “I am your property, Mistress.”

  “Good. Return to your duties.”

  Amarantha inclined her head in obedience and left to resume her tasks.

  The assignment had been completed. The information had left the palace, hidden among what appeared to be romantic letters.

  Even so, it remained valuable intelligence for her organization.

  She continued the rest of her day as usual. This time, she had not been assigned to halls dominated by capricious Sovereigns; the shift proved quieter. She limited herself to domestic duties, assisting the cleaning staff in various chambers.

  The rooms she entered were occupied by Sovereigns who discussed business in measured tones. Some even maintained a cordial rapport among themselves, far removed from the tense or decadent atmosphere of other gatherings.

  Still, Amarantha listened closely.

  “That’s right—the physician from House Lothpraus is coming to examine a few Sovereigns from other houses. Routine evaluations,” one of them said.

  “The man they’re sending is supposed to be one of the best doctors we’ve had in years,” another replied.

  “Yeah. They say he’s solved cases no one else could.”

  “Well, the Lothpraus reputation exists for a reason, doesn’t it? A house of renowned physicians. One of the finest in the region.”

  Not long after, the conversation drifted to other matters.

  Amarantha continued her work in silence. As she adjusted the table setting, her gaze briefly settled on a teacup resting on the cloth.

  The steam rising from it felt familiar.

  Without meaning to, she recalled a past conversation with Victor.

  “One of the most prestigious houses—high status as well—is Lothpraus,” he had told her. “We’ve looked into them, and so far we haven’t seen any direct ties to the persecution of Reydem.”

  Victor sipped his tea calmly as he spoke.

  “That said, they are the house of the region’s finest physicians. They’re known for advancements in medicine and chemistry. Many significant discoveries and experimental breakthroughs have come from them.”

  “But there’s a history behind how they earned that reputation,” Victor added.

  He looked at her through the thin veil of steam rising from his cup.

  “It’s said that many of their most advanced medical insights came from experiments conducted on people. All kinds of experiments.”

  For years, they were linked to disappearances. People subjected to brutal trials, experimental treatments, procedures others wouldn’t have dared attempt. Substance testing. Surgeries performed on conscious bodies. Methods pushed far beyond what most would consider humane—all in pursuit of results.

  There were old testimonies. Even leaked manuscripts that described things difficult to believe.

  They experimented on people of all ages. They believed every body reacted differently—and they were willing to prove it.

  Victor took another small sip before continuing.

  “In short, much of the knowledge and prestige that built their house came from a very dark past. And we don’t know if it ever truly ended. Even at the time, it was shrouded in secrecy. The truth surfaced much later.”

  Amarantha picked up one of the documents spread across the table during that conversation.

  “Lothar Lethpreim…” she read quietly, seeing the name written there.

  Victor nodded slowly.

  “One of the sons of the High Sovereign of House Lothpraus.”

  “He’s considered one of the finest physicians in the region today. Almost nothing is known about him. And yet…”

  He held her gaze.

  “Trust no one, Amarantha. House Lothpraus may not be a direct threat to Reydem, but that doesn’t erase what they did in the past… and there’s no telling whether they’ve truly stopped. They are still enemies.”

  Amarantha set the document back down.

  Victor took one last sip of tea and gently placed the cup on the table.

  The soft clink of porcelain shifted in her mind.

  The teacup before her became the one she was staring at inside the palace.

  The meeting had ended.

  Hours passed before her shift finally came to a close.

  After bathing and drying off, Amarantha returned to her room and lay down on the bed. She stared at the ceiling in silence, letting the exhaustion slowly settle into her body.

  “I need to rest… I have to be ready for tomorrow,” she murmured to herself.

  After a moment, she reached for a small folded napkin beside the bed. On it were lines and marks that seemed meaningless at first glance—but to Amarantha, they formed a clear map.

  Her eyes traced the markings carefully.

  The tunnels.

  The underground chambers.

  The forgotten access points beneath the palace.

  She folded the napkin again and tucked it away.

  “It’s time to test new ways out of the gardens.”

  If it worked, she would gain greater freedom to move in and out without relying on monitored routes.

  She extinguished the lamp.

  The room fell silent as night settled over the palace.