The Fallen Star Rises

That night, Ayres waited for a guest.

The password to summon him was red flower—a single crimson bloom swapped in for the arrangement on the commander's parlor table.

Lying on the bed with his eyes closed, Ayres sensed a presence in the ceiling.

"Who's there?"

Blood dripped from above in thick spatters, clumping together like wet clay until it took the shape of a man.

"You weren't spotted by Benedict, I trust...?"

"Heh-heh. If he'd caught me, he'd already be charging in screaming, 'Filthy scum, die!!' The man's a lunatic who dedicated his whole life to killing our kind."

"True enough. He's not the type to sit still..."

The flippant tone belonged to a black magician Ayres had already met once before.

"You call a guest and don't even offer him a seat?"

"I don't give chairs to guests who bring nothing of value. I'd rather you left quickly."

"Sulking, are we? You're a cuter client than I expected. Is it because your little brother is still alive and well?"

"Shut your mouth. You lot talked about killing him on the battlefield—and now he's racking up military honors?"

"Ahem."

Even the black magician had nothing to say to that.

"Truth is, your brother's movements were faster than we anticipated. Who could have guessed he'd strike first? And that he'd actually pull it off was beyond imagining."

"Are you going to stand there and crow about Ereb's exploits in front of me too?"

Ayres had already heard his brother's achievements recited four or five times that day, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠right to his face. Having to sit through it with a straight expression had been agony. Benedict's morning visit, in particular, had cost the priest dozens of imaginary beheadings inside Ayres's head.

"Don't worry. Now that your brother is our target, he will not leave the field alive."

"He'd better not. Otherwise you people won't even get a glimpse of the ancient magic."

"A frightening threat. Rest easy. We've already begun approaching Crombell as well. The Count is such a stubborn mule we were wondering how to get close to him—and then he went and suffered this magnificent defeat for us. Made the approach considerably easier."

However they dressed it up, the architect of that magnificent defeat was Ereb. Ayres's face began to twist again, and the black magician decided it was time to vanish.

"I'll be going, then. Unclench that jaw and live a little. Everything you want will come to pass."

"I'll try trusting you a little longer. Though the old faith isn't coming back easily."

Khuk. The black magician smiled bitterly at Ayres's insolence. He was already dissolving when he added one last thing.

"What?"

"Once he has decided to make you the head of Ahental, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you will become its head. So stop worrying. Reassuring a client is part of our work—but I'd rather you didn't summon me over trifles like this again."

The black magician collapsed into blood and pattered down onto the floor. Not a single stain remained.

"Cocky bastard. Who's making who into anything?"

Ayres spat on the spot where the man had vanished. He lay back against the bed—and a question arrived without warning.

More interested in Ahental than I'd imagined, he said...

The words snagged and would not let go. It had not sounded like interest in ancient magic. It had sounded like interest in Ahental itself.

I'd already been in contact with them before Ereb ever brought the ancient magic back. Ancient magic is their obsession now—but what about before that?

He was the one who had sought out the Red Cross and commissioned black magic to have Ereb killed in the Forest of Resentment. But the more he thought about it, the stranger that seemed. These were men who had lived their entire lives as fugitives, never once caught. Were they the sort you could simply find because you wanted to hire them?

It was Sir Adol who tracked down their trail... and now I can't even ask him how he did it.

He would never know the full story of how contact had been made. But certainty settled over him all the same.

On the surface, it looked as though he had found them. In truth, they had found him.

The reason the black magicians wanted him on the seat of Ahental was not, he suspected, ancient magic alone. He could not pin down the exact cause, and so he had no choice but to chase sleep in a foul, crawling unease.

Count Crombell believed that heaven had not yet abandoned him.

All thanks to a single demi-human. The man had pulled him from the flames like a savior sent by the gods, then devotedly pressed water and food into his hands. And that was not all. He had even arranged a reunion with the vassal nobles whose whereabouts had been unknown.

"M-my lord!"

"What happened to you?"

The vassals could not help but stare. The Count came striding through fire with all his old imposing presence, while they themselves were a wreck of sweat and ash. He was almost presentable, clothes aside. That jarring contrast drew every gaze to the demi-human standing at his side.

Hiwork asked the question.

"Who is that man?"

"I met him by chance in the forest. He saved me from burning to death. And he helped me find all of you."

As the Count said, finding them had been Messi's doing. Search work through a wind spirit was so far beyond ordinary scouting that locating the scattered vassal nobles had been almost easy.

"Moreover, this man is a spirit mage. He's agreed to help us going forward."

"Ohh—a spirit mage, of all the rare things! Congratulations, my lord!"

"Our felicitations!"

The vassals folded at the waist in celebration. Only Hiwork made no effort to hide the suspicion in his eyes.

"A truly fortunate thing. But my lord—when coincidences continue to pile upon one another, they are no longer coincidences."

So it was him.

The instant Messi heard those words, he was certain. This was the man who had nearly driven the Viscount of Ahental into a corner with a scheme as frightening as it was clever.

"Hiwork, enough with the pointless suspicion. This friend is my lifesaver. If he were an enemy agent as you worry, there would have been no need to save me—and still less need to save all of you just now."

"......"

The Count was not wrong. They had been a breath from burning alive, and they had lived because of Messi. Even so, Hiwork showed no sign of dropping his guard. He looked ready to press the matter further.

Messi took drastic measures. He flinched, feigning surprise, and turned his head the other way.

"Wh-what's wrong?"

"Someone is approaching from far off. They seem considerably strong."

"......!"

The Count and his vassals urged flight with one heart and one mind. This time, even Hiwork joined them. Messi parted the flames with his spirits, and the frightened men scrambled after the path he made.

The choice was the right one. They escaped Mount Tolid unharmed, and whether from that new trust or simple necessity, they asked him to guide them to the main force as well. Hiwork alone continued to doubt him. Messi guided them in silence. He knew this was a time to buy faith with action, not words.

At last.

"C-Count! You're safe!!"

Several Crombell knights at the head of a column of soldiers came running to meet him. Only then could Count Crombell let the tension drain from his shoulders. Whatever the outcome of the battle, he had finally secured his own safety.

He looked at Hiwork.

"Tsk. Do you believe me now?"

"...Yes. Forgive me, my lord. And you—I'm sorry I doubted you."

At Hiwork's apology, Messi offered a faint smile.

After falling back with the main force, they put themselves in order and took a brief rest. Then the Count and his vassals gathered once more.

In the moment itself, filthy and half-dead, they had thought mere survival a blessing. Now that they could breathe, the aftershock came rolling in.

"...Besides us, did anyone else make it back?"

"Yes, my lord. Of Ablaze rank, only Sir Obert. Two of Brillante rank, eight of Lavish rank, and twenty ordinary knights have returned."

The knight who had commanded the main force finished his report, and a heavy silence settled over the chamber.

"Unbelievable. Only thirty-one of a hundred and fifty made it back... And we lost Rickray and Eson besides, with only Obert returning."

"Sir Obert's injuries were severe as well. The military chaplain has finished treatment, but he needs rest—body and mind both."

"...If we had simply fought a conventional pitched battle, we would never have ended up like this..."

The Count was right. Even with a Sword Master on the other side, a frontal engagement would never have gutted the knight order this badly. The three Ablaze knights, working in concert, could have pinned the Sword Master down and bought time—and with the rest of Crombell's knightly strength, they would have crushed Ahental's order outright.

The disaster had begun with a single mistake: they had taken the enemy for a routed force and given chase. They had been drawn into the valley terrain, the Ablaze knights lured off and scattered, and in that gap the enemy Sword Master had come crashing through.

And the entire chain of events that brought us here...

A thud. Hiwork dropped to his knees before the Count and drove his forehead into the floor.

"My lord, all of this is my fault. I fell for the Viscount of Ahental's bait. I looked at that panicked flight and spun an optimistic theory that perhaps they had no Sword Master at all. That was the error. The blame for this defeat is mine. Execute me and restore discipline to the army."

"...Ahem."

No one had said it aloud, but the vassals all believed the responsibility for the defeat sat on Hiwork's shoulders. Of course, when Hiwork had proposed the pursuit, they had all agreed with enthusiasm.

These men will never share a burden.

Hiwork knew that, which was precisely why he had gathered every scrap of blame onto himself, prostrated himself fully, and laid his life in the Count's hands. All of it was calculated.

Even if he wants my head, is there anyone else in this camp who can think? The lord will not strike me down.

As he expected, the Count could not touch him. There was no alternative.

"...In war, a single mistake is always waiting. Of course we must keep our wits about us to avoid it—but the water is already spilled. Let there be no next time."

"There will never be a next time."

"Very well. Hiwork—give me the next plan."

Hiwork rose, brushing off his filthy clothes, thought for a long moment, and opened his mouth.

"With a Sword Master on the enemy side and two of our Ablaze dead, there is no other course remaining. We retreat to Melta Castle, and you summon Sir Alanaster."

"...Call Alanaster? Is that truly the only way? Think again! If time is the problem, I'll give you more of it."

"There is no other way."

Count Crombell ground his teeth, on the verge of shouting—when the knight who had led the main force cut in, urgent.

"I... forgive the interruption, but there is one more matter to report."

"What is it?"

"It is... news that came in while you were arriving and putting the camp in order. Melta Castle has fallen into enemy hands. An army led by the Second Young Master of Ahental appeared suddenly from the rear..."

The Count swayed and collapsed into his chair. Hiwork's face was no better. They had lost their stronghold. That meant falling farther back, or shifting to another front and throwing themselves on someone else's mercy. The situation had become far too ugly.

And worse.

The Second Young Master appearing behind Melta Castle means the Pasio front has been breached...

The knight's report was not finished.

"And according to the supply officer, contact from the rear has been cut."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"

Bad news kept arriving without end, and Count Crombell could no longer hold back a roar.

"The food supply from Crombell that arrived every three days did not come last night, he says. He had been waiting a little longer before reporting... he says."

"Is the man out of his damn mind?! Whether to wait or not is for me to decide—who does that bastard think he is!"

The front was not yet long, so supply still came directly from the City of Crombell. And if that supply had failed to arrive...

Either the enemy cut the supply line, or Crombell itself did not send it.

Even Hiwork was thrown. The first was impossible: given the timing, Ahental's army could not yet have struck the rear supply line. That left the second—deliberate withholding from the rear, or a delay in the schedule.

Why? What has gone wrong?

Wrong...?

Alanaster kept rising unbidden in Hiwork's mind. It was strange. Perhaps because the man had shown a face so unlike his usual self, that last time.

The words had been as willful as ever, and he had still been hunting for wine and women... but his eyes had held an uncanny light.

It can't be... No. It must not be. It absolutely must not be...

Rowin gathered the collateral branches of House Crombell—kin who had suffered under the family's pruning. Among them were not only the current lord's other brothers, but Rowin's own as well.

On any ordinary day they would have asked if he had lost his mind. The moment they heard Alanaster was with him, they eagerly pledged wealth and private soldiers.

They say even a ruined rich man lasts three generations. Persecuted by the family or not, they still had money, and they hired a fair number of mercenaries.

A hundred household troops, a hundred Silver Plate Mercenaries, three hundred Bronze Plate Mercenaries.

The moment five hundred men stood assembled, Alanaster threw them around House Hiwork and sealed it in.

That day, everything inside House Hiwork was stripped to the boards and laid at Alanaster's feet. And there, the proof he had been hunting was found.

"This is House Adrian's Pleasure Powder Poison. In trace amounts it only adds a savory note, so you can hardly even call it a poison... but if you keep taking it steadily, nothing is more vicious."

At the words of the Sky Castle official Rowin had brought, Alanaster asked,

"Why?"

"...Because it turns a man into a beast. At first it dulls the sense of taste and kills the appetite. Food loses all flavor, so the victim stops eating properly, and from there the body begins to break. Chasing stimulation for a vanished palate, they put harsh liquor to their lips—and before they know it, they depend on it."

Alanaster gestured for him to continue. The official went on.

"By that stage the Pleasure Powder Poison works with the liquor to degrade the other sensory regulators, one by one. Intelligence withers. The senses a person once possessed are slowly pared away. In severe cases, they begin to feel, intermittently, as though every organ but the head has vanished. They say the sensation is almost impossible to put into words. And the one thing that eases it, however slightly, is..."

"Intercourse, I take it."

"Ah—that's right. As expected of Sir Alanaster. You're quick on the uptake."

There was no need to hear more. Alanaster waved him out, and the Sky Castle official took his pay and left.

Rowin understood, then, why his uncle had taken such an interest in the poison—and why he had hunted for House Adrian's guestbook.

"U-Uncle..."

Rowin trembled as he called to the man whose face held not a flicker of expression. Alanaster shook his head.

"What?"

That day, rebellion erupted in the City of Crombell.

The news did not take long to reach Ahental—or Count ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Crombell.