I looked back at the table, my mind already running through the logistics of a midnight raid in the heart of the capital. "Relieve them of a burden..." I murmured, testing the weight of the words. "Now, that is a story I can work with."
"I thought you might," Teodoro answered. He stood slowly, his shadow stretching across the maps as he walked to the tall window overlooking the moonlit plaza. He kept his back to me, presenting a picture of perfect innocence. "You know, Sarhento, I have a feeling that the brass key currently sitting on my table... was never actually there at all. In fact, I don't recall ever seeing it."
He continued to stare out at the streetlamps of Malolos, his reflection in the glass as still as a statue.
I looked at the heavy iron key. Its cold, metallic surface seemed to hum with an unknown prospect of what it represented. Understanding the silent contract we had just signed, I reached out and swept it off the wood. It vanished into my pocket with a dull, secret clink.
"You're right, Don Teodoro," I said quietly. "Only an empty table."
Teodoro offered a sharp, satisfied nod to his reflection in the window. "Exactly. A man who sees only what is necessary is a man who lives to see the dawn."
He turned back around, the "Godfather" mask firmly back in place. He gestured toward the door where the muffled sounds of the orchestra and the clinking of silverware drifted in. "Now, go. Your Corporal is likely wondering if I've had you executed, and your other man is undoubtedly halfway through my kitchen's supply. It would be a shame to ruin such a fine evening with 'business.'"
I walked to the door, but paused with my hand on the heavy brass handle. "Why me, Don Teodoro? You have officers in that room with more stripes on their sleeves than I have years in this war."
"Stripes are easily bought, or awarded simply for refusing to die," Teodoro said, his voice dropping into a gravelly, resonant tone as he walked back to his desk. He poured a final splash of brandy, the liquid catching the light like liquid gold.
He paused, the glass halfway to his lips, his eyes locking onto mine with a weight that seemed to strip away the sergeant's uniform and look directly at the man beneath.
"The world is full of men who can follow a map, Valerian. But it is empty of men who can see the danger before the danger itself appears. I have spent a lifetime placing bets on the hearts of men, and I have rarely lost."
He offered a thin, knowing smile—one that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes.
"It is quite simple, really. I chose you from all those people out there. So... make sure my instinct was right."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned his gaze back to the window, dismissing me with the silent expectation that I would either succeed or disappear. I reached out, the heavy iron key felt cold against my palm as I swept it off the table.
Understood the signal, I excused myself, and walked out from the room.
~~
A while later, I arrived back at the banquet. The transition was jarring; the heavy, silent tension of the study was replaced by the clinking of fine china and the soft hum of a string quartet playing a kundiman. I found Anya exactly where I had left her, standing near a tall pillar of polished marble. Her eyes immediately darted to my face, then to the slight weight in my pocket, then back to my eyes. She didn't say a word, but the slight tension in her jaw told me she knew the "talk" had resulted in a burden.
"Boss," she said, her voice a low, neutral simmer. "You still have your head. That is a promising start."
Before I could respond, Isabel stepped out from the crowd, her silk dress shimmering under the chandeliers. She looked between us, her expression a mix of curiosity and genuine concern.
"I hope my father wasn't too tight on you, Valerian," she said, resting a hand lightly on Anya's arm. "He has a habit of testing people until they crack. He forgets that not everyone is a politician or a merchant."
I offered her a reassuring, practiced smile—the kind I used back in the modern world to put clients at ease. "Not at all, Isabel. It was just business. Your father simply has a very... thorough way when it comes to discussing matters especially business. But from where I see, he's quite a man."
"Business," Isabel sighed, shaking her head. "It is always business with him, even in the middle of a celebration. Just ensure you don't let him lead you into deep waters, Valerian. He likes to see who can swim."
"Then I'll keep my head above the waves," I promised.
As Isabel was pulled away by another group of guests, I turned my attention to the long banquet table. I hadn't eaten properly since the raid on the American outpost, and the sight of the spread was enough to make me forget the weight of the key for a moment.
"Since we're here, Anya, we might as well make the most of the Santos' hospitality," I said, picking up a silver plate. "The Don said to enjoy the food. It would be a shame to disobey an order like that."
I took my time, weaving through the crowd to sample the riches of Malolos. There was lechon with skin so crisp it snapped like parchment, and pancit tossed with fresh seafood from the nearby coast. I found a quiet corner near the balcony where the air was cooler, leaning against the stone railing as I ate.
Watching the ilustrados and the officers laugh and toast to a victory that was still miles away, I felt like an outsider looking through a window. They saw a grand revolution; while I saw a prospects and opportunity to take supplies and for my dreams. To be the generals, and who knows, the ruler. But for now, with the taste of rich food and the distant sound of the piano, I allowed myself to simply be a guest in Malolos.
"Enjoy it while it lasts, boss," Anya murmured, appearing beside me with a small glass of water. "While the night will be comes, we still have things to do in the barracks."
"I know," I replied, finishing the last of the food. "But a well-fed soldier fights twice as hard as a hungry one. Tell Pasco to finish his third plate. We have enough around here."
~~
I leaned against the marble railing of the balcony, a small plate of adobo del Diablo in one hand, watching the room with the detached clarity that only a high-stakes mission could provide. Anya stood beside me, her silhouette sharp against the warm glow of the chandeliers. Even in a civilian dress, she carried herself with a rigid poise that suggested a hidden blade.
But as you know, the peace didn't last.
From the crowd, a man approached. He was dressed in a tailored rayadillo tunic—one of the few who hadn't changed into civilian clothes—bearing the stripes of a Kapitan. He walked with the swagger of a man who believed the capital was his personal playground.
"Señorita," the Kapitan said, his voice loud enough to draw a few wandering eyes. He offered a shallow, arrogant bow. "A night this beautiful is wasted without a dance. I invite you to join me for a dance."
Anya didn't even turn her head to look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the darkened gardens. "I am not here to dance, Señor. My apologies."
The Kapitan's smile faltered, replaced by a flash of annoyance. He stepped closer, invading her personal space. "Come now darling. Don't be so cold. The Republic is celebrating, and a woman of your grace should be at the center of it. One dance. I won't take no for an answer."
"Then you should start practicing," Anya replied, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy level. "Because my answer remains the same."
The man's face reddened. He reached out, his hand closing firmly around Anya's forearm to pull her toward the center of the room. "I said, I insist."
Before he could pull her a single inch, I stepped between them. I didn't reach for a weapon—I didn't need to. I simply placed my hand over his, my grip tightening with the mechanical precision of someone used to handling heavy machinery.
"If I may, the lady has made her position clear, Kapitan," I said, my voice low and steady, vibrating with a quiet threat. I looked him dead in the eye, letting the 'tactical paranoia' I usually reserved for the trenches leak out into my expression. "It's just a banquet, not a conscription. Please, take your hand off her."
The Kapitan froze. He looked at my civilian clothes, then at my eyes, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to reach for the saber at his hip. He was intimidated—I could see the slight tremor in his fingers—but his pride wouldn't let him back down in front of the ilustrados.
"And who are you to interfere?" he spat, puffing out his chest. "Some clerk? A merchant's assistant? You have no idea who you are talking to."
"I know exactly who I'm talking to," I countered, stepping into his space until we were inches apart. "A man who is making a scene in the Don's house. Is that the 'honor' they teach in your battalion?"
He snarled, his hand twitching toward his belt. "You insolent—. I am Kapitan—"
"I'm afraid that would be all, Kapitan. Now knock it off."
A calm, authoritative voice cut through the tension. A middle-aged gentleman in a dark, impeccable suit stepped forward, holding a crystal glass of sherry. He didn't raise his voice, but the entire circle of onlookers went silent the moment he spoke. He gave the Kapitan a look of bored disappointment.
"This is a house of celebration, not a cockfight," the gentleman said, adjusted his spectacles. "And more importantly, Kapitan, a gentleman of the Republic should know better than to force a woman to dance if she has no desire for it. It reflects poorly on the uniform you're so keen to show off."
The Kapitan's bravado vanished instantly. He snapped his hand back as if he'd been burned, offering a stiff, humiliated bow to the gentleman. "My apologies, Señor. I... I meant no offense."
"Then find someone who does want to dance," the gentleman replied, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist.
As the Kapitan retreated into the crowd, his face burning with shame, the gentleman turned to us. He gave me a sharp, knowing look—the kind of look one professional gives another.
"A spirited defense, young man," he noted, taking a sip of his sherry. "But try to keep the blood off the narra floors. The Don just had them polished."
He wandered back into the crowd before I could thank him. Anya exhaled, the tension finally leaving her shoulders, though she immediately began rubbing her wrist where the man had grabbed her.
"I had it under control, Valerian," she murmured, though there was a faint softening in her eyes.
"I know you did," I replied, stepping closer so our shoulders brushed, shielded by the shadow of the balcony pillar.
Slowly, she reached out and briefly touched the sleeve of my civilian shirt, her fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. Her fingers traced the fabric for a lingering moment, a silent acknowledgment of the debt she wasn't quite ready to voice aloud. Leaning in, she murmured, "You're becoming a habit, Valerian. Thank you... I appreciate it."
I become quite shocked, did not expect the act from cold Anya. I regain my composure and maintain the steadiness.
"Well, its time for us to return then," I noted. "Let's get Pasco and get out of here before he tries to marry the kitchen staff."
Anya's serious expression shattered. She burst into a sudden, genuine laugh—a bright, clear sound that seemed to startle even her. It was the first time I'd heard her truly laugh, and for a heartbeat, the war felt a thousand miles away.
"Let's do it," she agreed.