The first light crept over Tortilla like a shy guest, sliding across rooftops still wet with dew. The forges were already awake; every strike of the hammer was a heartbeat, and the smell of iron and roasted grain filled the morning air. The capital looked peaceful, but everyone knew what the bell meant today departure.
Trilla's Morning
Trilla Tortilla stirred long before sunrise.
Her room was half-lit by the soft amber glow of the lanterns, her hair in a storm around her face. Her maid, Sira, stood behind her, armed with a comb and the patience of a saint.
"Milady, if you keep squirming like that, I'll have to tie your head to the chair," Sira said.
Trilla groaned, still half-asleep. "Tell the chair to file a complaint. My scalp's under siege."
"You asked for braids fit for council, didn't you?"
"I didn't ask for scalp warfare, Sira!"
They both laughed. Then, as Sira stepped aside to fetch ribbons, Trilla's gaze wandered to the balcony. From here she could see the barracks' courtyard faintly in the distance a small patch of steel and discipline surrounded by gardens. The same garden where he had nearly desecrated the flower beds.
She snorted softly.
"The urinating captain," she murmured. "What a bastard of a first impression."
Yet, beneath her grin, something in her chest tickled not quite annoyance, not quite curiosity. He did have that look, she admitted to herself. The kind of eyes that plan things three moves ahead.
"Thinking about the council?" Sira asked, returning with the ribbons.
Trilla forced a smile. "Yes. The council."
But the truth was simpler: she was thinking about Vector the ridiculous soldier with the serious stare.
...
Vector's Preparations
Across the city, the barracks buzzed with chaos disguised as order.
Vector stood near the armory, tightening the strap of his breastplate. Lieutenant Brentford strolled by, chewing on a piece of dried meat like it was a cigar.
"You sure you're ready, Captain? Last time you left the city, you forgot your own damn map," Brentford said.
"That was a test," Vector replied flatly. "To see if my men could navigate without me."
"And they got lost in a swamp."
"Exactly. Failed the test."
Brentford shook his head. "You're a strange bastard, Stratamorph."
Vector smirked. "And yet, here I am, your commanding officer."
Nearby, Furi Wetland, the strategist aide, was hunched over a glowing projection table, adjusting topographical maps of Rathos Valley. His dark skin shimmered faintly in the blue light as he muttered equations.
"These new supply routes will reduce travel time by twenty-three percent, but only if the mules don't eat the rations again."
Vector blinked. "We have mules?"
Furi looked up. "Not anymore."
"Gahhh… fine. Replace them with oxen."
From the stables, Tobara, the nervous recruit, tripped over a saddle strap and almost flattened a bucket of feed. "S-sorry, sir!"
Vector sighed. "Breathe, Tobara. You're shaking like a shrimp in a thunderstorm."
"Yes, sir! I-I mean, no, sir!"
Brentford chuckled. "The gods save us all."
...
(The city gathers)
By midmorning, the departure bell rang deep and steady. Citizens lined the stone streets to watch the convoy form. Banners bearing the crest of Tortilla fluttered, and soldiers tightened formation under the watchful eye of Edna Acdovitch, the senior officer. Her voice carried like a whip through the courtyard.
"Check your gear, your blades, your minds! The road will not forgive fools!"
Vector saluted her with a respectful nod. "We're ready, General."
She studied him for a moment. "See that you stay ready. The empire may joke about your strategies, but today, Captain, they'll depend on them."
He grinned faintly. "Then I'll make sure they're worth depending on."
Edna smirked. "Good. Try not to piss on any flower beds this time."
Brentford nearly choked laughing. "She heard about that?"
Vector rubbed his eye socket. "Apparently the whole damn city did."
....
From the Balcony
Trilla stood on her balcony now, the wind playing with the ribbons in her hair. The sunlight hit her face, warm and gold, as she leaned on the railing. Below, the army stretched out in perfect rows shields gleaming, armor humming. It was a beautiful, terrible sight.
And there, at the front, was him.
Captain Vector Breckenridge the so-called Stratamorph Cal'culus. Calm, unreadable, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he spoke to Brentford.
He looked up not at the sky, not at the crowd but directly toward her balcony.
Their eyes met.
For a heartbeat, the city went silent. The crowd's cheers dulled to a hum, and the world seemed to hold its breath. Trilla's stomach fluttered; Vector's expression softened just slightly. Then Brentford said something crude, and the captain's focus snapped away.
Trilla blinked, cheeks warm. "Idiot soldier," she muttered. "Don't look at me like that."
Sira, behind her, raised a brow. "Like what, milady?"
"Like he knows something I don't."
(Departure)
The gates of Tortilla creaked open, sunlight spilling onto the wide road ahead. Vector mounted his horse, cloak brushing the ground. Brentford rode beside him, Furi behind with maps strapped to his back, and Tobara trailing nervously.
"Forward!" Vector called.
The convoy moved, wheels rumbling, hooves pounding. The people waved. Trilla stood above it all, watching as the captain who once ruined her garden now led the empire's finest beyond the horizon.
The bell rang one last time long, low, and echoing through the city.
Somewhere deep inside her, Trilla whispered, "Go on then, bastard. Let's see what kind of story you make."