It was a three-story building of stone and timber, nestled just beside the town square. The town hall. Despite its size, it looked modest — sturdy, practical, and plain, like most of Luska. Its front double doors were open, letting in the warm breeze of the late morning sun. Corvin stepped inside.
He saw them right away.
Moxa was leaning against a wooden post, arms folded behind his head. Catherine — no, Victor now — sat quietly nearby, posture stiff and reserved. Both of them turned when he entered. There was… another waiting line.
'Of course there is…' Corvin lampooned.
He walked to the front desk and handed over the parchment he had received. The clerk barely looked at him. They scribbled something down and told him to wait with the others until called. No explanation, just routine. He returned to the bench and sat down next to Moxa and Catherine.
"Look at us," Moxa said, breaking the silence with a smirk. "The brightest minds of Luska. A scholar, an overconfident ghost, and a guard. We're either the heroes of tomorrow… or the cheapest names on the list."
Corvin gave a faint smile. Catherine, still adjusting to acting as a man, only scoffed and rolled her eyes.
Moxa nudged Corvin's shoulder lightly. "Think we'll get sent to sweep stables or clean pots?"
"Maybe both," Corvin muttered.
Catherine's lips twitched like she wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Instead, she picked at the edge of her sleeve.
They kept talking. About nothing. Joking, jabbing — the kind of words used to fill space more than to say anything real. Victor's foot tapped. Moxa yawned twice in as many minutes. Corvin's fingers played with the frayed edge of his shirt.
Eventually, names were called. One by one.
Moxa — reconnaissance unit.
Victor — reconnaissance unit.
Corvin — reconnaissance unit.
The three of them blinked. Moxa leaned forward first.
"Recon?" he said. "Why in the world would they put a guard, a woman in man's clothing, and a string bean in recon?"
Catherine crossed her arms.
"They must want us dead."
Corvin shook his head, baffled.
"It makes no sense. Why even bother taking this long to assign us something this generic?"
"I thought it'd be something special, like 'Chief of Mule Feeding and Logistics Clerk Corvin' after all this waiting," Moxa added, amused.
They had hoped to be assigned somewhere in the logistics team — it was the safest.
Were they frustrated? Yes. They had waited the entire afternoon just for some generic roles that clearly had no thought behind them. But still, they accepted it. What else could they do?
They exchanged parting glances, awkward and quiet, then headed home separately with nothing but their assignment in hand.
...
By the time Corvin returned, the sun was low. A burnt orange haze stretched across the rooftops of Luska. His stomach ached — not from nerves, just hunger. The town hall had taken the whole day.
He went to the kitchen to take out some bread to satisfy his hunger. There, his mother and sister greeted him.
His mother wiped her hands on her apron and pulled him into a hug before he could say anything.
"You're late," she said softly. "We were starting to worry."
Jelena took her hand off the book she was reading, seated on a chair behind their mother.
"Did they make you sweep the whole place or something?"
Corvin smiled faintly, shrugging off the tension in his shoulders.
"Took longer than I thought. Paperwork. Standing. A lot of standing."
"So?" his mother asked, eyes narrowing. "Where did they put you?"
"Recon unit."
There was a beat of silence.
Jelena blinked.
"Wait, like... scouting? Sneaking around? That kind of recon?"
"That kind," Corvin said. "Same as Moxa and Catherine — who goes by the name Victor. We're all assigned together."
His mother's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't speak for a moment, then reached out to brush his hair back — a habit from childhood.
"You'll stay with them," she said. "Watch each other's backs. That's something."
Jelena made a small noise.
"You better not get in trouble!"
Corvin gave her a crooked smile.
"I'm responsible, unlike you, you know."
His mother and sister would continue to ask about the potential dangers, but Corvin brushed it off. He convinced them there would be no danger. Nothing special. Nothing scary. Nothing to worry about. Lies of comfort. Half-truths.
But they believed him. Or maybe they wanted to.
*Lies truly soothe the mind.* Corvin exhaled slowly, as if he had shrugged off a mountain.
Afterwards, he went to his room to pack.
There wasn't much. A few shirts, an extra pair of trousers, some rolled socks — all stuffed into an old cloth bag. It didn't take long, but he lingered anyway, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at nothing in particular. The air was still. The silence, full.
Dinner came.
They ate together, as always. His mother added herbs to the stew she usually saved for special occasions. Jelena had managed to trade for a soft wedge of cheese. They didn't say it was a farewell dinner, but everyone felt it.
His mother asked about little things — did he have enough socks, would he take the knife from the drawer. His father lectured him about working etiquette: how he should follow orders and not question them, how the kingdom highly valued order in everything. Though he had never joined the army, he had enough experience in life to give that advice.
Jelena slipped a charm of knotted string beside his cup and muttered, "It's for luck, don't mock it."
Corvin didn't. He tied it to the strap of his bag.
They laughed more than they usually did.
Not because anything was particularly funny — but because it was needed.
...
Elsewhere, Moxa was at home, tossing food into his mouth while his younger siblings hounded him with questions. His father grunted approval between sips of soup. His mother smiled the way all mothers do when they're worried but don't want to show it.
"You better not die," his younger brother warned.
"I'm immortal," Moxa said with a grin. "Ask anyone."
His mother rolled her eyes and handed him a second helping.
...
Catherine sat at a small table with her older brother. Their home was unremarkable, tucked between two shops near the southern edge of Luska.
Dinner was simple: beans, bread, and wilted greens. Her brother ate quickly, glancing up now and then as if searching her face for clues.
"So," he said finally, "you're going."
Catherine nodded, wiping her mouth.
"Remember to take care of our parents. If something happens to them, I'll come back and haunt you."
"I'll try my best."
He was quiet for a second. Then, pushing his plate aside, he leaned forward and said,
"Just… come back. I'll take care of our parents. Don't do anything stupid trying to be brave. Come back in person — don't haunt me as a ghost."
Catherine snorted.
"No promises."
Still, she smiled and reached out to ruffle his hair.
He pushed her hand away, but didn't stop smiling.
---
On the third floor of the town hall, Mayor Harven sat in his office.
His advisor stood nearby, brows furrowed, frustration barely restrained.
"This isn't what the Count asked for," the advisor said, voice sharp. "He contacted us two nights ago — arcane communication. Urgent? Yes, but he didn't demand a full-scale draft. Other cities were called too. We could've sent the town's garrison and do a normal draft and been done with it. Why strip every household of one able-bodied soul? We're vulnerable now—"
Harven didn't respond.
He sat still in his chair, eyes half-lidded, expressionless. The candlelight cast tall shadows behind him, but his face remained calm.
The advisor blinked. His mouth opened slightly — then closed. His brows unknitted. The tension in his shoulders slackened. His eyes lost focus for a moment.
"I… what was I saying?"
He frowned, shook his head, and turned away.
"I'll… I'll check on the planning," he mumbled, walking out.
Harven remained where he was.
His left eye dimmed — not black, but veiled in threads of white light wrapped like faint chains around a shifting core. A false star in a hollow sky.