Aleksander paused while pulling on his plain muslin shirt. His skin was already a constellation map of scars, but most of those marks had long since faded to pink-tinged silver. Now there was a puckered red line stretching across the expanse of his ribs, stark against faintly mottled flesh. At least the wounds had stopped weeping pus, but he knew that they would join the ranks of all his scars.

Another line. It doesn't matter. But it did— not that he had been wounded, since that had happened more times than he could count, but who he had been wounded for. He curled his lip. The Laniková girl.

Letting go of the shirt hem, he grabbed his uniform jacket, slipped it on, and buttoned it up to his throat. Anything less would be punishable, and that was the last thing he needed. With that, he climbed up the stairs and away from the cells, heading in the direction of the larders. He hadn't had a thing to eat in at least a day, certainly an honest mistake on the guards' part as they handed out food to every occupied cell but his. In any event, he could intimidate the men watching the larders. Half of the time, they were sneaking food themselves, and he could hold that over them while he stole whatever he wanted. His stomach growled in anticipation.

The larders were in the opposite direction from the barracks: to the left and up another flight of stairs. There was another near the kitchen, but in his opinion, it was better to go to a higher floor than it was to deal with the chef, who slept near the warmth of the ovens cradling a ladle like a newborn. The man knew how to use it, too. So Aleksander passed the barracks and stepped out into the Rotunda, glancing around to make sure he was alone before ascending the stairs and stepping into the hall.

About to round the corner to the larders, he heard the slight creak of a door and stopped. Likely just another noble who had cornered a maid; he didn't need to risk angering whichever courtier it was by walking in on it. But there was something odd here— no footsteps. It was too close to dawn to begin anything, and usually the maid scurried away before she could be caught and face reprisals. A moment later, the short, sharp clack of men's shoes reached his ears. A languid pace, unhurried...

Making sure that his shadow remained out of sight under the gas lamps, he took one noiseless step and then another. The man was turning the corner at the end of the hall, but there was no doubt in Aleksander's mind as to who it was. That was a face he had dreamed of kicking into a bloody mess for almost ten years.

Food could wait. He didn't know which room Marek had been in, but he would search all of these apartments to find even the smallest clue of what his half-brother had been up to. It wasn't like Marek to keep his lovers secret, but there were plenty of things that he did in the shadows. If there was a woman in there, sex wasn't what he wanted. It was merely a means to an end.

The door creaked open once more and Aleksander ducked back. It couldn't be as simple as a late-night tryst, so who was this woman and what was Marek after? Once he felt sure that she wouldn't see him, he took another step... and froze. Glancing down the hallway, head tilted, was a figure not in the clothes of a woman and too short to be an adult— a boy. And not just any boy.

Aleksander had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. Ah, Marek. It would have been better for you if this were a woman. As the young king stepped out into the hall, Aleksander pressed against the banister and waited. Anyone with two functioning eyes in their skull could see that this was not meant to be discovered, but what exactly were they doing? Better yet, how could he use it? If he rushed in and confronted Marek now, then the advantage he had was squandered. Best to think about it and come up with a plan; besides, judging by the light on the horizon, it wasn't long until sunrise, and so it wasn't long until the morning drills.

Waiting a few moments until the boy king was out of earshot as well as sight, he finally continued on his way. When he reached the larders, only one guard was standing outside, meaning the other was inside and presumably snatching anything he thought wouldn't be noticed. Aleksander shoved the one guard aside, ignoring his protests, and stepped inside.

A skinny, pale-haired soldier was holding a strip of dried meat in one hand while his beady eyes darted up to the ceiling, where salted and smoked meats hung in order to be tenderized. These were often brought in for the queen's breakfast, so the soldier could only stare longingly— if he stole these, it would be noticed easily.

Rolling his eyes, Aleksander pushed past that soldier too, rummaging through the contents of the shelves and grabbing some of the smaller strips of meat that were less likely to be missed. He longed for the fresh, warm meals that had always been available at Pevnost Dukovníka, but the newly-killed game hung in the larder downstairs, and he had neither the time nor the ability to make anything out of it.

He tore into one of the strips and chewed, savoring the rich flavor of it. Halfway through his stolen meal, he noticed the other soldier staring at him. The man was probably longing to report him, and likely could without repercussions. But not without repercussions from me, Aleksander thought.

"Tell anyone that I was here," he said, "and you'll be hanging up there with the rest of the meat."

The flicker of fear in the soldier's eyes reassured him that his thievery would remain a secret. Satisfied, he left, biting off another chunk of meat on his way down to the barracks. It was going to be a good day.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

The woods east of Avmakt were mostly cleared, timber used as fuel in the city's booming manufacturing industry, but a small copse of trees still remained. Roll had already been called, and Aleksander's platoon had split off to come here— they were the first group performing this drill today; the late king had demanded that all of the city's soldiers were well-prepared for attacks.

Not that it helped him any. The late king had died choking on his own vomit, completely alone except for the queen. But the queen had ordered that they continue the drills, and so they stood at the edge of the trees, early morning light filtering through the leaves and shining off of buttons, medals, and bayonets.

Captain Sigurdssen, Nilssen's subordinate, was at the head of the group. He patted the trunk of one of the trees with a thin-fingered hand. As far as officers went, he was one of the better ones in Aleksander's eyes— regardless of what he thought, he treated Aleksander the same as any other soldier, although that was possibly because someone as young as he was had never been personally affected by what Aleksander had done in the past.

"Dann lag!" called Sigurdssen, and the soldiers sprang into action.

At intervals roughly four body-lengths apart, the platoon divided into squads, each soldier straight-backed and with their rifles across their chests. His wasn't loaded; it never was unless he went into battle, just as a precaution.

"You lot, into the woods. You'll play the enemy soldiers today." Sigurdssen pointed at a couple of squads, who marched into the dense covering of trees, leaving three behind. After a few minutes, the captain said, "Jakt på dem."

Aleksander looked over at the other squads, one to his left and the other to his right. Both of the squad leaders there nodded at him— it was a drill they had all done before, and so the strategy remained as it was. Rifles at the ready, he and the soldiers behind him crept into the woods, leaves crunching under their boots.

Moravský soldiers preferred fighting in forests and among town buildings; the closely-packed trees and structures made it difficult for Rikensk soldiers to use their superior speed, and there were plenty of places to hide and ambush men, debilitating them with fear and pain before sweeping out and shooting them. If they were on a flat plain, they tried to counter the speed and height difference by fighting on horseback.

The more useful strategies were to flush them out with fire or to sneak in and slaughter them in their camps, but naturally, the chance wasn't always there. And so stealth and faster reflexes were essential. Aleksander took higher steps than usual, rolling each foot forward as it came down so that the rustle and crack of leaves and sticks was minimal. He swiveled his head from side to side, never once looking at the ground, searching for minute hints of movement and keeping his ears pricked for the slightest sound. He paused and took a more thorough look every now and again, making sure that he was behind a tree or some sort of cover every time.

The snap of a twig sounded behind him and he whirled around. A young soldier, baby-faced and with eyes as wide as a dying hart's, stared at him, completely pale.

"Quiet," Aleksander growled, and the soldier nodded fervently.

Turning back, he was about to continue once more when he heard one of the other soldiers.

"It doesn't matter, Amund. Calm yourself."

He stopped and faced them again. "It matters when he gets us killed."

The other soldier sneered. "He's less likely to get us killed than you, moravskansk. You and those damned mongrels like you."

Aleksander considered bayoneting the man in the throat, just for the irony of it. At the very least, the gargling noise would be nicer than hearing him speak, but that would cause more problems than the man was worth. Letting out a snarl, he turned and resumed his cautious march.

The faintest sound of murmurs reached his ears. The two squads were aware that they were being encircled slowly but were unable to do anything about it for the sake of the drill; of course they knew it was not real, but being the target of rifles was always an uncomfortable experience. At the sight of blue uniforms through the trees, he stopped. It was important to proceed carefully, but even more important was the idea that had entered his mind.

Mongrels like you. He smiled. He knew what to demand of Marek now, how he was going to take his revenge— and he couldn't help the rush of joy that he would force Marek into completing a step toward his own downfall.

Bringing his rifle up to eye level, he crept forward. In older days, red-clad soldiers would have been following him, honored to even be in his presence. In older days, he would have pulled the trigger and watched the stain of blood spread across an enemy soldier's chest. Now he had to settle for the few times he was let off the leash.

He aimed at a brown-haired soldier and squeezed the trigger lightly, not enough to do anything. On the opposite side of the two squads, he could see the rifles of the other squads. Not anywhere near as simple as a real battle would be, but a success all the same.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Night had fallen, something Aleksander had been waiting for impatiently. He'd had to check himself more than once from seeking out his half-brother, eager to watch that smile freeze and wilt. Leaning against the door to Marek's apartments, he picked at his nails and waited.

Finally, finally, Marek appeared. Aleksander saw the polished shoes rounding the corner first, then the rest of the man. Marek never halted his stride, seemingly apathetic to the sight of him, but Aleksander noticed the fractional narrowing of his eyes as he came closer. Being half a head taller than Marek, he took full advantage of it to step forward and loom over him now, unable to contain a grin.

Marek, to his credit, contained everything as always: his face was perfectly blank and he looked as if he were completely undaunted. Perhaps he was, but Aleksander would change that soon enough.

His half-brother opened the door and held it, gesturing for Aleksander to go ahead. He did, perching on the edge of Marek's desk chair and grabbing one of the journals resting neatly in a pile on the surface. Flipping it open to a random page, he ran his finger under the words. He'd never understood how Marek could read his own handwriting, but he figured that if the man could read people in seconds, then some scrawled letters on a page probably weren't much of an effort.

Maybe if they can't read your handwriting, they won't realize what a one-sided deal you're offering.

Marek rested against the wall, arms folded. "How can I help you, Aleksander?"

"You're going to give me the commander."

"Oh, certainly." Marek pushed away from the wall and came to stand in front of him, letting out a short laugh. "Even if I had the inclination to send you to Moravsko— and I do not— then I would have to convince the queen. Seems like a lot of effort toward my own detriment, doesn't it?"

"But you're going to do it anyway."

"And why is that?"

He was enjoying this, getting drunk on this. Leaning forward with his hands on his knees, he said, "Because I saw you and the boy king, together. Now, that wouldn't be so unusual... if you weren't sneaking around before sunrise. This information can float around the castle, or it can stay between us."

The corner of Marek's mouth quirked up in a half-smile. "And who exactly would you share that with?"

"I'm not choosy."

"You have no friends here. Not among the nobles, not among the soldiers, not among the servants. No one is willing to listen to you, much less believe you. So perhaps I'm not terribly inclined to work with you."

"You have no friends here, either. Little foreign-born bastard contending for power— I think nobles would be happy to have something over you. Why don't we find out?"

Marek shifted his weight to one foot, head tilted. "What if I offer you something better? What if I offer you... her?"

"Why, so I can do your work for you?" He snorted. "No, I want the commander."

"There's nothing to stop you from telling, but the queen won't want those rumors, and I'm sure she would like to end them at the source. Advantages and disadvantages. At some point, you are more of a risk than an asset. The deal's still on the table: the queen for a truce between us."

"I'm not your dog. Give me what I ask for, or I'll bury a knife in your lying mouth."

"All right, Aleksander." Marek's voice was soft, low. "Then give me time."

"A week."

"Longer."

"A week and a half," he said reluctantly. "No longer than that."

"Very well." Marek stretched out a hand and Aleksander shook it, wanting to crush the bones to powder.

Standing, he headed toward the door, but Marek called out to him before he left.

"Remember, Aleš, I can talk to the queen and I can make her think you're a threat to her boy. I can take your petty dreams of revenge and bring them down around your feet. I can have you beaten until there's nothing left of you— and I can do it with a single word to the right person." His lips curled up in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "So how about a truce between us?"

Aleksander smiled back. "A truce."

Knowing that Marek fully intended to stab him in the back, and knowing that he was ready to do the same, he walked away with a plan in mind, his grin broadening until it hurt. Even Marek wouldn't be prepared for the game he was about to play— his half-brother was not the only other piece on the chessboard.

Welp. It's been a bit. I thank essays, exams, the holiday seasons, and my recent obsession with abstract drawings and a certain Netflix TV show for this delay. But... it's here now, so...

Dann lag (DAHN | LAHK): Literally "form squad", although if you try to Google Translate it, it'll give you something different.

Jakt på dem (YAHKT | POH | DEHM): Literally "hunt for them", but we'd say "hunt them down". 

All the military fighting strategy remains (somewhat) true to real life, but I've adapted it for magic-wielding soldiers. I tried to keep the idea of 1800s larders and industrialism as well. I should also mention that I 100% do not agree with Aleksander's thoughts on the maid early in the chapter, but it's unfortunately true to his character.