TWWSY 62

Chapter 62

The silence stretched on until Marcel shifted uncomfortably. The box he was sitting on creaked beneath him.

“Um, C–Commander. If you would permit me… I have something else I wish to say.”

Étienne raised one eyebrow. Something else? He could inspect the state of his soldiers, yes—but he could not bend the rules of military life simply because they were struggling.

Neither tragic death nor crushing defeat ever arrived with “convenience.” No matter how dispirited they were, the men had to keep training with the others.

He hasn’t asked for special favors yet… so hearing him out won’t hurt.

With that thought, Étienne spoke.

“Go on.”

As if seeking permission even now, Marcel glanced sideways at Alain before speaking. Alain looked baffled but gave him a small nod.

Afraid Alain might try to stop him, Marcel’s words tumbled out in a rush.

“So… we, we’ve been talking among ourselves. About what might have happened if things had been… different. If—well, if…”

“If the operations officer, Lady Mia Blanchard, had done something—anything at all—then Frambet might still be alive. That’s what I wanted to say.”

Alain, unusually sharp, cut in. His childhood friend’s fumbling words seemed to grate on him. Marcel flinched at his tone.

Étienne’s jaw tightened. Why is Mia being brought up here?

When that soldier, Frambet, died, Mia hadn’t even been present. She hadn’t been given a chance to do anything, let alone “save” him.

But… this was an opportunity to hear the men’s candid thoughts about Mia’s reputation.

They’re emotionally unstable right now. That means they’ll be more honest.

Scolding them would do little good—and it certainly wouldn’t help Mia. Instead, Étienne carefully masked his expression.

“What do you mean? I recall Blanchard wasn’t even there.”

“Of course, she wasn’t there,” Marcel stammered. “But she must have known it was dangerous for two men to go alone—she had my report. She couldn’t not have known…”

He took a breath and pressed on.

“Frambet was reckless. If she had just forbidden him from going, or if she had gone with him herself… I don’t know. But I can’t help but think she could have done something.”

Perhaps taking Étienne’s silence as permission, Marcel’s words spilled out like a floodgate bursting. He raked his hand nervously through his hair again and again, widening his already high forehead.

Beside him, Alain nodded fiercely. His eyes blazed with emotions he dared not voice directly to the corps commander.

“That’s exactly it. Lady Blanchard doesn’t seem to care about us—about ordinary soldiers at all. No, it’s not just the common troops. It feels like she doesn’t care for anyone.”

“…”

“I understand, to a point! She’s not like us, is she? What does a noblewoman, dropped into an officer’s chair without any effort, really know?”

“Blanchard has already proven her abilities to some extent in past operations,” Étienne countered evenly.

“But can a handful of operational successes compare to years of real combat experience? The Goddess may have entrusted her with a role on the battlefield, but surely She didn’t mean for her to throw herself into war directly. And even if She did, She could not have meant her to lead. What she’s doing is blatant overreach.”

“…”

Étienne listened intently. The distant clamor of the camp faded, drowned beneath the soldiers’ anger.

The truth—that he and Mia were not genuine lovers—was known only to the two of them. They had publicly declared themselves as such, so this disrespect was not born from ignorance of their supposed relationship.

Rather, it was because they believed he alone had the authority to rein Mia in.

That they spoke so freely, with no hint of caution even before his face, meant her reputation truly had sunk that low.

But if I told Mia to stay away from operations now, the consequences would be disastrous.

Étienne thought idly as he promised to “consider it.” Even setting aside the fact that Mia’s plans were strategically sound, their wish simply could not be granted.

“And the battle itself… it was strange,” Marcel added belatedly as the conversation wound down.

“Strange? Be more specific.”

“It was… it was different from what we’re used to.”

Étienne felt his composure slipping. To say only that it was “different” was useless.

“In what way?” he pressed.

This time Alain answered for his friend.

“It’s hard to pin down, but… they didn’t seem to value their own lives. They fought more… aggressively. Recklessly.”

He frowned, struggling to find the right words for the images in his mind.

Étienne rose, commending them for their honesty. Their testimony was too vague to craft real countermeasures, but not dismissible either.

There must be other clues beyond “different.”

It was a commander’s duty to uncover them.

“Did you hear that?”

“What do you mean?”

“The conversation at that table over there.”

“…Sounded like ordinary gambling talk to me.”

“No, before that.”

Mia’s conviction that one must visit taverns to truly grasp the state of a region had not wavered, even with the worsening tides of war. She had even used the disguise device she’d once received from Heron. At her side, Étienne hunched in his cloak, hood pulled low.

Her sudden question made Étienne puzzle for some time before hazarding a guess.

“The… distillery?”

“Yes. The distillery. That’s the fourth time today I’ve heard it mentioned.”

Étienne blinked in confusion and nodded slowly. He had been paying little attention to the chatter, not knowing what to listen for. The workings of some “distillery” hardly seemed worth his notice.

But Mia, rolling her cup in her hand, tuned her ears to the flow of conversations around them.

The more she listened, the clearer it became: the distillery was the hottest money-making venture in Mainzat. Though physically located in a far-off city, it had been built with the heavy sponsorship of Marquis An, and so Mainzat folk were easily welcomed there.

The profits it generated each month were said to be astronomical. So much so that anyone who tasted its “fortune” once could never leave again. Countless young men had already chased dreams of sudden wealth straight into its doors.

It was suspicious from the start. Even the name—“distillery”—was odd. If its liquor had made such a name for itself, then surely the city that housed it should be famous as well. Why, then, did no one ever name the city?

Two possibilities presented themselves.

First: they were hiding something.
Second: the place didn’t truly exist.

And Marquis An—the notoriously tightfisted man—would never pour “vast sums” into an ordinary business. The whole thing reeked of something foul.

Pondering, Mia turned to Étienne.

“Do you remember Shatten?”

Étienne nodded gravely. How could he forget? That nameless, illicit spirit—traded in shadows without even an official label. He had once nearly succumbed to addiction himself after drinking it.