Arcadia regarded the prisoners with a glare so piercing it seemed to strip them down to their very essence. His loathing wasn’t simply professional—it was ingrained, the result of years spent under the rigid mold of Khijovian military doctrine, which had taught him to view all outsiders as threats, not individuals. Tolerance, for him, was not a virtue but a vulnerability.
Now, standing mere steps from the captured intruders, that ingrained suspicion hardened into something darker. A flicker of unease flashed in his eyes—an instinctive fear, perhaps, of what these grotesque, alien beings might be capable of. But the fear was fleeting, quickly buried beneath a much deeper emotion: disgust. It twisted in his gut like a sickness, as though the very sight of these foreign bodies on Khijovian soil was a desecration. Their presence wasn’t just unwelcome—it was offensive, an insult to the sanctity of a nation that had fought for centuries to preserve its sovereignty, its purity, its way of life. To Arcadia, they were not prisoners of war. They were contaminants.
Khijovia’s cultural longevity owed much to its uncompromising isolationism—a nation shaped by centuries of deliberate detachment from the outside world, where even the whisper of foreign influence was treated with suspicion. This resistance to external contact had hardened into something deeper over time, an almost pathological xenophobia woven into the national identity.
Arcadia was the living embodiment of this ethos. His patriotism ran cold and absolute, not born of pride but of duty—unyielding, severe, and intolerant. The mere idea of compromise with outsiders was, to him, a betrayal of everything Khijovia stood for.
His expression darkened, jaw set with grim resolve, as he handed the device back to the female detainee—his movements sharp, almost disdainful. Without a word, he gave Qelan and his men a curt signal to proceed, the order clear in the rigid angle of his hand.
Then he turned to the cavalry, rain streaming from the brim of his hat, and his voice cut through the downpour like a blade. «Return to base and ready the cells!»
Four of the riders were singled out with a sharp glance, summoned with a flick of his fingers to board the Carnesia as reinforcement. The Nako mounts were guided carefully up the gangplank—lowered and held steady by the deckhands—then firmly tethered to the mooring posts onboard. Their hooves thudded dully against the planks as the storm rumbled on. Arcadia followed close behind Qelan’s squad, his presence a silent but unrelenting pressure as they marched the prisoners aboard the aethermotive. His gaze never wavered, tracking each movement with a calculated, icy vigilance.
Below deck, the captives were confined to a narrow, steel-clad cell tucked deep in the aft section—a space more suited for cargo than people. Damp, dark, and stiflingly tight, it left no illusion of comfort or dignity.
With everyone secured and the ship sealed, Trierarch Korivia issued the launch order. The engines roared to life, and with a surge of thrumming energy, the Carnesia lifted from the shoreline, its hull groaning against the wind as it climbed into the storm-heavy skies once more—bound for Beldore, rain and lightning lashing across its frame.
