Briefing

Alaric and Eldmund stood outside the imposing debrief room, their anticipation hanging heavy in the air as they exchanged hushed words. The dimly lit corridors of the duchy's administrative wing seemed to amplify the gravity of their task.

"Three days should be sufficient to conclude affairs," Alaric murmured urgently, his voice barely audible amidst the solemnity of their surroundings. "We must ensure that the remaining two days of the temporary city lockdown are utilized effectively to cleanse and eliminate any lingering threats."

Eldmund's expression mirrored Alaric's seriousness as he nodded in agreement. "Yes, we must act with precise swiftness to maintain control."

As Alaric readied himself to enter the debrief room, Eldmund spoke up, determination evident in his voice. "I will join you for the debriefing, brother. It will save time for us to hear the information together with everyone else."

Alaric offered a grateful nod to his loyal sibling, appreciative of his unwavering support. "Thank you, Eldmund. That saves us a lot of time."

Before they could take another step, Sirus, their trusted aide, appeared from behind the debrief room door with a composed yet alert demeanour. "My lords," he greeted them with a respectful bow, "the stage has been set for your arrival. Please enter for the debriefing."

With a shared look that conveyed their unspoken understanding and determination, Alaric and Eldmund followed Sirus into the debrief room, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead in their mission to protect their duchy and its people.

The heavy doors to the command chamber swung open with an ominous creak, and Alaric stepped through the threshold with Eldmund at his side. A sea of steel-clad soldiers snapped to attention, their disciplined silence filling the room like a tangible presence. Sirus, a mountain of a man with a scar bisecting one eyebrow, advanced towards them. His gaze briefly met Alaric's, a flash of acknowledgement before he ushered Eldmund towards an imposing chair set off to one side of the room.

 "Lord Eldmund," Sirus intoned, the title resonating with deference as Eldmund took his seat. Alaric noted the glance his brother shot him—a mixture of pride and encouragement—before turning away, giving Alaric the floor. Formalities. 

Alaric's boots clicked against the stone as he made his way to the centre of the room. The assembled warriors watched him, their faces a hardened tapestry of scars and solemn oaths. He was acutely aware of his youth, a mere sixteen winters to his name, yet the eyes that held his bore no trace of doubt. Instead, in that forest of stern gazes, he found respect. It was a respect born from reputation, from the stories of his strategic prowess whispered in hushed tones around campfires and across training yards while only being theoretical. But theory could only get you so far, Alaric knew this.

"Soldiers of Astreaus," Alaric began, his voice carrying with an authority that seemed to transcend his age. He stood straight, every inch the commander, despite the absence of battle-worn lines on his face. "We gather at the precipice of a shadow war, one that shall be etched in the annals of our duchy."

Pausing for a moment, he surveyed the room, making eye contact with as many of the troops as possible. Their discipline was impeccable, not a single murmur or shuffle of feet broke the silence. It was as if they understood the gravity of the moment, the weight of the task that lay ahead.

"Time is a luxury we cannot afford to squander," Alaric continued, his tone sharpening like a blade. "So let us speak frankly of what must be done."

"The heart of our city festers with corruption," Alaric's voice cut through the silence, resonating against the stone walls of the chamber. His gaze was cold, his stance unwavering as he addressed the gathering. "Underworld lords have long thought themselves untouchable, lurking in the shadows, poisoning the soul of our streets. Today, we commence an operation to purge this blight from our lands."

 A murmur rippled through the ranks, the soldiers shifting ever so slightly—a response to the gravity of their charge. Sirus, standing at Eldmund's side, nodded subtly, his expression a mask of grim determination.

 "Let me be clear: this campaign is clandestine," Alaric continued, stressing each word with precision. "We move under the veil of night, unseen, unheard. Should our actions become known, it would stir unrest in the capital and force the royal family's hand against us. They cannot appear lenient towards such systemic decay; thus, our discretion is paramount."

 He paused, allowing the weight of this truth to settle over them. Sirus gave a quiet command, and the soldiers straightened up, their armour clinking softly—plain evidence of their readiness and resolve.

 "Show no mercy," Alaric's voice rose with fierce intensity. "Any who resist the will of Astreaus shall meet their end by your hands. Our message must be clear: submission or death." His jaw clenched for a moment as if the words had a bitter taste. He was a soldier once, so death and slaughter were no strangers, but he had never been fond of one-sided massacres. "However, there is one exception—Emiel Sacrad. He is not to fall today. Capture him alive; he holds keys to many doors that we will need to open."

 The steel in Alaric's tone left no room for doubt or hesitation. Eldmund watched his brother, approval apparent on his features for the young commander who held the lives of so many in his firm grasp.

"Prepare yourselves," Alaric said, meeting the eyes of his men with a resolute fire burning in his own. "Tonight, the Underworld will learn to fear the sons and daughters of Astreaus."

Alaric surveyed the gathered troops, his gaze sharp and commanding. "We divide into three," he announced, his voice carrying across the room with an authority that belied his sixteen years. "Group one, under Sirus' lead will seal off all escape routes from the city. No rat scurries free tonight." He gestured to the map laid out on a table nearby, where red lines demarcated the boundaries of their trap.

"Groups two and three," Alaric continued, nodding to Eldmund, "will strike directly at the heart of the Underworld's filth." His finger traced paths on the map, designating targets. "Three establishments pose as auction houses by day—restaurants by night—but we know better. They're dens for the lawless to trade in their loathsome currency."

He moved his hand to two other locations. "And these," he said, tapping them decisively, "masquerade as clinics, but when darkness falls, they pulse with the vice of gambling." A flicker of disgust crossed his face as if he could already smell the corruption within their walls.

 "Lastly," Alaric paused, his eyes hardening, "The Devil's Lounge. It reeks of deceit and decay—a blight upon our city." The soldiers followed his gaze to the final mark on the map, many nodding solemnly as if they too had felt the taint of that place.

"Group one will lock down the city's veins, while groups two and three lance the infection. My group will purge The Devil's Lounge and both gambling hells. General Eldmund," he turned to his brother with a look of steel, "your force will cleanse the remainder."

Silence held the room as the gravity of their task settled on each soldier like a mantle. Alaric's eyes swept over them, seeing the resolve mirrored in their faces. "We have two days following lockdown initiation. Two days to scourge this plague from our streets. I have prepared information for what threats to expect, which important profiles to watch out for and you have all be grouped in balanced and efficient groups."

Not a murmur of dissent rose from the ranks; instead, a collective surge of determination seemed to ripple through the assembled troops. Eldmund's expression was firm, approval etched in the lines of his seasoned face as he assessed the strategic plan his younger brother had laid before them.

"Rest and ready your blades," Alaric concluded, the map now a testament to their impending storm. "At nightfall, we bring an end to the Underworld's reign."