Last Push
The sky above Fleurein was striped with the trails of messenger birds and the fluttering banners of foreign crests. From the sloped roofs of the artisan quarter to the flower-choked courtyards of the old court district, the city pulsed with a tension that was both ceremonial and electric.
Every hour, another delegation marched in—some on gilded horses, some with camels from the southern sands, others behind lacquered palanquins drawn by beasts of smoke and myth. Fleurein, once quiet in its withdrawal from the political center, was now the stage of the world.
And at the very heart of it all, beneath the veil of the city’s grand diplomacy, La Muse worked like a furnace.
Lisabelle stood by the upstairs window, eyes sweeping the cobbled alley as another envoy passed. She barely blinked as horns trilled faintly in the distance. Her mind was elsewhere.
“That’s five out of thirteen,” she murmured, scanning a spread of notes and scrolls laid across the old sewing table turned war-desk. “Three days left. A surge is coming.”
Behind her, Theo let out a weary grunt, one hand rubbing his temple, the other flipping through a list freshly inked. “We’ve got report from Tolston and Anthia. But Bel ... the birds are starting to get sluggish.”
Lisabelle didn’t look up. “The grey-wings from my uncle’s coop is coming anytime now. They can fly longer, even if they scream bloody murder.
“Right.” He scratched something down. “That’ll make the courtyard louder than a poultry market on fire.”
“Switch with them. Although there’ll be adjustments to some retrieval points,” Lisabelle said, eyes still scanning the parchment. “They haven’t been trained for the newer routes yet… I’ll try to procure some alternatives.”
She stood slowly, letting the reports roll closed in her hand as her gaze drifted toward the twilight sky outside. The orange faded into deep blue behind the rooftops of Fleurein, and for a moment, the din of La Muse quieted in her mind.
She was here more often now than she was home. That much was becoming clear.
And Viena wouldn’t always be here with her. Not like this. Not always smiling at Theo’s jokes or spinning around on the mosaic floor.
Last time, Randia had scolded them for coming home so late. Refused permission for a few days after that, strict in that quiet, unreadable way of his. But then, instead of Lisabelle, he’d taken her place walking Viena along the parades.
Maybe that was his way of saying sorry—for the shouting. For belting her.
“You look tired, Bel. You’ve barely slept these past few days.”
Theo poured a glass of cold tea from the pitcher on her cluttered table and held it out to her.
“We anticipated a lot of things, Theo,” Lisabelle said, taking it. “Like the fact this project would scale a hundred times bigger than intended.”
She drank deeply, as if the tea could wash down the exhaustion clinging to her bones.
“You know we already solved the hardest part—capital flow and logistics.” Theo leaned on the table’s edge, arms folded. “Everything else is minor. I can handle it. You shouldn’t be staring at letters and contracts till your eyes bleed, you know?”
“Not until I see a safe pattern,” she muttered, then tapped her shoulder lightly. “Help me out?”
Theo hesitated. Just a second too long.
He was still unused to this—touching her, even casually. Somewhere deep inside, there was a feeling he hadn’t let surface, didn’t want to name. Something that fluttered every time she leaned a little too close or called him by that tired, familiar "Theo."
Still, he moved behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, tentative at first. Her muscles were tight, knotted like rope. Slowly, he began working the tension loose, fingers pressing gently but with growing confidence.
“You should fire whoever’s in charge of your stress,” he muttered.
“That’s you, genius.”
He laughed, soft and breathless, and didn’t argue.
Just like that, and the day passed exactly as Lisabelle had predicted—she remained cooped up in La Muse until nine at night, buried in ink, maps, and messengers.
By now, Eleanor had long since lost the will to nag. Lisabelle’s stubbornness was a battle she had learned not to fight. She had only one rule for her granddaughter:
Come home. No matter how late.
And so, Lisabelle did.
The next day, La Muse was stirred by an unexpected arrival.
A group of men—broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and silent as statues—appeared at the front gate. Only one among them stood out: a slender, well-groomed gentleman dressed in a tailored coat with gold buttons, a crisp cravat, and a wide-brimmed beau hat perched at a rakish tilt. He leaned elegantly on a polished walking stick, its silver cap gleaming.
The boys manning the place, all seasoned enough to sniff out potential trouble, immediately turned alert. One of them ran upstairs to fetch Theo.
Theo squinted, clearly unimpressed.
“Well,” he said dryly, “did I miss a memo?”
The gentleman regarded him with a slow, assessing look. “Are you a friend of the young lady?”
That phrasing alone was enough to set off an alarm in Theo’s head. In a place like this, there was only one person anyone would dare call young lady.
“You mean Lisabelle?” he asked, arms folding. “What business do you have with her?”
“I am her newly assigned helper,” the gentleman replied with a courteous tilt of the head. “Sent by the Bidau Trading Company.”
Theo’s eyes narrowed. “Vincent Bidau sent his men?”
“She didn’t mention anything about this,” he added, his voice edged with doubt as he scanned the silent wall of muscle behind the dandy.
The gentleman sighed dramatically, clicking his tongue. “No, I imagine she wouldn’t. That’s the nature of surprise, dear sir. A little mystery keeps things lively.”
The man cocked his head, mustache curling like a calligrapher’s flourish. He tapped the base of his cane to the floor with the grace of a stage actor hitting his mark.
Then, he straightened with the poise of a stage performer awaiting applause. “Monsieur Alphonse Delarre. Logistical coordinator. Interim operations consultant. Sometimes an interior aesthetician, when needed. These gentlemen behind me are my aides. Or as your lot might call them, porters.”
One of the big men gave a single nod. Another shifted a crate on his back, the wood groaning under its weight.
“You all look like bouncers,” Theo said.
“Better to look too capable than too delicate, don’t you think?” Alphonse replied, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. “Versatility is our trademark.”
He glanced toward the window, eyes gleaming. “Now then. If the lady of the house is awake, I’d very much like to pay my respects. Or is she still recovering from her nightly heroics?”
Theo raised a hand, halting him mid-sentence.
“Hold your horses, Monsieur. Proof first.”
Alphonse’s grin widened. “Ah. A man of caution. Excellent.”
He snapped his fingers. One of his men stepped forward, carrying a long box lined in padded velvet. He opened it with the care of a priest unveiling relics.
Inside were a dozen cylindrical scroll tubes—each distinct, made of fine woods, etched brass, or even mother-of-pearl. Seals shimmered on their caps—some engraved with the Bidau emblem, others bearing stamps from city governors, merchant guilds, or diplomatic envoys.
“Official certificates. Letters of commission. Travel credentials. Take your pick,” Alphonse said, gesturing magnanimously. “We’re very thorough.”
Theo arched a brow, but said nothing. He plucked one tube from the box, inspecting its crest. Genuine. The wax was still fresh.
“Fine,” Theo said, flipping the scroll once in his hand before tossing it back. Alphonse caught it with the ease of a man who had never worked a day of hard labor. “I’ll bet on you.”
Alphonse’s mustache twitched upward in a half-smile. “A wise thought.”
“But it’s too bad,” Theo added, voice flat. “Lisabelle’s not here. As you might have guessed, she overslept and still haven't left her place."
“Well, that’s a—wait, no, that’s even better.” Alphonse brightened, clearly recovering his composure as he gave his walking stick a flourish. “In that case, allow me to properly introduce the purpose of our visit.”
Theo understood the implication instantly: Alphonse wanted to be invited in. The gentleman was clearly versed in a certain kind of diplomacy—ornate, roundabout, and too polished for Theo’s taste.
He cast a glance at the wall of muscle behind Alphonse, then sighed. “You can come in,” he said, stepping aside, “but not with them.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Theo continued, nodding toward the troupe of brutes. “There’s just not enough room."
Alphonse’s expression soured with polite offense as his eyes swept across the building that was La Muse. The peeling paint, the creaking floorboards, the faint scent of too many bodies in too small a space—it all stood in sharp contrast to the man’s pressed coat and polished boots.
“Well,” he said after a beat, “that argument is, at the very least, believable—considering the state of your property.”
Theo just scoffed and shook his head, and didn’t bother replying. He simply turned and led the way inside.
Alphonse followed, his cane tapping delicately against the uneven floorboards, leaving his porters outside in the morning breeze.
Lisabelle arrived just past noon—and halted mid-step, confused.
Where the weathered, half-sunken shell of La Muse should’ve been stood a brand-new structure. Timber beams still fresh, scaffolding hugging the upper walls, and a scent of sawdust lingering in the sun-warmed air. The whole place was buzzing. Dozens of burly men lounged in the yard, their shirts damp with sweat, clinking mugs of mead and devouring stew from a cauldron-sized pot set over an open flame along with some of the neighborhood dwellers. A few leaned on crates or wheelbarrows, others sat cross-legged on planks. They looked up when she approached.
Lisabelle eyed them cautiously. And, surprisingly, they smiled.
Not the leering or mocking kind she’d braced for—but the respectful nods and wide grins of men recognizing someone important.
“Young Lady Lisabelle?” one of the men called, stepping forward with an easy, open manner. His arms were as thick as logs, but his voice carried no menace.
Lisabelle took a step back. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”
“Relax, miss,” the man said, chuckling. “Go on inside—they’ll explain everything. You’re in the right place.”
She glanced around again. Everything was wrong and yet oddly... right. The sight of her name spoken with such familiarity from strangers made her wary—but the gentleness in their posture, the curiosity in their expressions, disarmed her just enough.
“O-oh. Is that so?” She lifted her chin. “Very well, then. If you’ll excuse me.”
As she made her way through the half-finished doorway, the workers resumed their banter in hushed tones behind her. A few glanced after her, murmuring about her poise, her looks, the whispered rumors of what she was building here—and whether it was true that she was about to turn this whole place into something big.
They weren’t mocking. They sounded impressed. Maybe even proud.
Inside, the air smelled of citrus polish and new wood, a stark contrast to the musky dust and mold Lisabelle had grown used to. Gone were the crooked floorboards, the patchy ceilings, and the makeshift furnishings that once defined La Muse. Instead, the interior glowed—every surface scrubbed spotless, every corner reshaped with precision and care. Light poured in through tall, clear windows she didn’t remember ever being this clean. The once-cluttered front room had transformed into something almost professional—sleek countertops, stacked supplies in elegant boxes, even a new chalkboard for planning, still untouched.
Lisabelle stepped in cautiously, her boots landing on fresh tile, her gaze sweeping across what used to be home—and now felt like someone else's vision of it. She could barely recognize the place.
Standing in the center, waiting for her, were Theo and Alphonse, both already deep in discussion before her arrival. Gino and Gina were there too, flanking the scene like loyal retainers caught between awe and duty. At the sound of the door creaking open, they all turned.
“There she is,” Theo said, not hiding the small smile curling on his lips.
Alphonse stepped forward with the manner of a man delivering a perfectly-timed monologue. “Welcome back, mademoiselle. We did our best to preserve the spirit of the house while refining... every single thing else.”
Lisabelle blinked, barely registering his words. Her eyes were still devouring the room: the polished wood beams, the rows of labeled drawers, the smell of varnish and fresh linen. There was even a fully working kitchen now, complete with a cast iron stove and hanging racks for utensils—something she had dreamed of but never dared ask for.
She felt herself drifting into the current of it all—welcomed, guided, and carried forward without resistance. She nodded at Gino and Gina, still silent in their own admiration of the transformation, then turned toward the far wall. And there, at the heart of it all, it remained:
The grand mosaic-style painting of Queen Fionalda.
Unmoved. Untouched.
Its intricate tilework glimmered under the new lighting, catching fragments of every flickering lamp in the room. In an empire where things changed fast and loyalties faster, that image—of Fionalda robed in her immortal serenity, a hand raised as if forever blessing the room—remained the soul of La Muse.
Lisabelle exhaled, slowly. Some things, it seemed, were sacred even to strangers.
“I... I don’t even know what to say,” she muttered at last.
“No need for words,” Alphonse said, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “This, young lady, is only the beginning.”
“But what about your stuff, Gino, Gina?” Lisabelle finally asked, her voice still dazed with disbelief as she turned toward them. “You two need space to tinker and make a mess, don’t you?”
“No need to worry, Bossu!” Gina chirped, practically bouncing on her toes. “Monsieur Alphonse made a space for us—right behind that curtain!”
Lisabelle followed Gina’s pointing finger. She stepped forward, parting the thick velvet drape—and gasped.
Beyond the curtain, instead of a cramped corner or makeshift bench, there stretched a spacious annex—an entirely separate building seamlessly connected to La Muse. The floor was a reinforced grid of steel and stone, tables were lined with fresh tools gleaming under clean lamplight, and cabinets were neatly labeled with rows of metal bits, wiring, enchantment crystals, and god-knew-what-else. It was not a workshop—it was a dream given form.
“I… what…?” she stammered. “But La Muse wasn’t this big. How...?”
“Ah,” came Alphonse’s smooth reply as he stepped beside her, hands lightly clasped behind his back, posture impeccable. “Permit me to illuminate the matter.”
He gave a modest bow.
“My master, the venerable Vincent Bidau, was profoundly moved upon receiving your letter. He described it as a long-awaited ember rekindling the flame of Master Graham. His words, not mine.”
Lisabelle blinked. “Vincent said that?”
“He did, mademoiselle. You have, as they say, captured his attention in earnest. Master Bidau has kept a passing interest in La Muse ever since the young knight Alan, during your brief holiday in Neims, unwittingly mentioned this place to him—your unique playground with your underlings. Hence, he made several quiet inquiries, and when the occasion arose, deemed it both fitting and proper to extend his support.”
She turned slowly, eyes sweeping over the polished stone, the gleaming fixtures, the subtle carved inlay along the beams. “But this place—this whole thing—wasn’t here yesterday.”
Theo finally stepped forward, scratching his neck. “They bought the building next door. Fused them. Cleaned out everything before I could even finish yawning. I asked how too.”
Lisabelle looked at him, then back at Alphonse. “And?”
Alphonse’s expression barely changed, save for the faintest rise in his finely groomed brows. “Mademoiselle, I am in the employ of a man who does not believe in delays. When he extends a gesture of goodwill, it must arrive precisely when needed—not a moment too soon, nor a moment too late. These gentlemen,” he gestured faintly toward the workers outside, “are professionals drawn from the finest logistical corps in the western provinces. Trained in speed, discretion, and absolute discipline. It is not exaggeration to say they could disassemble and rebuild a palace in the time it takes most men to compose a reply.”
“It has to be a world record, Bossu!” Gino added, twirling around with arms flung wide. “They even gave me my own drawer! With my name on it!”
Alphonse allowed himself the faintest upward twitch of the mustache. “It is a humble gesture. But we thought it fitting. A house such as this must reflect the dignity of its mistress—and accommodate those she chooses to keep in her orbit.”
Lisabelle turned to face them all. Her expression shifted—still stunned, but now layered with something quieter, deeper. That ineffable weight of being believed in, trusted, and handed something precious.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “Thank you,” she said.
Not to Alphonse alone. Not to Vincent. But to all of them. To the walls, the room, the workers outside. To the second wind La Muse had become.
Later that afternoon, the refurbished common hall of La Muse had quieted into a hum of concentrated energy. Sunlight filtered through polished panes, catching motes of dust that swirled gently above a wide oak table, now buried under maps, sketches, and ledgers. Gathered around it sat Lisabelle, Theo, and Alphonse, deep in council.
By the time dusk began to stain the windowpanes with gold, a working blueprint had emerged: a bold, brilliant offensive aimed straight at Ludus Magnorum. Alphonse leaned back, allowing himself a rare moment of visible satisfaction.
“I must say,” he murmured, “there is something profoundly exhilarating about conspiring with the youth. It is like watching fire find wind.”
Then, with the plans laid, the ideas mapped, and the sky beginning to dim, Lisabelle stood from the table and said, with renewed conviction:
"Let's make little to no mistake."