'Your brother was accepted in the royal academy. I'm sure you wouldn't want us to speak about it, but we know it's thanks to your High-priest's recommendation. Thank you. I hope you'll soon be free to come visit us. Love you. Mom,' Althea finishes reading. She folds the letter and slides it in one of her pouches with all the others.

"My Lord," a young squire salutes. He carries with him her large, silvery kite shield, freshly mended by him and other squires. Althea tries to recall his name, unsuccessfully. The large dragon on the shield reflects the light of their campfire in Althea's eyes. "Do you need anything else?"

"Thank you. Go see if Garrick needs your help," Althea commands. She grabs her shield. The smooth surface under the decorations reflects her image, that of a battle-hardened knight. She hates those faint scars on her cheeks and brow, marking her ivory skin with beige streaks. Once light Ether healed those, but she grew too accustomed to it. Her braided blond hair seems lost in the silvery plate armor that encases her. She places the shield down on the tree trunk acting as her seat.

"Yes, my lord," the squire says. He runs off to Garrick's watch position.

"You look like shit," Leofric booms. The black-haired burly man carries two bowls of steaming stew in his gigantic hands. He sits down beside her, his black plate armor cracking the layer of bark covering the fallen trunk. Handing her a bowl, he says, "Thank you for healing my leg."

"No problem, you look like shit too," she says. "Thankfully that Scaleketh didn't tear it off; I couldn't have healed that."

"The bastard would have run off with it if it hadn't held until Julia casted her spell. Would have had to hunt it down hopping on one foot to avenge myself."

"It'd be dead by then; indigestion," Althea quips.

Leofric snorts at her comment. "Its hide will be enough to clothe an entire squad of scouts back in Kingsreach. And I must say, it tastes good for a lizard."

She looks down at her stew and lifts a chunk of white meat with her spoon. It looks edible. Althea mouths the spoon and bites down on the meat. It is chewy and bland, like badly cooked white fish. She comments, "At least the vegetables and spices make up for it."

Armand, the platoon's lieutenant, approaches from behind them. The man removed his armor, preferring to wear his black uniform when in camp. Despite its sharpness, it hides much of the man's frame. "The squires we lost today are buried in the clearing on the way to our camp. See that they are given consecration before we move out."

"I will, Lieutenant," Althea says. She takes another spoonful of her meal. 'Weren't they buried by a priest? Thinking of it, I haven't seen any since we left Kingsreach.'

Althea looks over the camp. The scouting squad enters its premise, coming back from their reconnaissance mission. 'Shouldn't there be more of them?' she ponders. She counts them and finds ten out of the twenty she expects. 'They must have split during their mission.'

She looks around, scanning the various squads of bowmen and spearmen resting in their designated tents. While it feels small, the improvised position shelters an entire platoon – five squads of archers, five of spearmen, a heavy infantry squad, a support squad, the scouting squad, five mounted messengers, and four knights. And it's without counting the squads', camp's, and knights' squires. The messengers' griffins seem restless; someone must have forgotten to feed them.

It isn't uncommon for a Lieutenant to command such a force, apart from the knights. How did Armand convince the Knight-Captain to lend them to him?

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Leofric coughs. "What are you thinking about?"

"I'm wondering why we are here," Althea answers after a bite. "Have you ever seen four knights for a single platoon? Someone wants to make sure our young lieutenant comes back alive."

"You are younger than him," Leofric quips.

"Doesn't matter," Althea retorts. Where she's a warrior trained since childhood, he's the son of the local Duke, who was likely appointed Lieutenant on connections alone. "I've seen his likes. He talks well and speaks of honor, but the moment things get serious, he will break. I wouldn't be surprised if he sacrifices the entire platoon so he may survive."

"Don't let him hear you say things like that," Leofric comments.

"What would he do? Report me to the Knight-Captain, or better, the church?" Althea retorts. While the knights help the army, they are not part of their chain of command.

"After enough reports, they might just do something about it," a deep voice says from behind. Althea turns her head to see Garrick unwillingly sneaking up on them. His black and green leather armor, covered with local leaves and branches, makes him hard to discern. "We are here because it was deemed necessary."

"We are here because a Duke wants us to be here," Althea reiterates. The meal unappetizing, she lays down her spoon and hands Leofric the rest of her soup. He grabs it as he places down his own, empty bowl. "The oracles have rarely been so vague in their presage. Usually, it means that the threat is not really one. I bet we will find some goblin nest threatening to raid a village."

"It's because it is vague that we should be more cautious," Garrick says, sitting down. "It is the complacency, the arrogance of safety, which will be your downfall."

"I know my lessons; thank you," Althea says, annoyed.

"Knowing is not enough; it would do you good to apply," Garrick reprimands. He shakes her hair with his gloved hand. "How many times have I repeated the same teachings in the last three years? One day I'll give up on you if you keep ignoring them."

"She only lacks experience," Julia, the last of the four knights in the vicinity, comments. She approaches from the side, dressed in a majestic blend of a dress and a mage's tunic. The bodice is fitted, adorned with silver sigils, each thread shimmering as she infuses them with her Ether. Flowing down from the waist, the garment transitions into a cascading shirt. Its layers of deep blue rippling like water with each movement.

Revealing her hands, hidden below long, flowing sleeves, she grabs Garrick's face and pulls him in for a kiss. The back of the dress reveals her skin, showing a concentric tattoo written in sigils unknown to Althea. Althea glances to the side, embarrassed by the display of affection.

"You don't flinch when someone's guts fly out of their bodies, but a little kiss still scares you?" Leofric pokes.

"Don't mock her," Julia says, finally letting go of her husband. The tone with which she said it worries Althea as she expects a following quip. "She will get accustomed to it when she finds herself a spouse. If that ever happens."

Althea's tension spikes, creating pressure in her temples as she tightens her jaw. Will there be a single day where Julia won't mention Althea's celibacy? It's not her fault; she's one of the youngest of her social class. What is she to do? Go against tradition, risking being put aside by both her orders to court someone lower than herself? Or is she to settle for an old man?

"She's only pestering you because she is jealous you are a class above her," Althea thinks. Following old traditions, Valleria separates its people into ten ranks. Althea being an ex-adventurer, knight, member of the church of Seraphel, and having ascended, she ranks at the fifth echelon. Had she not vowed to not own land, she would be a baroness. Sadly, barons tend to be twice her age.

"If everything goes well, our mission will be over soon," Garrick says. He removes a spider that escaped his leaves from Julia's shoulder. "I wonder where we'll be sent next. Though I doubt we'll be together for a while."

Leofric gulps the rest of his soup and places his bowl down. "I heard adventurers talking of orc raids in the west. Seems like some small tribe, but you know how the king is about orcs. That's where we will be next, guarding the frontier for months without action."

Althea sighs. "With his new court, it could take months for them to respond to that … threat. With some luck, we will already be elsewhere when they do."

Julia huffs, announcing the superior intellectuality of the remark to come. "Duke Felspar's army is in maneuvers three days away from here. Sir Faewin, Ashmere, Vorath, and Lady Lyris are overseeing the mock battles. They have been with his army for a year and will soon be relieved of their duty to the duke. We will be their replacements."

"Is that actual information? Or are you guessing?" Leofric asks.

"Predicting," Julia retorts.

A squire comes running at them. He stops a meter away, breathless, and relays, "Lieutenant Viremont requests your presence at the commandment tent."