In the last weeks, the landscape thickened, exchanging the vast fields of wheat and grass for dense, ancient forests. Sylas walks at the end of the formation, watching for anything following them. His feet hurt. Each of his steps sparks pain at the base of his toes, where the constant stress burned his skin.

He learned that out of the twenty-seven people he travels with, only five are competent. Liliana knows everything there is to survival, from hunting to building shelters and cooking. Her one fault, if it is one at all, is how deeply she sleeps. Sylas woke her up this morning, and she called him Maren, asking repeatedly for a few more minutes that turned into an hour.

Two of the Corporals, whose last names are Walf and Storis, spent their lives as soldiers. Every evening, they boast about the monsters they killed. And seeing them train, it might be true.

The last Corporal, Hawryn, reminds Sylas of Grim. He doesn't talk much and tends to vanish at night, placing himself in some hidden spot to watch the camp. Some of his soldiers say that he was an adventurer and joined the army a few years ago for the money.

"Water, sir?" Gavriel asks, holding a leather water skin. The sixteen-years-old sweats profusely under his gambeson, the smell of acrid spices stinging Sylas' nose.

"Thank you," Sylas says as he takes the water skin. The boy is an airhead lacking rigor and motivation, a default for which Storis tortures him. Yet during their journey, he helped others with their duties and tried to learn everything he could. Amongst the twenty-three men-at-arms, Gavriel is the only one who seems normal. His childness is a stark contrast to his battle-hungry, bovine comrades.

"Get back into formation!" Storis orders Gavriel. Sylas tosses him the water skin, and it slips off the boy's hands. Gavriel grabs it from the ground and runs back at the end of his squad.

Liliana raises her open hand, halting them. She directs her horse to the end of the formation and stops next to Sylas. "We are going to set camp in the cliffs," she explains, motioning at a path splitting into the forest. A large tree-covered mountain lies behind. "You should take a squad and continue down the road towards Balmwood. It's the largest village of the grove; it will please them to know that we'll stay in the area. Do not mention the Orcs; we are just here to train for a few weeks."

"They should know if it’s a danger to them. But we are still days south of the frontier," Sylas mutters. He motions for Storis to approach. He's the most presentable of the three with his medium frame, trimmed beard, and absence of facial scars. "How long to reach Balmwood?"

"Half an hour from here," Liliana says. Storis joins them, stopping to salute. Liliana kicks with her heel, putting her horse into motion. "Be back before dusk."

"We are going to present ourselves to our new neighbors. Make sure your men behave like proper humans," Sylas orders. He closes his eyes and rubs his upper nose, realizing how contemptuous he must sound. Their constant vulgarity annoys him, but it is no reason to be insulting. "I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have said that."

Storis nods, his expression unreadable. He closes his fist and moves it downward before gesturing at the road, commanding his squad to walk forward. He asks, "Permission to be honest, sir?"

Sylas' heart skips a beat. What insults could that stoic man have in mind for an imposter like him? He dreads for a moment and says, "Yes."

Storis turns to walk forward as the squad is distancing them. He motions for Sylas to walk next to him. He inhales and says, "We are all tired, so your frustration doesn't surprise me. And besides, it is justified."

Sylas looks at Storis in confusion; this isn't what he expected. He says, "Justified or not, I shouldn't insult them behind their back."

"If I may ask," Storis begins. "Knowing that you were a village's Blacksmith, I thought you would be more like us. Yet you talk and act like Sergeant Eirlys, like a noble."

"This isn't really a question," Sylas says. His elocution has improved since he landed in Opal; perhaps this is what Storis means by talking like a noble. "My father took it to heart to teach me everything he could. Before turning thirteen, I could read, write, and count better than him. He taught me to be proper in all things, polite, and caring. It didn't serve me well until now, but it feels right."

Sylas ponders on his own words. He changed a lot in the past month; having this conversation with a stranger would have been a lot harder then.

"So, you don't despise them because you feel superior, but because they fail to live to your standards," Storis says.

Sylas swallows hard, unsure how to respond. "I am in no right to impose on them anything, and I shouldn't. They are vastly different from me – fearless and blunt. I don't think we share values."

"You should," Storis says. "You don't become a Warrior by leaving a happy and fulfilling childhood. Most of us can't read; it's a miracle if we can write or count, and you can tell us apart by the way we speak. Properly educating them would be useful to them for their entire life, whether they like it or not."

"I saw you write in your journal, and you speak more than well enough. Why did you say: us?" Sylas asks.

"I used to be like them," Storis begins. "Slacking and cussing like it was a second language, insulting my superiors behind their backs, peeking on my female comrades when they…. I'm not proud of it, and I have Sergeant Eirlys' father to thank for setting me straight. He made our whole squad into Corporals by turning us into proper men."

"I don't think I would be popular if I started ordering push-ups for every insult I hear," Sylas quips.

Storis smiles lightly before returning to a stoic face. "You wouldn't, but the cussing would stop in your presence. Except for a few knuckleheads; but if they are going to be dumb, it's all the better if they get tough."

They continue in silence, placing themselves at the top of the formation. Soon, they reach the outskirts of a village edging the forest. Most of the buildings are behind a wooden palisade, with the exception of several orchards and apiaries.

A man wearing a simple gray linen shirt sees them from atop the palisade and opens the gates. Kids cross them, running after each other with wooden swords. Spongious dirt lines the streets, soaked with rainwater and mixed into mud by boots and hooves.

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A few people stop to watch them, a mix of curiosity and worry on their faces. Storis whispers, "We should begin with the mayor. Given the time, he should be at the tavern, sir."

"Have you been here before?" Sylas asks, walking in the direction Storis motions towards. The mayor must be an alcoholic from Storis to be certain of his location.

"Many times, sir" Storis says. He waves towards a meat stall as the woman working it welcomes him. "I train a fresh squad once or twice a year, and this region is one of the least dangerous in Amberfell, sir."

After ascending a path that exchanges the mud for paved stone, they reach the town's center. The buildings are larger and more robust than the houses they passed. A few workhorses snort in a stable; a boy tends to them, filling their hay rack.

A stool flies through a window of the largest building, breaking against the ground. The new opening lets through the sounds of a brawl. Storis looks at Sylas, expectant.

Sylas moves to the door and opens it, his heart thumping as he expects objects to fly at him at any moment. The squad follows him, Storis at their head. A dozen clusters of fighters punch and throw each other while eight lie on the ground. There seem to be two factions. One wears oxblood-colored cloth in their armor, while the other seems composed of everyday workers.

A chair flies towards Sylas; he ducks low, avoiding it as it crashes on a pillar. A man spins and throws another, an everyday man. He stumbles towards Sylas, his back to him. Placing his hand on the man's back, Sylas redirects him towards the squad.

A deep rumble rises from underground. The fight slows as its participants hear the sound and realize that a squad of guards entered. They move away from the bar, plastering themselves against the walls.

Sylas' gaze falls on the tavern's decoration. A six-legged monster with stone-like skin stands in the middle of the main path on an elevated platform. A crystalline claw-like blade, too massive for any man, hangs on a wall; its handle looks like a tooth's root. Above the bar thrones a series of face-like iron masks. The bar's shelves themselves shelter several pieces, from daggers to ogres' skulls.

A mass of fur bursts through the cellar's trap, sending it into the ceiling. It grabs a battle axe from the bar's counter and vaults over it. Its hooves clack against the wooden floor as a minotaur lands in front of Sylas. "Who's the fucker who started the fight?" he bellows. His voice is primal and guttural, clashing with his linen pants and shirt.

Despite fear knotting his stomach, Sylas stays stoic. In comparison to his men-at-arms, whose knees are clapping, he seems unphased. The beast scares him, but he doesn't feel in danger like he was with the Skullgors. Gavriel's spear clatters to the ground.

The brawlers look away, avoiding the minotaur's gaze as he glances over them. He lowers his battleaxe, his posture shifting to seem more human. His large eyes move back to Sylas; he scans him from head to toe.

"Permission to speak, sir?" Storis asks. He moves beside Sylas, leaving the shaking squad behind.

"Granted," Sylas says with a questioning tone.

Storis walks past Sylas and says, "Mayor Karn, I present you, Sergeant Hartwell. With Sergeant Eirlys, they will oversee the formation of three squads, including this one, in the region."

"The old man got demoted? I want to hear how that happened," Karn says, calming down. He moves back to the bar, placing fallen chairs back on his path. "He could have come himself instead of sending a kid."

Storis precises, "Captain Eirlys passed away of old age a year ago; I am speaking of his daughter."

Karn stops, his gaze moving to the ground. "Already?" he asks. "It's only been twelve years."

"Twelve years is a long time for us," Storis comments. He glances to the side where people are regrouping at tables. A few of them take care of the fallen, trying to bring them back with water and slaps. "I thought his family would have invited you to the funeral."

"The witch would never allow someone like me in her home," Karn mocks. He places his battle axe down and grabs a bottle from the shelves. "Hey kid. How is it you aren't scared of me when the others are pissing themselves?"

Sylas looks back at the squad, confirming that it is merely an exaggeration. "You are scary. But I didn't feel like you would attack me."

"That's good instincts," Karn comments. He pours a large glass and drinks it in a single gulp. "But don't rely too much on it; some people aren't as direct as I am. Loren! Your men own me a window and all the chairs they broke!"

A man wearing the most decorated of their oxblood-dotted armor jumps from his chair, sending it to the ground. "We didn't start this fight! Why would we have to pay for it?"

"I don't know if you started this fight," Karn begins. He pours himself another glass. "But I know it started because of how your men behave. It's your fault one way or another. And I won't serve you another drink until you pay up."

Loren sits back down, giving up on arguing. Thinking of it, who are they? They don't seem like city guards given that the man who watched over the palisade was in linen clothes. They seem too homogenous for adventurers. The logical conclusion is that they are mercenaries, but why would such a small town need them?

Sylas walks up to the bar. A worse conclusion crosses his mind: They could be deserters like those who took advantage of his village. "We'll be staying nearby for a few weeks. Anything your town needs help with?" He motions with his eyes towards Loren as he asks.

"Nothing I cannot handle," Karn says. He shelves the bottle. "They are on a monster hunt to the east. The only problem is their manners."

"What are they hunting?" Sylas asks.

"Griffins!" Loren answers. He has a good perception to have heard Sylas' question. "Doing the job guards like you cannot."

One of Storis men bursts out from the ranks. He moves through the tables, staring at Loren. Storis roars, "Stand down, Jule!"

Storis command freezes Jule mid-step. The young soldier's fist clenches, trembling with restrained rage.

Loren smirks from his seat. He stands up, his hands behind his back, and approaches Jule. Loren looks like a giant in comparison to the boy, an easy feat when taking on a sixteen-year-old. "Your pup has a temper. Better beat him up, less he learns he can bark out of line."

Sylas steps forward, placing himself between Jule and Loren before Storis has the chance to intervene further. He fixes Loren with a calm but unyielding stare, his hands resting at his sides.

"Enough!" Karn roars, slamming his fist on the bar. "Get your men out of my tavern, Loren! Don't come back until you calm down!"

Loren narrows his eyes, his smirk faltering. He glances at Karn and moves away from Sylas. Grabbing his coat, Loren nods towards the door, ordering his twenty men out.

Sylas turns his head to speak over his shoulder without letting Loren out of his sight. "Return to formation."

Jule hesitates, his trembling fist relaxing as Storis takes him by the shoulder. Sylas exhales, trying to calm his racing heart. Standing up to Loren seemed less scary when standing ten meters away.

"Leadership leveled up," the system announces.

"Impressive," Karn says, breaking the silence. Sylas finds him reading a gray window floating in front of him. "You play the role well for a Blacksmith. But I can see why they put you there; they must have quite the hopes for you."

Sylas doesn't respond immediately. He keeps his focus on Loren, whose smirk returns, though less confident. As the last of them vanishes outside, Sylas turns back to Karn. "If your town truly doesn't need our aid, then we'll take our leave. But should that change, you can find us thirty minutes south."

Karn lets out a low laugh. "I hope we'll not encounter a threat I cannot handle. It would be a terrifying thing for these kids."

Sylas gestures for the squad to follow as he heads for the exit. The motion feels awkward to him, unnatural. Despite that feeling, he hears them obeying without question.

Sylas glances down at the paved streets. Curious villagers look at them from a distance, and so does Loren's group. They linger at the foot of a house sat on crates and barrels.

The aches in Sylas' feet resurface. It worked out today, but he wonders how long that will last. What if the next Loren attacks him, starting a fight where someone will be wounded? Or killed? Sylas sighs; he hates that position. He only puts up with it because he doesn't want to be a deserter; that's not a life. But he would lie to himself if he said he didn't think about it.