"We thank you for your patronage!" the tavern mistress called out, her voice bright with genuine warmth and a satisfied tone.

She was a portly woman with hair as black as polished coal, bowing low as Basil and his retinue prepared to depart. For men who had spent the better part of the last few months sleeping on threadbare rugs or huddled under sodden canvas in the forests of the south, her hay-stuffed mattresses and hot pottage had been a mercy beyond words.

Fifty riders made up the escort for the heir of Yarzat. It had been two days since they left the safety of Turogontoli, striking north through the crisp morning air. After a half-day’s ride, they had merged onto the Magna Strata’s unfinished expansion, another ambitious Great Road Basil’s father had commissioned to link the capital to the iron mines of Malshut.

The project had been intended to defeat the treacherous winter mud that usually choked the river-infested passes, though the current war had halted its completion. Only the stretch between Aracina and Abea stood finished, a ribbon of paved stone that cut through the wilderness that sorrounded it.

Many of the local lords who were made to suffer past of the cost, had grumbled at it, claiming the old dirt tracks were "good enough for their grandfathers," but his father had seen further. He knew that trade shouldn’t die just because the sky turned grey. By ensuring wagons could move in the rainy season, he had boosted the principality’s wealth during the months when only the sea which was ruled by pirates and winter gales, was the only road.

The road was usually a river of commerce, lined with bustling inns like the one they were now exiting. Ordinarily, fifty men would have struggled to find room after the grain harvest, but the shadow of the Five Princes had chilled the hearts of the merchants. Most now detoured far around the borders, leaving the Magna Strata eerily quiet, save for those bold enough to run supplies to the capital.

"Fair travels to you," the lady bowed again as Basil crossed the threshold. She remembered the five silverii he had left as a tip, a small fortune for a night’s rest. To her, he was merely a polite minor lordling with a well-armed escort.

Basil adjusted his cloak, thinking of the previous night. The lady’s daughter had visited his chambers with more than just supper in mind, offering "special services" with a shy smile. Basil had declined, taking only the tray of food. His father was currently holding the weight of a crumbling world on his shoulders; Basil felt it would be a profound dishonor to indulge in such dalliances while Yarzat bled.

Moreover...he didn’t want to have his first time in such a way.

Call him fool, but he still believed in romance...

Still, the experience had been insightful. Seeing the quality and births of so many inns along the Great Road was direct proof to his father’s statesmanship. Only Yarzat has such things, Basil thought with a swell of quiet pride.

The morning was spectacular. After days of leaden skies and biting drizzle, the sun had finally broken through, shining as proudly as the Falcon sigil of their house. For a century and a half, that bird had soared over these lands; it felt wrong to think its wings could be clipped just as it was truly beginning to rise.

He thought of the whispers he’d heard among the men. Some called his father the Son of the Warrior, Jarza insisted he was of the Weaver, a miracle of mercy sent to pull them from the dark. If his father truly had the blood of the Five in his veins, did that make Basil special? Was there a spark of divinity hiding in his own heart?

He gave his arm a sharp pinch, the sting grounding him instantly.

The greatest mistake the son of a powerful man can make is to believe he is owed greatness, his father had once told him. We are all but food for the worms in the end.

He had to remember the teachings. His father always knew better. Even now, as the soldiers around him cheered that the war was being won because the League was stalled at the Bastion, Basil remained skeptical. The enemy had not moved forward, but they had not been driven back.

Perhaps I am looking at the board from the wrong angle, he mused, swinging himself up into the saddle of his sorrel. The League’s victory requires my father’s head and the ashes of Yarzat. Our victory only requires that we exist tomorrow. In that light... yes. We are winning.

The horses’ hooves beat a steady sound against the paved stones. In early autumn, when the surrounding lands were often a treacherous mire that swallowed wagon wheels and exhausted marching men, the Great Road allowed them to fly. What usually took a full day of slogging through the mud now took a mere half. At this pace, Basil would look upon his father’s face in only three days.

"Is everything all right, young lord?"

Basil turned toward the voice at his right. He took a long, measuring look at the man Jarza had entrusted with the heir’s life. He was a man of quiet competence, his armor worn but meticulously oiled against the damp air.

His black hair where cut midway so they fell on each side of his brows.

"Of course, my lord," Basil replied politely.

The soldier pulled back on his reins, his eyes wide with genuine shock. "My lord? You know who I am?"

"Of course. You are Lord Thalek, son of Robert the—" Basil bit his tongue, the word catching in his throat a second too late.

The damage, however, was done.

"Aye, son of Robert the Betrayer," Thalek said, his voice flat but not unkind. He was a Sub-Centurio of the Second Cohort, a man born of a murdered man and a stained legacy. "I know my father’s name, young lord. Please, do not fear to speak it in my presence. I suppose the shadow of it reached your ears early?" He offered a small, weary smile.

"On the contrary," Basil said, eager to mend the slip. He didn’t remember Robert, he had been a babe when he died, his father often spoke of the man with a rare, quiet regret. "I know of you because three years ago, you won the Civic Laurel at the Battle of Apurvio."

Thalek’s posture shifted, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "You... you heard of that?"

"Of course. You saved three of your comrades, weaving through enemy lances to retrieve them. You were elevated to Sub-Centurio for that, were you not? My father personally placed the laurel crown upon your brow while the Legions hailed your name. My uncle Jarza always spoke of you as a stalwart man, one of the finest in the Primogenia."

"The Legate is... far too kind," Thalek murmured, looking down at his horse’s mane.

"It is I who should apologize," Basil said suddenly, his voice dropping an octave. "I fear I have pulled you from your true post. You should be with your cohort, earning glory, not babysitting a boy on a road.We are doing you an ill-deed."

Thalek looked as if he’d been struck in the gut. "Nonsense, young lord! It is the highest honor to guard the Prince’s blood. There is no duty more sacred."

"I am sure you say that to please me," Basil countered with a small, knowing smirk. "But I know better. I have taken you from the front."

Thalek let out a short, barking laugh and turned in his saddle, looking back at the column of veterans riding behind them.

"Oi! Shit-Guts! ScrewNose! Listen to this!" Thalek shouted over the clatter of hooves. "The young lord thinks we’re grieving! He thinks we’d rather be standing waist-deep in a muddy trench in the Bastion than riding this fine road!"

He gestured toward a massive man with a nose that had been broken in three different directions. "Tell him, Iron-Guts! Would you rather be at the front, or are you suffering too much guarding the heir?"

The big soldier let out a roar of laughter that shook his breastplate. "Suffer? Sir! It’ll be the boast of my life to tell the boys I slept in the same inn as the heir to Yarzat! I’ll be drinking on that story for twenty years!"

Another soldier, a lean man with a missing ear known as ’The Rat’, piped up from the second rank. "Respectfully, young lord, between a dirk in the belly and a morning breakfast made with fresh eggs and soft bread... I’ll take the egg every damn time!"

The retinue erupted into a chorus of rough, merry agreement. Thalek turned back to Basil, his eyes bright.

"You see, young lord? We aren’t just guarding a boy. It is a duty too...And if that duty comes with a dry bed and a hot meal, you won’t hear a man among us complain."

Basil offered a soft, humbled smile. "I gather then that you are not entirely displeased with your current circumstances?"

"May the Weaver snip my thread if I lie, young lord!" Thalek laughed, a rough, honest sound that was joined by a few chuckles from the front rank.

For a moment, the only sound was the steady clop-clop of hooves against the stone. Basil looked out over the horizon, feeling a weight he hadn’t realized he was carrying begin to lift. "You know, Ser..." he started, choosing the title Thalek preferred. "When my father sent me to the Legate of the First, I was plagued by the worry that the men would see me as dead weight. A burden to be hauled across the province. If they felt that way, they hid it very well."

"There was no mask to wear, young lord," Thalek replied firmly. "The soldiers are pleased to share your company. Word travels fast in the camps, we’ve all heard how you smuggled yourself in a supply cart just to reach the front. The men don’t see a burden; they see a boy with the fire. They consider it an honor to march beside that kind of spirit."

Basil looked down at his gloved hands. "I fear I only hid like a thief because I was desperate to follow my father."

"Any son worth his salt would want to follow in such footsteps," Thalek said, his expression softening. "Though I’ll grant you, his stride is a good deal longer than yours just yet. Did he ever tell you how I came to serve under the legions?"

Basil shook his head. "He did not."

"Well, I was in a dark place. A hollow place," Thalek reminisced, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "I had just taken the life of the man who murdered my father. I had my vengeance, but I had no aim, no port to sail for. My father’s name was a brand on my skin, and as his heir, I inherited his infamy along with his lands.

It was your father who reached into that pit and pulled me out. He spoke to me of the realm needing good men, stewards and protectors. He made a comparison about... bees, if I recall correctly. Something about how a hive only thrives when every wing beats for the same queen. I’ve forgotten the specifics over the years, but the feeling stayed.That indeed it did."

"My father always had a way of finding the right words to inspire men," Basil noted quietly.

"Just as you do, young lord," Thalek added, glancing sideways at him.

Basil blinked, taken aback. "I do?"

"Of course. You may not realize it, but your presence has been a draught of cold water in a desert for these troops. Everywhere I go, the men have nothing but good words for you. Do you have any idea how rare that is? Soldiers would find a reason to complain about a gift of gold if it were too heavy to carry.’’ he gave the most beaming smile a man could give’’ They find fault in everything, Legate Jarza, for instance, is a pedant for drills; he grinds us harder than a millstone. But for you? There is only kind words."

Thalek leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a tone of sincere conviction.

"You have your father’s face, young lord, but you also have his gift for being loved. You’ll make a fine Prince when the time comes. I don’t say that to waste my breath or to flatter a royal ear. I say it because I’ve seen men follow people out of fear, and I have seen other do the work because they want to see those at the lead succeed.

Of the two I gather you know which category you fall...’’