Salvage said he was going to hang. Reed believed him but was determined to make one last-ditch effort. Over his three-year tenure as Barracks Captain, he’d meticulously written one all-encompassing, indexed repair request that consolidated every last ignored issue across multiple continuation pages. It was a fat stack of paper meant to cover his ass if anyone actually cared to look at it. It showed that he was aware of the problems and requested repairs on every one of them multiple times. The last thing he had to put on it was the date he brought it to the financial office.

Patrick had returned to his own office to find something and missed Reed when he had gone to get his indexed report. Reed was thankful for that. He didn’t have time to deal with the man’s questions at the moment.

Nervous, he carried it into the north wing. The finance office was at the end of the hall, past a door that led into the western gardens. Financier Albany had an office here, though he was rarely in it.

As Reed entered, the man at the intake desk grinned. There were a few other nobles in the office, though Reed gave them no heed since they weren’t in his direct path, and Durrish etiquette did not require that he go to each one to bow. The filing clerk opened the drawer to his desk and set out the ink pad and wooden stamp.

“You ain’t even going to read it,” Reed said as he got to the desk. With a heavy heart, he set the stack of papers down.

“No. Why should I?” The office clerk laughed. The other three office clerks laughed. “They shouldn’t allow illiterate morons like you to be knights, let alone Barracks Captains.” Never mind that Davis had written most of the requests because Reed’s handwriting was awful, and everyone knew it. There were several reports that Reed wrote himself because Kelvin insisted that the Barracks Captain write them, but he knew Kelvin didn’t read them. Otherwise, he would’ve said something about Reed repeatedly reporting the issues with the building and financial office giving him trouble.

“The building needs repairs. It’s a health hazard,” Reed said, trying to remain calm as he watched the clerk ink his stamp and slam it on the document's first page.

REJECTED.

“Lower your voice, peasant. You’re making a scene and upsetting Lady Lorraine,” one of the other clerks jeered.

Reed looked over, realizing the prospective Crown Candidate was standing there, holding a set of files. He knew his expression wasn’t pleasant. He couldn’t fix that. Grabbing the rejected request from the desk, he bowed to her and left before he really raised his voice. Lady Gwenivar Lorraine had the reputation of being the kindest woman in the country, but she wasn’t going to stick her neck out for Reed or his people.

Especially not for me. They’d probably push for the death penalty this time since the building had collapsed and Salvage had nearly gotten hurt. Salvage would undoubtedly press assault charges because Reed laid a hand on him. Ungrateful fuck. Save his ass, and this is what I get. Everything he’d worked for was down the drain, and while he’d never had much ambition and kept failing upward, it did sting that he was about to lose it all.

His second chance at life, and he was about to lose it.

Seething, he headed upstairs to his office to throw open the door.

Patrick yelped and fumbled the papers he held. “Is the inspection done?” Patrick's gaze went to the papers in Reed’s hand. “How bad was it?”

Reed hurled the papers across the room. They scattered to the floor. “Assholes finally figured out a way to get rid of me.” Going to his desk, he leaned his hands on it, hanging his head. “I don’t… understand why?” defeat crept into his voice. Despite everything, he had worked hard to maintain things at the Western Barracks. He knew he was lazy and passed off a lot of his work to underlings, but he didn’t believe in the people up top doing all the work and everyone below just having it easy. Especially when they had talents beyond standing around like decorations.

Patrick sank back to lean against the bookshelf. “Because they can.”

“You said the building is a health hazard,” a woman interrupted.

“Most Honorable,” Patrick blurted.

Reed pushed off his desk and turned to face her with a bow. She looked radiant as always, with her sunshine-colored hair and grey eyes. As if nothing bad had ever happened to her.

“What did you mean?” Gwenivar asked.

Before Reed could draw a breath, Patrick stepped forward with his stack of papers. “The Western Barracks is falling apart, Most Honorable.” He was grasping at straws. Patrick didn’t know how bad it really was. He didn’t know the roof had collapsed. “They sent an inspector this morning. We’ve requested repairs, but they’ve all been rejected.” He then went behind Reed’s desk to collect the papers he’d thrown.

Gwenivar flipped through the repeated and increasingly dire requests. “Do you mind if I take these?”

Reed stared at the top of the door behind her. “Sure, Most Honorable. You can have our only record that we asked for help.” He hadn’t meant to be sarcastic. The familiar ache of depression was strangling his lungs, and dealing with her was the last thing he wanted to do.

Gwenivar smiled at him, though it was cold. “I will return them unaltered.”

He believed that. As much as he believed he was going to teleport back to Earth in the near future. “We would appreciate that, Most Honorable.” He moderated his tone to neutral.

“Is this all of them?” Gwenivar asked.

“No, Lady Lorraine. That’s just from this past six months,” Patrick said.

Gwenivar looked at the centimeters-thick stack of papers again, flipping through them. “There are a lot of repeated requests.”

“The issues weren’t addressed, so they got worse,” Reed said.

Gwenivar pressed the papers to her chest in shock. “How long has this been going on? When is the last time a request has been granted?”

“Twenty years ago,” Reed said. Gwenivar’s eyes widened.

“May I take the requests from the year before?”

He gestured at Patrick, “Give her three more years.” Not that it mattered if she burned them, he realized. It was evidence, but only if someone cared to press the issue. Patrick got a box to put the documents into. “That covers a year of Captain Bass,” Reed said blandly. He glanced past her when someone stepped into the open door. Vice-Commander Fisk, Kelvin’s second in command, stood there. Reed immediately straightened and saluted.

Gwenivar and Patrick turned to look. Patrick was quick to salute as well. Gwenivar merely bowed politely. His family was a marquessate, meaning he was of higher social status than her, though considering she would be announced as a crown candidate later made things a little fuzzy. Fisk politely bowed in return, outright ignoring Reed and Patrick’s salutes, leaving them both standing there stiffly. “Good afternoon, Most Honorable,” Fisk said.

“Vice-Commander,” Gwenivar replied with a pleasant smile. “It seems you have business with these gentlemen. I shall take my leave.” She looked at Reed and Patrick with a polite nod and took the box.

Finally, Fisk acknowledged Reed and Patrick’s salute with one of his own, then looked Reed over. He’d undoubtedly noticed the dust still clinging to Reed’s hair and clothes. “I sent Sir Blanch to observe your training this morning. Cross said you insulted her and sent her away.”

Deciding that it didn’t matter if he pissed off Fisk, Reed replied, “Maybe you should ask Sir Blanch what happened. I’m only going to say what puts me in the best light. As scum-sucking commoners do.”

“Your tricks won’t work on me,” Fisk warned.

“Seems like it did, sir.”

“Report what happened, Barracks Captain,” Fisk said sternly.

“I stepped out to join my men after morning inspection to find Sirs Cross, Hershel, and Blanch in the yard interrupting warm-up laps. I offered breakfast but warned that our food and facility wouldn’t be up to their standards.”

“How so?” Fisk asked.

“Frank tries his best, but sometimes he gets distracted. Ain’t nothin' we would complain about, but I doubt your men would appreciate extra crispy bacon the way he makes it.”

“Hershel said you don’t use soap.”

Reed snorted. “My men would rather die than forego bathing. You would have to pry their fancy-scented soaps from their cold, dead fingers.”

Fisk’s lips pressed into a line. Reed couldn’t tell if the man thought that was funny or not. Patrick’s eyes squinted as he tried to hold his expression straight. He, for one, was annoyed by Reed’s weird joke.

“Should you try, they’d probably rise from their graves and shamble after you,” Reed added, just to push the visual. "I don’t think it’s our fault Sir Hershel doesn’t know a joke when he hears one."

“Enough,” Fisk said, not amused. “You were correct; speaking with you is a waste of time.”

Reed continued smiling. The giddy feeling of impending death had left him fearless, it seemed.

“Sir Blanch will return tomorrow. She is to observe your training regimen and will be making a report.”

Reed immediately asked, “Will she be bringing company? I’d like to make sure I provide them proper hospitality and entertainment.”

“She will arrive alone. No hospitality required.”

“Will she be joining?” Reed asked.

“Strictly observing,” Fisk said firmly. “You’re to carry on as if she isn’t there.”

“Yes, Sir. If you don't mind, I’d like that in writing so I don’t forget.”

Fisk narrowed his eyes.

“I’m stupid and generally illiterate, but Sir Davis can keep track of written orders,” Reed said.

Fisk’s frown deepened. “You truly do not care how others see you,” he said in wonder and disgust.

“No, sir,” Reed said.

Uncomfortable with Reed’s lack of shame, Fisk scowled. “You’re a Barracks Captain. Find some dignity.”

“That would conflict with prior orders to know my place, sir.” Reed smiled vapidly.

Relaxing his hands, Fisk straightened, coming to some realization that he kept to himself. He left without a salute.

Reed and Patrick saluted and held it for a second more. Eastern Barracks assholes were prone to coming back to make sure he was saluting when they left. Fisk did not.

Patrick wilted with a sigh and closed the door to the hall. “He’s got a point. You debase yourself so much it makes us all want to hit you.”

“I got pride. I’m just telling them what they want to hear. If Fisk wants to send someone over to watch, then fine. But I want it in writing. If she interferes or brings friends, I can kick them out using Fisk’s name. You gotta learn how to cover your ass better, Patrick.” He folded his arms.

“So now we have Blanch coming to watch. How much more trouble are we going to get into?”

“The roof collapsed,” Reed said.

“What?” If Patrick had been holding anything, he would’ve dropped it.

“It was nice working with you, Patrick,” Reed said honestly.

“What?” Patrick demanded, raising his voice. “You—Don’t joke with me like this!”

“If I hadn’t pulled Salvage out of the room, he’d have been buried, but he was pretty pissed about me grabbing him. He’s going claim assault.”

Patrick had gone white. He sat on the floor abruptly. “You… you have to run, Reed…”

“Where?” Reed gestured vaguely. “Out into the wilderness? Already lived out there once. Not interested.”

“You could join the Guild again!” Patrick slammed his fist on the floor.

“Quit blubbering.”

Surging to his feet, Patrick clenched his fists, scowling at Reed. “You stupid son of a bitch!”

“Yep.”

Slinging the door open, Patrick left, slamming it behind him. Reed didn’t have the energy to deal with whatever he was off to do. He sat at his desk, pulled the bottle of whisky from the bottom drawer, and took a swig.