He found his men in the stables. The spicy reek of sparkweed mingling with dry hay, manure and the metal tang of dried blood hung heavy and thick in the large space. Out of the fifty or so men that had survived the initial ambush from the Altraxian forces, there was only fifteen of them left. The rest had fallen that fateful night. 

Moving farther inside, Valerius found Jean, the young soldier had his knees drawn up to his chest and was rocking slightly back and forth. His face was ashen, covered in scrapes and bruises, dried blood turned his blond hair a russet-brown. Blue eyes haunted and glazed over; tear stains cutting through the grime. 

Valerius took note of that the young man had a death grip on the worn handle of his sword. 

The older man approached him with caution, reaching out slowly until it rested gently on the younger's shoulder. Even the gentlest of touches made Jean jump, his eyes wide with terror. 

"Easy. Easy. You're safe." Soothed Valerius, his hand going to stop the tormented soldier from drawing his blade. 

Jean's terror-filled eyes focused on him and his shoulders relaxed with recognition, but his hand did not leave the hilt of his sword, just stayed where it was. 

"G-General! I'm-I'm sorry. I thought..." he trailed off, his eyes losing focus again. 

"Jean, where's Jacques? Jean?" He gave Jean a gentle nudge. 

"Hmm? Sir De Claire? I-I don't..." he lifted a pale finger and pointed farther inside the stables. 

Valerius sighed, he wouldn't get anymore out of him in this state. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his pipe and pressed it into Jean's hand. 

"Use this. Get some rest." and he patted the young man's shoulder. Jean just nodded, already lost his memory; the pipe clenched tightly in his fist. 

Valerius traveled deeper inside the stables. The remains of his army sat shell-shocked and sparkweed pipes hanging from their lips occasionally huffing in deep puffs of the spicy intoxicating smoke. Their hands- much like young Jean's- stayed protectively on the hilts of their unsheathed blades. Their remaning horses huffed and stomped, their eyes wide and wary; ready to bolt. 

The General found hsi second-in-command huddled under a dense layer of furs, his face a ghastly pale and his cheeks gaunt. His pipe hung limply from his lips. 

A palace doctor dressed in black robes, flitted around Jacques, pulling back his torn and bloodied tunic. The mangled meat of his shoulder was covered in a mess of sticky honey and hemp cloth. His eyes staing into the nothingness. 

"How are you feeling?" Valerius placed a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder. 

Jacques shook his head, "I...I don't... like shit. I feel like shit." Jacques uttered out, his voice hoarse. "What did his Majesty say... to all this?" 

Resentment returned to Valerius as he said, "His Majesty believes that we... 'dealt' with the situation accordingly and that he had more 'pressing issues' to deal with." 

Jacques snorted, "'Dealt with the issue!'" he brought his shaky hand to the pipe and inhaled before bursting into a coughing fit. 

"They wished for proof." Valerius grimaced. 

"Proof?" Jacques scoffed, finally able to catch his breath. "Fucking sycophants!" 

Valerius couldn't agree more with his friend.

"His Highness- the prince said that he'll urge his father to look into this matter further."

Valerius didn't miss the way Jacques's nose scrunched into a weak sneer, but he kept his opinions close to his chest. Even gravely wounded, Jacques realized that the King had ears even here in this dingy stable. 

"Hopefully." was all he said before his body was wrecked with wet coughs. 

That was all Valerius could hope for too. He could only hope and pray that whatever nightmare they had witnessed at the Völva Mountains had come to pass. 

As Velarius found an empty cot to slip into a restless sleep, one of his men was awake. 

His body twitching. Something writhered and grew just under his skin. With one goal in mind: