The good thing about having skilled scouts was that they were light on their feet, blending into the surroundings and gathering vital information. The bad thing was that they blended into the surroundings and gathered information.

“Warlord Demyan,” the scout greeted and stepped out of the shadow.

Tilting his head, Demyan motioned with his hand to continue.

“Hrestovian messenger arrived, said it’s urgent.” Voice steady, the scout had a light blush on his cheeks.

“Orest, was it?” Demyan asked idly.

The scout gave a short nod.

“Why did you not announce yourself earlier, Orest?”

Clearing his throat, Orest bit his lip. “Uhm… didn’t want to interrupt...” He offered with a lost smile.

Eyes narrowed and brows knitted, Demyan pushed himself off the wall and stepped closer to the scout. Higher by a full head, he looked down.

“And what precisely you didn’t want to interrupt?”

Orest kept gnawing on his lower lip as he weakly glanced up. “Nothing?”

Demyan smiled. “Smart fella.” He slapped Orest’s shoulder and felt the other almost bend in half. “What about the messenger?”

“He said he rode without a stop for days to deliver urgent orders, refused to say anything else and demanded your personal audience.”

Slapping Orest’s shoulder a few more times in a show of appreciation, Demyan snickered.

“Urgent orders,” he muttered under his breath.

***

“-ride southwest and ensure protection of the Hrestovian lands. Signed and ordered by The First Commander Virevych of the Joint Crown of Hrestovia and Neruvain.” The messenger finished reading a letter with a gallant tilt of his chin.

Though he arrived late at night and claimed a long and arduous road, his clothes were fresh and he carried a distinct smell of southern oils that had recently become popular in Bishov. Especially among young women.

Demyan trained his gaze on a few specs of dirt clinging to the messenger’s leather boots. Eyebrows drawn in concentration, he tried to remember where he saw this particular style of shoemaking.

“Warlord Demyan?” the messenger urged. He had a hint of annoyance in his voice, looking around the small room where they had their meeting with impatience.

“Hm?” Demyan acknowledged.

Was it the craftsmanship of the Lev’s Leather Guild? But the leather itself was… He couldn’t quite remember, but this shade of dark brown hinting red was especially unique and memorable. Demyan swore he used to know it.

“Warlord Demyan,” the messenger started again, poorly hiding how irked he was, “as per the delivered order, you need to—”

“Where are your shoes from?” Demyan asked.

Stupefied by such impudence, the messenger gawked for a moment.

“What?”

“Your boots. Where did you get them?” Demyan looked up, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Confused, the messenger flicked a glance to his own feet and then up to the warlord.

“Kamyan Province, a good Lord hosted me on my way here. Why does it even matter?”

“And he just gifted you, a regular messenger, such fine leather?” Demyan asked with a skeptical tone.

Clearly insulted by being reduced to ‘a regular messenger’, the man gritted his teeth and hardened his gaze.

“Warlord Demyan, I fail to see how this is relevant—”

Once again, Demyan was not in the mood to entertain his guest. “You’re right,” he interrupted with a smile. “Apologies, I drank too much beer. So, what was the order?”

Through gritted teeth, the messenger replied, “Take your men and ride southwest. The Golden Empire Horde is passing through on the south bank of the Nyzova River. While we have no reason to believe they will harm our villages, we need to have someone there.”

Demyan smiled wider. “Someone? Were no troops gathered? Surely, the Flying Army is way more suited for protection than my host.”

“There are no troops on the south bank, so you need to go. That is what I know, just a regular messenger,” he said with faux humility.

“A Horde of more than thirty thousand riders and a fleet of more than a hundred ships, and you did not gather troops?” Demyan hardly tried to hide his laughter. “Are you people so half-witted or that sure of yourselves?”

The messenger was so red in the face Demyan worried he might faint.

“As I said, I am only here to relay an order; I do not know anything about military affairs.”

Demyan waved his hand. “Save your breath, I got your orders.” He stood up from his chair and made his way out of the room.

Outside, Orest kept watch by the door.

“So, we’re riding out tomorrow?” he asked, trailing behind Demyan with soundless steps.

“Why are you the one on this duty, anyway?” Demyan questioned instead. His host was not the pinnacle of military discipline, but surely he had some guards or anyone but scouts to deal with the arrival of unwanted guests, did he not?

Orest rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t drink much, so…” He looked around the inner yard.

A few men were sleeping by the stables, something akin to puke pooled at each corner, and somewhere faraway, the sounds of music and laughter could still be heard.

Demyan sighed.

“I have three thousand drunkards, what a fucking achievement on my part.”

Laughing, Orest skipped closer to Demyan. “But, Warlord, didn’t you say that it was the last feast you’d be paying for yourself, and we should indulge ourselves to the most?”

As they stepped inside the watchtower, a spiraling staircase met them, serpentining all the way up under the dim fire of dying torches.

“I said that?”

“You did,” Orest confirmed.

“Huh.”

They climbed up, methodical steps over polished stones. Countless knights and soldiers ran up and down these stairs, but the fortress was too young to have their mark as more than a few shiny spots. Centuries made dentures, crevices, foot-shaped ravines inside the once even surface.

“Where are you from, Orest?” Demyan asked as they reached the highest level.

“From here, Warlord. Bishov is my home.”

With a quiet clack, Demyan pushed open a heavy wooden door leading to the watcher's terrace. It circled the tower’s top, was covered by a roof and fenced by a thick parapet with narrow crenels.

Orest came up to the opening between merlons, pointing his finger to the hazy lights of the city below.

“There, on that side, closer to the river,” he explained with a small, fond smile. “I used to fish and sell some for a few copper coins, then I would steal bread and stack the coppers. I hate fish.”

From up here and covered by the night, Bishov didn’t look as beaten down as in daytime. The flickering flames of taverns and houses hid away the cheap wood they were made of, the cracked walls, the charcoal stains of recent and old fires.

“Stealing? Orest, how unbecoming for a knight.” Demyan chuckled, leaning on a merlon and gazing far at the dark moonless sky.

“I don’t know that word, Warlord.” Orest smiled helplessly. “Can I ask you something?”

Demyan nodded, halfheartedly watching the surroundings. There was a small chance something would happen—the bulk of southern forces had already ridden past Bishov. The city was too far north to make a detour just to ravage it, and who needed additional weight on the way to war, not on the way back?

“Are you from Kamyan?”

Slowly, Demyan turned to Orest.

“What makes you think that?”

Orest shrugged and fixed his arm guard. “You keep looking there, to the west. And now, you recognized that lordling posing for a messenger. And you like Medov beer. And—”

“Okay, I get it, I get it.” Demyan rolled his eyes. “What does it matter if I am?”

“Then we will go tomorrow to protect your home. You protected mine, so I am happy to return the favor, Warlord.” Orest smiled the most earnest, brightest smile.

***

“What impudence!” Martyn Palinowskyi swore heartily.

Not only was he not properly greeted as a messenger of the Crown, but he was questioned, interrupted, and then left behind with no regard, as if he were a common beggar. This small, unsightly room was probably used as some utility space, dirty and barely lit.

Careful not to touch anything, Martyn paced around the narrow space between the table and the wall, cursing under his breath.

Finally, he heard the door creak.

“At last! I need to be escorted to the guest quarters and a bath prepared. This castle stinks.”

A blonde-haired youth dressed in quite expensive robes walked inside, curiously looking around. Well, Martyn reasoned, it was to be expected of Warlord Demyan to provide someone of his higher-ranking men to escort him. If only to redeem the terrible welcome Martyn received from that guard.

“Fortress,” the youth said, passing an easy smile.

Martyn raised his chin and cleared his throat.

“What?”

The youth closed the door behind him and nodded his head in a polite bow.

“It’s a fortress, my lord, not a castle,” he carefully answered.

“Explains the smell better then,” Martyn retorted.

It granted him a small chuckle. Puffing his chest, Martyn smiled in return. After all, he did not expect a famous ruffian like Demyan to have any notion of politeness, but even Demyan must have recognized the importance of appealing to those who provide direct orders from the First Commander under the Crown.

“You must forgive us for lack of a fitting welcome; we did not expect anyone of your station this late at night.” The youth put his hands behind his back as he walked up a bit closer. He had a fair, delicate face, very easy on the eyes, and good manners to boot, so Martyn suspected he was likely one of the Bishov nobility.

“No bother, what else could I want from these so-called Pouring Knights?” he waved off the apology, magnanimous as his father taught him. “I am Martyn Pa—” biting his tongue, Martyn quickly amended—”Pashiv, I am here on the orders of the First Commander under the Crown. And may I ask who you are?”

The youth tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Pleased to make an acquaintance. I’m Levis, son of the Bishov Magistrate. I know Warlord Demyan can be… brash, so I decided to personally escort you lest you consider all of Bishov to be filled with brutes.”

Laughing, Martyn relaxed his posture. As he correctly assumed, he was talking with a highborn. Though he did not hear anything of the local Magistrate, the position was always appointed by the king and given to a local noble.

“Oh, he is a brute alright. No decorum! But, who cares, as long as he brings his dirty ‘knights’ to Kamyan.”

Levis raised his brows. “To Kamyan?”

With a steady hand and head raised high, Martyn showed a letter with the First Commander’s seal.

“I am delivering an important order,” he stated, voice loud and sure. “The Pouring Knights are expected at Kamyan Province to protect Hrestovian lands.”

Glancing at the neatly folded paper, Levis hummed.

“May I?” he stretched out his hand, palm open.

Hesitating, Martyn tried to remember if the letter was of a sensitive nature. He was asked to deliver it quickly and discreetly by his father, but there were no explicit orders as to what to do should he be questioned by other Hrestovian nobles.

“Ah, my apologies, if someone like you were sent, the content of the letter truly must be of paramount importance,” Levis said, lowering his gaze. His cheeks gained a shade of red as he quietly added, “Not for me to quench my curiosity.”

The slight embarrassment in Levis’s voice and the way he blushed made Martyn feel… something. He knew all too well how it was to be the son with expectations placed on you, with a deep-rooted, immature desire to outperform. Sometimes, even forgetting your own station in pursuit of approval.

“How old are you, Levis?” Martyn suddenly heard himself asking.

Wide, dark eyes blinked at him. Twisting some accessories decorating his braid between his fingers, Levis silently laughed.

“Do I look so pitiful to you?”

Quickly, Martyn shook his head. “No-no! I was young, too, no shame in that!”

“Then how old are you?” Levis asked, bit back like all youth did when their pride was wounded. The golden beads in his hair blinked under the candlelight as he decidedly snapped away his hand as if in demonstration.

Martyn smiled, magnanimous as his father taught him, “I am about to meet my twenty-sevens Sychen.”

“Oh,” Levis breathed out, staring down at the floor. “You are much older… I am only twenty-one.” Hesitantly glancing up, his smile quivered. “It’s stupid, right? You must realize by now I wanted to snoop around. But my father tasked me with keeping an eye on the fortress and the Pouring Knights and—” gulping a breath, Levis knitted his eyebrows— ”and Warlord Demyan doesn’t take me seriously at all, I am failing at every turn…”

Faced with such honest vulnerability, Martyn couldn’t help himself.

“There, there. Let me tell you a little secret…”