Isaac Grant, having completely unlearned how to wear a strict military uniform over his long years of wandering and hopeless drunkenness, constantly adjusted his stiff collar in annoyance as it chafed his neck. Clean, pressed clothing felt unbearably uncomfortable to him, awkwardly restricting his movements and making him feel like a scarecrow.

Walking down the echoing corridor of the administration building, Grant fumbled clumsily with the thick fabric, unable to figure out how to lay the collar so it would finally stop bothering him.

Adrian Fornweir, sitting over yet another stack of reports at the commander’s right hand, suddenly froze dead in his tracks. His hand involuntarily squeezed his goose-feather quill with such force that the dry shaft snapped with a sharp crack, splattering ink across a clean sheet.

“Isaac Grant, reporting for duty,” the newly arrived knight grunted gloomily, barking the words out of habit.

Felix, buried headfirst in financial estimates, did not even look up from his maps. He merely gave a vague wave of his hand toward the steward standing by the door:

“Walter, show Sir Grant to the guards. And have the captain personally walk him through the barracks, the training grounds, and everything else.”

As soon as the door closed behind Grant, Adrian opened his mouth to ask the commander a question, but thought better of it. The quill in his hand hovered over the report.

“I did it because we lack capable men to train the guard,” Felix said softly, picking up a new stack of papers.

At dinner, Adelissa looked extraordinarily bright and cheerful.

“Father’s savior has been officially taken into service, can you imagine?!” she shared animatedly, neatly serving herself some stew. “He’s going to train our recruits and guards now! I accidentally saw one of the garrison veterans challenge him today to prove Sir Grant was good for nothing. But Sir Grant didn't just defeat him with ease - he immediately laid out all his mistakes in a calm voice and explained how to fix them!”

Helen, listening intently to her daughter, quietly lowered her hand beneath the table, found her husband’s palm, and laced her fingers tightly with his in a comforting warmth.

“And how are things at your work, sweetheart?” she asked with a soft smile.

Adelissa straightened her back proudly.

“Now I officially work right alongside Papa! The new outpost commander confirmed my position,” she took a hearty bite of bread, her tone softening slightly: “Though... to be honest, this Lord Allen frightens me a little.”

“He frightens me as well,” the head of the family admitted with a heavy sigh. “Master Felix is capable of saying the most chilling things with such a polite smile that it makes one’s blood run cold... Yet he appears to be an exceedingly reliable man. Furthermore, he knows his business splendidly and handles this complex position with striking skill.”

Helen offered a warm smile and playfully nudged her husband in the ribs with her elbow.

“My... So you actually like him already, do you?”

The children laughed in unison at the remark, causing the strict and usually reserved Adrian to flush slightly and bury his face in his bowl.

Khul moved through the night almost silently and unseen. His thick clothing, fashioned from rabbit pelts, blended seamlessly with the snow cover, concealing the scout in the terrain. Crouching behind a snowdrift, he carefully observed the guards on duty at the outpost. Making quick marks with charcoal on a piece of rough cloth, Khul tucked the bundle safely into an inner pocket and retreated slowly into the thicket without leaving deep tracks.

Reaching his home village, a settlement of three dozen yurts buried in dense snow, Khul headed straight for the largest one - the chief’s yurt. Stepping inside, where it smelled pleasantly of woodsmoke and dried meat, he settled by the crackling hearth to warm his frozen fingers. The chief’s wife, without a word, handed him a wooden bowl of sour milk drink. The scout took a few greedy gulps, pouring the remainder into the fire according to ancient custom to honor the spirits.

“Khan,” Khul sank onto one knee and folded his arms over his chest in deep reverence. Beneath his fur cape, the hilt of a broad dagger gleamed. “There are only fifteen warriors outside at the outpost. I spotted about ten more in the village proper. The rest are mostly elders, women, and children.”

The scout pulled the marked cloth from his coat and handed it to the chief. Khan studied the crude map in silent concentration, running a calloused finger over the drawn lines.

“Summon Khaituu,” the chief commanded his wife without looking up.

A minute later, Khaituu entered the yurt. He sat by the hearth beside his brother and set his heavy sword on the floor before him with a dull thud. Khaituu was nearly twice as broad and massive as Khul - it was he who served as the tribe’s chief warrior, though he was infamous for his untamed ferocity and cruelty.

“We strike in two nights,” Khan stated sharply, looking at the warrior. “The shaman predicted the ancestors will cast thick clouds over the night sky and veil the moon. Prepare your warriors. And call the men from the neighboring settlement.”

A predatory, bloodthirsty sneer spread across Khaituu’s heavily scarred face.