“He didn’t change his mind,” Skot says after a moment, handing the parchment back.
“No,” I reply, folding it again and slipping it into my sleeve. “He didn’t.”
Skot’s gaze shifts slightly, more focused now. “This is a test.”
“Yes.”
“He expects failure.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going anyway.”
I glance at him briefly, then forward again. “Yes.”
There’s no hesitation in it, and he doesn’t question it. He already understands the alternative, and so do I. If I don’t take this, then I’ve already lost whatever this was meant to measure.
We turn down the next corridor, the light shifting as we move deeper into the estate, the air growing drier, sharper, carrying that faint metallic taste that never quite leaves these inner halls.
“What kind of support?” Skot asks, his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond us.
“Enough to justify the order,” I say. “Not enough to guarantee success.”
“Numbers?”
“Small unit. Specialized.”
He nods once, absorbing it. “Containment expectations.”
“Failure expectations,” I correct, glancing at him again.
He doesn’t argue.
Because he knows the difference.
I slow slightly as the corridor opens toward the training grounds, the distant sound of steel striking steel carrying through the air, rhythmic and controlled. The scent shifts too—oil, metal, sweat, all of it familiar, all of it grounded in something real.
“This isn’t about the orcs,” I say, my gaze drifting toward the source of the sound.
“No,” Skot replies. “It’s about you.”
“Whether I succeed without support,” I add, watching a pair of soldiers move through drills in the distance.
“Or fail with it.”
I let that settle for a moment, the structure of it aligning cleanly in my mind. The parameters are clear. The expectation is clearer.
Good.
That makes this simple.
“Then we don’t play it the way he expects,” I say, turning back toward the interior halls.
Skot’s expression shifts just slightly, approval without display. “No,” he agrees. “We don’t.”
By the timeI reach the assembly hall, the change in atmosphere is immediate. Conversations taper off as I enter, not abruptly, but enough that I can feel the shift in attention without needing to look for it. The room is built for presence rather than comfort, high ceilings amplifying every movement, banners hanging in precise intervals along the walls, each one marking allegiance rather than decoration. The air carries the lingering scent of oil and sharpened steel, layered over stone that never quite loses its chill.
Several officers stand gathered near the center, their postures tightening just slightly when they register me. It isn’t fear, and it isn’t deference in the way lower ranks show it. It’s awareness—controlled, but immediate.
