After a short stop at the palace stables, Roel headed southeast, a large cloth sack slung over his back and a kettle helmet replacing his visored one. He mainly wore his armor for show, but the helmet was solely for precaution. Paladins who thought they were invincible were often the least. He didn’t believe much in honor and pride but dying from a sudden arrow to the head or a fall from your horse was most definitely a shameful death.

The Republic of Rove was on the short southeastern strip of Erebusune, and Prince Ghislain was taking a linear path back to the palace. Roel had left almost immediately after the prince had captured the city, so with that timing in mind, he estimated that the army of nearly five thousand soldiers and a handful of prisoners-of-war would take roughly a week to get to the palace, which was located near the northern tip of the continent.

A lone traveler put himself at risk, especially if he was taking the less populated roads. But if there were any bandits, they didn’t attack him. The royal emblem on his chest plate was a wonderful deterrent. In return, he pretended he didn’t see the more inexperienced ones watching him from a distance.

He tried to avoid the main highways, but he would stop by a town every now and then. An alibi was important. He wasn’t sure how he’d kill the prince, but if he was too careless, rumors might spread about his involvement.

All it took was a simple “what-if” from a drunk serf at a bar in Ginstber. By showing his face here and there, he hoped to show that he had hurriedly made his way straight from the palace with no detours and thus dismiss conspiracy theories like him being bribed by heretics along the way. Unnecessary, maybe, but he wouldn’t take risks. Paladins were infallible right up to the point in which they weren’t.

“You don’t want to cut at the root, you want to cut under it,” a young woman had once explained to him. Of course, her meaning had been literal – she was an herbalist, and she was explaining how to prune a plant – but he had developed a habit of imposing more meaning on her words than she ever intended.

The townspeople that he met were respectful to him, but they didn’t seem to recognize him. That was no surprise. He didn’t have any other major accomplishments aside from the Battle of Wetshard. He enjoyed his anonymity, but he knew it wouldn’t last for much longer. The news of the fall of Rove hadn’t spread very far yet, but he predicted that his reputation would grow once it did.

He finally caught up with Prince Ghislain’s army by the evening of the fourth day. They had set up camp away from the main road and near a river embankment. As he rode up to it, two guards saw him coming and gave low bows. They seemed to be brothers, these guards, because they shared the same round face and wide nose. The only noteworthy distinction was that the one who spoke first had slightly darker skin than the other one.

“Sir Roel,” the darker-skinned guard said, “what brings you back here?”

“Orders from the king,” Roel said. He pulled out the scroll he had been given that was embossed with the royal wax seal.

“Oh!” the second guard said with a start. “That can’t be good, can it? Or maybe he’s rewarding us early?”

“Gilles, that’s none of our business!” The first guard gave Roel an apologetic look. “Forgive my younger brother. He lacks manners. My name is Mateo. I’ll take you to the prince.”

He followed the guard through the camp. The second guard, a deflated expression on his face, trailed behind them. As they walked, the other soldiers noticed them and cheered or shouted his name. Roel reciprocated with a nod or a wave.

“Your arrival is good for morale,” Mateo told him. “Most of our time at the siege was spent loitering around and now all we do is march.”

“Not to mention we didn’t even get anything for it,” Gilles joined in. “Dad used to talk about all the treasure he looted from the nobles’ houses, but we couldn’t touch a thing at Rove.”

“These are different times.” Mateo shot his younger brother a disapproving look. “Our king is benevolent. He aims to proselytize through kindness.”

“Then, what was the point of fighting?” Gilles grumbled, but he shut his mouth when his brother glared at him.

Roel watched the two with amusement, but the other half of his thoughts were mulling over their conversation. Were these truly different times? His close friend, Olivier, had once explained his belief that a new country was created every time there was a new king.

“Calorin’s history is one that is inextricably tied to the succession of kings,” Olivier had said when the king had been crowned four years ago. “By the simple act of sitting on that throne, King Matthieu is creating a new society, a new Calorin that could’ve never existed before.”

Roel normally agreed with his wise friend – Olivier weighed the world on a pair of scales that he could never comprehend – but he couldn’t in this instance. “A landslide,” he responded. “Calorin is a landslide that collects more debris with every king.”

There was a short silence as Olivier contemplated his words. That’s what he liked most about his friend – he could be a smug asshat, but he did take Roel’s words seriously. They never sought approval of flattery from each other.

“I’m not sure if I agree or disagree,” he finally said, and the look he gave Roel was one of worry, “but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand why you serve the kingdom thinking the way that you do.”

Roel often thought of that conversation for some reason. Part of him was satisfied with himself. He was never good with words, so the fact that he was able to voice his thoughts so clearly gave him a sort of pride that he wasn’t used to feeling.

“Sir Roel,” Mateo said, interrupting his thoughts, “I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but it might be best to keep it short with the prince. He’s been…disconsolate.”

“An asshole,” Gilles added helpfully.

Roel laughed. “I appreciate your warning, but I’m well-aware.”

He had only had a brief conversation with the prince at the siege. Actually, it hadn’t been much of a conversation. Prince Ghislain gave curt nods in response to every report Roel gave. The king and his brother certainly shared an intimidating air.

As they reached the middle of the camp, they passed the tents in which the higher-ranking officers would sleep. The cheers were gone, replaced by solemn bows from those who saw him.

Surprisingly, Prince Ghislain’s tent wasn’t as big as some of the other ones. Mateo talked to the guard, who nodded and went inside the tent to report to the prince. After a moment, he came back out and beckoned Roel to enter.

“Mateo and Gilles, I thank you two for guiding me here,” Roel said.

“Of course, it was an honor,” Mateo said with a bow.

“Please let me know if you’re looking to hire a squire!” Gilles said at the same time.

Roel nodded politely and entered the tent.