When he woke up, he was greeted by a splitting headache and a knock on his door. When he didn’t reply, the knocking continued, further increasing the pain in his head.

“Yes?” he called out. He and Olivier had stayed up late last night, making plans and trading stories. He had underestimated the spirits, and instead of warning him, Olivier had taunted him for being such a lightweight.

“Breakfast!” Maia said through the door. “I hope you like mutton stew.”

“Alright, I’ll be down soon.”

Groggy, he struggled with his armor. The clasps and buckles seemed to squirm and writhe in his hands, and the room was filled with his frustrated sighs. He didn’t know how long he took, but when he finally managed to stumble into the great hall, Olivier and Maia were seated at a table for four with untouched bowls.

“Ah, sorry, you didn’t have to wait for me,” he said with guilt as he took a seat next to Olivier. A servant came over and served him a bowl of stew.

“It’s fine,” Maia said cheerfully. “Olivier was just telling me about your present.”

He followed Maia’s gaze to the back of the hall and saw the clay pot that he had bought in Stuhhofen sitting on the bottom row of a cabinet. It was a horrendous thing made more horrendous by the ceramic masterpieces that it sat beside.

“You have very exotic taste,” Maia said, and it was hard to tell if she was being sarcastic.

He tried to explain himself. “No, it’s –”

“It’s so ugly that it might actually be beautiful,” Olivier said with a smirk. “I’ll tell my guests it was made by Mysson and see how they react.” Fashionable as always, he wore a dark blue vest, a half-cape made of satin fastened over one shoulder. He seemed unaffected by last night’s drinking.

“You drank more than I did,” he said accusatorially. “What magic did you use to sober up so quickly?”

“No magic, just self-awareness,” Olivier said. “When one goes to as many dinners as I do, it becomes important to know one’s tolerance. I would’ve thought it the same for a paladin.”

He swallowed a mouthful of stew. “You know I don’t drink often.”

“When we were fifteen, my father took me and Roel to a banquet,” Olivier said to Maia. “I lost track of him when we entered. Near the end of the night, I stepped outside to get some fresh air and found Roel vomiting into the earl’s rose bushes. Apparently, he had gotten caught up in a drinking game with some of the other youths.”

“Don’t tell her that,” he grumbled, but he could tell that Olivier was trying to make Maia feel comfortable around him.

After breakfast and other stories about their youths, Olivier called a carriage. Last night, they had agreed on several decisions about the officers. They’d draft a letter to Earl Gaston, accepting his provisions in exchange for appointing his third son as an officer. For the second officer, it was important to have representation from Brackith, so he would ask Joseph Chastain for his recommendation once he arrived.

There were two visits on today’s agenda. The first was about a half-hour away, the portside residence of the man who they hoped to recruit as the third officer.

“You sure we can convince him?” Roel asked Olivier as they sat in the carriage. “You said Baron Damien has been in retirement for more than a decade, didn’t you?”

“Fourteen years if I recall correctly. And that’s why I think our negotiations will go smoothly.” There was not a single trace of worry or unease on Olivier’s face. Roel wondered if he was truly that calm or if he was just that experienced at feigning it, but it was reassuring, nonetheless.

“You need someone who’s trustworthy and has experience managing an army,” Olivier continued. “Baron Damien might be old, but he has led many times before. Many don’t know this, but Albine was just one of many Melmerian fishing villages until he and his troops came.”

“I’m not doubting your judgment,” he said.

“Good,” and there was a confident smile on Olivier’s face. “Just do as we discussed. A man is made of wants and needs, but it’s a merchant’s duty to make him confuse the two.”

The baron’s residence lacked the same flair that Olivier’s had. Located on the eastern edge of the city, it was an austere two-story manor made of brick and stone sitting along the coastline. As the baron’s son led them through an elevated walkway and down to the courtyard, Roel noted that the building’s walls were aged with varying shades of red and brown, and the bricks were uneven and jutting forward, a sign of shoddy masonry. Some parts of the roof had evidently fallen in and patched up with mossy wood planks. It was as ramshackle as a noble’s estate could be.

The courtyard, a cobblestone square with a field of grass in the middle, was easily the largest part of the residence. The baron was standing in the field, and he was not alone. There were eight boys matched in pairs and sparring with pikes. He walked from pair to pair, giving instructions and correcting postures.

“Father acts as a ward and instructor for boys from all across the kingdom,” said the baron’s second son proudly as the three of them watched from a distance. Bernard was a tall, earnest-looking youth, no older than eighteen or nineteen, and he had his father’s deep-set eyes and blond-brown hair. “Sir Roel, Lord Olivier, what brings you to our humble residence today? I hope we can be of assistance somehow.”

Roel and Olivier exchanged the briefest of glances: how much should the baron’s son know?

“As you might have heard, Sir Roel has been tasked with tremendous responsibility,” Olivier said slowly. “We believe your father could play a pivotal role.”

Bernard’s face lit up. “Yes, I’ve often heard that my father was a great warrior and leader back in the day. I’m sure his knowledge would be of great use. Oh, though…” He trailed off and gave an uneasy glance at his father’s back.

“What is it?” Roel asked.

“It’s just that he’s not too eager to talk about those times,” Bernard said in a low voice. “All the stories I know about him come from other people.”

Olivier chuckled. “No worries. I’ve dealt with many nauseatingly humble men.”

Roel ignored Olivier’s side glance and said, “Ah, here he comes now.”

“Bernard!” the baron called as he walked over to them. “Take over for me.”

“Of course!” Bernard gave both of them a bow and ran over to the field. The baron and his son looked so similar that as they passed each other, it was like seeing the past and the future self of the same man.

“My lords, I apologize for making you wait.” The baron’s voice was deeper and graver than his son’s. His hair was streaked with gray, and the wrinkles on his face made him look much older than he was. His unease was obvious.

“It’s fine, it’s our fault for coming unannounced,” Olivier said.

“It’s not a problem. It’s always an honor to welcome a Divine Paladin. And Lord Olivier, I hope your father is doing well. Congratulations on the marriage. I should’ve sent a gift.”

Olivier smiled. “Perhaps there is something you can do to make up for it.”

The baron’s expression became more uneasy, and he cleared his throat. “We should continue our discussion in the great hall.” He took a step toward the building but then stopped. “On second thought, perhaps we shouldn’t. Forgive me, it’s been a while since I had guests. The hall is a mess at the moment.” His voice carried a hint of embarrassment.

“It’s fine. We can talk out here,” Roel said.

“No, I can’t be so rude to my guests. Though I must admit, I’m unsure what to think of your arrival.” The baron’s gaze flitted between the two of them, and his voice became little more than a whisper. “Lord Olivier, if it’s an issue about the loan, I thought I had paid it in full.”

“No, it’s not about that at all,” Olivier said quickly. “Besides, that’s business between you and my father. I came here for a more personal matter.”

“Oh, I see.” Some of the uneasiness disappeared from his face, but his eyes were still wary. “Then what can I do for you?”

“Actually, it’s Sir Roel who requires your assistance.”

He and Olivier had written a script of sorts for this visit, and that was his cue. “Baron Damien, I’ve heard many things about you,” he started. “They say that the war against the Melmarians would’ve ended in defeat if it weren’t for your command. They say that the city of Albine wouldn’t exist and flourish the way it does without your heroic efforts.”

“Where did you hear that from?” Baron Damien said with a frown. He had taken the bait. “No one says that.”

“You’re right,” he replied calmly. “But that’s what they should be saying. However, all the praise and accolades were given to Duke Armand. He took credit for the battles you led and won, and you were left with a title of barony and this old house to fade away in and die forgotten.”

The baron didn’t become angry, but his frown became more pronounced. “Perhaps it is as you say.”

“I want to offer you a chance to reclaim what you deserve. Won’t you serve by my side as we go to war against the Graecians?”

“What?” Baron Damien’s expression became startled. “No, no, I’m much too old to fight. I’m turning forty-two this year. You should be talking to my son.”

“You won’t be fighting,” he said. “And I need you, not your son. What I seek is your experience as a commander. Many in the capital wish to see me fail. I don’t need sycophants or glory hounds beside me. I want to offer you a position in my army as an officer.”

“No, I…” The baron seemed so taken aback by his offer that he almost felt bad for him. Still, he had to continue pushing.

“I’ll be honest: I’ve asked Olivier about your financial situation. You had to take a loan from his father to settle your eldest son’s gambling debts, and your only source of income is the boys that you take in. Troublemakers, most of them, and the families pay you a moderate amount to hold them until adulthood. This isn’t what you should be doing, Baron Damien. You have more to offer. The kingdom needs you.”

“The kingdom needs those who have life left to give.” Baron Damien had found his voice, and his words were bitter. The confusion had cleared from his face and was replaced by a tired expression. One that he understood too well. “By most standards, I am an old man, Sir Roel. Old and exhausted. There’s nothing more I can do.”

“Are you worried that I would treat you like Duke Armand did?” he pressed. “Steal your glory?”

“If you had spoken to me a few years earlier, that would’ve been my primary concern,” said the baron. “But my priorities have changed. I have two sons. One has cowardly run away from home, but Bernard still has a future. My only concern now is making sure he isn’t left with nothing when I die.”

“And what if I said that we could ensure that your son never has to worry about money?” he said.

That was the cue for Olivier to rejoin the conversation. “Normally, army contracts are negotiated with a duke’s steward. But we can write up our own contract, Baron Damien. We can discuss the actual amount later, but I can assure you that it’ll be enough to last your son his whole lifetime.”

The baron said nothing, but his eyes had shifted to the field where his son was correcting one of the boy’s stances.

“You can trust me,” Olivier continued. “You’ve known my father for a long time, and my reputation would suffer immensely if I didn’t hold up my end of the bargain.”

The baron was silent for a moment, his eyes still on his son. “Why do you need me?” he said slowly. “There are many capable men in the kingdom. Far more capable.”

Olivier looked at Roel, and it was obvious what he was trying to communicate. Olivier had agreed to help him, but he had to be the one who convinced the baron.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he said, and the baron’s focus turned back to him. “I need someone with experience, but I also need someone I can trust. A man of your experience must know that trust is often gained through stalemate.”

“I’ve never been good at playing politics, but what you’re trying to say is that you don’t think I’ll conspire against you,” Baron Damien said. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Olivier says you’re an honest man. And I believe his word.” He didn’t mention what else Olivier had said: Any man who signs a contract with me is my captive. He’ll never betray you.

“I see.” The baron ran his fingers through his graying beard. His frown had disappeared, but it was still hard to read him.

“You can think it over,” he said. Olivier had warned him not to press too hard. “However, I’ll caution you that there’s not much time. I expect that the Graecians will give their reply by tomorrow or the day after that at the latest, and then I’ll have to head to Brackith.”

With that, they bid the baron and his sunny-faced son a farewell and took leave of the residence.

“That went quite well,” Olivier said the moment they got back into their carriage.

“You think so?” he asked.

“I told you – you just need to know what a man wants. From his interactions with my father, I’ve seen that the baron cares deeply for his sons. He admitted it himself. He’ll sign the contract.”

“It went as you said it would,” Roel said slowly. “But I’m not blind to my hypocrisy.”

“What hypocrisy?”

He sighed. “I’m doing to the baron what the kingdom has done to –”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Roel,” Olivier said with a frown. “You shouldn’t need me to tell you that your sympathy will only hinder you in these situations. There’s a war coming, and you asked me to help you find officers.”

“I won’t let it hinder me,” he snapped. “I will do what I must, but it doesn’t mean I’ll sleep any easier at night.”

“You brood too much.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“Well, there’ll be more time for that later.” Olivier glanced out the window of the carriage. “We’ll be at the ports soon. The man we’re meeting, Kostas, wasn’t cheap to arrange a meeting with, but he’ll answer your questions about the Graecians.”