He woke up to a headache so bad it immediately made him want to go back to sleep. Fighting back that temptation, he opened his eyes a tad. The midday sun beamed light down at him through the flap of a tent. He blinked a few times to clear his head and regain his bearings. With a start, he realized that he wasn’t alone. In the corner of the canvas tent, a lonely figure with silver hair sat on a chair, staring out at the beautiful day.

“You look awful.” Dere said, surprised by how clear his voice sounded. Silver hair shifted and pale blue eyes turned to appraise him. Arlette looked exhausted.

“Good to see you’re alright.” She sounded mostly sarcastic, but Dere caught a hint of something genuine in the words.

Dere took his right hand and placed it over his eyes to ward off the sun. “I don’t feel alright.”

Arlette gave an almost imperceptible chuckle. “You don’t really look alright either.”

“I don’t want to think about that.” Groaning, Dere pulled himself up into a sitting position. It hurt less than he expected, actually. He looked under the blanket to see that his skin had mostly healed.

Arlette noticed his bemused expression. “We got some actual healers to look at your wounds. You were pretty bad off. I don’t think I did a very good job.”

“Really? You think?”

Arlette pursed her lips. “Okay, I’m sorry. You were hurt, and I pushed you too hard.” Dere just looked at her with a blank expression on his face. “It’s just… I don’t know, there’s something about you. Even when you’re bleeding from a hundred cuts or barely able to stand you still somehow seem invulnerable. I guess I just forgot that you’re mortal like the rest of us.”

Dere laughed loud enough to aggravate his throbbing head even further. The ensuing stab of pain quieted the laughter, but he kept chuckling regardless. “Don’t worry, I tend to forget the same thing.” Arlette looked at him, guilt weighing heavily on her expression. “Relax, it’s fine. I mean it. I would have done the same.”

“Knowing you would have done the same thing doesn’t really reassure me.” Dere laughed, and Arlette smiled gently. Some of the guilt seemed to fade away from her expression and posture. She began to look a little more like herself.

“Where are we anyways?” Dere asked as he looked around the tent.

Arlette sighed. “Maurius’ warcamp. Four or five hours ride out of Karn.”

Dere nodded and went through the math in his mind. “How long was I out?”

Arlette shrugged. “Half a day or so.”

“That’s less than I expected, actually.”

“You heal fast.”

Dere laid back down on the bed with a groan and closed his eyes. “What’s the plan?”

Arlette stood up from the chair. “There’s a feast at sunset in the main tent. Be there.” She strode out after that, leaving Dere alone.

----------

Dere hated feasts. It’s not that the idea didn’t appeal to him. He liked stuffing himself with food and wine as much, if not more, as anybody else, but feasts so seldom worked out that way. Because, for some reason, somebody had the bright idea of placing a bunch of hungry people in front of appetizing food and not allowing them to eat until a set amount of arbitrary etiquette was met. And then, even when they were allowed to begin, there was a limit on how much they could eat or drink. Anything more would be seen as discourteous and rude. Not that it ever stopped Dere much. It just added another layer of annoyance.

“Is that your third glass of wine?” Arlette asked.

“Hardly, it’s my fourth, and to get through this nightmare, I’ll be needing a few more.”

Arlette didn’t even have the energy to summon any indignation, so she just shook her head and went back to nibbling at her food. She had cleaned herself up since Dere last saw her and already looked much healthier. Dere looked better as well, but a new change of clothes and a quick wash couldn’t quite hide the gauntness of his features. They sat next to each other up at the high table. Markus sat to Dere’s other side, and Florian chatted with some guests a few more chairs down. Highlord Maurius sat at the center of the high table, surrounded by the most important guests of the event. Dere peered closer at him, trying to piece together his puzzle. He didn’t have a full grasp of the man yet. A tall, thin man, with greying black hair, and a straight spine. Dere might describe him as rigid. He was rehearsed, diligent, and efficient in everything he did. The way he spoke, the way he moved, even the way he ate had a certain technical quality to it.

As Dere watched him, Maurius stood up, glass of wine, barely touched, in hand. The crowd, made up of minor nobles, high-ranking soldiers, and important merchants, turned to look at their Highlord. “When I was a child,” He began. “I used to sit in front of the fireplace at my family’s manor. Up there, on the mantle, there was a plaque. Written on it were three simple words, my family’s motto: Loyalty above all. It is a message that has been engraved into every child of my household for over three centuries.” Dere read the man as he spoke. He could tell that this speech had been rehearsed thirty times in front of a mirror. Every syllable clipped a certain way. Every sentence flowed with classic military efficiency. Nothing wasted. “I can see now that the message has travelled far outside the bounds of my house, though. Each person here has displayed the extent of their loyalty.” He looked around, eyes moving from person to person. “We are standing against a traitor.” He spat the word out. “A man who has betrayed the vows he swore and the family he was supposed to serve. A man who has brought chaos and death to Clovin.” He made a pre-planned pause. “Duval has power. Duval has monsters. Standing up to him is no small task, yet, here we are. Here we are, all united through the unbreakable links of true loyalty. It is those links, which will allow us to remain unbent. Even as he burns your home and mine.” He let another pause into his speech and looked down at the floor, an attempt to show emotion. It mostly succeeded. “It is those links, which will allow us, together, to strike back and show him what a traitor is due.”

Maurius sat down and approving applause filled the main tent. Dere clapped lightly with them. It had been a fine speech. Too rigid for his liking, and the emotion didn’t seem real, but it was fine. Next to him, Arlette clapped as well. On her face, though, she wore an interesting expression. One of distastes, perhaps.

“You don’t like him.” Dere murmured.

“What?” She said, still clapping.

“Maurius. You don’t like him. Why?”

Arlette breathed in and finished her clapping. “He’s a good general, one of the best I’ve ever met. A practical, efficient man, and a loyalist to his core.”

Dere looked at her quizzically and sat down. Arlette did the same. “You don’t seem to trust him.”

“Oh, no, I trust him. He may be emotionless, but he didn’t lie. What he said about loyalty is true. As I said, he’s a loyalist to his core. He’d kill himself before he betrayed the throne. I trust him. I just don’t like him.” Dere raised his eyebrows. Arlette kept her voice low, so only Dere could hear. “The man is unflinching, emotionless, and frankly cruel. It doesn’t matter how many soldiers he loses, how many farms get burned, even what happens to his own family,” She took a second to look at Maurius who had returned to his seat. “He will not bend. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, is more important than his loyalty. Perhaps that’s a good thing. I don’t know. But, I think the countless soldiers who died because Maurius refused to yield or fail his king, even just a little, might disagree.” She took a sip of her wine, an actual sip this time, and glared in Maurius’ direction.

Dere said nothing, choosing instead to think in silence. He swirled the wine around in his glass, eyeing the deep red color.

“What’s that.” Arlette whispered, confused by something.

Dere looked at her and then to where she was looking. Her eyes were still fixated on Maurius. Dere didn’t see anything unusual. “What are you talki…” And then, he caught something. Not with his eyes, no. With his nose. A smell danced in between the food and the wine. Very subtle, only noticeable to somebody who paid attention. It smelled like death. Arlette pointed her finger behind where Maurius sat. Dere followed the line and looked closer. At first, he saw nothing again. But, upon closer look, there was a slight distortion, perhaps. So imperceptible it felt like a trick of the mind. It seemed to be moving, edging closer and closer, right towards Maurius.

Dere’s eyes went wide. The smell, the distortion, he knew what it was. Arlette leaned in to whisper something. Dere paid her no mind. Instead, his hand launched out towards the table in front of him. He grabbed the knife he’d used to cut his steak. It was heavy, unwieldy, and totally unsuited for what he needed it for. It would have to do. Barely even taking the time to look, he flung the knife across the room, towards where the weird distortion was, right behind Highlord Maurius.