The walls were stained with the blood of the fallen, a beautiful ode to the brutal nature of their battle. The woman felt a rush of excitement as she surveyed her new domain, the fruits of her victory laid out before her.

Her men fanned out, plundering the place of anything of value. They tore down the banners of the Royal Army, defacing their emblem, and claimed their spoils as their own. All the while, the woman looked on with the same satisfied contentment crawling across her face. She moved through the halls, nearly numb with joy, stepping over rubble as she made her way to the small room outfit as their enemy’s command center.

It’s hardly larger than a bedroom, she thought. No wonder they lost so soundly; you couldn’t fit half a strategy in here.

Some of her men followed in behind her. Though she didn’t think it was necessarily wise, she didn’t stop them as they ransacked the room, dumping the contents of shelves and cabinets onto the floor in search of anything of value. They’d earned it. Their commander stood in the center, surveying the chaos with a smile. They had won. She had won, and nothing would stop her from claiming what was rightfully hers.

And then she saw it, a box with the royal crest emblazoned upon its top. Her heart racing, she approached the box, her hand shaking as she reached for the latch. The lid fell open with a snap, and she cackled triumphantly before closing it again.

"Is this what victory looks like?" she wondered, her voice ringing out over the room.

“Commander Fawn,” said a voice, and she turned to see her Lieutenant, Sir Penheart slipping into the chamber. She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Chessit is back, Commander,” the man said dourly. She’d have been more concerned by his tone, but he was always dolorous when he wasn't the most crucial topic of concern.

“So soon?” she wondered aloud, not particularly to Penheart, but he seemed to think it wise to respond.

“He has zun Gara in tow,” Penheart said stiffly.

Fawn bristled.

“Sir Penheart,” she said carefully. “I am surprised to hear someone of your stature forgetting themselves so easily. Really? Shall we try that again?”

This lack of respect had been hashed and rehashed ad nauseum for the last few months. The commander was tired of each smarmy, cavalier, nearly-off-handed approach to this former trusted knight-of-the-realm’s omissions. They built up over time, feeling as though they were completely disregarding her own station and causing her no end of frustration. Each piling on top of one another until she felt her bandwidth for tolerance was truly frayed to the final hairs. She thought she remembered a term bubbling into her mind—micro-aggression. That was a term the younger generation had used…well, before. Perhaps she had it wrong, but she thought that maybe that was what this was, but she’d never been particularly mindful of whatever hot buzzword people used. Now, she silently wished she’d paid more attention to diffusion methods of such a tactic rather than just waving away the term whole cloth.

“With all due respect, Commander,” Penheart said. “I do not ascribe to those…designations. We are not fighting for the sake of titles and rank but for the greater good. As you well know, I am of the belief that using articles of gentry only serves to reinforce the oppressive system we are trying to overthrow. Perhaps, as rebels, we would be better off without them?”

He gave her a smug smile.

“You forget yourself again, Sir Penheart!” Fawn snapped suddenly, and the man instantly clamped up. “How dare you speak to me in that fashion? As if I've somehow forgotten the fucking point of our endeavors. The use of titles isn't just about formality. It's about honor. About respect and that which drives us forward. We are not just a group of rebels—Sir Penheart—we are a noble brotherhood fighting for the right to live in a just society. And by using the proper address, we honor that fraternity and the cause we serve.”

She glared at him silently for a moment to watch him squirm under her gaze. Then, quietly, she continued.

“Despite your claims of...whatever it is you think might be a virtuous cause, I suspect you simply do not want to give acquiescence to his established rank because of his origins.”

Now it was Penheart’s turn to bristle.

“Commander,” he said icily. “I care little as to his being a matau; I am only—”

“You know precisely what I refer to, Sir Penheart,” Fawn interrupted.

“I only postulate that—”

“You do a lot of fucking postulating, it seems, Sir Penheart—I wonder if you can even spell the word?”

Penheart stared at her for a long moment.

“Well, there you have it,” she said. “You should spend less time on your irrelevant contention and instead preoccupy your bother with being a bountiful member of this retinue. Your singular requirement in our ranks is that you do your duty---and one of those gainful commissions is in referring to your fellows with their propriety. If that is something trying to your silky sentiments, then I shall be more than agreeable to see you are relieved of your posts, and you can fuck off and be a sir in someone else’s peripheral. Now. Will that be too burdensome for your delicate disposition, or are you done being a curmudgeonly bitch?”

There was a long awkward void between the two, a yawning chasm. The moment of tension continued building between them until finally, with a heavy sigh, Penheart spoke.

"As you will, Commander," he spat out, his voice laced with resignation. "I will address the rest of this lot with their proper godsdamned titles."

Fawn smirked, her eyes glittering with victory, but quickly turned her attention to the matter at hand.

"What did Chessit discover?" she demanded impatiently.

The fact that Akiva zun Gara was there was…interesting, but she’d need to hold off on that for the moment. Chessit had been on a mission. Returning with the matau was unusual but wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. She’d need to speak with zun Gara about his whereabouts and what he’d been up to in the previous weeks. Until Penheart had entered the room grimly, the matau was presumed dead, but they’d not found his body anywhere.

One mystery solved, she thought.

Penheart hesitated momentarily as if weighing whether he should continue the argument before relenting.

"Scouts have uncovered a new supply route used by those bastards," he growled. "It is fortified like damnable hell, but Chessit believes we can lie in ambush and enact fabulous fucking chaos."

Fawn's eyes lit up with a fierce intensity, the thrill of potential battle coursing through her.

"Lovely," she lulled. "We will need to plan properly, but if Chessit thinks there is a way, there are probably seven others he plans to keep to himself. In either case, it is a solid opportunity."

Sir Penheart nodded, his determination unwavering. "Assuming you are not too cross with me over the title nonsense…I will lead this mission if you allow it, Commander. We will drop on them like rain and kick those assholes in the teeth."

Fawn smirked, a hint of admiration in her expression. "Do not be too…bold, Lieutenant. This cannot be a haphazard affair, or we will all end up as fucking martyrs."

Penheart grinned back, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Worry not, Commander. I am not that damned stupid."

Fawn rolled her eyes. "Do not forget your place, Sir Penheart."

Penheart chuckled, his voice light and carefree. "I will try, Commander. But I promise naught."

He raised a brow.

“...and zun Gara?”

Catching the hard flints of her eyes, he sighed again.

“Apologies, Commander," he said, and then more slowly, “what would you like me to do with Margrave zun Gara?”

“Send him in, of course---Chessit first, however,” she said with a smirk, her subordinate finally falling in line. “I am sure he has much to report.”

Sir Penheart simply grumbled and looked as though he might protest again, but she waved her mailed hand at him. At that, he turned and strode out of the room. Fawn watched him go, a confusing mix of exasperation and pride twisting inside her. She knew that Penheart was a valuable ally—even if he was an egregious little shit. Despite their clashes, she was grateful to have him by her side in battle.

A minute’s worth of heartbeats later, a big, stocky frame scuffled into the commandeered command center, a crescent of teeth severing weather-beaten features.

“An’ here ye sit in ye magnanimous resplendence,” Chessit said. “Didn’t take ye long, seems—t’wrest the illustrious Shalewinter from sun-bleached kingdom cleavage.”

“Welcome back, Chessit,” Fawn said, rolling her eyes at his words. “I’d a cold longing for your crudely suggestive allegory. The word is that you bring good tidings?”

Chessit looked surprised that she already knew, then snorted.

“Seems Penheart’s still the camp gossip,” he returned.

Fawn chuckled.

“He hasn’t an inch of willpower in that regard,” she said. “But, please, allow him his small indulgences.”

Chessit came to a lean next to where she stood, his shoulder pressed against the wall’s fresh paint the others had used to mark out one of the kingdom banners on the wall. It smudged, but that didn’t matter—this bastion had been liberated and would soon fly their colors anyway.

“Like what ye’ve done with this hovel,” he said. “Pretty---mayhap, were me proclivities want to suggest such a notion.”

“Newly christened from conquest, and without a stitch of proper paper to plaster the wall with,” said Fawn. “Now…the tidings?”

“Tidings bein’ an unusually auspicious term in this instance,” he continued. “Definitely got a mind to pour some gravy over a few o’ the less usual accounts the matau’s servin’ up—but, aye—good tidings all the same.”

“Why does it always return to food with you, Chessit?” Fawn asked, tucking the discovered box away into her pack. “I have never met anyone so obsessed with the concept.”

“Ah,” Chessit said, some of his warm humor returning. “Because it’s the only thing in me whole life that’s never led me astray—save that time we stumbled afoul of them purple berries ‘were north of that lake in Hathburia. Ye remember?”

“Oh, goodness, Chessit! How tired you must find my recollections. Of course, I recall. It may have been nearly ten years ago. Still, one never misplaces the memory of the first time a friend projectile vomits on them from the branches of a tree twenty feet above.”

Chessit winked.

“Just me way of flirtin,’ lass.”

Fawn tittered like tinkling bells before realization settled on her. Her face went stony with the business necessary to court.

“We can discuss previous adventures at length another time, perhaps. You’ve found the Margrave?”

“Aye,” Chessit said, removing a knife from his belt and casually chipping at the dirt beneath his fingernails with the point. “Got a mighty oak of a tale under his helmet, as well.”

“Oh?”

“More like, ‘oh, shit,’ truth be the tellin.’”

“Well, will you be gifting me a preview, or will it require needling our esteemed guest with interrogation?”

“I’ll cede him to do the dirty justice of his yarn, but, aye—I’ll spoil a bit for ye. It concerns the orc that ran you through the armpit with that coat hook.”

Fawn’s furious gaze could have melted granite.

“See him in,” she hissed.

“Yes, marm.”