Soldiers scrambled about the eastern front. Some shouted orders. Others moved in grim silence. The lack of coordination was obvious. Ragnar observed the scene from a distance.

  “This place is a mess,” Marius muttered beside him.

  “So many wounded,” Shayara said softly. Her eyes followed the healers and soldiers still carrying the injured. In the mud, someone’s severed arm lay on top of a barrel, flies swarming over it. Blood had mixed with the wet earth, filling the air with a foul stench. She had never seen anything like it.

  “If you need to vomit, go ahead,” Marius said with a chuckle. “Unfortunately for us, we’re already used to sights like this.”

  Shayara straightened her back and clenched her fists. She swore she would not vomit.

  A young man approached them from the crowd. His short dark hair and smooth skin marked him as someone who had never seen real battle.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  Before Marius could speak, Ragnar cut in. “Where is Arabus?”

  “Lord Arabus is busy. It is not possible to see him now,” the young man said stiffly.

  Marius stepped forward. “Why do insignificant people like you always stand in the way? Now move. We’re here on important business.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “How dare you speak in such a tone? Do you know who I am?”

  Marius tilted his head in mock thought. “One of the dung eaters? No, that can’t be right. Even pigs are significant in their own way. Even your mother will agree to that.”

  Ragnar watched quietly. He had seen this kind of exchange before. But Shayara, standing a step behind, was taken aback. She had known Marius was foul-mouthed, but this was worse than she imagined.

  “My mother…” the man began.

  “I have been with your mother, I think. ” Marius interrupted with a smug grin.

  The man’s face went red. He swung a fist at Marius, catching him across the mouth. Marius went down. An instant later, the man was sent sprawling several feet away, landing hard in the mud. Ragnar’s boot had caught him square in the ribs.

  “You dare attack a commander, soldier?” Ragnar’s voice was ice. “You should be executed for insubordination.”

  The man’s face paled. There was no emblem on Marius’s cloak, and he clearly hadn’t recognized him. His mouth opened as if to speak, maybe to apologize, maybe to assert some noble right, but only air escaped.

  A few soldiers had seen the altercation from a distance, but none dared to approach. Ragnar signaled them to keep moving.

  “This,” Marius said to Shayara as he got back to his feet, “is how you do it. You don’t take the first shot. Let them strike first. It gives you insurance.”

  Shayara stared at him, still reeling from what she had seen. She noticed Marius rubbing at a cut beside his lip, but her trained eyes caught something else. The wound was self-inflicted. After Ragnar’s kick, Marius had punched himself.

  “Now we have visual proof and witnesses, his soldier attacked us.” Marius said with a satisfied grin. “Arabus will have no choice but to listen to us.”

  “You are a foul person.” The words slipped from Shayara’s mouth before she could stop them.

  She had seen the Crimson Knights as the most honorable and courageous of Arcadia’s forces, yet here stood one of their commanders behaving like a street brawler. She looked to Ragnar for an explanation, but he only moved ahead in silence.

  “You think I’m bad?” Marius said. “You should have seen the General back when…”

  “Marius. Enough,” Ragnar said flatly.

  “You’re no fun anymore,” Marius complained.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Shayara frowned, wondering if there was truth in Marius’s words. She couldn’t imagine Ragnar hurling insults like that.

  “I am a general,” Ragnar said after a pause, “and you are a commander. We have to maintain some decorum.”

  Marius ignored him and turned to Shayara. “The art of taunting can turn the tide of battle.”

  “I don’t believe you. Honor and courage are the embodiment of the Crimson Knight,” she replied firmly.

  “True,” Marius said. “But the art of insult is a skill known only to a chosen few. Did you know Ragnar once defeated an expert mage in battle by taunting him? Back at the academy, the mage lost concentration, and the backlash destroyed him. From that day, I’ve worshiped the General.”

  Marius’s grin faded into something closer to genuine reverence.

  They stopped in front of the largest tent in the camp. Inside, Ragnar knew, was Arabus.

  “Could the Prophet be here too?” Marius murmured.

  “Don’t know. We should move in,” Ragnar replied quietly.

  Two guards stood outside, but this time neither made a move to stop them.

  Inside, the tent was lavish, nothing like Ragnar’s. Silk draped the walls, a thick carpet muffled every step, and a crystal chandelier swayed gently from the center pole. Ornate statues stood in the corners, each of them heavy with gold filigree.

  At the center sat two men.

  Arabus Rothgar, broad-shouldered and smug, was the direct descendant of the Rothgar dynasty, a bloodline as old as the Holy Kingdom itself. His heritage alone made him one of the most powerful men in Arcadia.

  Beside him sat an old, frail figure draped in robes heavy with golden ornaments. Ragnar recognized him instantly. The Holy Prophet.

  Ragnar and Marius dropped to one knee. Shayara followed their lead.

  “Greetings to Lord Prophet. Praise Lord Amun,” Ragnar said.

  “Why are you here?” the Prophet asked. He did not bid them rise.

  “We were hoping to discuss some matters with Lord Arabus,” Ragnar replied, still kneeling.

  “Then discuss,” the Prophet said, gesturing faintly. He still did not permit them to stand. Ragnar caught the implication. Arabus, meanwhile, wore a fat grin.

  In a voice of polite calm, Ragnar said, “Lord Arabus, when I heard you were here in the camp, I was truly shocked. I had assumed your health was in decline, that you were forced to spend your time in camp rather than at a brothel. Now I see my concern was misplaced.”

  Arabus’s smile soured into a glare. “What exactly are you implying?”

  Ragnar looked at the Prophet. “Lord Prophet, may I stand? It is simply that Lord Arabus’s… considerable stature makes it difficult to see his face from this angle.”

  The Prophet shifted uncomfortably at the jab. “Please do. However, you are a general, Lord Ragnar, maintain the decorum of your speech.”

  “Have I been discourteous, Lord Prophet?” Ragnar asked, his tone even.

  Shayara’s stomach tightened. This was blasphemy, spoken casually before the Holy Prophet himself. Marius, however, wore the faintest trace of a grin.

  “Gentlemen, we are in the midst of war,” the Prophet said, his tone even. “I trust you understand.”

  “Thank you for reminding Lord Arabus, Your Holiness. It is very much appreciated,” Ragnar replied, still maintaining his calm decorum.

  Arabus’s face was red with restrained anger, but he kept it in check for the Prophet’s sake.

  “I do not need to stoop to your level,” Arabus said at last. “After all, your family only achieved nobility… How many years has it been?”

  “Fifty,” Ragnar answered.

  “So you are a second-generation noble. Your parents weren’t even born into nobility.” The disgust in Arabus’s tone was palpable.

  “Yes,” Ragnar said evenly. “They earned their titles through extraordinary achievements in the field of magic—something that cannot be…” He stopped himself. He had been about to insinuate that the Rothgar line had achieved nothing notable for generations, but insulting the family outright in front of the Prophet was a step too far.

  Arabus leaned back. “You were saying?”

  “Give Arin to the Crimson Army, Arabus.”

  Arabus’s brow furrowed. “What?”

  “I will be direct. Arin is wasted here. With him, we can begin preparations for a counterattack from the west.”

  Arabus laughed. “Pathetic. Since you can’t accomplish anything on your own, you want my greatest mage?”

  “Arabus, the only reason you wear the title of general is because of your bloodline. You let hundreds of your men die. If anyone here is pathetic, it is you.”

  The smile vanished from Arabus’s face.

  “Enough,” the Prophet said, his voice carrying quiet authority. “Give him the mage.”

  Ragnar was taken aback. “Your Holiness?”

  “Why should I give my mage to him?” Arabus protested.

  The Prophet leaned toward Arabus and whispered something too low for the others to hear.

  Arabus’s lips thinned. “All right. He’s yours.”

  A spark of astonishment entered Ragnar’s mind, but he kept quiet only wondering ,”What did the prophet say?”