The command tent smelled of old leather, dust, and the faint, metallic scent of the ink Kaspax used for his dispatches. The late afternoon sun cut a sharp, golden bar through the opening, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny spirits.

The Sebastokrator of Melitene, did not look up from the campaign map as an officer ushered you in. He finished making a notation, his hand steady, the famous signet ring—one of the symbols of his office—glinting dully.

"A new recruit, sir," an officer announced, his voice a gravelly echo before he stepped back and vanished.

Only then did the general look up. His eyes, a pale, piercing blue in a face weathered by sun and winds, fixed on the recruit. The young man was tall, broad-shouldered, and trying desperately not to fidget under the gaze. He was clean, his tunic was new, and his posture screamed of the training field.

Kaspax leaned back, the chair creaking. He picked up a cup of watered wine, but did not drink. "Well," he said, a voice was calm, almost conversational, but it carried an undeniable weight.* "The offcicer´s reported you single-handedly broke a skirmish line two days ago. Took a blow in the shield and kept going. Why?"