There were parts of the story that Frieg left out when he related it to Tamsin. But in his own mind, he remembered it like this:

At the time, Frieg had been visiting the capital because the daughter of an old army friend was getting married. He barely knew the daughter, and if he was honest he had never much liked that particular friend, but the wedding had still been a surprisingly emotional experience.

It didn't make him weepy or sentimental. Rather, it made him almost angry. Not because of anything in particular about the wedding, it was more just the fact that the wedding had taken place at all.

You see, Frieg did not want to accept the fact that he was old.

Frieg had slipped out of his friend's home early the next day, intending to saddle his horse and be gone before any of his fellow revelers woke up from their drunken stupors.

Unfortunately he very quickly ran into his friend, a man named Dunstan Bradley, who was leaning up against the entrance to the stables smoking a cigar.

Dunstan Bradley was a large man. He'd always been tall, but he'd also filled out horizontally since his army days, and his dark hair was significantly thinner than it had been. Signs of age. But he dressed well. Not in an aristocrat's clothes, but high quality fabrics and reasonably fashionable cuts. He looked exactly like you'd expect a social-climbing peasant merchant to look, which is more or less what he was these days.

Bradley grinned when he saw Frieg. "The army makes early risers of us all, eh? Still can't shake the habit after all these years. Want a cigar?" Bradley slipped a small silver cigar case out of his pocket and flipped it open, holding it out towards Frieg. "It's high quality, not like that rotten tobacco we used to smoke on midnight patrol. The wife manages to get them imported all the way from Alborota, though don't ask me how."

"No, thank you," said Frieg. "That actually is one habit from the army I've managed to shake."

"Good for you," said Frieg. "It's a disgusting habit. The wife hates it, which I say is fair enough, but she still goes out of her way to get me the fancy ones. I suppose that's love for you."

Frieg made a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement. His pack had begun to slip down his shoulder, so he hiked it back up. Bradley watched this carefully.

"Going somewhere?" asked Bradley, gesturing to the pack.

"Ah, well..." said Frieg. "I didn't want to bother anyone, so I thought I'd just leave before anyone woke up."

"Leave and go where?" asked Bradley. His tone was firm. "I know the army finally gave you the boot, and you have no wife or children to get back to. I hear you were living in the barracks over in that fort of yours, too, with the enlisted men. So you don't even have a real home to go back to. Where have you even been staying?"

And that was why Frieg had never liked Bradley all that much. The man had no tact. He had a sharp eye and was rarely wrong, but he had no damn tact.

Frieg sighed and took his pack off his shoulder, dropping it on the ground while he sat down heavily on an overturned bucket. "I've been staying in inns, mostly. I have a bit of money from my pension. I still have a pension, you know. They didn't fire me. I retired."

"Not by choice, from what I hear," said Bradley.

Frieg couldn't think of what to say. Bradley waited, patiently watching his cigar smoke floating away in the gentle morning breeze. That was another thing that was annoying about Bradley. His damn patience.

"I was at your wedding, back in the day..." said Frieg.

"Nearly twenty years ago now," Bradley chimed in.

"Yes," said Frieg. "It's a little rude to admit it, but frankly at the time I thought you were an idiot."

Bradley laughed. It was the same hardy laugh he'd always had. "I could tell," said Bradley. "You've never had much of a poker face."

"You never once beat me at poker!" countered Frieg.

"Because I let you win," said Bradley, grinning. "It was more fun that way. But I never lost that much gold to you, right? It was never more than small change. Think about it."

Frieg thought about it. "Gods damn you," he said. "That's why you've been such a successful merchant, isn't it? You sly bastard."

"Being able to read people certainly helps business." Bradley chuckled. "Physically, I may have slowed down and gained a bit of weight over the years, and my knees aren't what they used to be, but mentally I'm still sharp as ever."

"Damn you," said Frieg, shaking his head with a chuckle.

"So why did you think I was an idiot for getting married, then?" asked Bradley, puffing on his cigar. "Besides the obvious."

"I thought you were throwing away a promising career as a soldier for no good reason," said Frieg. He couldn't look Bradley in the face while he said it. "We were both on a career track back then. We were heroes after the Battle of Earnhoust. It felt like we could do anything. But you were giving it all up for early retirement and some pretty girl! I was so determined not to give up. I was going places. My name was going to be in the history books."

"And then you discovered that the public has a short memory for peasant boys turned heroes," said Bradley. "And the men on top don't like to share the spotlight, especially not with a farmer's son from some obscure little county out west no one's heard of. I could have told you that back then."

"Well, why didn't you?" said Frieg. "You could have saved me a lot of wasted time and effort."

"You wouldn't have listened," said Bradley. "You know, over the years, as everyone from the old squad got married off one-by-one, we used to joke to each other that we knew you'd never settle down because you already had a wife—a wife with a hundred thousand heads who marched on her stomach."

Frieg rolled his eyes.

"So, what? The old bitch has finally asked for a divorce, and you're moping about it?" said Bradley. "That's the reason you were hanging around my Adalinda's wedding with a face like you were at a wake? That's it?"

"What do you mean, that's it?" Frieg stood up and began gesturing emphatically. "I never even made lieutenant! After 30 years, they couldn't even give me that. I gave the army 30 years of my life, and what do I have left to show for it? I've got no riches, no family, no home... All I've got is a bunch of old medals, a pittance of a pension, and a horse that's even more old and tired than I am!"

"At least they let you keep the horse," said Bradley, with a shrug.

Frieg felt wretched.

"Sure you don't want a cigar?" asked Bradley.

"No, thank you," said Frieg.

Bradley shrugged again and put out his cigar, slipping the remains of it back into his silver cigar case. "Alright then," he said. "Hand your pack to Gerda the maid and follow me. We're going to the central barracks."

"What? No, we can't!" protested Frieg. "It's too late to reverse the retirement or demand a higher pension, and besides, they—"

"No, no," said Bradley, with a dismissive hand gesture. "That's not why we're going to the barracks. There's something you should see, before you decide to go off to some small town to wallow in self-pity while you wither away and die. Trust me on this."

Frieg was embarrassed to return to capital barracks.

Frieg was embarrassed to return to capital barracks. He hadn't worked there directly in a few years, serving instead as a sergeant major in Ulentor Fort on the southern border of Kronland. But even if he had never achieved a high rank, he had served in many different places, and as such, he knew many different people. Even many of the higher-ups knew Frieg by name, and he didn't think he could stomach hearing any of their mealy-mouthed congratulations on his retirement.

But to Frieg's surprise, no one paid any attention to him at all. He spotted several people he knew, but they all rushed past him, heading in the direction of the training grounds behind the central administrative building.

"Shit, word's spread too far," said Bradley. "We won't be able to see anything at this rate. Come on, I know where we'll get a good view."

Bradley led Frieg into the administrative building and up a flight of plush carpeted stairs to a small reception area. They were surrounded by decor that was far richer than you usually got in an army building, even in the capital. There were a lot of golds and reds.

"Heading in, Mr. Bradley?" asked the receptionist, a bright-eyed young man in a crisp uniform.

"If we're not too late," said Bradley.

"Not at all, though they're about to start, so you'd better hurry back."

When Frieg saw which door Bradley was heading for, he grabbed his friend's arm to stop. "Isn't that General Gerstleg's office?" he hissed.

"Oh yes," said Bradley. "We saved his life in the battle of Earnhoust, remember? I like to stop by to reminisce from time to time. And from what I understand, his wife quite likes Bradley Tea, and no one much notices if I slip a few packets out of the warehouse now and then." Bradley winked and then opened the door to the general's office.

The office was decorated even fancier than the reception area had been, which made sense since General Gerstleg was the highest ranking non-aristocratic officer in the imperial army. He was well-respected, not just for his keen strategic mind, but also for the way he treated his men. He was very hands-on for a high ranking general. Which is why he had chosen an office with a balcony that overlooked the central training grounds. He liked to watch the men at work.

General Gerstleg was also very old. He had been an old man already back when Frieg and Bradley had carried him, half dead, through three leagues of enemy territory to get him to a healer, dodging arrows all the way.

Now he was sitting on a wooden chair on the balcony, a knitted blanket on his lap. His face was so deeply lined you could hardly see his scars amidst the wrinkles. He didn't even stand up when Frieg and Bradley came in. He just stared into space with a vaguely wistful expression on his face.

But no one's forced him to retire, thought Frieg, and he hated himself for the bitterness of it.

"Ah, Corporal Bradley," he said. "And I say, is that Sergeant Major Frieg? Good to see you, boy. Please, please, do come over here. You are going to miss it."

"Miss what?" asked Frieg. "I still don't understand why we're—"

As Frieg stepped onto the balcony and saw the scene laid out below, he completely lost his train of thought.

The familiar training ground stretched before him, more packed full of people than Frieg had ever seen it in his long career. The crowd was concentrated in a circle around the packed-dirt sparring ring, which was directly below the balcony. And in the center sparring ring stood the twin lions of the empire—Crown Prince Heinrich, heir apparent to the imperial throne, and his cousin, the Lady Alesia, heir to the Jordaine Duchy—both holding wooden training swords.