“With lands as serene as this, is it any wonder the Maelim covet this country?” - Venias the Conqueror, King of Primus on the Cradlelands and its beauty.

  Few things are more satisfying than arriving home after a hard day’s work. Leo always believed in that. That simple satisfaction of having completed your job and then being able to relax, to get some rest. And that was doubly so if your job was on the battlefield.

  True, he wasn’t home yet. He was tired from all the marching, and his feet hurt with every step on the time-worn cobblestone. Augustino wanted them to be in full gear when they entered the town, which weighed on Leo terribly. But the familial peace was still quite palpable.

  They past row after row of orchards, the berries and apples harvested by olive-skinned workers, who waved with enthusiasm as they passed. Green pastures and old trees surrounded them, unmoving and tranquil, glowing in the warm summer sun. Remote homesteads and old stone towers punctuated the fields with sun-bleached walls and red terracotta roofs. These have been a fixture of this country since ancient days, when the Gods still walked the lands and the Benelim sang songs of glory.

  Leo knew this realm by heart. The old markets and shops. The lesser-known paths he traversed in his youth, secret routes he and his brother used to avoid trouble. The best spots to hunt and fish along the river. Soft tendrils of comfort that helped Leo’s worn mind and body ease.

  At last, there it was in the distance. Tressviae. Home.

  The walls of the bustling town came into view. He heard a bell ringing, echoing throughout the land. Every time they returned in victory was cause for spectacle. Padre Angelos always saw to that.

  Their black and gold banners were held in full sway as they marched through the gates. Tressviae was always a hub of activity. A menagerie of color and splendor. On the streets, animals, dogs, cats, and rats scattered. Wagons were stationed, their horses and unicorns uneasy from the commotion. People poured into the streets to greet them. They were coming out of their homes and dangling out of windows to watch with ecstatic grins.

  He spotted many others—dark-skinned traders from Yanneros, cold-eyed and pale huntsmen from the North, wealthy scholars from Murex—insulated from their fellows with bodyguards. He saw the local milizia glowering with poorly hidden jealousy. At least she wasn’t working today.

  Amongst the crowd, he saw people with tears in their eyes. They looked disheveled and worn. The exiled cittadini of Venito, no doubt.

  One of them, a woman with long brown hair and olive skin, gently tossed a flower his way. “Thank you.”

  Leo waved back, trying to maintain a professional facade as he gracefully picked up the gift. He was not alone; flowers and treats were tossed and handed to soldiers all up and down the ranks. Astonishing. The cittadini had lost everything, yet they still wanted to share.

  A woman came up to Michael, a rose between her smiling teeth. Her dark black hair and modest white dress blew in the breeze. Michael blushed and accepted the gift. The woman winked and walked off. He stood befuddled, nearly getting pushed by the men behind him.

  A soldier patted him on the back. “Watch where you’re going, lover boy.”

  Michael turned toward his exiled people and raised an arm in victory. “For Venito!” The cittadini applauded. His eyes were full of life, and his smile was wide.

  Leo buckled under the attention. He never saw himself as a hero. Perhaps he wanted to be, but he didn’t think he was. Heroes were reserved for legends, fairy tales, and children’s stories. He was a simple man—a capitano of some compagnia in a lesser city-state.

  Yet when he looked into the crowd singing their praises, he thought perhaps one doesn’t need to be a hero to do something good. To make the world a little bit better. Leo shrugged; what did he know about anything? He was at his best when he took things one step at a time.

  Pain sparked from his chest, and his body tensed. The blow from the dread-wasp tail still hurt him days later. Julia said to go to the Order of the Dove for more treatment if the pain hadn’t subsided. He’d have to take her up on that. It would’ have to be after the celebration. Tradition was necessary; he could deal with the pain a little longer.

  …………………………….

  Leo watched as his ale was filled with brown comfort. It was one of the most rewarding perks of guardia membership—free ale. Or rather, free ale when there is a victory. Or even more accurately, an ale paid for by the compagnia, which typically covered so many tabs it might as well be free. And that was good enough for Leo.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  The Doghead’s Bite was a rustic tavern, one of the oldest in the city. Upon its earthy walls stood mounted heads of great game, like elks and deer, and even the reptilian head of a mighty behemoth, its tusked and frilled form acting as a centerpiece on the back wall above the roaring fireplace. It was a busy establishment, especially in the evenings. Guardia stories were a staple of the town, and people lined up outside, eager to hear the latest victory in detail.

  It would have to wait, however, as tradition came first.

  The pub was closed for the time being, save for them. All the other officers were there, except Augustino. Their outfits were modest and colorful. Leo always wore a red hat to the pub; it belonged to Giovanni. That way, his brother would always be there with him, celebrating the victories like old times. The group could have been mistaken for the nobili of Raveno if it ’weren’t for their scars and loud and boisterous banter. Leo walked to the others, ale in hand.

  “Where’s our generale?” asked one of the capitani, looking around oafishly with dull eyes.

  Leo rolled his eyes; sometimes, the younger officers were no better than the rank and file. “He’ll be here when he’ll be here, Nico. Pipe down.”

  “I heard he had some business with the temple,” confirmed another officer. He was taller than the rest, with a patch covering his right eye. “Angela said he and Maga Avalon looked quite concerned.”

  “Augustino? Concerned? Never,” Nico scoffed. “Your sister is a worrywart, Antonio. No wonder she couldn’t get into our guardia.”

  Antonio gripped his glass tightly, and his eyes narrowed. “She’s still the capitana of Tressviae’s milizia, you halfwit.”

  Leo clapped his hands together. “So, any of the ragazzi showing promise?”

  “I’d say Michael,” answered Nico.

  Leo instantly regretted the topic he chose. “No.”

  “He does have promise. He can hold his own in a fight and can inspire others.”

  “Perhaps. But even after his baptism of fire at Venito, he is immature, reckless and undisciplined.”

  “I agree with Leo,” said Antonio. “He’s a bit of a glory hound.”

  “I am just saying he has potential,” said Nico. “I know you’re very critical with these matters, but don’t let what happened with her cloud your judgment, Leo.”

  Leo glared at him. He walked to the younger officer, staring him down, eye to eye in cold fury.

  “Fratelli, we’re all here to celebrate a joyous occasion.” All eyes turned to the soft voice. It was Tenente Ricardo, silver in his hair and wisdom in his eyes. His demeanor was calm, even as his presence carried weight. He turned to Nico. “I’m sure Nico didn’t mean to sound so . . . insensitive.”

  Nico lifted his hands in defeat and said, “My apologies. I did not mean to overstep.”

  “How disrespectful,” snapped Leo. “You’d do well to hold your tongue more often. Back to the matter at hand.” He made a sweeping motion with his hands and continued, “Michael is okay, and perhaps his heart is in the right place. But he still has much to learn.”

  “And he will learn in due time,” Augustino said as he strode into the tavern. The officers cheered. Even in civilian garb, the man looked distinguished; his silken clothes made him appear as a nobile. He smiled at his men.

  Nico grinned. “At last, we’re all here!”

  Augustino strode up to the counter, an ale already brewed for him. “Just how you like it, Signore,” said the barkeep, an older man with dark skin and grey hair, who was stoic in his duties, gruff and quiet. He cracked a faint smirk upon Augustino procuring a sack of gold coins.

  Augustino joined the rest of the men, ale in hand, and raised his ale. “A toast, to victory!”

  “To victory!”

  “To the Guardia Grifone!”

  They gulped down their ales.

  Per tradition, after the first round, they took off their hats out of respect for the fallen and sang a brief song in memory. Their singing wasn’t good, but the sincerity and conviction in their voices were true.

  He guides me home.

  He guides me home.

  When I am lost.

  When I am alone.

  On river flows.

  He comes to me.

  And guides me home.

  And guides me home.

  “Another round?” said the barkeep.

  “Maybe if some of the others want any, but I can’t stay long,” answered Augustino.

  “But Signore, this is tradition, is it not?” asked Nico.

  “I have important matters at this hour and have just spoken to Padre Angelos. He told me in honor of our victory and the liberation of Venito, the exiled cittadini want to hold the celebration that was so rudely interrupted by the cursed spawn.”

  “The Celebration of Adam?” asked Leo.

  “Indeed, it is going to be a great affair, and unlike any other. Maga Avalon will be helping with the festivities. A Godshard of her caliber rarely gets involved in these events. As a result, the party is tomorrow night and will be a much greater spectacle than it would be normally. We will all be honored with a hell of an audience. So, if I were you, I would save the drinking until then.”

  There was a brief silence as the assembled group took this all in. Leo was excited, although he tried to hide it. Looking around, not everyone was on board. Particularly Nico, in his typical dim fashion. He’d probably be arguing with the generale if he could get away with it. Despite their misgivings, he did have a point; this was a significant break from tradition.

  However, Augustino was wiser than any of them, and Leo knew he didn’t make this decision lightly. “If you believe it is for the best, we will wait. I trust your word; you’re our leader, and you have never led us astray,” said Leo, adding some confidence and loyalty to the room. Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “There is one more thing.” Augustino began sheepishly. “I heard that Principe Filippo will be attending.”

  The officers groaned. “Well, at least we will be able to drown our frustrations in the booze,” muttered Nico. For once, Leo had to agree.