Mornings in an army camp were never quiet. 

Calix lay on his bed—his bed, not a cot—staring up at the ceiling of his tent. His tent that he didn't have to share with seven other men. His tent that had three other rooms and rugs on the floor to help keep out the cold. 

A general's tent.

With a sigh, Calix pushed himself up into a sitting position. He rubbed at his eyes, something like dread welling in his chest.

He was supposed to inspect the troops today. 

His troops.

Calix pushed himself to his feet, getting dressed as quickly as he could. He shoved his feet roughly into his boots, buckling on his sword-belt as he pushed through the flaps to the main room of the tent. 

He had only been centurion for a grand total of ten days before he'd been called to the capital. He was a disgraced son who had been stripped of his nobility until a few months ago. Why in the gods' name would the king make him a general?

As soon as he thought the question, he knew the answer.

Calix swore, fighting with the tail of his belt when a bone-rattling growl made him freeze. Slowly, moving nothing but his eyes, he looked up. There in the main room of the tent, a massive, pale wolf stood. Eyes like chips of blue ice were narrowed at him, lips peeled back to reveal black gums and vicious white teeth.

The wolf bristled, hackles raised.

Calix didn't dare to breathe. He'd never be able to draw his sword fast enough.

"Bellos!"

The wolf flinched at the deep voice before he laid down, ears flattened in a lupine sulk. Calix breathed a sigh of relief. Shaking his head, he scowled at the animal which bared its teeth in return before he looked toward the eastern wall of the tent.

Behind a rough-hewn table stood a tall man with a lean, neat frame. The low flames from the brazier and a single oil lamp threw light on a ragged scar that disappeared beneath a black eyepatch. His remaining eye was a piercing hazel, more green than brown, and it was fixed keenly on the sword at Calix's side.

Calix crossed his arms, glaring at the animal which, upon closer inspection, revealed itself to be only half wolf. "You know that beast hates me."

"He hates everyone, boy," the man replied dryly, gaze sliding up to Calix's face. "He'd be no use to me if he didn't."

Calix's mouth twitched, but he resisted the temptation, keeping his face absolutely expressionless. A small staring match ensued before the man barked a sudden laugh. Calix couldn't stop the smile then.

"You were riding a fine stallion the first time I saw you, too," Arcturus said, striding across the room to sweep Calix into a rib-crushing hug. His voice was heavy with all the years of memory between them.

Calix tried not to cling to him like a child to his father as the familiar, comforting scent of smoke and steel enveloped him. Arcturus patted him roughly on the back before he stepped away, sweeping another discerning gaze over him.

"Yes," Calix agreed. "But this time he's mine. And I am an officer."

He nearly choked on the word. No one but Arcturus or Tarquin would have noticed. The older man gave him a sympathetic grimace. When he shook his head, the lamplight glinted off the few silver hairs beginning to crop up in the dark hair at his temples.

"That monster's a far finer beast than the one you stole from Lord Julianus, I'll wager," Arcturus said before he headed back toward the table, hooking a foot behind the leg of a nearby chair to draw it closer. He sank into it, then gestured toward the chair on the other side.

It didn't matter one wit that this was technically Calix's tent—that he technically was of equal rank. As Arcturus propped his boots up on the corner of the table, Calix sat, his spine painfully straight.

For a long moment, the general just regarded him, hand scratching idly at the scar down the right side of his face.

Calix was dying to ask about the men of the Second. He wanted to know exactly why they'd been forced to retreat. What the conditions were farther north. How many of his friends had survived... A thousand questions were crowding onto his tongue. His company had arrived late last night, too tired to do much more than stumble into their tents. But he wouldn't speak until Arcturus did.

"No one is ever ready, Calix."

Right to the heart of the matter, just like always.

Calix's gaze fell to the floor, then wandered to where Bellos lay. The mutt stared back at him, ice blue eyes unyielding, unsympathetic.

"I know how to lead. You made sure of that," Calix whispered, then cleared his throat. "But I shouldn't be here like this. I didn't earn this."

Silence. Then Arcturus' boots thumped to the ground, drawing Calix's attention back to him. The older man stood and walked around the table until he was right in front of Calix. He placed a hand on either of Calix's shoulders and waited until he met that piercing hazel stare.

It had never failed to awe him, how the weight and intensity of that stare was not diminished in any way by Arcturus' missing eye.

"You deserve to wear that cloak more than most of the generals here," Arcturus said firmly, making heat crawl up Calix's neck into his cheeks. "You have fought, bled, mourned. You have killed. You have been afraid. You have watched comrades die before you, knowing there was nothing you could do to prevent it. A general, before he is anything, should be a soldier. And Calix, you are one of the finest soldiers I have ever had the pleasure to command."

"But my father—"

"Damn your father," Arcturus said, his voice low and ferocious enough that Bellos got to his feet, ears cocked uncertainly toward his master. "Damn your father straight to hell. He did not pin those medals on your chest. He did not gift you your victories, your glory. The enemies you have defeated, the men you have saved—those are the men you owe that cloak to."

Calix swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat, his eyes stinging.

Arcturus pulled him to his feet. "All your father did," Arcturus said quietly, "was give you the chance to become this man." He placed a hand briefly over Calix's heart. "The rest was you. Your courage. Your wisdom. Your sense of justice and temperance." He flashed a small grin. "Your hard-headed stubbornness."

Calix couldn't help but snort at that. For a long time, his hard-headedness had been a point of contention between himself and the general. 

"These things that reside in your heart, they are what bought your cloak, Calix, not your father's gold."

A desperate sort of feeling rippled through his blood. Fear that he wouldn't live up to this mythical version of himself Arcturus was describing. Hope that he would. They clashed in his chest, making his ribs feel like they were too tight.

Arcturus gave him a sad, knowing smile. "Put on your armor," he said. "Your men are waiting."

Calix's immediate instinct was to turn and do as he'd been told. But something made him hesitate for the briefest of moments. Quickly, before he could lose his nerve, he turned to Arcturus and said, "I fell in love with the Heir. I swore to her, body and soul."

The words hung in the air between them for a long time. Arcturus' face didn't change. "Put on your armor," he repeated softly. "They will be looking for chinks."

With that, he snapped his fingers to bring Bellos to heel, then left the tent. 

Calix stared after him until the leather tent flap stopped swaying.

His confession echoing in his head like the pealing of a temple bell, Calix turned toward the section of tent that served as a dressing room. He found his sea trunk placed neatly along the back wall, his armor already waiting for him on a dummy. It had been shined.

After indulging in a single moment of sheer panic, Calix strode over to the armor and let himself focus on the task of donning it. Greaves that fit neatly over his boots, then his shirt of chainmail. After that, his breastplate. Calix took his time with the buckles on the side, trying to settle himself into this new role.

As the weight of his armor pressed onto his collarbones, he found that quiet acceptance he had cultivated over years of soldiering. It was the same calm he had learned to wrap himself in before the start of a battle.

He couldn't change the situation. He couldn't control it. The only thing he could control was his actions and his reactions.

Calix donned the crimson general's cloak dispassionately, fixing the clasps to clever hooks that had been added to his breastplate in Levitum. He took a small moment to acknowledge that he was grateful there was no mirror.

Finally, he buckled on his vambraces and swept from the tent.

Immediately, he was assaulted by a small man with stooped shoulders and a weaselly face. His beady black eyes swept disapprovingly over Calix, who immediately bristled. The man pursed his lips and asked, "General Julianus?"

Who else could he possibly be?

Calix stared at him for a moment, then turned toward the center of the camp where the assembling grounds were located and began striding down the path between the administrative tents surrounding his own. A disgruntled squawk from the weasel made a smile twitch at his mouth, but he quickly shoved it down.

He could feel the eyes on him as he moved down the rows of tents.

"General!" the man huffed, almost having to jog to keep up with Calix's long strides. "General, I must insist—"

"Nothing," Calix said brusquely. "You will insist nothing. I do not need an aide, your services are not required."

Everyone knew that generals' aides were effectively spies for the lords—in his case, likely the king. Arcturus had never suffered their presence, nor would Calix. He would read his own reports and issue his own orders.

As much as it might scare him, this was to be his legion. He wouldn't allow anyone else to meddle in his affairs.

A loud sniff made him grimace and walk a little faster.

"Sir," the weasel began, thought the word sounded sour. "I am afraid I must insist that you postpone your inspection of the troops. Several important documents require your signature and seeing as how you...couldn't see fit to get them done when you arrived, as you were meant to, I must insist you do them now."

Calix stopped, his cloak swaying heavily down his back. He inhaled once, holding it before he managed to contain his temper.

They don't need to see your anger. It doesn't prove anything.

Arcturus' words sounded in his head, and he gritted his teeth before he turned to the weasel. The man's expression seemed to be perpetually pinched and unpleasant.

"Papers?" he asked.

The weasel's face became more pinched. "Yes. A proper transfer of your commission, requisition forms, among other things."

Horror compressed his chest. "Among other things?"

This earned him a thinly veiled look of irritation. "Yes," the weasel said. "I'm afraid these papers need your attention. Sir."

He gave the aide a tight smile. "So do the men." He began walking again, heading decidedly toward the assembling grounds. "I'm sure those papers will wait."

"General!"

Calix waved him off. "Take them to my tent. It will be an exercise in usefulness for you, I'm sure."

When he didn't hear an accompanying crunch of following boots in the frozen mud, he let out a sigh of relief. As soon as he could, he'd need to properly dismiss that man. The idea of the extra paperwork that would entail made him slightly nauseous.

The sky was a pale blue, made clear by the cold. His breath smoked lightly in front of him. Frost limned the tops of the tents, glittering in the early morning sun.

It seemed to take only seconds before the path he was on joined the Vi Prima—one of the two main roads that crossed through every Metian camp. It bisected the camp from east to west, while the Vi Secu ran from north to south. The assembling grounds were in the heart of camp, right where the two roads met.

The Vi Prima was busy with the early morning bustle of an army camp. Runners darted back and forth with their messages. Guards ambled along toward either their tents or their posts, or leaned on their spears, chatting with one another. Most were wrapped in grey cloaks, making him stand out like a cardinal in a flock of pigeons. 

He kept his stride purposeful but unhurried as he wove his way toward the center of the camp.

No one wanted to see an anxious-looking general.

Before he could think too much about what was going to happen, he caught the glint of sunlight off freshly polished armor. His steps slowed of their own accord, and he took a moment to make sure his cloak was hanging properly and that the hilt of his sword was visible.

He wanted no doubt in their minds that he was a fighting general. Not one of those pricks who wore the cloak and issued the orders, but were no where to be found once a fight commenced.

As soon as he stepped onto the hard-packed dirt, a stocky man with short, salt-and-pepper hair saluted him before offering his hand. "Commander Lucius Martialis, General. Your executive officer."

Calix clasped his forearm, unsure if he should be pleased or not. Martialis seemed like a solid sort, but it was impossible to tell just by looking at him. He was somewhere around Arcturus' age, perhaps in his mid-forties, and the small white scars scattered across his hand marked him as someone who had spent some time with a sword.

"Well met, Commander," Calix managed, his mouth starting to go dry. 

This was the first moment of truth. These moments would determine, in a small way, how his men and his officers saw him.

"By your leave, General," Martialis said, turning toward the men.

Calix appreciated the moment to take another breath before he nodded to the commander.

"Fall in!" Martialis bellowed, making Calix's ears ring. He nearly grinned at the thought that the commander might be better than the bugles they used to relay orders during a battle.

He turned his attention toward the legion, his amusement fading into something bleak as he watched the men sort of fumble around for a moment before they fell into not-so orderly lines. Some stood straight, others leaned on their shields or spears. 

A closer inspection revealed scuffed armor, chainmail with broken links and plenty of unshaven jaws. The small group of centurions standing facing the legion were looking less than  pleased by the turnout of their men.

"How green are they?" he asked Martialis in dismay.

The man grunted his displeasure. "Too green to be cutting their teeth in this godsforsaken place."

Calix let out a long breath, keeping his face blank. "Walk with me, Commander."

"Sir."

As they approached, a few of the men stood a little straighter. A few stared right at Calix instead of adopting the politely blank soldier's stare that was expected. Some continued to slouch, some shifted uneasily, making their armor clank.

Calix paced down the line of men, a frown carving deep furrows along the sides of his mouth. The more he saw, the more discouraged he became.

Finally, he'd seen enough. He lifted a finger to Martialis, who bawled out an order. Calix's frown grew deeper as the men saluted. Or...most of them did. And of those who did, a majority were out of synchronization.

"Torvan save us," Martialis muttered under his breath.

Calix was inclined to agree. The only sort of mercy they might receive was the sort from a god completely without it.

"Commander," Calix said, then sighed. "Tell your centurions..." He stopped and swore under his breath. Running a hand over his mouth, he finished, "Tell your centurions to take their companies and begin drills."

"When, sir?"

"Yesterday." Calix met Martialis' grey-green eyes, surprised when he found a faint smile on the man's face. He allowed an acknowledging quirk of his lips, then turned on his heel. Over his shoulder, he called, "Report to my tent in a half hour."

"Sir."

Calix nodded to the centurions, who all saluted—properly—before he began making his way back toward his tent. To his immense displeasure, he found the weasel-faced aide skulking in the shadow of a tent.

He swore and stalked forward. Gesturing, he said, "Lead on."

The weasel gave him a look of loathing before he scurried ahead, clutching a stack of papers to his scrawny chest. As they walked, Calix began to truly notice the number of eyes that followed him. The whispers that seeped through the air like some foul wind.

Calix didn't bother to meet the stares, then couldn't help but laugh at himself for it.

Nine years ago, a stare would have been enough of a challenge for him. He would have torn into the offending individual—or individuals—consequences be damned. He had the scars on his knuckles and a jaw that clicked every time he yawned to prove it.

It was funny how life changed. How people changed.

I fell in love with the Heir. I swore to her, body and soul.

Body and soul.

Would she have need of either of those things, after she'd changed in whatever way the next three years might change her? It was a depressing thought.

But certainly not as depressing as the stack of papers that awaited him.

Calix stared at his desk in abject horror, ignoring the smug look of satisfaction on the weasel's face. Gritting his teeth, he stalked forward and slapped a hand on a small square of clear wood. "If those are for me," he indicated the papers the aide was still clutching, "put them here."

Then he strode into the dressing room, already tearing at the clasps of his cloak.

A sham general for a sham legion.

Calix tossed the cloak into his sea trunk. His fingers shaking with anger, he fought for a few moments with the buckles holding his armor on before he could manage to get them undone. Part of him wanted to storm and rage at the unfairness of it all.

The rest of him recognized with a sort of grim hostility that he should be used to it by now.

So he placed his chainmail and breastplate properly on the wooden cross. Then he shed his greaves and the metal vambraces, leaving the thin leather ones that sat beneath them in place. After a moment's hesitation, he undid his sword belt, looping it over one of the arms of the dummy. He dug around in his sea trunk until he came up with a pair of thin daggers. They slipped easily into the sheathes built into his vambraces.

Then, he faced the true horror of leadership.

Paperwork.

Calix sat in the hard wooden chair and dragged the first piece of paper he could reach towards him. He stared at it blankly for a few moments. The weasel cleared his throat, making him glance up out of reflex.

"With due respect," he began, his oily voice making Calix's skin crawl, "if you cannot read, sir, I would be more than—"

"What," Calix began softly, "would make you assume that I cannot read?"

The weasel swallowed, scrawny throat bobbing nervously. "Well, sir, it's just that... You see, we know that..."

"Spit it out," Calix hissed. "I haven't got all day."

"It's well known, sir," the weasel paused again, eyes darting to the tent flap, "that you were—well, that is to say..."

Calix growled a warning, making him flinch.

"Everyone knows you were turned out of your father's house." The weasel took a step back at the glare Calix leveled on him. "One m-might assume that you were perhaps...defective...in some—"

"Get out."

"Sir?"

Calix stood so violently, the chair went flying. "Leave," he whispered, his voice a deadly, vicious thing. "If I see you again, I'll have you skinned and your hide used to repair leaking tents."

The weasel could hardly leave the room fast enough.

Breathing hard, he bent and righted the chair before he sat and once more stared down at the paper.

Defective. Well, that was certainly something he hadn't heard in a long time.

His hands shook where they rested on the desk.

Why can you not simply sit and listen, as your brother does?

Calix's breath trembled, his fingers curling into white-knuckled fists. It had been a constant refrain of his father's. Why couldn't he just sit? Why could he not simply pay attention? Why did he let his mind wander? 

You're just made differently, my love. Some of us were simply not made to be still and quiet.

His mother's soothing words made his vision blur. She had always understood. She had never ridiculed him for his inability to sit still, to listen, to learn. She had never become impatient when he struggled to learn mathematics, or turned his letters around when he was learning to write.

Sometimes, the ache of his mother's death became as keen and stinging as the days and weeks after she had passed.

"Calix?"

He sucked in a startled breath, looking up to find a familiar silhouette in the tent opening.

Arcturus regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he said, "I believe you and I have more to speak about?"

Calix could only nod mutely, wondering if the older man had heard all that had just transpired. One look at the anger simmering softly in his remaining eye dispelled any notion that he had not.

"Tonight," Arcturus said softly. "Just like old times."

He left without another word. Calix clung to the lifeline his mentor had offered, his cluttered mind shifting its attention to what they might talk about, rather than obsessing over what the aide had just said.

Arcturus too had never ridiculed him for what he couldn't do. He'd only taken the raw energy Calix could never seem to quite get rid of and taught him how to funnel it into something useful.

He had taken what others had perceived as a weakness—as a defect—and turned it into a strength.

Calix let a small laugh gust out of him as he slumped back in his seat. Then, he leaned forward, snatching up a document and a quill, letting his eyes skim over the words as a plan began to take root in the back of his mind.