Before the battle

You awake to a painful hardon and a hatred for everything that isn't your bedroll. The rain has stopped, but a cool mist has settled over the pre dawn camp. The tents are nearly obscured and the chill takes your breath away but the men are up and moving, all around men are sharpening spears and oiling swords, a tense quiet has overtaken the men. You know what they are thinking, you're thinking it too. Some of these men won't come back here. You would give anything to change that, but the economy of war is unforgiving. You need to spend troops to earn victories. You only hope you spend them wisely.

You jog to Sir Zachary's tent and are surprised to find you hear the sounds of a man and woman inside. He comes out a moment later, still strapping on his armor. He stops. Stiffens and slaps a fist against his chest at the sight of you. “Apologies, your Grace.”

You wave him off. There is nothing shameful in a man enjoying what might be his last night alive. In truth, you are envious that he managed to find some distraction. You hold the man no ill will.

Or, at least not until Adrianna steps out, in a similar state of undress. She freezes at the sight of you for only a moment. Then her mask returns and she greets you as always.

“Magus.”

Something, unpleasant trickles through you chest at the thought of your man Zachary laying with your tutor Adrianna. Certainly you had no claim to the woman, and yet, the idea that the two of them were carrying on behind your back infuriates you. You open your mouth to speak, but your words are lost to history. The first rays of the sun stretch across the plains and pierce the mists around your camp.

It's time to march.