The morning sun cast a pale light over the courtyard as Alarion stood for review alongside his new comrades. He shifted uncomfortably in his fresh uniform, its deep blue fabric stiff against his skin, chafing a little at the seams. A parting gift from the woman in the bathhouse, the medium-sized uniform was tactile proof of how much he'd grown in the last year.

He was taller now. Still shorter than the men around him but tall enough that his height wasn't the first thing others remarked on. He'd filled out a little in the shoulders, his body packing on muscle after years of a steady diet. Alarion would never be imposing, but he at least looked like a soldier. A look that extended to the marks on his body.

An Awakened body could heal from almost anything, but like any other magical construct, it was subject to sympathy. Powerful emotions like fear and pain left their mark long after the blade, and Alarion had more experience than most. His greatsword had left a ragged scar on his abdomen where the Duke had nearly slain him, with a smaller scar below it courtesy of the Butcher all those years ago. But it was the deep white scar across the bridge of his nose that Alarion longed to be rid of.

He could do without that reminder every time he looked into a mirror.

The soldiers in line with him were a rag-tag bunch, as provincial Auxilia often were. Vitrian regulars could afford to have their magical items tailored or custom-made to match their uniform, but Auxilia made do with what they looted, purchased, or stole, regardless of aesthetics. As a result, most Auxilia were a mix of a walking fashion disaster, with mismatched armor pieces, weapons, and enchanted trinkets.

Some hardline officers insisted on a proper level of military decorum, but given those same officers had an abnormally high mortality rate in the field, most were willing to let appearance go in favor of efficiency.

Even among that mismatched group, Alarion stood out. He wore [Sandals of Striding and Springing] and a [Sash of Fiendish Regeneration] instead of his uniform boots and belt. His left forearm was covered by the [Blackstone Bracer], his right wrist adorned with his mana reserve and ZEKE's 'ornamental' bracelet. A slender chain connected his pocket watch to his uniform vest, and the [Ring of the Durable Fist] glinted on his right hand. He was loaded for bear compared to the average Auxilia, one of the many friction points Alarion ran into with his fellow soldiers.

"You look almost presentable," Kali remarked as he stopped before Alarion. He reached out, straightening Alarion's starched collar before moving on to the next soldier in line.

The sergeant had a point. If there was one thing Alarion actually liked about the Vitrian army, it was the uniform. Not the comfort, for the wool uniforms were hot in the summer and itchy all year round, but for the way he looked in them. Even the simple Auxilia field uniform was stylish, with silver buttons down its front, accent stitching at the hem, and darker blue around the pockets, wrists, and shoulders to break up his silhouette. Alarion was unlikely to develop a sense of style or aesthetics, but he knew what he liked.

"At ease," Kali announced as he finished his inspection. The line deflated around Alarion, shoulders slumping. Held breath released as the sergeant moved back toward the center of the line.

"For those who do not know me, I am Maio Kali; by grace and selection, I am the Auxilia Sergeant in charge of the newly formed 13th Autonomous Section. Including myself, our CO, and the rest of you, we are twenty-three strong, primarily rank II Awakened."

Alarion wondered if the sergeant's speech was practice or confidence. The man delivered each word with an easy cadence, never stuttering or pausing. He stood tall and focused, eyes scanning up and down the line in slow passes. Would Alarion ever have that level of self-assurance when speaking in front of others?

Was there a skill for it? He ought to ask ZEKE.

"We have been assigned a vital task. Three weeks ago, a rural patrol failed to report in as scheduled. A second patrol was dispatched, and a substantial and growing infection was reported." A slight murmur rippled through the assembled soldiers, though it quickly died under a sharp glance from the sergeant. "As there have been no disruptions along the main road between Ilvan-Shad and Ashad-Veldi, the boil is assumed to be nestled somewhere in the Giants. We are to locate, assess, and, if possible, subjugate."

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The discontent was easy to understand. A lost patrol meant dead Awakened. Dead Awakened meant revenants and a vastly more dangerous subjugation. Funny how Williams had failed to mention that little detail while recruiting him.

Not that it would have changed anything.

"The boil is assumed to be of rank II, judging by the fiends encountered by the advanced team. Lower rank Auxilia are already on-site handling containment as best they can, while the unawakened are handling evacuation and fortification. Our mission is to search and destroy before the boil grows beyond our ability. To that end, we'll be moving double-time to arrive as quickly as possible."

This time, the grumbling was more pronounced. Owing to their magically altered physiology, Awakened could keep up a marching pace that baseline humans could not. In times of crisis, this led to double-time marches, where they sometimes marched for up to a day at a time without rest. Worse still were the expectations of rank. By rank II, even a focused spellcaster had enough endurance to maintain a light jog, if not a full sprint, for most of a day.

"Three villages are dead," Kali cut through the complaints with a grim reminder. "Farmers, smiths, wives, children—Ashadi who rely on the Auxilia for protection. We have already failed them. Is anyone interested in taking their time getting there?"

"No, Sergeant!" came a short chorus of shamed replies.

"Good. We'll travel as a unit until we reach the demarcation line at thirty miles, then split into standard four-man squads. Some of you are familiar with one another from other postings, others are not. If we are capable, I'll keep functional units together for efficiency, but I cannot guarantee anything. The CO will make the final call on assignments. Any questions?"

"Where is he?" Alarion asked, somewhat surprised at the sound of his own voice. He'd attended a host of similar briefings during his time in the Auxilia, but never once without the Vitrian officer in charge either giving the briefing or at least being present.

"My understanding is that he will join us en route." The sergeant's body language suggested something amiss, but his words shared no secrets. "Anything else?"

For a moment, it appeared Alarion would be the only one to speak. Then, a soft voice spoke up to Alarion's left. "Will twenty-three be enough?"

The words belonged to a young man who was only a few years Alarion's senior. Tall and wide, the youth fit the image of a pampered noble better than an active soldier. He was slouched and demure, his eyes on the ground rather than the sergeant, with one hand in his pocket and the other fiddling with a button on his coat.

"Speak up, soldier," Kali ordered.

"S-sorry, Sir! I asked if this was going to be enough." The chubby young man took a half step closer as he spoke, hoping proximity could make up for lack of courage. "A-at thirty miles… I believe that fiends would, I mean, that indicates-"

The boy stammered a few more unintelligible syllables as the sergeant's frown deepened, then grew silent.

"Did I tell you to stop?"

"N-no, Sir."

"Then why did you stop?"

"I-I am s-sorry… Sir."

"Stop being sorry and spit it-"

"T-the demarcation radius. Lesser fiends are pushed out b-by stronger fiends. The maximum radius of the b-boil tends to square at each rank past the first. We should ex-ex…" The young man started to wither under Kali's stare, then doffed his cap, took a deep breath, and powered through the rest of his thought. "Expect a demarcation of no more than twenty-five square miles. If it is impacting thirty, it may be rank III. Would this force be enough?"

"Probably not," the sergeant admitted without pause. "But that will be part of our assessment. As of this morning's briefing, there have been no signs of any fiends above Rank I. If we locate the boil and find it is more than we can handle, our task becomes a delaying action while we request Vitrian regulars."

"S-should we not make that request now? An abundance of c-caution would suggest-"

Alarion winced in sympathy as Kali marched his way down the line. While the stuttering youth looked privileged, his social education was somehow worse than Alarion's.

"Specialist, what is your position?" the sergeant asked.

"I-I… I don't-" the terrified young man began before he thought better of questioning the sergeant's rhetoric. "R-Rank II Specialist Bergman. Arcane enhancement and fire support."

"So, not intel?"

"N-no, Sir."

"And not a political officer?" The sergeant leaned down as he asked the question, putting himself at eye level, almost nose to nose with his quarry.

"No, Sir."

"Not secretly the new Brigadier General in disguise?"

"No, Sir."

"I thought not. But you can never be too sure." Kali turned on his heels and marched back to the center of the line before he raised his voice once again. "Who are we?"

"Ashadi Auxilia!" came the well-drilled answer.

"That's right. We are the sword that protects Ashad, not the hand that wields it. You have a brilliant tactical idea? I want to hear it. You want to talk strategy? Keep it to yourself." Kali shook his head ruefully as he added, "They don't listen to me either."

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