The disputed border was uncomfortably close to the Swiftwind winter camp. That alone was reason enough for Dem to take Karshun's request seriously. Troops in the area invited chaos of every kind.
Near sunset, Dem briefed Telo and the odun sub-chiefs. "I'll be gone a few days. According to Mamar, nothing pressing is coming. Continue training and double the roving night guard."
Telo frowned. "You should bring someone with you."
Several of the sub-chiefs nodded.
"Normally, I would," Dem said, "but you all have thick tribal accents. I plan to volunteer in Tahoma under an alias. It's the fastest way to locate new conscripts."
"That sounds dangerous," Telo said.
"Not particularly," Dem replied. "If something goes wrong, I slip away."
Telo crossed his arms. "If you're delayed, I'm sending scouts."
"Only if I'm gone a week or more." Dem stood. "When I return—assuming no issues—we'll travel to Frostridge for Winter's Peak."
Reyka and Sark exchanged pleased looks. As Frostridge natives, the mid-winter festival was something they looked forward to.
Reyka eyed the weapons laid out nearby. "You can't bring that bow. It screams tribal."
Dem nodded. "I'm posing as a young master from Orland. Low-tier Sybasi practitioner. Decent with a crossbow."
Telo snorted. "Low tier?"
"Do you even own a crossbow?" Reyka asked.
Dem lifted a standard military piece taken from Black Dawn's camp. Nothing special—but clean and new.
"Take one of the coursers we seized from the mercs," Telo said, ushering the others out. "Tribal horses are a dead giveaway."
"Agreed," Dem said, waiting until he was alone.
He dressed in one of Black Dawn's black outfits, altered by Gram to fit. The material was sturdy and comfortable. He added the matching leather armor and strapped on a single silver dagger—enhanced with ice by Rave at the Gathering.
Ai and Noko were waiting outside.
Noko hugged his waist and pointed at the massive black warhound. "You should take Cosmo."
Dem smiled. "If I were enlisting for real, I would."
Ai held the reins of a white courser taken from the Crow mercenaries. "Can Tam and I come to Winter's Peak?"
"It's a long ride," Dem said, "but if you don't mind the Sentries for a few days, you're welcome."
Ai hugged him tightly before handing over the reins. "Be careful, dasai. City folk are… creative with the truth."
"I know," Dem said, swinging easily into the saddle.
Dem rode at an unhurried pace, timing his arrival so he reached Tahoma just as the gates opened. The guard studied him briefly, then waved him through without comment.
A cold wind swept down the cobbled street, carrying scents from the bakery and the nearby stables.
"Cinnamon and manure," Dem muttered. "Outstanding."
From Karshun's description, the conscription office sat near the general store, pitched in an empty lot that had once belonged to a cobbler—before it burned down.
He spotted the white tent easily. A table stood in front of it, empty, though that wasn't surprising at such an early hour.
With time to spare, Dem ducked into a bakery with a small sitting area.
"Morning!" an old man called. "Order from the window, or take a seat if you already know what you want. Tea comes with anything you buy."
"Can you recommend something?"
The man grinned, a gapped-tooth smile stretching wide. "Ginger dollops. Nice and hard—perfect for tea."
"I'll take them."
"They come by the half dozen."
"Then I'll take two orders." Dem leaned back in his chair.
The baker was bald and pale from a life indoors, his wrinkled face still handsome, his voice low and easy. He returned with a small wrapped parcel and poured a cup of tea.
"Haven't seen you around before."
Dem blew gently on the tea before sipping. "I'm from Orland. Here to volunteer at the conscription office."
"Never volunteer for anything, boy," the man said dryly. "That's a fine way to shorten your life."
Dem slid a silver across the counter.
"I'll get your change—"
"No need." Dem stood, removing two dollops and wrapping the rest to tuck under his arm.
The ginger dollops were little more than hard biscuits, glazed with honey and dusted in spice—simple, sweet, and crunchy.
An hour later, three soldiers in chainmail rode down the street, the clip-clop of horseshoes echoing through the otherwise quiet morning. They tied their mounts behind the tent and took their seats at the table, setting out a logbook and a roster beside a rough map of the border.
"Morning," Dem said, interrupting their private conversation. "I'm here to volunteer."
A round-faced man with pockmarked skin and shifty eyes flipped open the conscript ledger. "I'm Sergeant Dutton. Minimum age is seventeen."
"Just turned seventeen last week," Dem smiled. They both knew it was a lie.
"Name and city."
"Dem Duscan, from Orland." He used a shortened form of his beastkin father's name.
Dutton wrote it down, then glanced up. "You even know how to fight, boy?"
Dem nodded. "First-tier Sybasi. I've got my own crossbow."
Dutton snorted. "Sybasi fighter? You bullshitting me?"
"No, sergeant." Dem tapped the silver dagger at his belt.
Dutton's gaze shifted to the white courser tied near the bakery. "That your mount?"
"Yes, sir. My father bought me a proper warmount."
"Not bad," Dutton admitted. "Since you volunteered, you can join the conscript camp twenty miles north of Tahoma, or—"
"Or?" Dem prompted.
"You look like a noble," Dutton said, lowering his voice. "For a donation, I can commission you as an officer."
Dem noticed the other two soldiers watching silently. "I was given fifty gold for food and lodging, and another thirty for equipment."
Dutton's eyes gleamed. "You're in luck. Commissions are seventy-five gold, plus five for conscript tax."
Dem shook his head, knowing the price would only rise if he agreed too quickly. "I'll take basic enlistment."
"Listen," Dutton said smoothly, "you've got officer written all over you. You won't need money for food or lodging—military covers that."
"Same for weapons and gear," the thin man beside him added. "All issued."
"I don't know," Dem hedged.
"You don't want to be a grunt," Dutton leaned forward. "Shifty lot. You belong with officers."
"You think so?" Dem asked mildly.
Dutton grinned and began writing in a different ledger. "Looks perfect to me."
Dem studied the handwriting for a moment, then nodded. "I suppose you're right. Thank you for the guidance."
The skinny man produced a folded parchment, filled it out, and held it up. "Your commission. Just need payment."
Dem handed over a coin pouch. "Now what?"
"Report to the command post near the conscript camp," Dutton said. "Show them the commission."
Dem mounted and rode out through the north gate, urging his courser into an easy canter.
The ride to the command post took two hours. The sun still hadn't reached midday when Dem arrived at a large white tent flanked by two guards.
"Papers?" one guard said, stepping forward.
Dem handed over his commission.
The guard snorted and held it up for the other to see. "Another conscripted officer."
"Is there a problem?" Dem asked mildly.
"Take it up inside," the guard said, handing it back. "Above my pay grade."
Inside, warmth washed over Dem from a heating enchantment. Three men occupied the tent: a handsome noble in silk, a dark-skinned veteran with a scar pulling one side of his mouth into a permanent snarl, and an arrogant youth in leather with twin daggers at his belt.
The scarred man scoffed. "Another commissioned conscript?"
"Yes," Dem replied, already aware the term meant nothing—but willing to let it stand.
"Idiot," the youth muttered.
The slap echoed sharply through the tent.
Dem didn't raise his voice. "I'm a Sybasi fighter. You will address me with respect, or I'll teach you manners."
The youth froze, shock overtaking anger. A red handprint bloomed across his cheek. "You bastard. I'll cut you to pieces."
The scarred man stepped between them, taking the parchment. "Dem Duscan? Listen. We don't conscript officers—they're appointed. I'm Captain Haza. This is Skirmish Commander Leon Fen."
Dem inclined his head. "I paid the fee."
"There's no way he's Sybasi," the youth snarled.
Leon Fen laughed—a smooth, almost feminine sound that drew attention. "Two Sybasi fighters applying as officers? Remarkable."
"I was appointed," the youth snapped. "That paper is worthless. And he's lying."
"Enough, Rego." Leon's eyes moved between them. "What do Sybasi say when settling disputes?"
Rego smiled without warmth. "Let the circle decide."
Dem raised a hand. "Before that—clarify something."
Leon tilted his head. "Go on."
"If the circle decides in my favor," Dem said calmly, "I receive the commission?"
"Yes," Leon replied. "Rego has agreed. His commission will be forfeit if he loses." His smile thinned. "Accept, or leave. I won't repeat myself."
"I accept."
Captain Haza clapped once. "Rego. Your commission."
Rego hesitated, then handed over the parchment, his glare promising violence. "I'll make you beg."
Dem said nothing and stepped outside.
A ten-meter circle was scratched into the dirt. Spectators gathered quickly, eyes bright with greed as bets changed hands.
Dem scanned the crowd.
He found them easily—an older man standing protectively beside a woman in her twenties. Their posture matched Karshun's description.
Gero and Juni.
Positions noted, Dem stepped into place.
Across from him, Rego drew his blades and crossed the line. "Let the circle decide."
Dem unsheathed his silver dagger and advanced one step.
"Let the circle decide."