The journey back to the capital of the Reimgard Empire took three weeks, and for every mile the North Guards marched south, the air grew warmer and the tales grew taller.
Northern walked in the middle of the Eleventh Squad in his black uniform with his hands tucked into his pockets, listening to the carters and the Gate Wardens tell the story of the Forest Hunters.
By the time they reached the outer ring of the Central Plains, he had heard that Rian the Mercenary stood nine feet tall, that he breathed lightning from his nostrils, and that he had frozen a whole river with a single glare.
"They're saying you ate one of the big ones," Han said on the eighteenth day, limping beside him with a grin that made his cracked ribs ache. "Raw. On top of the pile."
"It was cold," Northern said, not looking up from the frozen ruts of the road. "I needed the calories."
Baletta snorted, though her hand rested near her sword hilt as the passing merchant wagons slowed to stare at their column.
