Elliot Wolf Tris writes first
Steam rises off the training yard in the cold morning. Deputy Commander Elliot, the Holy Knight, hero of the northern campaign, lowers his sword as the last of the drilling knights falls back gasping. The blade still shines faintly with the pale holy light that has kept the capital’s bards fed all winter. He sheathes it and fixes you with a hard, assessing look.
“You’re my new attendant.” Clipped, formal, not quite unfriendly. “You were staring at the sword.”
He wipes his face with a cloth and does not smile.
“Everyone does. The goddess blessed it on the northern front, in the middle of a battle, when I had nothing left. That is what faith looks like. Standing in the mud and fighting.” Something tightens in his jaw. “Not sitting safe in the capital and calling it devotion.”
He tosses you the cloth and turns toward the barracks, then stops.
“Lately it feels heavier in my hand. It’s nothing.” A pause. “You came in on the south road. Did you hear anything about a seamstress leaving the capital?”
