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There was a particular feel to the bustle of a military camp. It was a particular kind of busyness unlike the rush of the city or the raucous clamor of a market. The people with important jobs and stacks of symbols stitched onto their uniforms rushed around with intense purpose, walking in straight lines between their destinations.

Grunt workers chipped away at their tasks with slow, unmotivated motions. Their lack of drive was compensated for by the ridiculous number of men dedicated to each task. Their supervisors stood by, carefully doling out profanity and threats to keep them working. They were careful to keep their manpower working at the bare minimum of efficiency; the work was mainly to keep the oft-violent, easily bored troops from entertaining themselves with fistfights and beer. Spacious garrisons and defensive bulwarks were useful side effects and an easy excuse for their troop's sweat.

Of course, there were always a few troops, a mixture of the old and patient and the inexperienced and jumpy, who had been assigned the task of being bored. They were positioned in lines around the outside of the bulwarks and speckled throughout the camp to keep watch for encroaching forces and scouts. Of course, both the scouts and the dragonriders had confirmed that there was no immediate threat. However, they performed two other important functions. First and foremost, the sentries reminded everyone of the ever-present danger that lurked beyond the wire. Both the younger and older warriors on this detail had their particular forms of paranoia that assisted in that particular charade.

The younger ones jumped shadows and needed only the barest noise to grip the hilt of their sword. The older ones stood, relaxed, but were eager to share exaggerated tales of victories, horrors, and politics with their inexperienced brethren. They peered off into the distance every so often, searching through the shadows of the receding treeline as fingers dropped to their weapons.

The other reason was to give the laborers something to complain about. Of course, when it was their turn to keep watch, they would complain about their boredom just as loudly, but it was better to turn their attention to each other rather than their commanders.

With stability and shared, both internally and externally, the Galastian Army could get to their work of turning Mossly into the front line of the coming war. Ailmer sighed, looking past the bustle of troops on the grounds of his mill. The Army had deforested enough that he could see the repopulated town of Mossly from his mill.

They were in the process of turning Sebastian's bar into a stockroom and the schoolhouse into a garrison. Reece's forge was burning and Ailmer was glad that he had taken his advice, if only halfway. He still hoped the young man would leave before the fighting started, but he supposed that he couldn't fault his bravery. Reece still had his family to think about. Ailmer supposed that Sebastian did as well, but that didn't stop him. Sebastian was still in Galastian blue and silver, supervising the desecration of his tavern. He supposed that both the others were driven by the same thought. Running would not help secure their family's safety. At least, they had places to send their family, well away from the front lines.

Ailmer sighed again, his eyes sweeping past the archer's barricades back to his home. He could see Sebastian inside the kitchen window, gesticulating wildly at a fresh map he had drawn. His home had turned into the de facto command center and the clearing around his mill was the main northwestern defensive position for the town. He watched a pair of soldiers drag a barrel of arrows up the shallow ramp they'd constructed against his mill house onto the roof. They rolled it up against the short wooden barricades they had built on the roof and placed the barrel next to an identical one to feed the archers on top. There were four of them there, keeping watch over the forest, though bowstrings hung loosely from their unstrung bows.

Ailmer watched one of them as he leaned against one of the short barricades, back to the forest. He was chatting with one of the others while he idly tossed his bow from hand to hand. He was in light leather armor, but he looked relatively young, and his sleeves unadorned, for Ailmer to expect him to be equipped with any armor at all. Ailmer supposed that the peacetime since the gem war had been relatively fruitful for Galast. He was unused to seeing so much armor and equipment on display in the military, but he was certainly glad for it.

Another archer with a scarred face was listening to the other three's banter, quietly absorbing whatever they were discussing while he dangled his legs over the edge of the mill house. His eyes, alert, continually scanned along the receding tree line. He idly spun an arrow between his fingers, nimbly rolling it up and down between his fingers. It rolled in a blur, not stopping as it hit the bottom, and immediately spun back up, as if gravity was a concept that it had only heard about.

As Ailmer voyeuristically evaluated the archer, his head turned back to his compatriots. The spinning arrow suddenly snapped into his palm, turning from a spinning blur into a still line. The fletching was made of broad, light gray goose feathers and the shaft was well-seasoned and straight. The shaft traced down to a pointed tip that was short enough that it would have looked stubby if it wasn't so thin. It looked much like the nib of a fine pen and would have been a little more than a simple spike if it wasn't for a slight swell along its horizontal axis. The subtle shape turned the penetrating spike into a shallow diamond. Lines of inlaid copper ran along the top and bottom of the arrowhead, and a length of thin copper wire was wound at the base of the arrowhead a few times, leaving the ends of the wire to hang like a pair of foot-long metal whiskers.

The sight of this gear and technology made Ailmer relax far more than he expected. He knew that an army would always be best equipped at the start of any war before logistics and attrition ate away at materiel and manpower. However, it was obvious to Ailmer that they had learned much from their last disastrous encounters with the Ikthil. Lines of copper were apparent on many of the blades that Ailmer had seen. Blunt weapons, collared with thick rings of copper, were nearly as numerous as edged ones. This army was far better equipped to fight the Ikthil than the ones that Ailmer had led before.

He hoped that it would be enough. His gut feelings, however, made a chill run down his spine. Ailmer knew that it wouldn't be nearly enough.

Beroan padded up beside him, and Ailmer was so distracted with his evaluation of the army that he didn't notice the dragon until Beroan's cold nose bumped into his palm. His boots left the ground and he stumbled to the side once he landed from his short flight. Ailmer managed to catch himself against the haft of Mizkithar by digging the worn copper cap on the bottom of the glaive into the earth of the courtyard. The butt of the weapon skidded a few inches on the hard-packed earth, compressed nearly to stone by passing boots.

As soon as Ailmer realized it was Beroan, he chuckled and shook his head at his reaction. Beroan let him straighten up before the dragon's hips plopped to the ground. He sat beside the mage, his tail sweeping a small cloud of dust up behind them as it lazily slumped from side to side.

The dragon was draped heavily with overstuffed saddlebags, leather plates, and metal rings, all bearing Galastian blue and silver heraldry. After a few adjustments to the saddle and armor, Beroan had hardly seemed to notice the weight and had already adapted to moving with the extra bulk to his sides. That was good-they were going much further than they had before and they needed to carry everything that they'd need to survive and to turn their hunts into rations. Given what stories they'd learned from the handful of refugees crossing the border, it also seemed like resupply from allied Astalian fortifications and towns would be unreliable at best and impossible at worst.

Some part of Ailmer was tired and dreading the weeks of hard travel ahead of them. That part of him just wanted to go back to a different time, to spend the rest of his years in the week after he had rescued Beroan from the forest. Ailmer wished he could live forever when Mossly was quietly bustling with families and friends and the biggest challenge he encountered he was getting to know and enjoy Beroan's company. Again, he looked around at the military base that the quiet town had turned into and the irreparable damage to even those recent memories of Mossley. He knew that particular desire was nothing more than a fantasy, exactly like a man dreaming of the good times at the tavern scant minutes ago to stave off the shock of the knife in his gut in the alleyway beside it.

Some other part of him was excited, much more than he thought he would be. He was still worried by his remarkable impotence compared to the mage he had been, but he remembered the good things about being on campaign. He remembered the many missions with Marlin, the many nights under the stars, and the knowledge that what they were doing was critical to the protection of so many people and the excitement those thoughts provided. He had lived for so long without any drive, without any greater mission than to dwell on the past. He had a direction now, something to dedicate himself towards instead of just feeling sorry for himself. He hoped, somewhat selfishly, that the temporary delivery from his insecurities would not cost too many lives.

He winced at the thought, both because of his dread that the last brutal war might repeat and the idea that he caused this himself. If only he had done better, if only he had saved Marlin, if only they had won the pass, if only he had gained back the momentum to push and destroy these Ikthil. If only he had saved Marlin, perhaps they could have damaged the gem monsters so severely that this upcoming war would have been impossible for the Ikthil to wage.

If only he had fought better, if only he had healed better, if only he had saved Marlin from an impossible wound. If only he had been skillful enough at tactics and combat to avoid the mortal wound entirely. Some rational part of his mind beside him whispered that those thoughts were just a fantasy and only as substantial as a nightmare. It told him honestly that he had done more than he could and the situation had just been out of his control. However, the grief, the depression, was central onstage and telling him how the loss of Mossley was his fault, stemming from his failure so long ago.

"Are you okay, Ail?" Beroan asked.

Ailmer glanced over, suddenly realizing he hadn't said a word to Beroan yet. He paused for a moment longer, taking one more look around the clearing before answering. "Yes, I think I am. I'm just feeling a little melancholy."

Beroan nodded, following Ailmer's gaze around the mill. "It looks really different." He stated.

Ailmer searched for a few minutes inside of his head for a response. He debating talking about how it was still the same place, but felt different. Or, he could tell Beroan about how it looked like a war camp from the last war, but he didn't particularly want to reminisce more about that thought. He debated lamenting how Mossley had changed and how it would likely never be the same, but he knew that those thoughts would have crossed Beroan's mind already. Eventually, he settled on one word. "Very."

Beroan nodded slowly, looking around the camp. His eyes traced over the exposed weaponry. His eyes lingered for a few moments and Ailmer followed the line of his vision. He was staring at the copper-laced arrow that had resumed twirling in the archer's fingers. Ailmer could see his characteristic curiosity flash in his eyes, but it was gone surprisingly quickly, and he just looked down at his forepaws. Ailmer reached over, setting his hand on the back of Beroan's bent neck. When Beroan didn't move, Ailmer's brow furrowed. "What's the matter?" He asked.

"Don't like arrows." Beroan answered, his voice quiet and his response short.

Ailmer squeezed the drake's bulky neck, but the drake didn't look up from the ground. Ailmer's mouth worked a few times as he tried to come up with something to say, but he could only come up with the direct route. "What happened?" He asked.

The dragon didn't answer. Ailmer's hand slowly stroked up and down his neck, his fingers gently bumping against the collar that they'd bought in the city. He felt Beroan lean slightly towards him before his muzzle suddenly snapped back up. He wore a slight smile as he looked back at Ailmer, speaking, "They're waiting on us." He said.

Ailmer paused for a moment before answering, taken aback at the dragon's expression. He had thought that he'd be frowning or upset, but Beroan didn't seem to be dwelling on the thought.

"Who?" Ailmer asked, "Kerian and Cymris?"

Beroan nodded quickly. "They've been ready for a while. Cymris sent me to fetch you."

Ailmer nodded, but his hand dipped back down to rub over the thick collar around the drake's neck. Eventually, when Beroan failed to volunteer any more information, he hooked a finger through one of the rings and gently tugged Beroan's head toward him. He expected the dragon to stay steady, but even the lightest pressure turned Beroan's muzzle slightly towards him. "Will you tell me sometime?" Ailmer asked.

Beroan's head turned up, and he looked Ailmer in the eyes as his smile disappeared into an unreadable line. After a few moments, his eyes turned away, then back down. He stayed melancholy for a few more moments before he nodded slightly. Despite themselves, they both smiled slightly, as if neither of them had considered the comfort of that option before this moment. The dragon's hips raised up again and he stood, taking a step to turn around to lead Ailmer towards the town where the other dragonrider was staging for their flight. Ailmer, however, still had his finger hooked through the drake's collar.

Beroan paused as he noticed that Ailmer hadn't moved before he felt Ailmer pull on his collar again. Despite himself, he blushed slightly and turned back, curious what Ailmer wanted. Ailmer kept pulling until Beroan's head swung back in front of him. Beroan's eyes were wide and curious and his head was cocked slightly to the side. It was perfect.

Ailmer leaned forward and kissed him.

The dragon's lips were warm and soft, though dry--but as Ailmer's tongue stroked along them, the dragon's talented tongue slipped past his lips. They met, and soft heat pushed against him. his finger gripped firmly around the collar's ring, and Ailmer's eyes drifted shut.

Beroan's tongue snaked out of his mouth. He slid the first few inches of soft, slick flesh against Ailmer's wet lips. It was a stark reminder of exactly how much dragon Ailmer needed to handle. He let Beroan slip the tip into his mouth, as if he could resist the creature, and his tongue traced along the wet flesh of the muscle. Beroan's warmth invaded his muzzle, suddenly filling it with the enhanced heat of the dragon's naturally high body temperature. His tongue wrestled with the dragon's prehensile muscle but it was a struggle that was obviously doomed from the start.

Even the tip of Beroan's tongue was enough to drive his own to the bottom of his mouth, then to the top, as the drake trotted the pointed tip around his jaws. The firmest presses from Ailmer's tongue could hardly dent the dragon's curious muscle. Ailmer kept his finger looped through the ring on the dragon's collar and Beroan seemed more than happy to stay in position for as long as Ailmer wanted.

It made sense--Ailmer assumed that the dragon didn't care in the least about all the eyes on them. He realized, for a few moments, that he didn't either. Dragonriders and mages were already strange beasts to the army and Ailmer supposed that the legends had already given him a similar reputation.

However, Beroan was right. They did have to get going at some point. Ailmer knew that if he kept enjoying the dragon's body for too long, they would find a way to sneak away for another hour. So, he slowly pulled his head back. It took a few more inches for Beroan's tongue to stop following his head. Eventually, the dragon pulled his tongue back and was left simply looking at Ailmer.

He wore a slight, happy smile as he at Ailmer. It seemed confident, and remarkably patient as long as his bright blue eyes were locked with Ailmer's. Ailmer's gaze traced down Beroan's face, from his tapered snout to his strong neck. The dragon's neck curled back down, highlighting the height difference between them. Even in his seated position, the top curve of his neck was just a little taller than the crown of Ailmer's head. Even as large as that made him, Ailmer had still seen a few horses that stood taller than Beroan.

With his size put in perspective, it still amazed Ailmer how much weight a flying dragon could carry. The piles of leathery sails folded on the dragon's back hinted at his massive wingspan. Between the weight of his steel armor and the large saddlebags, it was obvious that he was already carrying more than most warhorses of a similar size and Beroan hardly seemed to be bothered by the burden. Steel cables of muscle wrapped his torso and even underneath the chain armor and draped tabard, they were still somewhat visible. Simply looking closely at Beroan made the legends of draconic strength believable. Even with their obvious strength, Ailmer was certain the dragon's flight still utilized a fair bit of magic augmenting their brute strength.

Ailmer found himself smiling, wearing the same expression as the dragon. Having his melancholy replaced so easily replaced was a strange feeling but he was grateful for the effect that Beroan had on him.

Ailmer looked around at the base of operations one more time, both to let his thoughts expand from the dragon, and to check if their impropriety had formed a riot yet. He didn't visibly see any soldiers seeming to take notice of their embrace, though he was certain that they hadn't escaped some sort of notice. Ailmer finally let his finger slip out of Beroan's collar. Beroan let his head drift back up. He turned to look through the remains of the forest, towards Mossly. Ailmer, recognizing the look, nodded and turned to lead the way.

***

Mossly was bustling with activity. Ailmer had not seen the town this busy before, even during the harvest festival. It was surreal to see the buildings and rows packed like a thoroughfare in Damsk. It was even more surreal to see so much blue and silver in the town. Ailmer had always thought of Mossly as a green place. Between the thick coniferous leaves in the spring and summer and the particular type of crawling vine that ornamented the buildings, seeing Mossly without its distinctive hue was extremely strange.

The town had turned monotone with the leaves browning, most branches bare, and the wooden walls of the buildings naked. The silver and blue wool uniforms formed a foaming river in the center of town that sloshed between the buildings and spread across the deforested land around them. It looked, on Alidra's boundless knowledge, like green had been washed away from Mossly.

Even in the rushing river of blue and silver, Ailmer could easily spot Cymris and Kerian in the street. A small bubble had appeared around them, unconsciously respected by the power-walking sergeants and ambling grunts that realized that the riders were on a mission of their own. A similar bubble appeared in front of Beroan and Ailmer as they entered the thoroughfare, though his gap was slightly wider. Perhaps it was the legends that afforded him more space, but more likely, it was the large weapon strapped to his back that cleared the space around him, both from the

Kerian was battling with a large sheet of parchment as they approached. He rotated it in his hands, trying to figure out which edge was up, and Cymris was obviously not much help. Ailmer could hear the argument as his bubble was absorbed by the clearing around the other dragon and rider. "No, see, if you look at the mountains…"

"No, no, you just have the mountains completely upside down! Here-"

"Now that's a town on the other side of the mountains. Isn't this little arrow here supposed to point towards the north?"

"Well, it's not supposed to point sideways."

Both of them glanced up as Ailmer approached. He tried not to chuckle too loudly, but he couldn't help himself. The dragon and her rider were wearing the exact same expression. Their eyes were narrowed into a squint and their brows were scrunched into tight, twisting canyons on their foreheads. They even had their heads cocked to the side.

Without a word, he strode around Kerian, glancing at the map. He reached up and rotated it ninety degrees, glancing up at the mountains in front of them to confirm that they were facing the right direction. "The dark half of the diamond points north, and the line next to it is the scale of the map. This one there is 10 miles. Mossley is down here, then… Here, that's the pass that declines over on the east side of the peak, there. You can see it from here, it's the gash between the two peaks." Ailmer explained.

"So now that you're oriented, and you can estimate distances on the map, how far are we going to fly today?" Ailmer asked.

Kerian's eyes flicked between the runes on the map and the scout and his head cocked even further. Cymris took a rough stab at it, squinting mountains in front of them and the map. She raised a forepaw and hovered a claw just over the edge of the pass, on the other side of the mountains. "Here?" She asked.

"What makes you say that?" Ailmer asked.

Cymris had to think for a few moments. Beroan stepped around them, sitting down behind the crowd in front of the map. He peered over Ailmer's shoulder curiously at the lesson. Amusingly, his head also adopted the same curious turn that Kerian wore.

"It's midmorning, and I think I've flown further than that in the past. If I tried, I could probably go a lot further." Cymris finally admitted.

Ailmer nodded. "Have you ever measured how far you can fly in a day?" He asked.

Cymris shook her head. "Not formally. I can just feel about how far I can go."

"I suppose you would. In my experience a dragon can usually fly around ten or so miles in an hour at a manageable pace for long-term endurance. You can certainly fly faster, but not for nearly as long. So if we estimate about that speed, and we have and we have 10 hours or so before sunset, we can probably go about eighty or so miles today. So, if you know how far we can go and you know the scale of the map, find something to measure the scale along the path we're taking and we can plan where we'll end up." Ailmer said

"Pawlin used to handle all this..." Kerian mumbled, looking at the line next to the compass.

Kerian laid his thumb along the line, marking the distance with his index finger. He began to place it along their path to the pass on the map. After he measured a few times, only losing count once when he debated which way they would need to go after passage over the mountains, he ended up pointing somewhere in the foothills of Astal. "It looks like we should be able to pass that first Astalian town there and end up in the foothills of the mountains, on the other side." Kerian said.

Ailmer nodded, smiling at the rider. It wasn't a difficult lesson, but Kerian was certainly a fast learner. "So, how far do they want you to accompany me?" Ailmer asked.

Kerian glanced at Cymris before looking back to Ailmer. "Well, Sebastian passed on new orders this morning. He says I'm supposed to go all the way there and back with you."

Ailmer raised an eyebrow. They must've decided that without an Ikthil army ready to attack the town they would be able to rely on mundane scouts. He supposed that the army was just fortifying now. If they were moving or in a more vulnerable location, they might want the more mobile scouts with them. But now they were staying in one place to reinforce manpower and augment defenses. By the time any force did show up, they would hopefully have the men and material to deal with it.

It was either that or Sebastian just wanted Ailmer to have some help. Honestly, Ailmer was grateful for it. He wasn't sure what he would find in Astal and Ailmer was happy to have a bound dragon rider pair, with their strong magic, better senses, and coordination watching his back. Sure, they were green, but they were learning quickly and their instinctual skill was a boon. "Okay, good. I suppose we'll be giving your education and training a practical test. Are you okay with leaving Galast for so long?" He asked.

Kerian nodded with excitement. "I've never been outside of Galast. I wonder if it'll be really different than here. Do you know much about it, Ailmer?"

Ailmer shook his head. "Not personally. I've scouted maybe a few hundred miles into the country on a couple of occasions. However, they were sneaky things--discrete forest camping and stealthy skulking. I've not experienced the towns or much more of the land. Beroan came from Astal, though."

The three of them turned to look at Beroan. Uncharacteristically, Beroan looked off at the schoolhouse, staring intently through one of the windows set in wrought iron frames. He seemed suddenly uncomfortable with being the center of attention. Ailmer had found Kerian had the same excitable curiosity in common with Beroan, and much like Beroan, he immediately let it get the better of him. "What's it like? The people, the cities?" He asked.

"Well, I didn't really live in in a human town. I lived near one, I suppose." Beroan said, obviously searching for a way out.

He stayed quiet for a few more moments but it was obvious that it would not overcome Kerian's curiosity. Beroan squirmed a little more, but when the subtle motion didn't dissuade him, he eventually continued.

"Well, the towns were much older. Even Damsk seemed like it was mostly constructed out of wood but most of the cities I saw in Astal were of old stones, heavy with moss and age. There are a lot of castles on the hills, watching over the smaller towns like Mossly. I've only seen the capital from far away, but it had huge stone walls and many tall stone buildings that extended above them." Beroan explained.

Kerian nodded eagerly, and the words seemed to sate his curiosity somewhat. Cymris, however, cocked her head. "What are the clans like? Did you just live around humans?" Cymris asked.

Beroan's jaw snapped shut and he looked away. Even the curious stares of the dragoness and her rider seem to fall on stubborn stone. Peer pressure was obviously not going to make Beroan continue. A few long, awkward moments passed before Ailmer stepped over, resting his hand on Beroan's shoulder. "It will be good having some extra familiarity with the country. I assume that the two of you prepared for a much longer journey than the ones we've taken before?" He asked.

Kerian and Cymris nodded in unison. Her saddlebags were just as overstuffed and bulging as Beroan's. "Sebastian helped us. It seems like we should be well prepared for several weeks, at least, especially if we can find animals to hunt and food to forage." Kerian said, not too much a stranger to long marches.

Ailmer nodded, gently patting Beroan. The dragon wore a slight frown, and his head drooped slightly. However, as Ailmer stayed close to him, he could feel the drake relax. "Alright. We'll do one more check to make sure that our gear is in order, and that we're not forgetting anything vital, then head off. I want to make sure we get over the mountains today."