'I can't believe it!'

Lady Rosamund Hawkhurst had lived through worse days than this, but not many. 'A trip to Abrenia with one guard would be risky even in peacetime.' A pair of long hose flew through the air to land precisely on top of a set of saddlebags at the foot of her four-poster bed. 'Why is Queen Eudosia willing to send me thus while we're still at war?' She pulled an undershirt from a drawer, shook a stray caladrius feather out of the sleeve, and folded the garment roughly before dropping it on a saddlebag and flopping onto the bed. 'Hasn't Hawkhurst given her enough already?'

The distant tap of the mourning drum came flooding back, as sharp as the day she'd heard it eleven months ago. The black-robed messengers had been all-too-visible out of the window, and when she'd seen them, she'd slumped against the wall, shaking.

Sir Hugo Hawkhurst was dead. Killed in the war between her home country ⁠—Abrenia ⁠— and Bevoria, where she had lived for the last sixteen years.

But grief was a luxury afforded to those who didn't have an estate to look after, so Rosamund had straightened her dress, wiper her eyes, and marched wordlessly downstairs to face a future without her husband in it. At the funeral she'd hugged her sobbing daughter and stared up at the ceiling to keep her own tears in check. Her son hadn't spoken for the entire day. Both of her children had vanished as soon as the ceremony concluded, and Rosamund was grateful that they, at least, had been able to mourn in private.

But somehow, that day had passed, as even the worst ones must, and they had all been learning to cope. Until last month, when Baron Mabry, their liege lord, had come to visit. He'd complained at length about a shortage of caladrius salve for his men (despite having claimed most of the stock delivered to the front lines a mere fortnight prior) before beginning to pontificate upon the Hawkhurst estate's lack of martial leadership.

'As long as the war continues, I simply must have a Hawkhurst knight to lead the soldiers at the front. Perhaps Edmund will be free to assume the duty soon, despite his tender years.

Rosamund had demurred as politely as possible. Edmund was barely fifteen, she had argued; surely there could be no reason to let an untried youth lead troops into battle. But Mabry had kept up the pressure ever since; she needed a more effective deterrent, and that meant she needed to curry favor with the Bevorian Crown. She needed Eudosia to intervene.

When news of King Adelric's death and the ascension of his son Roland to the Abrenian throne arrived at Hawkhurst, Rosamund kissed her children goodbye and made haste to Veleria, the Bevorian capital, to offer her services to the queen. The last thing she wanted was for her family to get more involved in the war ⁠— but better her than Edmund. And given her personal connection to King Roland, Rosamund was sure that Eudosia would be eager to make use of her.