Kat did not know what it was exactly that roused her from slumber. Perhaps it was a sound outside, perhaps it was merely a feeling—she could not be for certain. Sleep was something that came easily to any legionary and was worth far more than gold; a day’s march was more than enough for any man to fall asleep the moment he touched a bed. Kat was no exception to this rule, despite the worrying that the day’s events had given her. It was no wonder, then, that when she woke it was with a sensation of annoyance and confusion.

Yet than irritation quickly gave way to a sense of danger, an instinctual response that made her feel for the hilt of the dagger that she kept nearby. Wrapping her hand around the familiar grip, she placed it underneath her pillow before feigning sleep. Peering from the slits of her eyes, she saw the shadow of a figure outside, faint from the lack of light. An invader in the camp? The thought made adrenaline run through her, and she forced herself to calm her heartbeat in order to slow her breathing.

As the entrance to the tent opened, the moonlight shone down briefly to illuminate a pale figure. While her vision could not quite make out who it was, she had an approximation when he lunged at her. Cold hands wrapped around her throat, a rag forced into her mouth as she tried to scream. Ossus was on top of her, his weight pressing down on her and refusing to budge even as she tossed and tried to throw him off. That rag seemed to sting her tongue, making tears fill her eyes out of reflex. There was a slight sweetness to the taste that seemed to spread through her mouth, creeping throughout her body will a blissful numbness. Whiteleaf, she realized with a bout of fear—the narcotic would leave her comatose if she was exposed to enough of it.

“Be a good girl, now. If you keep quiet, maybe I won’t be so rough.” Ossus breathed excitedly, making a wave of revulsion and disgust run through her. Twisting as hard as she could, Kat slashed out with the dagger that she had kept hidden. There was a satisfying sensation of resistance that she knew to be the feeling of striking flesh, and a short scream of surprise confirmed it. Something wet splattered her face but she ignored it, using the opportunity to roll to the side and spit out the rag. Already she could feel the effects through her system, could feel her arms growing weak and her heart rate slowing. Drowsiness was settling in, a dull throb of pleasure accompanying every breath. She fought it hard, standing with a huff.

Her strike had landed on Ossus’s face, in a crimson line that ran just below his eye. He raised a hand to cup it, his expression one of shock and indecision. Before Kat could speak, he seemed to have made his mind up, bolting out of the tent like the snake he was. The flap had just barely closed before she fell to the ground with a hiss, her limbs tingling with warm pleasure. All her strength had fled her, the narcotic coursing through her blood. Her thoughts fled from her with every passing heartbeat, the sensation swelling like a wave until she closed her eyes helplessly. Reason left her, surrendering to the primal bliss that blinded her. Her skin was numb, tingling with a thousand needles as her fingers roamed along the cot, feeling for a damp rag. He was gone, was he not? Then, if none were watching…

The high that coursed through her did not abate quickly.

There was guilt in her heart afterwards, of course; there always was. As the sunlight streamed in and she woke, the nausea that seized her only served to remind her of the consequences of that indulgence. The light outside made her swoon for a moment, piercing her eyes like arrows as she struggled to stand. A slight numbness lingered still in her fingers, making them twitch uncontrollably despite her efforts to stay still.

The camp was lively with movement despite the time, messengers and First Swords hurriedly preparing for the day’s training. As Kat stepped outside to the water barrel to wash her face, she heard a young voice call out to her. “First Shield!” spoke someone from behind her and she turned suddenly, slapping a salute after a momentary confusion.

“Second Sword Bryndan. What can I help you with, sir?”she asked briskly, forcing the drowsiness out of her system. He seemed to eye her with something of disgust or disappointment before pointing to towards the west.

“Third Sword Mors wants you.” he replied simply.

Kat could not fight the shock that ran through her. Third Sword was twice her superior; surely he had more important things than the affairs of those under him? “What does the Third Sword want with me?”

Bryndan scowled, making to leave. “How should I know? I do not pretend to know the motivations of our betters.” He stopped suddenly, casting a scornful gaze on her. “I would advise that you freshen yourself before going. What you do at night is your own, but you shouldn't remind others of it in the day. Some of us still have to stay in condition to fight.”

Shame seized her then, and she bowed as he left. The Second Sword’s views were not just his own; many in the legions looked down on whiteleaf users. The drug was not outlawed, if only because of its proliferation, but its effects and aftereffects were potent. For any soldier, to serve alongside a haze-minded abuser was an affront. These men were brothers—they put their lives in each others’ hands on the field. No one wished to place that trust into an addict.

Just once, she thought dully as she splashed water onto her face. It won’t happen again. As she gazed into her reflection in the basin, she could see the lingering consequences. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot, not as hard as Ossus’s, but still obvious. Use it too much and the eyes could weep blood, leading to blindness and even loss of sensation. While there were no symptoms for withdrawal, the progression did not halt with time. It only made it ever easier for people to promise themselves a small dose over the years, until they were little more than husks asking for more.

Not like those, I won’t be like those. I don’t even have any, she reminded herself, wiping off her face and putting on a tunic before making her way over to the Third Sword’s tent. It was all Ossus’s doing in any case. The bastard can go fall on a blade any day. Her expression grew dark as she reminded herself of the Second Sword and his attempt the previous night. Even worse was that there was little she could do in the future without exposing her gender and being forced to leave. “Crow-cused piece of shit.” she swore, shaking her head. Her sour expression drew the gazes of some confused onlookers, but she ignored them as she strode forward making her way over to the slightly larger tent.

Two guards stood outside the entrance, serving the Third Sword personally. The four men of that rank answered to Lord Florell personally, and were of far more importance than Kat; it was only natural that he had bodyguards. “Name?” called out the man on the right, a northerner from the looks of things.

“First Shield Kat, reporting as requested.” she spoke crisply, standing stiffly as the guard nodded. These men were equivalent to Second Swords in status, superior to her as well. Almost everything here is my superior, she reminded herself sardonically. The only things less than me are the new recruits, and they’re worth hardly more than fish on land. The guard opened the tent, speaking something softly with a pause before nodding at her to enter.

A Third Sword was subject to certain amenities, and Mors was no exception. He had a desk inside his tent—an actual wooden desk of sorts, covered with parchments and ink and a low-burning candle. Mors dimly sat in a chair nearby, his tanned face wearing a scowl. The Third Sword was a large man, bearing the scars of many campaigns on his skin. He was a southerner by the shape of his jaw, his arms wide as her thigh. His body was still covered with corded muscle, even if the ease of his position had softened him somewhat—his stomach held a peculiar bulge to it that no lower-rank could afford.

Yet there was another man in the tent as well, if he could be graced with that title. Ossus leered at her, his expression revolting and bringing up bile in her mouth. She noted with a bit of satisfaction the line of red along his cheek that she had caused; it would scar terribly.“That’s her, sir.” he spoke excitedly as she straightened. “She’s the woman.”

A sudden wave of fear ran through her, and she dared not to speak, instead gritting her teeth. Mors tilted his head, looking at her with a leisurely gaze, as if he was not particularly interested. “And?”

Ossus started in surprise, clearly not expecting the response. “S-sir, women can’t serve in the legion.”

Mors nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, they can’t.” he replied before turning in his seat, not making a further response.

Ossus seemed confused, unsure of whether or not he should respond. Kat found herself holding her breath, her heart rate unnaturally loud in her ears. “Sir?” Ossus asked, his expression deliciously fearful.

“You may leave.” Mors waved thoughtlessly, turning back to his paperwork.

“But sir—” Ossus began.

“That will be enough, Second Sword.” Mors growled. “You have claimed the First Shield to be a woman and I will bear your claim in mind. Until then, it remains your word against his, unless you decide to press this matter further. If I am to have him pull down his breeches for a look, then I must do so for every legionary in this camp—and then perhaps I should start with you.”

“S—” Ossus could not seem to get a word in edgewise, his face turning beet red—quite a rare color for him.

“If you press further, I might become interested into why you seem so confident as to the contents of the First Shield’s breeches.” Mors barreled on. “I might become interested into that lovely scar you have on your face, and where you got it from. I might remind you of the consequences of assault in the legion—male or female. So I will ask you one more time, Second Sword: do you wish to push this matter any further.”

Ossus’s face was warm enough to cook an egg, but he swallowed hard before bowing. “No, Third Sword.” he replied, not daring to meet the man’s gaze.

“Then leave, before I start wondering who’s the real woman in this tent.” Mors waved, turning once more to his paperwork. Ossus left the tent with what little dignity he could muster, flashing Kat a look of hate before disappearing. Kat stood nervously, unsure of whether or not she too should leave. Yet as she was about to turn, Mors suddenly boomed out.

“Not you.” The Third Sword stood up, meeting her somewhat terrified gaze. “I have no particular interest in your affairs below the belt, but I won’t have you stirring up commotion in my ranks. Not when that fool wants to march on the Capital soon.”

“Sir?” Kat replied uncertainly.

Mors handed her an envelope, sealed with a Florell crest. “Your orders. You know of the Gates, yes? The men there are beholden to the crown, and they’ve stayed neutral ever since King Alerick died. You’re to go there with some other men and convince them that House Florell is the true crown. Get their arses off that crow-cursed wall and onto this field.”

“But sir—” she started, shaking her head.

“That wasn’t a request, First Shield.” Mors murmured ominously, and Kat nodded in defeat.

“Yes, sir.” she sighed, knowing full well that she would have to leave Revan behind. “But what how do you expect me to help? I’m no diplomat, and I’m not much of a fighter compared to some other men.”

Mors smiled, a strange twinkle shining in his eye. “No, you’re not. But these things always seem to go better with a woman’s touch.”