Sabas entering the appointed meeting area a little while ahead of time. As expected, his closest advisors had already shown up. Not that he couldn’t have guessed it from the other side of the camp, since they were a little short on fully functioning tents.

After the Sentinel’s attack on their camp, they’d only lost a few resources. Mostly, since Mercy’s Redoubt was a small company and as such knew how to be frugal and mend their equipment. But the framework for many of their tents had taken a severe beating.

They’d gathered the useful ones for the restoration and triage tents, to make sure his people were cared for as necessary. They’d tried to fill in for the lack with sticks of worked stone, but they were too brittle and snapped in the wind.

Annoying, but it was what it was. Only, he kept a tent for himself, though only so he could have a spot to lower his guard. If his people saw him lose his faculties, whether over-reacting, tired, or worried they would lose morale.

He tapped his pocket, feeling the chain inside. It was always hardest in these moments, when his enemy was most human. Seemed most human, Sabas tried correcting himself without conviction.

Healing was tricky work, as witnessed by Stelios sitting at the table, his back stiff and neck wrapped in a brace of stone to protect it. Most of the time, you could quite fix stuff with ease. If the healer knew what was wrong. Sometimes, the injury was too complicated to heal, this often went for head, spine, and some organ injuries. Sabas had yet to meet someone who could actually restore eyesight if lost, even to a mundane weapon.

And then there were patients like Stelios. Whether it was a trick of his strength, or perhaps his advanced age—personally Sabas thought it was his stubborn personality—the healing simply wouldn’t take as easily.

According to the old man, Stelios had always taken a little more effort to heal than others. This effect had only grown more pronounced with the years until it now took the doctor more effort to restore Stelios’ stiff neck than it took to heal ten men.

“Are the others coming soon?” Stelios asked, turning his torso slightly to give him an arch look, one bushy brow raised dramatically. “Or would you have this old man wait for another half flare?”

Sabas smiled and rested his hand his shoulder. “I think we might need to retire our war strategist if you have that much trouble telling time.”

Stelios grumbled under his breath. “I notice you didn’t answer my question?”

“In such a hurry to get your neck hurt again?” Mihail asked, arriving on the heels of Sabas.

“It wasn’t broken,” Stelios groused. “The whelp couldn’t have snapped my neck if he had a full company and a flare to do it.”

“Because you would do it for him?” Mihail grinned, dodging the awkward swipe from the old man.

“Listen here, you little runt!”

Sabas passed the two grown-ups acting like playful teenagers and sat down next to Phineus. The man wore a dapper uniform that looked nothing like anyone else’s in the company, black with red accents to match the scarf around his neck.

“How are you doing, old buddy?” he asked, taking his seat.

Phineus gave him a long look, one Sabas wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret, then tugged a little on the collar of his uniform. It had been tailored to Phineus tall and lean frame. Sabas wasn’t an expert on fashion, he couldn’t tell you why a set of clothes worked together while another didn’t. He couldn’t tell you why it might work on one person and not the other. Sabas knew just enough to realize when someone had spent a little extra time putting their outfits together and were good at it. He recognized skill but had little himself.

Phineus knew what he was doing, and when he put the effort in, it showed. Even in this less than perfect environment, Phineus managed to look well put together without seeming out of place in a mercenary encampment.

“It fits you very well,” Sabas said. “Is it new?”

Phineus shook his head and patted the scarf around his throat.

“It’s from before?” Sabas couldn’t help the weight that entered his tone. There was a failure the captain could never make amends for.

Phineus nodded.

“I think I might remember seeing it actually,” Sabas leaned back. “Did you wear it to Stelios’ wedding?”

“You’re not talking about that whore, Amyss?” Stelios called, momentarily pulled away from Mihail’s jibes.

Sabas shook his head. “The other one, I think. Third?”

“Oh, Maira,” Stelios suddenly sounded wistful. “Never met a more talented woman…”

Phineus jabbed Sabas with his elbow and raised two fingers. The second wife. Apparently, Stelios saw the motion as well, because his face darkened. “Karina what a wicked, vile bitch,” he devolved into scowling, and chuckling, cursing and blessing as he went over the memories four? Five? Ex-wives. Sabas felt like a terrible friend for not remembering the exact number, but he’d gone to three weddings in just barely seven years so it could be hard to keep count.

“Wasn’t that…” Sabas trailed off remembering what had happened on Stelios’ second wedding day. He’d introduced Phineus to Nomiki that night. That was back when the three of them had just been drinking buddies, before Mercy’s Redoubt. “You’re not running out of clothes, are you?”

Phineus shook his head, then with visible effort said. “Just clothes,” the strain was evident in his rasping voice. The result of perhaps the single finest and most expensive healing job, Sabas had ever seen.

Nomiki and Phineus had gotten together not long after reception. They’d gotten married only a month after Stelios’ third round in the ring. Sabas worried at his lower lip for a moment, memories playing through his mind rapidly.

Nomiki excited to announce they were dating. Phineus had always been shy and quiet but carefully maintained and groomed his appearance. Apparently, Nomiki had noticed as well. Once, when she’d been picking up her drunk soldier from the pub, she’d seen the men he was drinking with and asked about the handsome if thin man.

It had taken a bit of convincing before Sabas had introduced her, but they’d hit it off nearly instantly. Somehow, she slipped right past Phineus’ normally stoic front and wormed her way into his heart.

She’d been the one to convince Phineus to join them as quartermaster when Sabas had talked about starting his own company. Between his rare mana-type, Stelios’ personal power, Nomiki’s leadership, Phineus’ mastery of finances, and later Mihail’s tracking they’d formed the foundation of a strong mercenary company.

Then they’d joined the Red Raid. No one had come out of that fight the same. Perhaps except for Bacenor of the Mountain, but it was tough to tell with Arkrotas. Sabas had never experienced bloodshed on that level before. Someone had conjured a full horde of war spirits to the battlefield. Most everyone had been soaked to the hips in blood.

Sabas had swam in it so thickly it burned his eyes.

After that day, Mercy’s Redoubt changed. Stelios started feeling his age, slowing down and growing more vulnerable, Sabas lost his edge, Mihail for the first time lost his carefree edge, and Nomiki lost the ability to lead. Even Phineus who was never close to the battlefield had been shook by the death and destruction.

An entire nation basically wiped off the face of Korfyi in a single day-span.

Sabas shook his head. He’d known it was bad. It still was bad for all of them. But Nomiki had mostly recovered. Or at least, she seemed to have recovered. Though, she never took on a leadership role again, she went back into the field once more.

Then three years ago, he’d been working on the reports when suddenly Mihail came racing through the camp, bowling over tents in his rush. His passage had been loud enough to catch Sabas’ attention even occupied as he was.

He’d tracked his lover to Phineus and Nomiki’s tent. Mihail had torn through the side, instead of bothering with the opening. It was only then Sabas himself had felt the flashes of struggle with his own soul-sight.

He rushed to the tracker’s side to find genuine horror before him. Phineus lying on the floor, writhing and gasping, choking on his own blood, his throat cut nearly to the spine. Above him, Nomiki jerked from the tent’s roof.

Sabas had cut her down in an instant, the doctor already alerted had arrived moments later. Just in time to save Phineus’ life, if not his voice. Nomiki had recovered first and been completely out of it.

In the end, they elected to let her rest until the morning to figure out what happened. Sabas stayed with her the entire night, Stelios and Mihail staying with the much more critical Phineus.

She confessed in the morning. About attempting to end both of their lives so they could escape the misery together. Go to stay with the gods in freedom. Sabas had been horrified, he’d failed to see just how broken she was.

After that, the company took a break; they took some time to work with their friends. Make sure they made a recovery. Three months after her original attempt, Nomiki tried once more, though this time Sabas was there to stop her. Two days later, she killed herself turning her own powerful sound-mana inward and completely pulping her organs.

Phineus lost his love, his wife, his closest confidant, his voice, and they all lost a dear friend that night. If Sabas simply hadn’t given in to Nomiki’s insistence so many years ago, perhaps everything would’ve changed. They’d never have started Mercy’s Redoubt, never have gotten involved with Arkrotas, never seen the horrors that night subjected them to.

They’d never have lost a friend.

If Sabas had only seen a little further, been a little less hungry for money, and more conscientious of the people relying on him.