By the fifth day of the journey, Philip’s column seemed to have grown accustomed to the rhythm of marching.

  Walk in the morning.

  Stop briefly at noon to eat and let the horse rest.

  Then march a few more hours in the afternoon before setting up camp.

  It sounded simple enough, but in reality it rarely was. A single wagon wheel caught on a stone, or one man falling behind, could slow the entire group. Long marches, in the end, were matters of small details.

  Perhaps because of that, Philip continued to maintain a habit that a few other groups found somewhat unusual: they kept training even while on the march.

  That morning, when the sun had just risen above the horizon, the twenty soldiers of Montserrat stood in two rows on an open patch of ground beside the road.

  Dew still clung to the grass.

  Philip planted the tip of his sword into the earth as a marker.

  “Formation.”

  Chainmail rustled softly as the men adjusted their positions.

  “Advance five steps.”

  The two rows moved forward.

  Not perfectly. One man at the end of the line was half a beat slow, another stepped a little too wide. But overall, the formation still held its order. Honestly, for farmers who had only been holding spears for a few days, the result was already decent.

  A few soldiers from other groups standing nearby watched with mild surprise. Perhaps they were not used to seeing farmers drilling formations in the middle of a march.

  Columns from other territories had begun appearing more frequently as well.

  Thirty men from a baron in the west.

  Around forty from the northern hills.

  There was even one group of nearly sixty.

  At first glance, Philip’s force appeared to be the smallest.

  But if one looked a little more closely—and Philip had—then the story seemed less simple than mere numbers.

  A group of about forty had passed by the previous afternoon. They were rather noisy. Two men argued over who had to pull the wagon. Another wandered off the road while drinking from a leather flask.

  Formation barely existed.

  Half of them walked ahead.

  Several lagged behind.

  Two were even fighting over a shield.

  From a distance, they looked more like a group of quarreling merchants than soldiers.

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  Meanwhile Philip’s unit—only twenty men—still maintained two neat rows.

  One farmer in the group whispered to the man beside him,

  “They look more numerous than us.”

  The other replied quietly,

  “Yeah… but I’m not sure they could fight together at the same time.”

  Philip heard the remark.

  He neither objected nor agreed. But a familiar thought crossed his mind: once formation broke, numbers sometimes meant very little. At least that was what old Geralt had said while telling stories about past battles.

  On the afternoon of the fifth day, the Montserrat column approached a small town.

  Many forces from other territories had already stopped here before continuing toward Re-Robel.

  The fields outside the town had practically turned into a temporary military camp.

  Canvas tents stood everywhere.

  Horses were tied along the fences.

  Smoke from cooking fires drifted into the air.

  Several groups of soldiers gathered together drinking and talking loudly—the sort of conversations people often had when they were still a few days away from the battlefield.

  Philip chose a patch of ground slightly removed from the crowd to set up camp.

  Not for any complicated tactical reason. To be honest, he simply thought that staying a little farther away from those drinking groups might mean less trouble.

  Late in the afternoon, as Philip was checking the ropes securing one of the supply wagons, a soldier approached at a jog.

  “My lord.”

  Philip turned.

  “What is it?”

  The soldier held out a small card, its edge sealed with red wax.

  “Someone from the eastern camp delivered this.”

  Philip took it.

  The wax seal bore the image of an open book.

  An unusual emblem—at least among the nobles of Re-Estize, who generally preferred swords, lions, or eagles.

  Philip opened the card.

  The message was short.

  Lord Philip Montserrat, if you have time this evening, I would be honored by your presence at a small banquet of nobles in the military camp.

  Roland Arvel.

  Philip looked again at the seal.

  Roland Arvel.

  It was a name he had heard before.

  The Arvel family had once been a small noble house in the north of the kingdom. Not particularly famous, but stable enough to maintain their territory for many years.

  However, Roland Arvel was known for a rather unusual reason.

  He was a knight—but one with an almost obsessive fascination with magic.

  In the Kingdom of Re-Estize, that could be considered somewhat eccentric.

  Most nobles believed that true strength lay in swords, cavalry, and trained soldiers. Magic was often viewed as unreliable. Some even thought it was unbecoming of a knight’s honor.

  Roland Arvel, apparently, did not share that opinion.

  According to stories circulating among smaller territories, he had sold quite a bit of his family’s property in order to study magic from wandering mages and adventurers.

  Even that money had not been enough.

  So he did something many nobles considered disgraceful.

  Roland Arvel registered as an adventurer.

  Not to seek freedom on the road.

  Simply to earn money to continue studying magic.

  If someone had told that story in a tavern, Philip might have assumed it was exaggerated. But the card in his hand suggested the story was at least partly true.

  One of the farmers asked,

  “My lord… what is that?”

  Philip raised the card.

  “An invitation to a banquet.”

  The man frowned.

  “At a time like this?”

  Philip smiled slightly.

  In truth, it was not uncommon.

  Banquets among the nobility—especially when armies gathered—often meant more than just a feast.

  On the surface they were simple enough: wine, roasted meat, sometimes musicians. But if one paid closer attention, most conversations did not revolve around the food.

  They revolved around information.

  Who commanded the largest forces.

  Who had the count’s favor.

  Who could be trusted… and who was best avoided.

  Such gatherings sometimes resembled informal meetings more than dinners.

  Philip looked toward the eastern camp.

  Campfires had already begun appearing as the sun slowly sank toward the horizon.

  The banquet was probably being held there.

  He thought for a moment.

  Truthfully, Philip was not very fond of noble banquets because of memories from his previous life. Those gatherings were often filled with polite compliments that no one truly believed.

  But if the host was Roland Arvel—a knight who had once hunted monsters just to earn money to study magic—then perhaps tonight would not be entirely dull.

  Philip folded the card and slipped it into his coat.

  “Prepare some hot water,” he told the soldiers.

  “I’ll be going out for a while tonight.”

  In the distance, the lights of the noble campfires began to glow across the field as darkness slowly settled over the land.