Andrellia

4. Alaric

A shaft of morning sunlight speared through the window of Alaric's war room, illuminating a crisp, folded parchment on his desk. Emblazoned with the royal seal, it bore the weight of an official decree. It wasn't an order to rally troops or strategize a siege; it was a far more unexpected document, a certified letter.

Alaric's gut clenched. The Queen's capriciousness kept him perpetually on edge. He carefully broke the seal, the crisp parchment crackling in his hands. As he scanned the contents, a mix of irritation and amusement, laced with a healthy dose of sarcasm, bubbled up inside him.

"Temporary Suspension of Duty?" he muttered, his voice dripping with mock surprise. The Queen, for all her teasing and playful disapproval yesterday, had assigned him to... train recruits?

The document outlined a temporary suspension from active duty until his wounds fully healed. In the meantime, he was tasked with overseeing the transformation of a gaggle of farmboys into, well, something resembling an actual fighting force. It felt like a demotion to a glorified babysitter, a playful jab disguised as official business.

"Unwarranted physical activity," he scoffed, reading the line that seemed aimed directly at him with a raised eyebrow.

There was no mistaking the Queen's underlying message, rest, recover, and avoid the heroics that landed him in her care the day before. Despite the frustration of being sidelined, a flicker of something else, a mischievous glint, sparked in his eyes. The Queen's concern, masked by regal authority, was undeniable. Training recruits wouldn't sate his thirst for the battlefield, but it wasn't exactly a punishment either. Perhaps, it was her way of keeping him from rusting away entirely.

A wry smile played on Alaric's lips. This game of formality, laced with unspoken tension, was a new kind of battle altogether. He wasn't sure if he should strategize or simply surrender to the delicious tension that simmered beneath the surface.

He folded the letter carefully, tucking it away with a sardonic chuckle. Today, he would train recruits. He'd be the best darn drill master they'd ever had the misfortune of meeting. Maybe he'd even have a little fun with it. After all, who says molding raw recruits into disciplined soldiers can't be entertaining?

He pictured the hapless farmboys tripping over their own feet, their faces contorted in confusion and exhaustion. A genuine, albeit dark, chuckle escaped his lips. Yes, training recruits could be...educational. And maybe, just maybe, when he returned to active duty, the Queen would see a different side of him, a side both terrifyingly efficient and persistent.

A sardonic chuckle echoed in the war room, shattering the silence as Alaric tucked the official letter away. Before he could whirl around, a familiar voice spoke from behind him, sending a jolt through him.
"Enjoying the Queen's new... directive, I see."

Alaric whipped around, his hand instinctively reaching for his hip where his ever-present chess piece laid. Disappointment flickered across his face as his fingers met only empty fabric. Relief washed over him as his gaze landed on Philip, his Heroic Relic Familiar, lounging casually in the round table chair. Philip wasn't a physical being in the traditional sense, but rather the embodiment of the historical Carl von Clausewitz, the great military theorist who defeated Napoleon.
"Philip," Alaric sighed, dropping his hand back to his side. "Didn't summon you. Besides, can't even fight right now."
A smirk played on Philip's lips, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Oh, I know," he drawled, his voice laced with a hint of mischief. "Just enjoying the weather, the views... maybe enjoy watching you get knocked down a peg or two."

Alaric rolled his eyes. Philip thrived on strategy and battles, so his amusement at Alaric's current situation wasn't entirely unexpected. "Hilarious," Alaric muttered, a playful jab aimed at his spectral companion. "Perhaps you'd like to take my place training those... recruits?"