Captain Raymond

The captain of the Northern frontier army, fifty-five years old, clean-shaven, with an old scar on the back of his left hand running from the index finger to the wrist, shaped like a short sword held in reverse. Over these 11 years of exile in the North, he was the only one Roen could call a 'caretaker'—though he never once spoke that care aloud.

There was something off about him: he used House Whitescribe's new-issue coinage minted in the last 30 years, and wore a cloak bearing the hidden patterns of House Hourshift. A frontier captain should have had none of these.

11 years ago, the man who came to the exile camp to fetch the seven-year-old Roen was him. Over those 11 years, he taught Roen 3 things: archery, not to cry, and not to ask why.

When the recall order arrived, he said little—he simply readied the horses and walked the road to the capital alongside Roen.

At the post-station in the southern outskirts of the capital, he stopped. The next order depended on the capital's will; he could go no further. As he left, he left his short sword to Roen—yet without a single word of 'this is for you.'

He rode off toward the North, his back vanishing into the night. His military serial was R-247, and the guest quarters Roen would later be assigned at the academy bore the number 247 as well.

Over 11 years he taught Roen 3 things: how to shoot, not to cry, and not to ask why.

Shooting was practical. The Northern winter is long and supply will not keep a man alive; a child who can shoot has one more measure of a chance. He taught it hard—a wrong stance meant starting again, and a day of it left the hands shaking.

He never said the second aloud. When the boy cried he neither comforted nor rebuked; he waited, and when it stopped he carried on from where he had left off. After a few times it stopped happening.

Not asking why was learned last. He did not teach that one. The North taught it.

The scar runs from the index finger to the wrist, shaped like a short sword held in reverse. Nobody in the frontier army has asked where it came from, and he has never raised it.

Certain things about him do not match a Northern border officer. The small white porcelain jar he uses, the way he wipes a blade, the order in which he straps his armour—details uncommon in the North, and anyone who knows the trade looks twice.

He is clean-shaven, fifty-five, and nothing shows on his face. His subordinates describe him the same way: says what he does, no waste, and no warmth.

When he left the short sword with Roen, he did not say 'this is yours'. He set it down and mounted up.