By squaring yourself up with a confident smile, you feel the blood pump a little harder from your heart. Sometimes starting with appearance bleeds over into reality.
You catch the eye of a pair of escorts as you draw closer to the palace. They look at each other, then back at you.
"First time to Hondelet?" one of them says.
"Unless I've forgot it, in which case I'm more scatterbrained than I realized," you say.
The soldier snorts. You know his face well from standing guard at many of your performances in Timshel's company.
"I know the Chief Steward was glad to see you go," he says.
"Personally, I've never thought you were much of anything noteworthy—with the company, that is."
"No one does, really," you murmur to yourself.
"I wish you the best, one countryman to another, but I don't see you lasting more than a month here afore His Majesty discards you."
There's the famed esprit de corps His Grace's troops are known for, you think, staring fixedly ahead. You look forward to proving him wrong—for your own sake.
The soldier's words linger in your ears as the great draw-gate swings down, and you clatter across into the domain of King Saul.
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