Morning. Hmm.

Basch rolled out of bed and scrubbed his hands over his thick blonde hair, cut to regulation scruff (it took him two years to get over seeing his brother’s face in the glass). Beard stubble scratched his fingertips.

Basch quickly set up the glass and basin to shave. Archadian miltary regulations dictated a smooth shave, but he stopped his razor just above his jaw line. Now that he was free to do as he wished, he wanted his beard back. He would allow his hair to grow, as well. Basch felt he looked like a teenager with his bare face and short hair, in spite of the lines around his eyes. He wanted—well, he wanted to look like Basch when Ashe saw him again. Gabranth had no part in this.

Then he had to face once more the fact that it was morning and he could no longer put it off. He had to write Ashe with the news that he was free.

Basch preferred to write on linen paper. He liked the way the weave caught the nib of his pen and sometimes caused his letters to look as if they had sprouted small, organic twigs and thorns. He dipped the quill into the inkwell.

Devil. How to begin? Greetings, My Queen? But she was not now his Queen, not in any binding sense. She had to accept him into her service before she could be his Queen. Presumptuous.

A knock at the door; Basch dropped his quill, spattering ink across the page.

“Sh—! Come in,” he called.

He was dipping the quill back into the well when Argentine entered with a pitcher of coffee on a tray. Argentine cast quick eyes over his master’s partially-shaved face, the spattered linen paper, and his general atmosphere of worry. “Here is your morning coffee, sir,” he said, setting the mug and the pitcher at Basch’s side and collecting the jug of wastewater in almost the same motion. “Good luck with your letter.”

The door clicked shut behind Argentine just as Basch began to ask his advice. That was for the best, he decided, turning back to his page.

I send my greetings to the Queen of Dalmasca.

Emporer Larsa and I just yesterday had a most peculiar conversation. He is ever thinking towards the benefit of Archadia.

He needs to earn his people’s love so the bitter draught he brings goes down the easier. Ultimately, he advocates that each man rule his own life. I believe he could not, once he reached this ultimate conclusion, continue to hold me in his service. Emporer Larsa desires to be no man’s master.

Basch lifted his pen from the page, thought, and rewet the nib. Now I am free to return to any country I desire that will have me. The letters shone on the linen for a brief moment before drying to matte.

I never told you much of Landis, he wrote. It was a mountainous, alpine country, now entirely within the northernmost boundary of Archadia. Most of the people there herded goats for milk, yarn, meat. Dyes were highly prized. Life was simple and rugged.

I drilled on boulders and ice-laced screes, under solar Mist-storms that burned across the sky in mid-winter. I remember those lights reflecting off the frozen fall of ice-cicles that stretched from bluff-lip to ground. Queen Ashelia, not once in all our travels did I see a sight more beautiful than the light on that mid-winter ice, but other than that sentimental sight, Landis was not rich in much.

Landis is now so thoroughly a part of Archadia that many who were of Landis now call themselves ancestral Archadians. Our farms were dismantled, our townships razed, our women scattered, our history rewritten and defaced. In spite of this I remember Landis as my father country, the land of cold lights.

As Landis is now destroyed, I pray Dalmasca will claim maternity. I submit myself to your service, Lady Ashe, and await your command.

Basch Fon Ronsenburg.

He reread it.

He added: Though I respect and love Lord Larsa, and am honored to have served him, I will be happy to see my friends again.

That was as good as he could do. The desk was littered with spoiled parchment and bent nibs. He sealed the parchment with his wax and his sigil and slid it into a scrollcase. Argentine took it from him to be posted. Via post, it would get to Dalmasca, and into the Queen’s hands, in about two days.

“Wait!” Basch called.

Argentine looked back over his shoulder, holding the door open.

“Here’s a teleport crystal,” Basch said. He held it up as he walked across the room and knotted it into his color-cord dangling off the end of the scrollcase. “Have it delivered to her today.”

“Yes, sir!” Argentine said. Teleport crystals were held to be quite expensive, and to use one on a mere scrollcase commanded a certain degree of respect. Basch had dozens of them from his hunts for collectible batwings during his free adventuring days.

Basch sighed when the door closed behind the man-servant, feeling more drained than he would after an entire week spent in a dungeon.