Tired of inaction, Prince Edmund decides to strike at the enemy. Having been ordered not to do so by his supreme commander, he forms a strategy that will weaken the rebellion on Haikk and not technically be involved in combat. Gathering his subordinates, he prepares an ancient form of warfare his Terran forebears waged, and enforces his will on the nearly ten thousand souls under his charge. All the while, a certain serjeant is dragged into his focus, and the Prince quickly entangles him in the high-level stakes of military command...

Haikk Four was a strange world, one where most of it was desert, or sucked dry by the two Hive cities at its polar opposites, Golgotha and Yazd. However, cut off from most of the planet was the continent of Mekkar, where it was green and pleasant, the weather cool even in the hottest of months, mostly left alone by the Hives and the Planetary governor to their own devices as long as they brought food tithes and kept the important parts of the planet functioning and fed. When the Haikk Rebellion began, it was the third world in the system to declare independence after capturing and executing its former governor, his wife and children disappearing in the chaos of a Planetary Defence Force sponsored overthrow.

Mekkar was left alone, only given small bits of information as to what had happened, but would enthusiastically support the revolt when minders and propagandists arrived to ensure their loyalty to the new regime. When the Imperium charged in to retake the planet and punish their insolence, three Army Groups of the newly christened Haikk Crusade were sent planetside. Army Group Two, filled with regiments trained in urban combat, moved on Hive Golgotha. Army Group Six was sent to the southern end of Mekkar, a smaller but more developed part of the continent. Army Group Seven was sent to cover the larger north, disrupt the transport of food and supplies to the rebels, and re-establish Imperial rule.

And so far, nothing went bloody right, Edmund, Prince of Gasceaux, fourth son of King Edward, commander of the Third Corps of the Seventh Army Group, thought as he looked at the open fields and forests ahead of him, blanketed with mist. Hoping for a fast victory, instead he was rewarded with nothing but bad news, not just from Haikk Four, but the whole crusade. Supply failures, disastrous raids from rebel naval craft on transport fleets, nothing seemed to be going well. On Haikk Four alone, Group Two had not only failed to retake Golgotha in time, it had suffered horrendous casualties in doing so. Group Six was delayed by "various factors," the largest of which, Edmund thought, was the shithead in charge of them, General Leon Volkster, spending more time trying to get a Segmentum-level staff position than leading his men. Even his own group was marred by consistent failure to retake and hold anything, except for Third Corps, a single positive on a disaster that was now attracting far too much attention from the Administratum and Munitorum. Edmund felt his horse shudder and sneeze.

"Oh don't start Boucicault, I have enough bloody problems, I don't need you getting sick."

Boucicault, a dark destrier that was the Prince's favorite, was a runt of the litter, much like his rider. He had proved to be hardier and tougher than any thought when he was a foal. He had to be tough, handling the tall, muscular frame of Edmund. The Prince had secretly mounted up early in the morning and rode off with only one guard, one of his low-born serjeants who wouldn't refuse or question him.

His personal bodyguard, twenty four of the finest knights Anglerre had to offer, who were all asleep or thinking they were guarding his personal chambers as he rested, would have never permitted such a dangerous act, but Edmund had always hated being coddled and over-protected. He always thought he got those traits from his mother. The mounted serjeant, a middle-aged and battle scarred warrior, in ornate Anglois Guard armor, kept a close eye on the Prince and the horizon.

"Hugh!" the Prince called out.

"Your Highness?"

"Would you mind going further out for a little bit? I need to think, and you're a good man, but sometimes you just need to have yourself and your thoughts alone."

"You Highness, I am sworn to protect your person."

"And sworn to follow my orders. Here's a little convincing to add on."

He tossed a shilling, two days pay even for a serjeant of the household, to the old soldier, who took it with a grin missing more than a few teeth.

"I'll go down and watch the road, Your Highness, I think I saw something down there."

"Do so, serjeant."

When he was a good distance away, the Prince looked around to see if anyone was close to watch him, an unnecessary but learned habit that had saved his life more than once. He rummaged through his clothes and pulled out a well-worn pict, smiling as he unfolded it. It was taken shortly before he left for the Crusade, a year or two ago, at least it felt like it. It was his family together, his Royal father and mother sitting on their thrones, surrounded by their five sons and two daughters.

All in the pict, except his father, looked grim and stern. He knew otherwise, his brothers as rough and ready as Edmund was, maybe more. But the House of Planjou could not send the heir or the next two in line to war, Edward had learned that lesson the hard way. So Edmund had gone, only sixteen at the time, to fight because Anglerre was told to provide soldiers and commanders to make up for casualties from other worlds. Twelve years had passed since then, and with a single three year break for rest and recuperation, he had fought. Now he had to retake Haikk Four, or at least Mekkar. He was broken from his thoughts and looked back to the serjeant, seeing him riding off to face three approaching riders. He instinctively grabbed his sword's hilt, waiting to see what would happen. He saw the serjeant break off and ride back to him, the three newcomers staying where they were, so at least they weren't enemies.

"Your Highness, the Lord D'Uxford and escort. He requests an audience with you," the serjeant breathlessly told Edmund.

"Of course, send him up here, but tell the escorts to stay where they are. You stay with them."

"Aye, your highness."

A minute or two later, wearing his family's arms on his surcoat, a gold cross on black, Robert D'Uxford rode up to the Prince's side. Officially, the only authorized surcoats were the red and blue quarters of Anglerre, or something red with the golden pards, but in the interest of giving their men a quickly identified rally point in battle, the knights and lords ignored it.

"Ed, I don't know if you are aware, but going out on your lonesome causes all sorts of problems. Your household hasn't noticed your absence yet, but when I have news to tell you, you better have your ass somewhere I can find."

Edmund laughed. Even with his infamous temper and rather crude language, when only Robert was around, the two were vicious to one another.

"Piss off, Duck. I have enough bloody problems to deal with, the Army Group, the Crusade, all of it. And between you and me, I…" he closed his mouth and looked to the horizon, still covered in mist. "I'm getting homesick Duck. Bad."

"There's no shame in it, Your Highness. I miss the Western Islands. I even miss its weather. Can't believe I miss months of gray clouds and rain, followed by two months of sweating to death from the humidity. I guess being stuck on all the planets we've been sent to fight on made us realize the grass isn't greener, as they say."

Edmund nodded and looked at Robert for the first time since he arrived.

"You have news for me?"

Robert nodded solemnly and pulled a parchment from his saddlebag, handing it to the Prince. Opening the seal, marked by the symbol of the Crusades commander, Lord General Militant Paulus Borricelli, he read the contents, his face getting darker with each line, before throwing the parchment on the ground.

"That fat shit. Has the fucking nerve to keep thinking we'll just sit here with our thumbs in our asses waiting for that cunt Volkster!"

"Ed-"

"No Rob, we're beyond the point of looking at this rationally. This entire crusade is utter. Fucking. Disaster. And instead of going forward and actually doing something, maybe even getting a victory to salvage this, he wants us to just sit and wait! For what? So we can be strong enough to face an army we aren't sure even exists? We don't even know where the rebel forces are! They may not even be real! Emperor above, what did I do wrong to get stuck on this miserable campaign?"

Robert waited for the Prince to tire himself out, let the bottled up anger free, and seeing him cool a little, made a slight cough.

"Can I speak Ed?"

"Go ahead," the Prince said with annoyance and a wave of his hand.

"Borricelli is terrified of disaster. We have failed to achieve objectives, but he still has his forces. If he lost an army group because he left it weak, he would lose his command. He might even lose his head at this point."

The Prince sighed and nodded.

"I feel bad for him, you know? Not a bad commander. He just has had no bloody luck this time. And you can't choose your subordinates at that level of command. I know who to bring and trust, Borricelli just has to deal with the hand he's dealt."

There was a silence as the two lifelong friends looked on the horizon.

"Volksters still a cunt," the Prince finally said.

"A very large one, Ed."

The two laughed. Robert noticed the Prince looking back at his two escorts.

"What did you bring a Sororitas for?" he said, noticing the silver haired companion.

"Sister Isabel."

Isabel was a Hospitaller, personal physician to the Prince and his retinue, D'Uxford included.

"You brought her along in case I got hurt or attacked while I was out here? Oh ye of little faith Duck!"

"Yes… your highness."

Robert was looking back at her now, seeing her converse with the Royal serjeant, probably something involving an old wound or health worry he had. Patience of a saint. Edmund crooked an eyebrow, having his suspicions raised. Duck had been receiving more attention from her than anyone else, check-ups lasting from the night to the morning.

"Duck? Ducky. Duck? Are you alright there?"

Robert snapped out of his thoughts.

"Sorry Ed, you were saying?"

"Do you have any other news for me?"

"Not that I can think of."

"Not even from Alwyn?"

Robert thought and remembered the other piece of news that he wanted to tell Ed.

"Actually yes, but I think you should return to the Cathedral first. That news is very… interesting. But you should hear it from the one involved."

Ed laughed.

"All right, but I highly doubt you can tell me anything that could surprise me."

Pulling on Boucicault's reins, the Prince and his friend headed back towards the escorts they brought.

"Ed, you'll want to be sitting down when you hear this. Believe me."

"I doubt it, Duck."

XXXXXX

Sitting on the throne in his impromptu court, Edmund looked down at the kneeling serjeant, mouth agape. He felt as if some cosmic force had hit him in the gut, and his mind was still trying to process what he just heard. In attendance of the court was the Bishop of Chelmster, D'Uxford, and a few personal bodyguards, not focused on any threats, but staring at the man in the center, who brought news that sounded beyond ridiculous, almost impossible.

"You…I…that…ah."

Edmund had almost never been lost for words, but Serjeant Roger Wessyng had finally done it. He wasn't alone, the Bishop and his Sororitas bodyguards could hardly believe it either. Only D'Uxford seemed to be unmoved. Of course, when given a status update the day before from Roger, he could hardly believe it either, sitting in silence for a few moments before simply telling him to come back to the Cathedral immediately. After delivering his report to the Prince, he spoke.

"Your Highness, I understand it's quite the thing to hear, but it is entirely true. I wanted you to be aware of what happened, and maybe give me something to do with my warriors."

Edmund sat and rubbed his face, unsure of what to say. He sends a man out as a simple go-between his forces and the Eldar. And now, beyond all belief, he returned as commander of Xenos troops. He blinked, sat up, and finally spoke.

"Serjeant, you can look at me."

Roger did so, staring into the Prince's eyes.

"Right. How the fuck-" he stopped, remembering that the Bishop was in the room.

"Apologies, Your Grace. How exactly did you find yourself in command?"

"They voted me into a leadership position. They chose me, and Farseer Alwyn and her personal council approved it. Your Highness."

"Do you follow the Farseers orders? And only her orders?"

"I asked her, and she simply said that we should be sent to wherever we are needed to help the causes of our two peoples."

"So are you under my command? And they are, inevitably, under my command as well?"

Roger paused and looked at the ground in thought.

"Yes, Your Highness. I serve you as well as the Eldar. For the common goal of defeating the enemy on this planet."

The Prince slightly bit his lip. The Bishop was still processing this information when Edmund chuckled, giggled, and burst into howls of laughter.

"Eldar under my command! By the Emperor, the first fucking good news I've had in months! Sorry, Your Grace."

The Bishop muttered an acceptance of forgiveness before getting Rogers attention.

"Have they tried to turn you to their cause? Have they tried to make you follow their Gods? Have they taken control of your mind?"

"N-no on all counts Your Grace. I was simply given command of thirty Eldar warriors. Nothing more. I only know one of their gods and he's considered almost too wicked to be worshiped by his own people. I did want to ask you if my soul will still be intact if I command Xenos."

"My son, I can't even find a good answer to whether or not the Emperor would approve of allying ourselves with the Eldar, let alone commanding them. If you put this up to theological debate, it might actually get someone killed."

"Probably would be the first time anyone would want to watch a theology debate," D'Uxford said empty mindedly.

The Bishop shot him a vicious glance, but looked back to Roger with no hostility.

"As long as you serve mankind, I don't think we can disapprove of your soldiers. After all, does the Lectitio not state, "He who stands with me, shall be my brother?" As long as mankind stands victorious, I think we can ignore some of the more… volatile and delicate issues with your command."

The Bishop was, as Edmund thought, full of shit. Most priests and devotees of the Imperial Creed would probably light themselves on fire before accepting an alliance with Xenos, let alone approve of a human commanding them to battle. But the Bishop knew that faith and realism were opposites, and willing to compromise to gain victory for his beloved Prince, he would be fine with ignoring or simply twisting interpretations of the God-Emperors wisdom and wishes. Roger spoke, satisfied with the answer.

"With your permission, Your Highness, in lieu of any commands from the Farseer, I await any orders you will give me."

Edmund sat up and smiled.

"I'll do you one better, serjeant. You're going to attend the council of war I'm holding in an hour. If I would have known about your new post, I would've told you to bring Alwyn with you."

"I'll see if I can arrange something," D'Uxford interrupted.

"Very good Duck. Serjeant, we'll make use of you yet. Don't worry."

XXXXXX

The council was made up of seventeen individuals, including the Prince himself. Commanders of the ten regiments in Third Corps, all but two Anglois, the other two being a Cadian and Krieger. Barrau de Gast, nominal commander of the two Gasceaux regiments was present, along with the Bishop of Chelmster and the Palatine in charge of the Sorritas guarding him, the Palatine eyeing Farseer Alwyn with undisguised contempt and distrust. And Roger. He was standing towards the back, hoping the great and powerful leaders of the Corps didn't notice him. He was doing well so far. Finally, at the Prince's side, Lord D'Uxford, watching the gathered leaders in silence. They were all surrounding a flickering screen, showing a map of Mekkar. Edmund, standing at the end of the screen, clapped his hands to get his subordinates attention.

"Gentlemen! Ah! Pardon me," looking at the Farseer, Palatine, and the Cadian commander. "Ladies, and Gentlemen. I gathered you all here today for a single purpose: we are finally going to make a move. As you may have heard, Lord General Borricelli sent me a message and gave orders to stay put. We will follow these orders to the letter. Because he certainly ordered us to hold and not attack. What he didn't say-"

He hunched over the screen and lowered his voice.

"Was anything about a Chevauchee."

The Anglois commanders nodded and muttered to one another, but the other Guard commanders and the Farseer looked at him in confusion.

"I understand not all of us know the meaning or concept, so let me explain."

He tapped the screen, and with a flicker, it turned a large section of Mekkar gold.

"Marked with this gold color, are major farming areas of Mekkar. From this port, the city of… whatever this mess of vowels is," pointing to the city of Kaol-Daissar, "All food is transported with no interference to Golgotha by ship, and by the same way to Yazd. I know what you want to ask, why haven't we cut these off yet? Well, you can thank our friends the Imperial Navy and their Aeronautica abandoning us to hunt enemy vessels on the other side of the system, and the fact no one in the Munitorum thought to bring any water-borne naval forces for us. So with no threat, our former comrades have been supplying food to the two Hives that are the nerve centers of the rebellion."

The Prince noticed Simon de Mongrave, one of his commanders, holding up his hand and nodded.

"Your Highness, why hasn't Group Two cut off their supply lines?"

"The Port of Golgotha has become the toughest nut to crack on this planet. As you may be aware Simon, Group Two has suffered half its forces becoming casualties. And half of those were lost trying to take the port. Our rebel friends are holding it with remarkable vigor. Worse, our forces can't get a good position to shell the port or supply ships, being that they have a whole Hive to deal with. So I have come to a conclusion that our leaders seem to have not thought of. If we can't cut off their supply lines… we cut off the supplies."

The commanders looked at each other in agreement or worry. Barrau de Gast spoke up.

"So we move our Corps into the farming areas and burn it all?"

Edmund smiled and laughed.

"We aren't moving the Corps, remember? We were ordered to stay put. What we will do is send regiments, one at a time, on a rotation to attack various areas. The orders specifically said our Corps stay put. Said nothing about regiments. And we aren't moving them to attack. We're denying the enemy supplies."

The Anglois commanders nodded or grunted in approval. The Cadian commander thought for a second before she agreed as well. The Krieger on the other hand, as Edmund was certain would happen, voiced his disapproval.

"You are violating the orders of your superiors, Lord Marshal," his official Guard rank, which only Kriegers ever referred to him as. Either it was because of their strict adherence to Guard protocol, or a subtle sign of disrespect. Edmund personally didn't care, he could survive without the approval of what he considered Guard trained zombies.

"I am not violating any orders, Colonel Hass. As I said, we aren't moving the Corps. We are staying here in garrison, deploying regiments on raiding actions."

"You are using technicalities to disobey orders. My regiment will have no part in this. You are lucky I do not report this to the General Militant."

"I understand your hesitation Colonel. The rest of this briefing will focus on planning these raid actions. If you do not wish to be involved in this, you are free to depart."

"I will take my leave, Lord Marshal. As I said, I will not report this, but me and my men will have no part in this."

Saluting, the gas-masked Colonel exited the room. D'Uxford lifted his hand and rubbed his thumb on his index and middle finger three times. To the Prince and the rest of those in the room it looked like a subtle insult. But to the hidden agents that served the spymaster, it was a signal to not kill the Krieger. Unbeknownst to the Prince, or anyone outside the Lords circle of agents, D'Uxford had concocted a plan to "remove" Colonel Hass with no evidence. But Hass' unwillingness to report his commander saved his life. The door closed, and Edmund sneered.

"And good riddance, you trench fetish fuck."

The Anglois commanders, and even the Cadian, all quietly laughed. The Bishop frowned briefly in distaste, but with the amount of times the Kriegers, officer and Guardsman alike, had bothered him over nonsense that they thought important or in violation of the faith, and the struggle in talking their long suffering commissar down from ending it all in despair for a third time just last week, he had little sympathy.

"Now, to business. I understand that the official orders are that we are to liberate these people from their false shepherds. But the fact of the matter is, this part of Mekkar is mostly against us. All attempts by the rest of our Army Group to re-occupy and re-integrate have failed."

He looked around at the commanders and his face went deadly serious.

"They have sowed the wind, my friends. It's time we reap it. And we'll make sure they'll reap nothing at all by the end of it."

XXXXXX

The meeting lasted an hour, the Prince and his subordinates having figured out their strategy and how to enact their Chevauchee. The plan was simple: areas sectioned off by regiment, a rotation of one regiment being deployed at a time. The objective was to destroy any crops, burn farms, destroy towns, if necessary. The point of taking Kaol-Daissar was raised, but considering its defenses, it would probably necessitate the whole Seventh Army Group besieging it, and that wasn't an option. The main objective was to disrupt food supplies to Hive Golgotha, and Yazd if possible. If Golgotha lost food, being under siege and buckling under the continued pressure, either the population would finally break and side with the Imperium if offered food and supplies, or simply starve the enemy out and crush them. The biggest problem was what to do with the civilians. Almost all the commanders took umbrage to the idea of killing innocents, even if they had been led astray.

"If they are willing to join the Imperium, bring them back here to safety. If not, either we kill them when they try to stop us, or they starve when we burn them out," the Prince said.

A few of his men looked at him in concern.

"I understand it's not palatable, ladies and gentlemen, but we all have lost good men to ambushes, or killed in areas considered safe to wander at night. Either they come back to the fold, or we send them to be judged by the Emperor. I have no qualms about it."

He looked around to see if the Bishop had left, but he was listening intently to the plan. He held his tongue, wanting to say "Fuck them," but he had to restrain himself a little bit.

The meeting adjourned successfully, a plan awaiting action. The Prince seemed satisfied with the result, and wished his commanders good luck and best wishes. De Gast was the last to leave, taking final instructions. He had volunteered one of his Gasceaux regiments to be the first to go ahead and take personal command, in fear of the original regiments commander, his eldest nephew, one of his seven relations in Third Corps, being not high enough in rank or nobility to be protected should the displeasure of Borricelli be targeted on the first to disobey his orders.

"Barrau, I am honored you are willing to take the risk for that nephew of yours. I would've thought that you would want the glory to attack first, but I agree with you. Borricelli would never hit you or me, we're too high up, and that boy wouldn't last ten minutes in a court martial."

"I worry about him, Ed. I have enough family to worry about, and I would rather take a hit for this than see him thrown to the wolves."

Gasceaux was a mountainous, sparse land, populated by a people quick to produce litters of children, quicker to anger, and unlikely to ever forget a slight. The problem wasn't Borricelli accusing his nephew of wrong-doing, but his nephew taking the accusation as offense and striking back in a dangerous way. Edmund knew this better than anyone in his family, being the nominal Prince of the region. And now, his people would be the first to hit the Haikk rebels where it hurt: their stomachs. Shaking de Gasts hand as he left, the Prince closed the door, looking at the four still in the room, the Bishop, his Palatine, the Farseer, and the serjeant.

"What did you think, Your Grace?" Edmund asked.

"I would think the people of Haikk Four would still have souls worth saving, but you are right, harsh as it is. We have stretched the hand out in an olive branch, offering the safety of the Imperium and the light of our Emperor. They have bit it. We shall strike them until they learn how generous we truly are. Your soul may rest easy as well, Your Highness, for the pain and misery you inflict on these faithless traitors will spare more of our brave men in Golgotha from death or allow them to be sent elsewhere to help our righteous cause."

"Well said your grace," the Palatine quickly said. She had spent the whole hour watching Farseer Alwyn, rarely breaking her watch.

"Agreed," the Prince said. "I want to prove ourselves now. Even if it is against orders technically, if I can spare lives instead of wasting time sitting around doing nothing, it will be worth it."

"Fair words Your Highness. Your father would be very proud to hear that. If you do not mind, I will retire now. I have much to plan now. The regimental priests will need to be informed and prepared. I will give you a blessing before you leave. For luck."

The prince nodded and kneeled. Speaking in High Gothic, the Bishop gave benediction. Rising after receiving it, the bishop kissed his cheeks, and grinned as he whispered in the Prince's ear.

"We should be blessed that Sister Luisa didn't kill our pointy eared friend."

The two laughed, and the Bishop left. Now it was just the Farseer and Roger.

"What do you think of our plan, Farseer?"

Alwyn seemed to be deep in thought before answering.

"It is militarily sound. Your enemies in Golgotha will not surrender easily, so forcing them into a situation that benefits you is obvious. I will instruct my forces to stay ahead of your… Chevauchee? What a strange word. I will ensure your troops do not stumble into an ambush and stay aware of any threats."

The Prince smiled and nodded.

"Chevauchee is an old Francish word. It literally means horse charge, because light horsemen would charge out, burn and destroy enemy infrastructure, and return to their army. It was to destroy any way for their enemies to make money off taxes, have food, or simply embarrass them." The Prince's face turned dark. "I intend to do all that and more on Mekkar."

"I do have one concern about this strategy, if you are willing to listen."

"Of course."

"If you threaten your enemies enough, they may amass their forces to stop you. You threaten one with starvation, there is no telling how far they will be willing to go to stop you."

The Prince nodded, assessing this opinion.

"I have thought that. I welcome it. If we can finally drag that mysterious enemy army Borricelli worries about, even better."

"I understand your willingness to go and attack, but I would warn you against charging into disaster. You are a part of our plans for this world, but I also have come to find you a reasonable and honorable human, Edmund. Do not get yourself killed for your own glory or ego."

Edmund opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. A hundred thoughts raced through his mind. Was this a warning? A threat? What plans? Was that army real? Did she know? Why did she know and he didn't? A minute of uncomfortable silence was broken when he caught sight of Roger Wessyng.

"Ah! Serjeant! Don't think I forgot about you!"

Roger smiled, but internally cringed at being singled out by his Prince and commander.

"Farseer, I wanted you to be with me and talk to this incredible man. Is it true you gave him command of a group of your warriors?"

"It is, Lord Prince."

"Incredible. I did want to ask, whose orders will he follow? Yours or mine?"

"Whatever is the best for our two peoples. But considering he is one of your men, and he is in command, I would say he's yours. After all, I have plenty of Eldar serving me, if you can believe it," she said with a little smile.

"Ha! I would hope so. I'll make a deal with you. If you need him and his group, they're yours. But for the most part, they're mine. Sounds fair?"

"No disagreement, Lord Prince. Is there anything else you need from me?"

"No, madam. Please inform your forces of our plans, and let us hope that we can find victory together."

Alwyn nodded and moved to leave, before stopping at the door.

"Is there anything you want from me, Roger?"

Roger started, not expecting to be called on.

"No, Farseer."

"Are you satisfied with this agreement? Follow Edmunds orders, but if I need you, will you obey?"

"I have no argument, Farseer."

"Excellent. Until next time, Roger."

She paused again.

"By the way, Lord Prince, Rogers' group has a name for themselves."

"Oh shit," Roger muttered.

"Really?" the Prince asked.

"They named themselves after an animal. A leopard, I believe it's called. The Leopards."

She bowed slightly and took her leave. The Prince turned to Roger, a grin on his face.

"The Leopards? Damn fine name serjeant. Damn fine."

"T-thank you, Your Highness."

"Bring victory, and we can make that name official," he said, patting his massive hand on the shorter Rogers shoulder.

"Where do you need me, Your Highness? I need to go somewhere and find victory."

The Prince let out a booming laugh.

"After my own heart, Roger! If you are curious, I did have an idea of what to do with your Leopards."

He motioned to a table in the corner before taking a seat. Roger respectfully obeyed and sat across from him.

"So first things first. You are my man technically. But for all intents and purposes, you're still under Duck. I'm not good at intelligence gathering, spy work or other "special jobs" he has cooked up. He'll know what to do with you better than I can. Use you better. I'll just throw you into a fight and watch you tear anyone against you to shreds. He thinks you and your warriors are better used as a… problem solving force. Take care of things under the table. You don't exist, after all. And if anyone else found out about a human working as close as you are to the Xenos…"

Roger swallowed. He knew more than a few in the Third Corps who would gladly put a heretic like him out of his misery. He was honestly surprised Colonel Hass hadn't tried to kill him or Alwyn out of hand.

"I don't want us to be your kill squad. R-respectfully, Your Highness."

"You won't be. I made sure of that. Duck assured me. Well, he definitely seemed to be telling the truth. Can't tell for sure with Ducky. You will do things we can't do, deal with issues out of our reach. You're… special forces, in more than a few ways. But first you have to prove our idea as feasible."

Roger nodded and smiled.

"I'm in, Your Highness, and they'll follow me. What did you have in mind?"

The Prince laughed again, finding a hidden bottle of Gasceaux Red, and pulling two goblets out of seemingly nowhere. Roger was a bit hesitant, given his last experience with the fine drink, but he could hardly refuse Prince Edmund.

"Well, Duck has more detail, but we need to prove you and your…Leopards," he said with a chuckle, enjoying the name more than he wanted to admit, "To prove themselves. So it'll be an easier job."

He poured the goblet and offered it to Roger. This was a high honor, being offered a drink by none other than a member of the Royal family. Roger graciously accepted and took a swig. It was as good as he remembered. Maybe better. He would have to watch himself.

"What's the mission, Your Highness?"

The Prince frowned and looked at him gravely.

"Do you enjoy politics, Roger Wessyng?"

Roger frowned in return.

"There is literally nothing I hate more than politics, Your Highness."

The Prince let out yet another booming laugh.

"We're off to a great start!" he said, taking a gulp of the red.

"Let me tell you a story. A good one. It's about two noble houses in Mekkar…"