The halls of the Postknight barracks smelled of oil and stew and something else Almond had never expected to feel so keenly: doubt. Everywhere he looked there were eyes that remembered his brash grin and now catalogued the way he shuffled his boots. The swagger that had once been a kind of armor sat on him like an ill-fitting cloak.
He'd been ashamed. That was the word he avoided because it was soft and private and not the sort of thing a B-ranker liked to own. But under the heat of it he felt something else — an ember of responsibility. Not to his pride, but to the banner he had raised his fist at as a boy. For all his loud promises and empty bravado, Almond had always loved the Postknight colors. He loved the idea of being larger than himself. The scandal had infected that idea, and the infection made him twitch.
So he did what the embarrassed do best: he acted.
He sought Solis out because Solis was steady and awkward with honesty, two qualities Almond had learned to respect even when his mouth tried to smother them. He found him by the outer wall, scrubbing a crate with methodical concentration as though the world could be set clean with elbow grease.
"Of all the places," Almond began, hands thrust into his pockets, "you pick the crate scrubbing life now? I always thought you were dramatic."
Solis looked up. There was a quiet that made Almond uncomfortable — like someone waiting to hear a secret. "Almond."
"Right. Look—" Almond fought down a laugh that had lost its ease. "Listen. I know I've been a—" He flailed for the word that would be honest and missed. "A pompous fool."
Solis's brow lifted the faintest fraction. "You don't have to—"
"No, I do." Almond's voice dropped. "I want to fix this. Not for any selfish desires. But for the Postknights. I… I owe them that."
There it was: the admission, raw and clumsy and strangely relieving. Solis watched him like you watch someone put down a heavy sack and find it's lighter than they expected.
"Are you serious?" Solis asked.
Almond squared his shoulders. "Dead serious. I've been thinking: we lost ground because the story turned against us. Who controls the story? Priests. Dukes. The ones who shape what people remember and tell. Orsic knows this. He has already polished that angle."
Solis's mouth tightened. "You mean persuasion. Lobbying nobles. Convincing priests."
Almond nodded. "Exactly. I don't like asking, but I can get into the salons and the tea rooms. I can—" He stopped, as if the rest of his plan were a set of cards he wasn't ready to flash. "I can get an audience. But I need something solid. Not empty promises. We rebuild trust by making the Postknights visible in gentle ways. Public usefulness, private reassurances."
Solis leaned the scrub-brush against the crate and listened. "You want to use your charm."
Almond almost flinched at the word but met it. "Call it what you like. I'll do the flattering. You have to bring truth. Witnesses. You bring the deliveries we completed — proof. I'll set up meetings with the priests who performed the blessing of Eloin. They still matter more than any notice Orsic signs. If the priests say 'be patient,' the city will listen. Moreover, the king will listen."
Solis considered, then nodded slowly. "Okay. But I want to notify Commander Cassandra. She should know about this. If anyone does this behind her back, it will look like faction."
Almond's jaw worked. He had expected a fight — he'd prepared for it in a hundred imagined sentences — but Solis had the quiet of a man who wanted not to shout but to be heard. "Okay that's fine with me. We'll keep this clean."
They did not go directly to Commander Cassandra. Almond had a plan that began closer to the surface: the chapel where Eloinism's minor clerics gathered. The head priest there was Father Joren, a small man with the habit of smiling like he had once been forgiven something large. Almond had met him twice before at a charity supper where Almond's laughter had been the brightest ornament. Joren remembered flattery as currency; Almond would use it until it punched through the fog of suspicion.
But first he had to change himself — in appearance, posture, tone. He scrubbed the black from his boots until they shone like admitting he'd learned to care. He practiced a softer smile in the refectory mirror that made him look less like a challenger and more like an apologetic atonement. It was a kind of disguise: less swagger, more sincerity.
The first meeting he arranged by name-dropping — an art he'd practiced his whole life. He called a minor patron he'd once impressed by saving a merchant's ledger (a petty kindness, but one that bought social interest). A week later, Almond presented Father Joren with a bouquet of wildflowers and a bow that felt like an apology.
"You're looking well," Father Joren said kindly.
Almond swallowed. "Father. I… we're in trouble."
Father Joren's hands folded. "I know of the incident." He did not glow with condemnation. In his eyes Almond saw the businesslike concern of a man who had shepherded communities through worse.
Almond laid out the plan. He spoke quickly at first — too fast, then measured his tone like a smith taps a blade. He told them of the Postknight patrols, the medicine runs, the old women's groceries saved from bandits. He touched on Razille — carefully and respectfully — saying nothing that might endanger her.
Father Joren listened. He did not interrupt. When Almond finished, frayed and earnest, the priest reached out and steadied his hand.
"You speak with the heat of a man who wants to save something dear to him. I like that quality of yours." Joren said softly. "You have spoken truth, young Almond, but people need more than truth. They need to feel safe speaking it aloud without losing face."
Almond leaned forward. "Will you — will the church say something? Some word that asks for calm, patience? People trust your voice more than a thousand pamphlets."
Joren looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "I will speak at tomorrow's vesper. Not to excuse, but to ask for the measured mind, what Eloin's teachings command us. We will urge the people to avoid smearing guilt without proof."
Almond felt a small, hot thing in his chest uncoil and breathe. It was the first actual success. He knelt — not quite in prayer, but in gratitude — and found his knees bent obediently. "Thank you, Father."