The first few days after their uneasy truce were awkward ones. Almond walked with his usual swagger, chin high as if to prove he had everything under control, while Solis trudged beside him with the air of someone who preferred action to words. But as they began their campaign to restore the Postknights' honor, moments came that forced them to rely on each other.
Their first stop was the Temple of Healing, where suspicion still lingered in the priests' voices. Almond did what he knew best: charm. He spoke smoothly of Postknight duty, of tradition, of loyalty that ran deeper than fear. Solis, meanwhile, said nothing — he only hefted a heavy crate of medicine on his back and carried it past the doubtful eyes, straight into the sick ward. He knelt at a bedside and offered a child water with hands steady as stone. The priests, who had been preparing to dismiss them, now watched with softened faces. Almond, quick to seize the moment, raised his voice: "This is our truth — you can see it here." For the first time, they walked away not as rivals but as partners who had made a dent in the wall of doubt.
Two days later, a storm tested them again. The timber bridge in the mid-ring had been torn half away, stranding farmers and merchants on either side. People shouted, chaos reigned. While K.P.P officials were late to reach. Almond barked orders with the crisp edge of command, rallying carpenters and villagers alike, while Solis stripped off his cloak and waded into the flood. With the river clawing at him, he braced broken beams on his shoulders until the ropes could bind them together. Every muscle trembled, but he did not falter. When he dragged himself back onto the bank, mud-streaked and shivering, Almond was already leading the crowd in cheers. "Not a scandal," Almond proclaimed, voice carrying over the river. "Duty. That is what defines us." Solis said nothing, only caught Almond's eye and gave a tired nod. The rivalry between them thinned, if only for a heartbeat.
By midweek, they found themselves in a very different battlefield: a Duke's dinner hall. Ada recently done a job for them before the scandal. She arranged the meeting.
Silver gleamed on every surface, and suspicion gleamed even sharper in the Duke's eyes. Almond thrived there, weaving through conversations with laughter and grace, while Solis stood stiffly at his side. The Duke's question cut through the room: "Can Postknights be trusted, after such a scandal?" Almond gestured lightly toward Solis, forcing him to answer. Solis's words were plain, unpolished: he told of the time Ada carried medicine into plague-ridden Bramble Hollow, terrified but unwilling to abandon the sick. The hall fell quiet at his honesty. Almond did not interrupt; he only added softly, "That is the heart of a Postknight. All of us carry this soul." For once, their voices worked not in rivalry but in harmony. The Duke did not give his approval outright, but suspicion loosened its grip on the room.
Bit that winter's day brought the first major victory. The minor duke he'd begged to speak — Duke Meren, a pompous man with a soft spot for spectacle — agreed to a small dinner where he would mention in casual conversation that he had known Postknights to rescue his carriage twice in the spring floods. If a man of his status spoke as if he trusted them, the rumor would fray at its edges.
Almond worked the rooms like a man who had learned the scaffold of power. He bowed to merchants, gifted patron coins to a father of five somewhere in the mid-ring, and made sure whichever duke he dined with saw a quiet Postknight at work in the square: a medic tying a bandage, a runner politely rerouting cart traffic, a courier returning a lost dog. The concerts of small, visible deeds had a multiplying effect.
Each night he reported back to Solis with lists of small promises gained, names of those who would speak up, and a record of those who would not. Sometimes the list was thin, the few names scratched like a person scraping their way out of a pit. Sometimes it grew longer; sometimes it flamed and died — Duke Meren had, for instance, laughed at the idea of getting involved, then leaked the plan when a rival sent wine, and Almond had to apologize in a way that felt like swallowing a sword.
Solis remained skeptical — never cruel, never unconvinced. He even appreciated and acknowledged Almond's hard work silently. He asked for proof for the actual people who had been helped. They both orchestrated displays of Postknight service — small and genuine, never entirely showy. Ada helped quietly, showing up with a bag of supplies; Seraphine and Cassandra are not aware of it yet. This whole operation of them is really small. Because if they het to know about it; through them K.P.P could found it out which will be a big problem.
Sometimes Almond wanted to claim credit aloud. The urge to crow was like a muscle twitching. But when Father Joren rose at vesper and spoke of patient judgment, of Eloin living in the harmless and the innocent, Almond felt a wave of something he had not expected: relief that was almost humility.
He was changing, he discovered. Not entirely.
---
On the day a small notice ran — an editorial penned carefully by a friend of Duke Meren that praised the Postknights' aid in a recent market conflagration — Almond found Solis by the same scrubbed crate.
"We did it," he said, breathless, like a boy who had built a paper boat that actually sailed.
Solis looked up, and for a sliver Almond saw not rival but comrade. "A little," Solis said. "We're not done yet. Are we?"
Almond grinned, an uneven slice of joy. "Absolutely not. Let's keep going. One priest, one duke, one grateful baker at a time. We untie the knot they tightened."
Solis nodded. "For the people."
Almond's laugh was small and genuine. "And for our honor," he said, and meant it.
He had come to the job thinking he'd be the man to swagger back into the barracks and shout his name into the rafters. Instead he had learned a different kind of courage — the slow, patient craft of coaxing trust back into the hands that had once held it freely. The work was quieter than applause, but as the days piled up and Father Joren's sermons softened the market's gossip, Almond noticed something that thrilled him more than any medal ever had: people began to smile again at Postknight clerks in the square.
It was not a triumph. Not yet. But it was a movement. And that, he thought, was everything.