The journey to Marienburg, escorted by an entire squadron of the Knights of the Blazing Sun, was a surreal experience for Geneviève. After years spent sleeping in the mud with a drunk knight (Balduin) or eating cave mushrooms with dwarves who considered a smile a sign of weakness, she suddenly found herself immersed in the luxurious efficiency and camaraderie of an elite military order.
The first problem, of course, was the shoulder. As soon as camp was set up, the order's surgeon, a short man with bottle-bottom glasses, approached Geneviève with a pair of pliers and a bone saw. "Milord," he said in a practical tone. "We must remove that cuirass to set the joint. If we wait, it will swell."
Geneviève, sitting on a log with the rigid posture of someone screaming on the inside, shook her head. "No armor," she croaked.
The surgeon sighed. "Don't be a child. I cannot treat you through steel."
Geneviève stood up. The pain blurred her vision, but her mind was clear. She brought her left hand, the healthy one, to her dislocated right shoulder. The steel of the gauntlet pressed against the steel of the pauldron. She closed her eyes. She didn't need bandages. She had Faith.
A blue glow, by now familiar, filtered through the joints of the armor. There was a sickening noise, CRACK-POP, as the ligaments, boosted by divine energy, pulled the bone and snapped it back into the socket. Geneviève emitted a stifled groan, then rotated her right arm. It hurt, but it worked.
The surgeon dropped his pliers. "Well," he muttered. "That saves on bandages."
Camp life with the Myrmidians was... noisy. Unlike Bretonnians, who spend evenings praying or boasting, or Dwarves who drink in silence until they fall over, the Knights of the Sun loved to argue. About tactics, about politics, about armor fashion.
Geneviève found herself "adopted" by Sir Lukas, the youngest knight in the company. Blond, with an easy smile and armor so polished you could see your soul in it, Lukas had decided that the mysterious "Sir Gilles" was his new personal hero.
"So," pressed Lukas as he polished his helm by the bivouac fire. "That hit on the Minotaur. Was it an Iron Parry followed by the Comet Cut? Or did you improvise? Because Master Siegfried says improvisation is the enemy of strategy, but to me, it looked very effective."
Geneviève was sitting a little apart, intent on her new ritual as a Kensai (Sword Saint). She was running an oiled cloth over the blade of her sword. She wasn't just cleaning it; she was listening to it. She felt the micro-fractures in the metal, she felt the balance. It was like petting a cat. At Lukas's comment, Geneviève looked up (or rather, raised her visor).
"It bled," she said with her gravel voice. "So it worked."
The knights around the fire burst out laughing. "You see, Lukas?" sneered a veteran named Hans. "Less theory, more blood. That's why Bretonnians win charges and we win wars. They charge, we think... but Sir Gilles here seems to do both."
The hardest part was the food. When they distributed the stew, Geneviève took her bowl and disappeared into the shadows, returning only when the bowl was empty. The knights had developed absurd theories about this. "It's a vow," whispered Lukas. "He doesn't eat in front of mortals."
"No," Hans countered. "He's disfigured. A dragon melted his face."
"In my opinion," said Siegfried, the Captain, wiping his mustache, "he's just rude. But he fights well, so let him eat with the owls."
But after dinner, they brought out the dice. Geneviève had never played. But watching the game, she realized it was similar to war: calculation and luck. She sat in the circle. Lukas handed her the bone dice. "Stakes are high tonight, Gilles. Hans has put up his Ostland dagger."
Geneviève put a handful of Imperial gold coins (Skaven loot) on the pile. She didn't know the rules perfectly, but she had the eye of a hawk and the blessing of Divine Grace. She rolled.
Three sixes. The circle went silent. Geneviève scooped up the coins with a slow movement of her gauntlet, making the metal clink. "Beginner's luck!" shouted Hans, red in the face. Two hours later, Geneviève had won Hans' dagger, a bottle of Bretonnian brandy (which Siegfried guarded jealously), and most importantly, the camaraderie of the group.
For the first time, she felt part of something that wasn't tragedy or survival. She laughed inside the helm—a silent laugh that no one heard—while Lukas cursed the goddess of luck and Hans tried to buy back his dagger by promising to polish Duraz for a week.
But the moment of true integration came on the third day, during a lunch break. Siegfried had spread a map on a flat rock. "The Orcs of the Skull-Splitter tribe are moving here," he indicated with a gloved finger. "If we follow the main road, we'll be exposed on the flanks. Myrmidian doctrine suggests flanking through the forest, but we'd lose two days."
Geneviève approached. Duraz was chewing on her hair (or rather, her helm) affectionately from behind. She looked at the map. She recognized the terrain. Thorgard had taught her to read mountains. She extended an armored finger, tracing a line through a narrow pass that the Imperial knights had ignored.
"Here," said the hoarse voice.
Siegfried frowned. "That's a goat path, Gilles. The horses would break their legs."
"Not in column formation," replied Geneviève, concise. "The ground is hard rock, not mud. The Orcs don't guard it because they think horses can't pass. The Dwarves use it."
Siegfried looked at her, then looked at the map. He did two mental calculations. "If we go through there... we would pop out behind them while they're still waiting on the main road." The Captain smiled. Not the polite court smile, but the predatory smile of a soldier. "A heavy cavalry ambush downhill. Myrmidia would approve." He patted Geneviève's pauldron. "Did you study in Nuln, knight? Or are you just naturally devious?"
"I had good teachers," replied Geneviève, thinking of a grumpy dwarf and a swindling merchant.
When the walls of Marienburg finally appeared on the horizon, emerging from the salty sea mist like a forest of towers and ship masts, Geneviève felt an unexpected regret. Traveling with the Order of the Blazing Sun had been... easy. No one asked why she was a woman. No one asked her to be a tragic heroine. She was just Sir Gilles, the one good with a sword, who didn't speak much, won at dice, and had a horse that ate meat.
"Our paths part here, Gilles," said Siegfried as they arrived at the gates of the great merchant city. "We must report to the Merchant's Guild that hired us."
Lukas seemed genuinely sorry. "If you get tired of being a vagabond, the Chapter always has room for a blade like yours. Even if you are mute, ugly, and Bretonnian."
Geneviève extended her hand. Siegfried shook it, forearm against forearm, in the manner of warriors. "May the Sun light your path," said the Captain.
"And may the Lady..." Geneviève corrected herself immediately, her hoarse voice grating. "May your steel never rust."
As the Order rode toward the wealthy district, feathers in the wind and armor glittering, Geneviève remained behind, a dark and solitary figure on her barded black horse. She touched the hilt of her sword. The fun was over. Marienburg was a pit of vipers, spies, and politics. But for those few days, under that gray sky, Geneviève had played at being a happy knight. And it had been beautiful.
"Let's go, Duraz," she whispered. "Let's go see how much truth costs in this city." She entered the chaos of Marienburg.