Lucas traveled light. He shared a cramped apartment near the market with several other tenants, living a life that barely kept them fed. When the poet had first arrived in Monowe, he'd brought only his lyre, a few changes of clothing, a calfskin-bound notebook, a quill, and a small vial of ink. Now, as he departed, he carried everything but the lyre—not a thing less. His roommates were all fishmongers, fretting over the mountains of unsold freshwater fish left at day's end. When Lucas gathered his belongings and closed the door behind him, they assumed he was merely heading to some tavern to sing for his supper.

  The recruiting station lay outside Monowe. The Great Poet Lucas had imagined it would be housed in some imposing edifice, with spear-wielding soldiers standing rigid guard at the entrance. When the cluster of shabby tents shattered all his illusions, he breathed easier. The plainer it was, the more at home he felt.

  Few soldiers guarded the encampment—only a handful of spearmen leaning against wooden posts, deep in conversation. "Gentlemen," the poet called to one of them. "Which tent is the recruiting station?"

  The soldiers broke off their talk. "You're here to enlist?" asked one of the younger-looking spearmen. The poet nodded.

  "The tent in the middle." He gestured toward it. "They're past their office hours now, but you can try your luck. Oh, and one more thing, lad." As the poet thanked him, the soldier continued: "Remember—don't join the Farma Infantry Regiment. That unit's always at the front lines, highest casualty rate of all. Their number's Two Hundred Twenty-First, I think, though that sort of thing gets reshuffled on the battlefield constantly, so who knows. Try to appear as frail as possible during the physical examination—that way they'll likely assign you to logistics, like me." He smiled. "Good fortune, friend." Lucas returned the smile and bade him farewell.

  Before the tent flap, Lucas adjusted his appearance once more and cleared his throat. Determined to project confidence, he swept the curtain aside with a grand gesture and strode into the tent, head held high.

  Inside, only a single man sat at a desk, his hair slicked completely back, spectacles perched on his nose, somewhat advanced in years. He was examining the chaotic jumble of documents scattered across the desktop. Even more spartan than I'd imagined. The poet's gaze surveyed the tent's sparse furnishings before settling on the man. "Good evening, sir," the poet said, his voice tight with formality.

  "I've already had someone take the documents out," the man said. "Documents?" Lucas suspected a case of mistaken identity.

  The man looked up, studying Lucas for a long moment. "My apologies." He removed his spectacles and stretched. "I thought you were here to pester me about my reports." His smile was like lightning—there and gone in an instant, yet leaving a lasting impression, sending a chill down one's spine. "So then, who are you?" He rested his chin on his fist. "Depending on your answer, I can decide whether to continue this pleasant chat, or have the guards outside skewer any part of your anatomy they fancy, sir."

  (I cannot show fear.) He straightened his back. "I've come to enlist."

  "Enlist," the man repeated. "That's correct."

  "I think you need to understand that our office hours are limited to when the sun is still in the sky—which is to say, this is not our office hour."

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  "I understand, sir. But... I'm in rather a hurry."

  "In a hurry?" The man showed some interest, setting down the letter-filled document in his hand. "You're in a hurry to enlist?" The poet nodded.

  "This is the first time I've encountered someone rushing to join the army." He placed both hands on the desk. "What's the difference between enlisting tonight and enlisting tomorrow morning? Surely the Empire won't lose the war just because you enlisted a few hours late?"

  "It's not about the Empire, sir. It's about me," he said. "I'm afraid I might change my mind."

  "...You're racing against yourself."

  "Precisely, sir."

  The man nodded and extracted a sheet of parchment from the messy pile of documents. "Strictly speaking, I'm not the recruiting officer—merely his deputy. My superior is likely rotten drunk in some tavern tonight." He searched about for a quill. "If you wait for his return, you may well have already lost your race. So, I'll register you myself."

  "You have my deepest gratitude, sir."

  After briefly recording the necessary information, the man turned the parchment to a new page. "Finally, tell me your reason for enlisting."

  Lucas's answer caught him off guard. "Many reasons. Many, many." He seemed lost in thought.

  The deputy recruiting officer stared at him, blinked, and adjusted his spectacles. "You want me to write down: Reason for enlistment—many, many!?"

  "Ah." The poet snapped back to attention, at a loss for words. "What I mean is, it's... complicated." The man shook his head and wrote on the paper: To sacrifice oneself for the glory of the homeland. The very slogan that even the most unlettered peasant would bellow.

  The poet watched the deputy complete his enlistment form, unable to contain his inner joy. "Sir, do I need to proceed to the physical examination now?"

  The man poured cold water on his hopes. "You won't need a physical examination."

  The Great Poet Lucas asked, puzzled, "Why not?"

  "Because you don't need one, sir." The man scrutinized him. "Even I, with what little vision I have left, can see that your physique certainly doesn't meet the standards for military service."

  "Standards?" The poet bristled indignantly. "I remember the previous recruiting notices said any male fifteen years or older could enlist! They also stated that the physical examination was merely to better assign soldiers to different branches based on their physical capabilities!"

  The deputy recruiting officer scratched his forehead, organizing his thoughts. "That notice is ancient history, Mr. Fifteen. Back then, the Empire needed manpower to besiege Cynthia, so we relaxed the requirements. Now, with relatively sufficient troop numbers and many recruits coming from Crivi as well, we no longer need so many to merely fill the ranks."

  "I'm not someone who's just filling the ranks," the poet said coldly.

  "As a matter of fact, you are." The man looked him over. "You said you're a poet, correct?"

  "Correct." The Great Poet Lucas interjected quickly. "The recruiting notice didn't say poets couldn't enlist, did it?"

  "No, it didn't," the deputy conceded. "But your physical condition doesn't meet the recruitment requirements of any regiment. I'd say you couldn't even qualify for the logistics corps."

  "I don't want to be in logistics. I want to go to... the front lines."

  The man didn't seem surprised. "You must have an extremely important reason, otherwise you wouldn't have laid down your lyre to enlist."

  "Yes, sir. I have very important reasons for enlisting." He didn't want the man to inquire further.

  The man pondered for a moment. "Bring me the flask," he ordered. "The one on top of the cabinet."

  After receiving the flask and pouring himself a drink, the man drained it in one gulp. He began writing something on another sheet of parchment with his quill, occasionally crossing things out. After handing over the flask, Lucas deliberately lingered by the desk, craning his neck to try to see what the deputy was writing.