Early the next morning, the entire company assembled to depart. Their ranks now included Adam and Paz's Red Scorpion Mercenaries. Additional wagons carried four coffins and transported severely wounded knights. Count Caspar had contributed a thousand-strong military escort, creating an imposing procession.

  After Count Caspar's perfunctory farewell ceremony, the column began its march.

  Solemn gravity hung over the company as most members steeled themselves for coming trials. Except Adam.

  The sole exception was Adam.

  The armored figure radiated jubilation, having achieved his life's ambition. While Eileen and her knights saw Caspar's support as merely the first step on the thorny path to claiming her birthright, Adam considered his mission accomplished - perhaps even reaching his existence's pinnacle.

  The black cat now rode bundled on Adam's back via leather straps, having refused further confinement within armor. Though feline protests went unheeded, the knight's ridiculous appearance drew suppressed smiles.

  Adam had also appointed himself scout after learning the term the previous night, declaring it his perfect vocation.

  Thus the armored knight thundered back and forth along the column, shouting reports:

  "Stream ahead! Village five kilometers onward!"

  "Merchant caravan approaching rear!"

  "Settlement two kilometers west! Population: 121!"

  "Woodland one kilometer east! Botanical samples secured!"

  "Stream ahead! Village five kilometers onward!"

  "Merchant caravan approaching rear!"

  "Settlement two kilometers west! Population: 121!"

  "Woodland one kilometer east! Botanical samples secured!"

  Adam's skeletal steed never faltered as he streaked through the procession. Each pass left bewildered observers clutching random "intel" - a dazed groundhog (declared magically suspicious) or handfuls of acorns.

  "Doesn't he tire?" Horus gaped at the hyperactive scout.

  "Scouts should be this vigorous." Eileen chuckled. "Rather endearing."

  "Youthful exuberance." Pasco shrugged.

  When someone exhibits one odd trait, it draws notice. When saturated with eccentricities, they become background noise.

  Now atop a hillock, Adam dramatically unsheathed his blade with metallic shing: "Fear not, Princess! Your loyal knight shall smite all evildoers!"

  Expressionless farmers toiling in distant fields glanced up briefly.

  "Are you sun-drunk?" The cat squirmed in its harness. "Where'd you learn this drivel?"

  "Chapter Twelve of the Knighthood Ascendant's Manual."

  "That manual contains princess-rescuing nonsense? Let me see!"

  Dismounting, Adam released the cat and produced The Knighthood Ascendant's Manual.

  "This is fiction!" The cat yowled after scanning two pages. "You're using a storybook as knightly doctrine?"

  "Fiction?"

  "Fabricated tales! Not actual guidelines!"

  "Is that problematic?" Adam raised his sword sunward. "When I become its idealized knight, I'll commission bards to versify my exploits!"

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The lich's delusional fervor made the feline's whiskers twitch. What terrors surpass a lich obsessing over chivalric romances?

  "Let's build a fortress and conduct proper necromancy. That's lich-like behavior."

  "Silence!" Adam tapped his new sigil. "I'm a righteous knight now! Cease corruptive suggestions!"

  His sanctimonious declaration left both cat and skeletal steed speechless.

  ..........

  "How should I rescue princesses from dragons? Their might exceeds my capacity."

  "Why assume dragon-kidnapped royalty awaits?"

  "This manual documents three such scenarios."

  .............

  "Treasure redistribution requires knowing impoverished folks. How?"

  "How many treasure troves in that accursed book?"

  "Seven."

  "Not to worry," the cat deadpanned. "Poverty finds everyone eventually."

  The feline contemplated tracking down the author's ink-stained fingers. Modern scribes clearly lacked ethical foresight - who writes knightly primers without considering undead readership?

  ……………

  Under moonlight, the company's bivouac sprawled across the moorland. A thousand soldiers collapsed into exhausted slumber after the day's march, their snores blending with night watchmen's murmured challenges.

  ……………….

  For Eileen, true labor commenced in her command pavilion:

  "These levies' plate armor proves inadequate." She tapped supply manifests. "Dispatch a rider to White City—commission smiths to forge replacements. Scour markets for serviceable stock."

  "Aye, my lady."

  ………………..

  "Require the miller to triple flour output. Threaten his guild charter if he balks."

  "Aye."

  ………………

  "Secure five thousand gold against six White City estates. The moneylenders' guild will acquiesce."

  "Aye."

  ……………

  Her spymaster interjected: "Count Caspar's contingent numbers three hundred fewer than pledged."

  "Expected." Eileen's quill hovered over troop ledgers. "Assess their commander's loyalties."

  "Preliminary vetting suggests no covert orders... unless exceptionally concealed."

  "Turn him. Offer barony privileges or blackmail fodder—your discretion."

  "Aye."

  Beyond the oil-lit pavilion, Adam's skeletal steed stood sentinel. The lich-knight remained oblivious to such mortal logistics, engrossed in The Knighthood Ascendant's Manual's 327th page on jousting etiquette.

  ……………

  Adam blinked in bewilderment. "What's happening?"

  "Has no one briefed you?" Paz lowered his voice, steering the armored figure aside. "Lady Eileen is Duke Beishire's sole heir. Understand?"

  "Sole... heir?" Adam's mental gears ground. Unicorn-related concept?

  Paz noted the cognitive dissonance but pressed on: "The duke perished two moons past."

  "Perished means deceased! Newly acquired vocabulary!" Adam's visor clanked excitedly.

  "Not the semantics!" The mercenary glanced toward Eileen's illuminated tent. "By law, his death should cement her succession."

  "Yet this Jones materialized—bastard claimant to the duchy. No prior record, not even Steward Abe Roberts knew. Preposterous!"

  "Normally bastards can't inherit," Paz's fingers mimicked scales of justice. "But the Crown legitimized him. Male claimant trumps female heir in succession protocols. Political theater at its filthiest."

  "The vassals of House Beishire naturally resented this turmoil," Paz explained. "But confronting the Crown? Though the Beishires command influence, cohesion's their lifeline. Lady Eileen hasn't formally inherited the dukedom—she lacks authority to mobilize their forces. With some vassals already defecting, many fence-sitters now lean toward the King's faction, like Count Caspar. Her true strength lies solely in a handful of diehard retainers and her mother's legacy."

  "This is Eileen's gambit: reclaiming Beishire loyalists. Even if she can't rival the Crown's might, she bets the King dares not risk civil war. Foreign powers would pounce on such chaos."

  "Comprehend now?"

  Adam stood motionless as a gargoyle.

  "Still bewildered?"

  "Partially..." The lich's mental gears jammed at feudal intricacies.

  Paz clapped his pauldron. "No fret. Noble wars permit graceful surrender—we've no titles or lands to forfeit. Well, I don't. But you..." His chuckle echoed. "That sigil of yours might fetch trouble!"

  After Paz departed, the cat peered up from Adam's back. "Grasp the situation?"

  "The final threat registered," Adam's armor plates rattled anxiously. "Must defeat this 'King' lord, lest my hard-won knighthood revokes!"

  "What of the broader context?"

  "Negatory comprehension."

  "Simplified version—" the cat's tail lashed, "—she's neck-deep in political sewage! Remember my warning? Misfortune spreads like plague. Either abandon contagion carriers or kick them faster downhill. We should flee and resume proper lichdom!"

  The armored figure remained statuesque.

  Silence stretched.

  "Fine!" The cat's ears flattened. "Two doomed souls cross-polluting miseries. How much worse could it—" Its manic grin faltered. "Wait. It absolutely could."