Iarius walked past the various offices of the administrative building, each its own stone square—or nearly a square anywhere. The roofs were slightly rounded so that rain would wash off of them and into the gutters of the plaza below. The office of the Magus was near the back, far from the barbarian woman's destination.

  He paused outside the entranceway to collect himself. Magus Urapius was a man possessed of a mercurial nature, and Iarius never knew when he might find the Magus in a stern or easygoing mood. Obviously it was his hope that he'd find his superior in high spirits, but Iarius needed to prepare himself for the possibility that he might walk in there to the Magus eager for some subordinate he could take his frustrations out on.

  Taking a deep breath, Iarius steadied himself. He applied the focus that had served him so well in his life, and once he was certain of his own confidence, he drew aside the thick canvas curtain that hung in the office entryway and stepped inside.

  The office of the Magus was filled with shelves covered in parchment. Boxes hung on the walls within which Magus Urapius had stacked scroll after scroll. Laid out on a table in a corner were a few carvings of wood and stone, clearly fashioned by Northern hands, and a parchment and inkwell which the Magus had used to describe the objects.

  The man himself sat in a chair near the back of the building, hunched over a writing desk and busily scrawling some missive. He was an older man, with hair graying into white. His robes and hands were stained with small splotches of blue ink, and a green-and-yellow sash over his shoulder indicated his station. Magus Urapius' skin was the dark brown of a man from the Senori Province, which had joined the Empire nearly a century before Iarius' own native Megorias.

  "Magus," Iarius said, as politely as he could and as loudly as he dared.

  The stylus in the Magus' hand paused in its movements. "One moment," said Urapius. His voice was deep, with a thunderously booming quality that seemed out of place with his thin frame. He continued writing, and for a while the only sounds within the office was the scratching of stylus against parchment.

  At last, Magus Urapius set his stylus down in his inkwell. He blew lightly on the parchment to hasten the drying of the ink, and then stood and stretched. Iarius thought he could hear the older man's back cracking and popping as he did.

  The elderly scholar turned his attention to Iarius, and his dark eyes on his junior as they did. "Iarius," he said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

  Iarius felt heat rushing into his face. No doubt the Magus already had some inkling as to the nature of Iarius' visit. After all, he'd already petitioned for reassignment three times, and three times he had been turned down.

  "I was ejected from Pilus Opaedes' company earlier today," Iarius informed him. "I do not believe the Pilus wishes my presence among the Equine Century any longer. I would like to request reassignment."

  The Magus sighed, then walked slowly to the boxes full of scrolls. He pulled one out with hardly a look, and unrolled it and read what was on it. How he knew exactly where the scroll he wanted was, Iarius could only guess.

  "I would speak with the Legate first," Magus Urapius said. "There is a reason you were assigned to the Equines, Iarius, though I assume from your repeated transfer requests that you might be unaware. It is dangerous work, what these legionnaires do, and they cannot always guarantee the protection of a Historian. With the Equines, you travel on horseback, and so can flee more easily if the situation calls for it." He unrolled the scroll a few inches more, then frowned. "But I see the Pilus has made complaints about you as well."

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Iarius wondered as to what the Pilus' exact complaints were, but knew it would be futile to ask.

  "Why were you ejected from the Pilus' company earlier, Iarius?"

  He swallowed. "We had a disagreement."

  The Magus looked up from the scroll, brows furrowed, and focused on him. "And the nature of this disagreement?"

  "There was a… skirmish this morning," Iarius explained. "The Equines were forced to flee from a bandit ambush. We couldn't see our attackers, only their arrows. The Pilus believed we were outnumbered, but I believe it was only a handful of archers, hiding in the trees. Possibly as few as two."

  "And so the disagreement was which number you would record in your History," the Magus finished for him. He shook his head. "You are a fool, Iarius."

  "Sir," said Iarius, "the delay between shots would have given the archers ample time to reposition themselves. With decent cover and clever enough movements, even a small group of bowmen could make themselves seem like an army."

  "It matters not," said the Magus, rolling up the scroll and replacing it. "You will record that the Equines were outnumbered. Pride is a powerful thing, Iarius, especially among military men. They march and fight and die on their morale. You record that a Pilus ordered a retreat from only two men, and you make him a laughingstock. And what do you think happens to a Legion's morale when its Equine Century is made a target of mockery."

  Iarius' mouth dropped open. Surely, the Magus was not asking him to fabricate the History. "But, sir—"

  Magus Urapius held up his hand. "You will record what the Pilus wishes," he repeated firmly. "I will see about reassigning you to a different Century. It is clear that you and the Equines are a poor match."

  "Sir, I would like to study the barbarians."

  "I know you would," said the Magus, "but barbarian customs are of little interest to the Empire. Besides, what of your safety? You are a young and promising scholar, Iarius. We cannot have you wasting your time on trifles."

  "What if…?" An idea began to form in Iarius' mind. He had not realized it at the time, but an opportunity had presented itself on his journey here. "What if my subject was one particular barbarian? A unique specimen who may also serve the Empire's interests?"

  The Magus laughed. "As though such a thing exists. Barbarians are all alike, Iarius."

  "Not this one," said Iarius. "I met her on the way here. She's a mercenary, and was interested in working for the Prefect. She is known as Nessalir the Red, and she is a virem draconem."

  At that, Magus Urapius frowned. "If you are going to invent fanciful barbarian women," he said, "at least make an effort to have them be believable."

  "She's real," said Iarius. "Confirm it with the Prefect if you wish. And she already knows me. You are concerned with my safety? What better protector than a dragonblood warrior. You wish for relevance to the Empire's interests? She seeks to enter our employ, and her kind is so rare that surely knowledge of her nature should be valuable."

  For a long moment, the Magus was silent. "I will speak to the Prefect," he said at last. "But do not for a moment believe this means you are being assigned away from the Legion, Iarius. Even if she is hired, and even if I do determine that her study would be of value, you will return to the Century of my choosing once her work here is complete. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir," said Iarius, and he pressed his fist to his chest and bowed his head. "Thank you."