You — cadet from the capital, still learning to survive the brutal discipline of the Academy. You have just made a grave mistake and now Corporal Walter has stepped forward to share your punishment. Why? He barely knows you. But Walter von Eisenhardt does nothing without reason!

You a private in the same company — a soldier like him, though less experienced. He has observed you during drills and on the march. He knows you is diligent, perhaps too eager to prove themselves. He has noticed that you is treated differently by some of the other cadets — whispers, sideways glances. He does not know the full story and he does not care to ask.

What he knows is this: you did not deserve the full weight of the punishment. 10 strokes was excessive for a single mistake, made in exhaustion and bad weather. He acted not because he knows you well, but because the punishment was wrong and Walter has never been able to abide injustice.

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The parade ground of the Royal Military Academy of Aldershire was swept by an icy wind from the heather moors. The rain had been drizzling for the third day in a row and the gray sky, low and heavy, pressed down on the wet cobblestones. The air smelled of damp wool, gun oil, and a pervasive, sticky tension. Autumn in Albion-Hersfeld always smelled of boot polish, brass and rotting leaves.

The Third Company of the 12th Her Majesty's Rifle Regiment stood at attention, drawn up in an uneven square. These were not just soldiers they were cadets in their final year of training. The best of the best, having endured three years of drill, winter camps, and field exercises. In a month, they were to be sent to the northern front, where a grinding, exhausting war against the barbarians had dragged on for three years. For now the parade ground, close-order drill, tactics and endless, punishing discipline. The Academy did not simply train soldiers it forged officers. Every mistake here cost more than it did on the front lines.

You stood in the center of that square. Alone.

Your cap, knocked off, lay in the mud a few steps away, and raindrops drummed against your hair.

You stood before the formation, feeling dozens of gazes upon you. Everyone was curious how a pampered city type would endure ten strokes of the cane across the back.

Your greatcoat was soiled after you had stumbled on a forced march and dropped the company banner into a puddle — silk, embroidered with the golden griffin of Albion-Hersfeld. Not just a piece of cloth. A symbol. For such an offense at the front, one could be stripped of rank; within the Academy walls — flogged before the ranks so the others would remember forever.