Heresy | Broken Time Series: Book Three

Chapter 10

General Byteron let out a frustrated growl when someone knocked on his door.

"Come in."

He glowered over the table, the map of the land above the Jaruvion Sea upon it. Little balls of light illuminated part of it, and a few lines were scattered here and there. The soldier before him stood unfazed, already used to the general's glares, but regardless, he waited to be spoken to first.

"What now?" General Byteron snapped.

"General Meixong has sent a message informing us that they plan to arrive today." The soldier frowned as he held the letter out to him. "The general failed to mention a time, however."

"Damn woman's probably already here," General Byteron groused, snatching the paper and inspecting the seal. As the soldier continued to stand in place, he glared over the top of the letter. "Well? What are you standing around here for? Go prepare for her arrival!"

With a curt bow, the soldier left the room. Despite his annoyance, Byteron was surprised that Meixong was coming to him themself. It wasn't often the generals of entire divisions met in person, so whatever Meixong wanted to talk about must be important. And even then, the Head of Information had only been back in Tarkon for a few months. Perhaps this could've been more common before the Recession, back when Meixong was a minor general and back before he took over the front—he was supposed to be retired, dammit!—but then the Council decided they needed an entire unit dedicated to information, and the previous general over the front managed to get himself killed. Inconvenient. Now it was he, Dagmire, and Meixong at the top but still at the whims of the Council of Thirds.

Not that Byteron envied Meixong for fast-tracking several ranks to be placed at the top. Their jobs weren't easy. The Council needed certain people to fill these roles—Dagmire for his power, Meixong for their mind, and himself for his experience—but that wouldn't stop him from thinking the Council made a mistake with Meixong. Meixong wasn't known for their belief in the Council, nor would they make it easy to get rid of them. That, and they had other things to worry about, now. The Council's only consolation was the fact that Meixong would gladly disappear once the war was over.

By the time another knock sounded from his door, Byteron had migrated over to his desk. Papers littered atop, just the same as any of the other generals, but his were few while the rest sat on the map table behind him. Soldiers on the front didn't have time to write lengthy reports. Another knock, and Byteron swore vehemently.

"Come in!"

The door swung open, and Meixong was quick to shut it behind them as they strode in. Byteron never understood what went through their head much like he never understood why they insisted on wearing the clothes of the common soldier. A simple white button-up and black trousers that faded all too quickly. At least the white shirt looked to be new unlike some of the yellowing fabrics he's seen other soldiers galavanting around in. Their trousers, however, contrasted sharply with Meixong's sturdy black boots—the only wise decision he'd seen them make so far. That, and the wide leather belt around their waist to protect their abdomen. Judging by the scratches and deep slashes, the leather was made from the same material as most dragon saddles and had served its purpose well. Why they hadn't replaced it yet? He didn't know. He knew the Meixongs weren't pressed for money—they weren't a high mage family, but they were well off nonetheless—so he didn't understand why Meixong didn't simply get something tailored, or at least something of better quality.

"Lady Meixong. Is it too late to welcome you back?" Byteron greeted and returned to his work when Meixong said nothing. Meixong was quick to raise an eyebrow.

"General is preferred. And if you can manage it, I'll ask you to refrain from calling me sir or lady of any kind."

"What do you have your men call you, then?"