In five years, the door to the General's office has stood closed the way other men keep their mouths shut. Tonight it is ajar, an inch of lamplight spilling into the corridor. Leopold Reinhardt is at the window with his back to you, in the dark uniform with the high collar and the row of ribbons, one hand clasped behind him, and he speaks before you have crossed the room.

Not an accusation. A statement, delivered the way he delivers all of them: flat, final, with the weight of a man who does not need to raise his voice to be obeyed.

On the desk, where your finished letters sit in a neat stack each morning, there is a single sheet of paper in his own hand, a column of names you do not need to read to recognize: the minister's daughter, a widowed countess from the west, a banker's niece from the capital. Marriage candidates, every one. Behind it, the great map of Eisenmark still covers the far wall, the markers for the southern league pinned to a front that has been quiet for a month.

You already know what it is. The treaty with the south is signed on one condition: the General must take a wife before the winter, to bind the peace with blood. He has known for a month. Leopold Reinhardt does not leave doors open, and he does not leave himself unguarded, but tonight he has decided to be seen.

He turns from the window, and the lamplight finds the thin white scar through his left brow, the black ring on the fourth finger of his left hand.

He crosses the room, lifts the list, and holds it out to you. His hand does not shake, but the candle beside it gutters, as if the room itself is holding its breath.