He steps into the wide yet shallow creek, wading through the reeds towards the other side. Behind him, the campfire burns bright, surrounded by song under the clear night. The kid whose ancestors were Catastrophe Messengers swore on his mother's name that there would be no trouble for at least another week, so this is where Sechin made camp. The soldiers sit together in small groups, all except for one rookie recently reassigned from the Vanguard Battalion, who crossed the creek on her own for reasons unknown. As their Ataman, it was Scioppa's job to know, so he follows the bootprints in the mud. They are smaller than his own, leaving marks of varying depths, and lead him to a small Originium lamp. Scioppa sits down on the ground, a pair of eyes fixated upon him. 'Nervous about tomorrow?' 'Just some bandits. Not a problem.' 'Still, it's your first mission since you joined us. So, can you sing or not?' The eyes upon him suddenly grow fierce. Scioppa rubs his head—he'd meant to apologize for his comrades' earlier heckling, only to almost repeat the same standoff. 'Guess not. It's alright, you know. I can't hold a tune either. Next time they want you to sing, just recite the words like I do.' 'Our Baba put a glass house upon the legs of a fowlbeast.' 'Not to move from place to place like us, but so that she could turn around—' Scioppa's 'demonstration' is interrupted by actual singing, which grows softer after a couple of phrases, before stopping. 'So you CAN sing.' Scioppa laughs, unconcerned by the misunderstanding. 'If you didn't want to sing, you could have just said so. We don't have all the rules and taboos of the regular forces.' 'I'll get used to it.' The Originium lamp is turned off with a crack. The Volnik's blade gleams in the dark like an eye as its wielder stands up and gestures for the soldier to follow him. The Ataman's tent is surprisingly tidy. A jacket is spread over the bunk, and various weapons are lined up on the sturdy fabric, with a water basin and a dirty towel next to them indicating that their owner was cleaning his gear. 'Give me a moment.' Scioppa grabs the jacket and begins digging through its pockets. It takes a while for him to find what he was looking for—an oval-shaped piece of metal. 'I should've done this sooner, but I was busy with route planning. It's finished now. Here.' The gray-haired young woman silently touches the words on the metal plate. 'Irina Arianovna... I hope I spelled it right. Take this too. I put a spell on it.' Scioppa takes out a silver dagger. 'While I still live, the enchantment will protect you from one fatal blow, so long as you don't lose it. Everyone here has one. 'It might be a little late, but let me say this: Welcome to Sechin.' The soldier nods and takes the dagger. She stares at the piece of metal in her hand, then at the ones just like it hanging from the chain that Scioppa is wearing. She answers in her usual, unemotional tone, 'Thank you. 'But that's not such a bad ending for a soldier.'