As soon as the horse-drawn wagon arrives at Fort Nosswood, Simeon Foster kicks the door open and leaps from the seating compartment with his knapsack in-tow. He’s waited eighteen years to follow in his veteran father’s footsteps: to serve as one of the King’s soldiers, to explore uncharted lands and forge everlasting brotherhoods with his new comrades. It’s a dream come true.

And somehow, Fort Nosswood is more beautiful than Simeon dreamed. Morning light glistens against the towering white stone wall that precedes the inner-fortress. Its marvelous spires grace the belly of clouds, crowned with catapults turned earthward for foreign invaders. Simeon inhales at each fascinating sight. Every smack of his hand-me-down boots against the wooden drawbridge begs the question, Is this finally for real? He pinches his arm proper. Ouch. Yes, it’s really for real.

Two stern-faced humans stand on either side of the fort’s raised portcullis. They’re suited up with green leather armor, drawn tight around their arms and legs, emblazoned with the King’s crest on the chest piece: a mythological harpy devouring a serpent.

“Hail, recruit!” The leftward guard raises his right hand to a closed-fisted chest salute. His hand obscures the harpy’s head. “What are your orders?”

The young man stares up at the chiseled guardsman. And says nothing. Perhaps a bit stupefied from the guard’s assertive nature, Simeon panics and hesitates to recall where he stowed his recruitment letter. He nervously fingers around his pants pockets—nope, nothing there.

“Your bag, recruit?” the rightward guard asks.

Oh, right! Simeon forgot that he was carrying the damned thing. The imposing sights of Fort Nosswood took him entirely out of body and out of mind. Simeon smiles toward the second guardsman, drops his cloth knapsack onto the ground, and rummages:

A bar of minty soap. A change of common clothes. One towel. A fresh razor for shaving (though Simeon has yet to grow any substantial facial or body hair). And his hair comb. It’s the few required items for recruitment training. His father even double-checked. But the letter itself … ?

Ah! He pinches the thrice-folded piece of paper and whips it from the bag:

“Corporal … Eee-myth?” Simeon says, squinting at the military missive once sealed with green wax. Signed at the bottom, in great swirling fashions with crimson ink, Your Magnificence, King Martinus. Altogether, including the white paper, the three kingdom colors: red, white, and green.

“A spy?” the second guardsman says. He fails to obscure a suspicious grin. “That’s surprising.”