Michael was tired. His muscles were roaring at him, his magicka channels were frozen, and even his bones felt as if they were creaking with exhaustion. He felt about as tired as he had at the end of the battle of Lataxia. He straightened himself up in his saddle. It was the first time he’d been off his feet in what felt like an eternity, but must’ve been two weeks? Maybe more, maybe less. It was hard to tell without sleep to break up the day.He was riding at the head of a column that included a handful of Stent knights, two full squads of soldiers, fully grown Penitents, and a wagon-full of Penitents that had only just begun their training at the Academy. Michael had healed their brands, struck down a number of Stent soldiers and knights who tried to stop him, and coordinated with Bayle all the while using a paired journal. It had been difficult to write while running at full speed at first, but once he’d gotten the hang of it it wasn’t too bad. He had found himself envious of Ollie’s ability to fly after the four hundredth mile or so. At this point though he was too tired for envy, and was just focused on watching the road and keeping himself from falling out of the saddle.So far, he’d managed to keep from faltering long enough that the knights and soldiers travelling with them had not asked him if he needed to rest or suggested that he ride in the wagon. The only one that seemed to notice how tired he was was Dugan, the dwarven quartermaster, who’d decided to join them on their trip to Old Hume.He pulled his pony up next to Michael.“How’re you holding up?” he asked.“In a saddle.”Dugan shook his head. “Bad joke. Pretty damn tired then.”Michael nodded his head, feeling acutely aware of the weight of the helmet, which was unusual for him at this point.“Well. We’re only a few hours from the capital. If what you told me about the rest of the people being gathered is accurate, you should have… one (...)