Meeting Hadrian Usher had never been high on Ber’s list of priorities until suddenly it was his only priority. He knew full well that people like the Captain Commander never met with people like him unless something had gone horribly wrong, and if anything seemed like an apt description of the events of the past night, that was it.

Ber was not feeling great, though it was somewhat better than he had the day prior. His head still hurt, his arm was still in the sling, and he was pretty sure his entire body was nothing except one massive bruise. When informed that the Captain Commander was waiting, he would make his way to the man’s office, knock on the door, and wait to be called inside. Once inside, he would ask, “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Upon seeing Ber, the guard outside Hadrian’s office raised an eyebrow. The boy did look like he’d been dragged through a bush backward and chucked down some stairs along the way. He felt sorry for the fellow; even sorrier when he opened the door to the commander’s office, letting Ber inside.

Hadrian sat there, hands folded on his desk. He did not rise. Instead, he wordlessly gestured to the chair in front of him. If Ber went to the chair, Hadrian did look the boy over, assessing his overall condition. He allowed himself one moment of pity—just one—before he turned his mind to other matters.

“Do you know why I’ve called you here?” Hadrian started, opening with a neutral question. An invitation.

Bravado was a dangerous thing. It had a way of getting people in over their heads and evaporating when they wanted it most. What small remaining portion of the righteous anger that had fueled him at the ball had found itself smothered under a mountain of trepidation. With adrenaline thrumming through him, Ber swallowed as he stepped inside the office, glancing around briefly before following the silent instruction to sit. The Captain Commander did not look happy, which was to be expected, but the soldier found himself wishing he could be unhappy in someone else’s vicinity.

Well, like Abbott had said the morning prior, actions had consequences, and this was the presumably the result of Ber’s admittedly hotheaded actions. When Usher spoke, he thought at least there wasn’t shouting, but he wasn’t sure the alternative was all that much better. Even a street rat like Ber could tell exactly how loaded that question was. He couldn’t know for certain why the Captain Commander had called him here, but he had a pretty good guess, which he offered after a moment. “For yelling at the Huntsman, sir?” Though his tone turned upward at the end in a suggestion of uncertainty, the answer was a little more statement than question.

Hadrian did not nod. He simply continued to look at the young soldier with piercing intensity. Whether the soldier’s claim was right or not about his reason for being there would not be made clear. After a long moment (perhaps an intentional one, to make Ber sweat a little), the commander spoke again.

“What is the nature of your relationship with the Dresmondi?”

After the words left his mouth, Ber barely dared to breathe, but there was no indication as to whether he’d guessed right or wrong. Under the weight of Usher’s stare, he resisted the urge to wipe a sweaty palm on his pants or otherwise fidget uncomfortably the longer the silence stretched on. The apprehension grew.

And then, a follow up question, an apparent non sequitur that sent confusion breaking through the trepidation. Zevran? Ber hesitated, trying to figure out how everything tied together. Sure, his outburst had been in defense of Zevran, but he had thought that shouting at Regan would have been the main point of discussion. “He’s my friend, sir,” Ber said, opting for honesty even if he wasn’t sure why the Captain Commander was asking or how much he wanted to know. “We’ve been sparring with each other when I’m not on duty. He’s told me about Dresmond, and I’ve shown him around Skia.”

Once again, Hadrian let a silence descend. Yes, it was certainly a tactic. One gained over years of making young recruits up to seasoned officers sweat. Hadrian did not abate. His fingers remained laced on his desk and his eyes fixed on Berengar.

“And what opinions has he shared with you about Nevermere?"

“Um.” Finally glancing away from the unrelenting gaze, Ber paused as he tried to recall what Zevran had said - if anything - specifically about Nevermere. Most of their more serious conversations had been about the conquered kingdom or the impending war, rather than directly about the kingdom that would be fighting it on Dresmond’s behalf. Weeks of idle conversation blended together in his memory, impressions having replaced specifics that had been lost to time.

“He’s grateful that we’re going to fight the Eldouir,” Ber said, looking back after a moment. His and Zevran’s most recent interactions jumped to mind first, but maybe if he worked backwards, he would remember something else besides the brawl they’d had the evening before the ball, a fight that now felt like ages ago. “But he’s frustrated that we aren’t helping sooner. And I think there’s some things we do that he finds a little strange, like the kinds of clothes we wear to formal events.” They had talked about that both the evening before the ball and when they’d gone shopping with Temperance. And, he remembered belatedly, about how Nevermere was apparently prudish. But he wasn’t about to share that with the Captain Commander.

Was there anything else? Logic dictated that there had to be; however, now that he had been put on the spot, he was drawing a blank. “I never really asked him what he thought about us, sir,” Ber offered instead, somewhat apologetic. Should he have?

Hadrian’s expression did not change as Ber spoke. The commander waited patiently, letting him work through his memories and peel out the offerings of information. Whatever Hadrian was looking for, he gave no indication that he’d found it. In fact, he continued to keep looking. After another length pause, ensuring Berengar had finished, Hadrian posed another question.

“And does he have any other friends I should know about?”

The next question doused the nervous heat that had spread throughout Ber’s body with a chill of dread, because Zevran did have another friend that the Captain Commander should know about. She had been the one to invite him to the ball and, Ber had assumed, get the king’s permission for his friend to attend. He didn’t know what the other man thought of anyone striking up any sort of friendship with Zevran, though Ber wasn’t sorry he’d done so, but he thought it was probably one thing for a nobody soldier like him to do so and quite another for it to be the King’s Witch.

If the Captain Commander didn’t already know, though, would he be getting them into trouble? Zevran would figure out quickly that Ber had said something, and he didn’t want to rightfully alienate his friend by betraying his trust. Or, for that matter, make an enemy of Alys Delaney.

But it wasn’t like he could simply ignore the question either. After a moment, Ber gave a vague, “The King’s Witch invited him to the ball, sir, so I think they’re friends.”

Again, Hadrian remained inscrutable. He knew very well Alys had been the one to invite him; Hadrian hadn’t thought it a huge problem, but it would seem there were several things that he’d overlooked. He’d pay for that, he was certain. But the revelations that had come as a result of the Dresmondi’s appearance were also not to be dismissed.

Hadrian’s eyes scanned Berengar’s features before finally, mercifully perhaps, the commander leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. His gaze remained firm, but it did not bear the same probing intensity it had before.

“The Dresmondi are a lawless people. Their lives are governed by their whims and desires, not their responsibilities to others. They seek freedom and chaos at the expense of order and authority.” Hadrian’s tone was neutral and factual, not angry or judgemental. As if he were teaching Berengar algebra.

“Nevermere, on the other hand, is a kingdom of discipline. We have flourished because we seek to make order out of chaos; we serve our kingdom above ourselves, and in doing so we build a better society for those that come after us. Now—” Hadrian leaned forward again folding his hands on the table. His voice was low and tone vaguely threatening.

“I suggest you reexamine your loyalties, Private Stormcrest. I suggest you consider the opportunities you’ve been granted as a Nevermerean, and what you stand to lose if you squander them. For I have very little patience for those who bite the hand that feeds them—be they men of Dresmond or those of Nevermere.” It would be crystal clear just who it was Hadrian was speaking of on both counts. Hadrian would wait, eyes fixed on Berengars, before straightening once again in his chair.

“You are remanded to staff duty until further notice. The Dresmondi will be dealt with, but as for you…” Hadrian’s jaw tightened, “You are not to speak to him ever again. Your…friendship is finished. Do I make myself clear?”

Hadrian considered it an act of mercy—partially motivated by the boy’s poor condition.

Something in whatever he said seemed to appease the Captain Commander, for he leaned back in his seat. Ber dared to relax ever so slightly, but the respite only lasted a moment before the other man began speaking again. He started talking about Dresmond, with a different perspective than the one Zevran had shared, and then he moved on to Nevermere, and Ber was silently registering the outlined differences between the two kingdoms when the other shoe dropped.

Riding a wave of emotions he couldn’t hope to sort out, his thoughts scattered in multiple directions at once, jumping from the warning, to the clearest acknowledgement that he stood on very thin ice, to the reassignment to staff duty, to the ominous statement about his friend’s fate, before finally settling on the final orders the Captain Commander had given. He was not to speak to Zevran ever again. They weren’t allowed to be friends anymore. That was— Swallowing, Ber nodded, and when he found his voice again a moment later, he added a quiet, “Yes, sir.”

Hadrian considered himself a mentor; one that had every one of his soldiers’ best interests at heart. Right or wrong, he believed he was doing Ber a favor in the long run. The Dresmondi were an inferior people by culture and comportment. To have Zevran pollute his mind with notions of opression and injustice would only take out Berengar’s career at the knees.

“Rest and heal,” Hadrian said, not softening but no longer combative, “When you are well enough to return to work…see that you take advantage of this second chance.” Hadrian relaxed and leaned back in his chair. “You’re dismissed, soldier.”