One thousand. Almost a tenth of the entire Last Light Company straightened as I stood before them, their crash of their salutes deafening.
"So many?" I whispered as my tail curled.
Bethiv nodded, proud despite my dismay. "They're good men and women. All of them."
"And old," Kahlen muttered behind me.
I turned, giving him a sharp look. His silver robes clinked as he returned an unapologetic shrug.
"It's true, many are past their prime and were with us long before we became a formal army. A pity they grew old before they had a chance to fight in all these wars, else their aging would have long since slowed," Bethiv admitted. "But not one of them is weaker than the fourth level. It was the baseline requirement."
"Fourth!" I gasped, my tail going rigid. Fourth level was the strength of the captains and other officers in Blacksand. The standard for Sylvarus was only third!
