It was official. Another medal.
The Star of Valor, no less—pinned proudly to the breast of the boy who'd apparently made a habit of surviving hopeless encounters and walking away with decorations instead of common sense trauma. The highest civilian honor in the entire Western continent. Which meant, by my count, I was now two-for-two, since I'd already been told I'd be getting the Medal for Merit from the Slatemark Empire.
I exhaled, running a finger along the cool metal edge of the medallion.
"Ha," I muttered aloud to no one in particular, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh of existential confusion. It was all getting a bit silly now. The Star of Valor, normally reserved for soldiers who threw themselves on grenades or civilians who stopped catastrophes, awarded to a student who'd essentially gotten into a supernatural Mexican standoff with an apocalyptic orc pope. Not exactly what the founders of the award had in mind, I'd wager.
