The barracks were, for the most part, empty the afternoon of the ninth. It was the weekend, everyone was going to visit friends and family. All except one that is.

Ilithyia Lutgardis was snuggled up onto her bed, grim opened to the theorems of level two perceptive magic. Her hair was down, and she was still in her pajamas. Her hand protectively covered her stomach, the feeling of being awful and ill ruining her mood. She’d felt sick for two days now, and it was staring to get old. I should have been working out. I should be training or actually finding a damn tutor for this damn grim. But no, I'm stuck in bed with... whatever the hell this is.

Groaning into her pillow, she tried to suck-it-up like she’d been taught in both school and training, forcing herself out of the bed and onto the ground. Fine then, goddess damn it, I'll just get it over with now. However, a dizzy spell hit her and she was almost forced back onto her sheets.

“Alioe, what is wrong with me? I’ve not been sick since I was little!” She tried again, this time more careful. Much better. Slowly changing into her uniform, she tried not to focus too hard on anything for fear of the come-and-go headache she’d developed. Longest damn case of after-brail I’ve ever heard of, she grumbled internally before finally walking out the door for a run on Spondola.

Not a moment later, she was in the women's bathhouse, vomiting in a bucket and utterly bowed over the altar of illness. So, it’s gonna be one of these days again, is it? Wiping her mouth with the back of one hand, she stood and dumped the mess down one of the drains. Eh, I’ll just keep it to myself. Alstair and the rest of the company don’t need to know. Crawling back to her bed, she grabbed the book and began reading once more.

Truth, a potent spell of the second level, is used to tell if the subject is lying. This works on even the most skilled liars...