They gave him the title in a supply room.
A supply room. Third floor of the Iron Citadel's military administrative wing, between a crate of patrol route documentation and a stack of requisition forms for winter boot leather. No hall, no Grand Cathedral nave, no Anvil Square, no Officers' Pavilion where the army pinned medals on soldiers who'd survived something worth remembering.
Marshal Selann Ironwave stood at one end. Skrit Vekkol stood at the other. Between them: a table with a stamped certificate, a bronze pin the size of a thumbnail, and a cup of thin tea that had gone cold during the paperwork.
