Gideon, definitely the type of person to punch her way through the shrubbery, says, “Sure.”

It feels true. She remembers a lot. Most aren’t direct memories, maybe, but they’re still there: the training, the swords, the ranks, the uniforms, the ships. It’s enough to make it feel solid enough to qualify as vaguely shakey instead of downright unplausible.

Her eyes watch the hedges as they walk, guard up for any snaking vines. She steps over the ones that curl out low against the grass, keeps a watch on the necromancer’s flimsy necromancer ankles. He’d been concerned about getting through, and she doesn’t want to end up on Camilla the Sixth’s bad side. She doesn’t have a sword, so her hands are balled into fists as she stalks behind him.

“You don’t?”