And he is, most of all, a friend.

"Heya, Forsyth!" Alm waves, jogging over. "So you're on blue team too, huh? I guess I got really lucky; I didn't think I'd have the opportunity to fight alongside you for a while."

And if Alm looks a little more excited than a king ought to be? Well, blame the paperwork, and the politics, and all the work that requires him to be glued to a chair rather than out in the fields. It feels like it's been a lifetime since he was last able to draw his sword anywhere beyond the castle's training grounds, and he's eager to take full advantage of the opportunity.

"Are you familiar with Jugdral at all? I heard that they had a pretty bad war in the past, too…"

Forsyth knew that King Alm had come to attend Garreg Mach; many royals do so, and the letter giving advance of his arrival was almost expected. He's still so very casual, treating Forsyth more like a respected peer than a knight in service, but he's never shaken his humble country upbringing. Which is a good thing, certainly. But Forsyth never is quite sure how to handle the boy-king's openness.

"Ah, King Alm! Indeed, it is fortuitous." Forsyth instinctively salutes, nodding toward his liege. As always, Alm is a bright young man, excited to learn and a shining hope for the future of Valentia. "In my time at the monastery, I've made several firm friends from Jugdral."

Forsyth is indeed familiar, but the more familiar he gets, the more difficult things become. The child-hunts. The execution of multiple individuals who walk the halls of Garreg Mach. The wars of yesteryear and the wars of--the recent past? The near future? With children and parents coexisting at impossibly similar ages, Garreg Mach feels adrift in time.

"They've been ravaged by war, both in recent years and centuries past. I would not be the one to ask regarding minute details, but I have heard stories from my comrades." This much is right. The exact timeline is still fuzzy, but it's more than even much of the archives have. "In many ways, they resemble Valentia. I cannot say exactly where they stand at the moment, but I would suspect we'll end up helping with reconstruction efforts."

Because here's the thing: Saber kept Celica safe. It's more than what any mercenary would typically do for coin, and it's better than what Alm managed to do for her when the gods were rotting and the land suffered alongside them. So if Saber hadn't been there, who knows what Celica would've lost? Limbs? Life? The little light in her eyes when she smiled, or the firm set of her jaw when she dedicated herself to something?

It's terrifying to think—so no, Alm can't just throw the man a feast and call it a day. By the time he does settle on something, it's late—but fortunately, Saber seems to still be up.

"Hey—sorry for catching you so late. But the guards haven't changed their shifts yet, so it's still before midnight, right?" Right. Which means it's still fine for him to hold out his gift for Saber to take: a high-quality flask made of steel and fitted into a leather sleeve. There aren't any engravings or fancy ornaments; it's simple, clean, and most importantly, sturdy. It's meant for a soldier's grip and will likely last for years. "The smith promised that it wouldn't dent no matter how many times you knocked it around, and I made sure to pick one that's not too flashy."

Just something straightforward, utilitarian, and dependable—very much like its new owner.

"Happy birthday, Saber. I always wished I could've told you this way earlier, but... thanks. For everything."

When word had reached Saber's ears that His-Majesty-King-Alm-of-the-One-Kingdom himself was running around the monastery like a headless chicken, never in his life would he have imagined that Saber's birthday would be the reason. "This is what had you so worked up all day? People were getting worried, you know," the merc teases with a raised eyebrow. "Still, it's a mighty fine flask. Thanks, kid."

Alm's clearly the honest type, and so when Saber takes the gift in hand, he indeed finds the leather soft and supple, the steel polished and cool to the touch. Mila knows he's got more than enough places to stash a swig of liquor or two, but still, how many mercs can boast that they got their best flask as a gift from the king? Saber's never been one for the finer things in life, but the good things, well, one can never have enough of those.

And as for the damned wriggly feelings that comes with all this… "You don't owe me anything," Saber says with a sigh, not unkindly. Truth be told, he'll always have his doubts about the youngsters on the throne. Too bullheaded, too rash, too busy trying to fix everything that they miss what's right in front of them. But a girl who personally swash-buckled a horde of pirates for her people, and a boy who scoured the whole market to thank an old sewer rat like Saber—if nothing else, they're different from the others. Kinder than who their fathers were.

Thankfully, though, he’s not in Valentia. He’s not anywhere, actually, because they’re still sailing through the open seas, unclaimed by any one nation. So here, dressed in the Academy’s blacks and golds, he doesn’t have to be a king. He can just be Alm—which means that he’s free to approach his teammates to get to know them before they make landfall, no announcement or fanfare necessary.

“Hey! You’re Ronan, right? I overheard someone calling your name earlier and realized we’re on the same team.” He holds out a hand to shake. “I’m Alm; it’s nice to meet you. I figured I should probably go around getting familiar with everyone since we’re all gonna be working together.” There’s a grin after, and then a lighthearted confession. “…And, as it turns out, staring at the ocean for hours on end isn’t exactly exciting.”

"Oh. Hey--" Ronan narrows his eyes a little, trying to bring up some kind of name or recollection from the forest green hair and bright, inquisitive eyes, the charming smile and effortless way he'd come right up to him like they knew each other. But Alm supplies his name in that wordless beat before the conversation stumbles and crashes, and smooths out the whole road ahead with a single syllable. It was an understated talent - one that Ronan couldn't help but admire a little, albeit unconsciously, even if his face had forgotten to release the stern line of his mouth and the heavy furrow of his eyebrows left by his brush with the maybe-or-maybe-not king of Thracia not too long ago.

Setting the crate he was carrying down on a table, he dusted his hands and took Alm's up in as firm and confident of a handshake as he could muster. That was how he'd seen merchants do it with the village chief when they were negotiating. Something about making a good first impression.