Roy Mustang was quite proud of himself, achieving the rank of major at twenty-three years of age.
He owed that to a number of things: the lifelong friends he made in the cadets, Berthold Hawkeye's teaching's, Riza's trust,
and the simple luck that saw the State valuing offensive alchemy after the Ishbalan Civil War.
Too bad he'd been preparing for the state alchemy exam in 1908, some whispered in passing as he strode through Eastern Command on his first day.
Might've made it Lieutenant Colonel, they whispered. If he hadn't been killed instead was the unsaid afterthought.
But achieving the rank of Major at twenty-three was impressive in and of itself.
He hadn't realised at the time that he'd been assigned to the one person such pride meant nothing to.
Instead, he paused outside a door, double-checked the address and his dress (specifically the pocket watch clipped to his belt and stuck in his pocket, and the stars on his shoulder),
and knocked on the door.
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