Blink blink. On a slight delay, but only slight, she finishes processing this and performs a military salute. "Understood." 

(a few years later) 

Good morning, young tourmarch Patricks! You're being promoted.  

What, again? He's not, you understand, complaining about career success but-- 

Yeah, normally it'd be a little slower than that for a normal career progression but, you see, your current legionnary commander got disintegrated. Would've been worth a raise but the budget can't quite justify a resurrection, since we're pretty sure he'll make Axis and there's an adequately competent replacement right here.  

Well, all right then.

Five years ago he'd have been really excited about this and now he has... some other feeling about it? Hm. Don't like that.

He goes and sits in his field office and does some paperwork and does not think about it, for a while.  

"Good evening," chirps his favorite Farseer, shedding her muddy boots and coat at the tentflap door because she unfortunately is not blessed with the ability to prestidigitate anything. She sits on his desk, gently displacing some pages. "Guess what, I just went eight out of ten with the Lieutenant without casting even one spell-- wait hey are you okay?"  

He will... not at this time attempt to resist the siren song of handholding. This is still allowed for a little while. "Oh, congrats," and... he really means that, his technically-not-wizard is the best one, lots of wizards don't even try to get as minimally competent at swords as they expect of the rank and file much less actually good at, but the delighted grin disappears right off his face again as soon as he's done saying it. "Um. I am apparently going to be legion commander next week."

"Oh!" excited knuckle-kiss. "That's good news though? Why are you making a face like it's bad news?"  

"Well. Ah. So, you know how technically I'm your commanding officer right now but everyone agrees it's fine because it's really obvious to anyone with two brain cells to rub together that in practice you're issuing orders in the field at least as often as I am and if I tried anything impolite you'd curse me to be devoured by my own shadow or something."

Concerned squint. "Yes?"

"I... do not think that remains true... once you're officially working for a different tourmarch who then reports to me."

Wry smile. "I literally can do the shadow thing, does that help?"

Oh no that's so cool. Help. "Some, but-- I have an obligation to set a good example, right, not just to not be the worst, and 'everyone knows' is way harder outside the space of a company where all of the soldiers know you personally? If you were three circles higher, maybe?" Ugh that sounds like such a shitty thing to say, it feels like telling her she's not good enough, but it's true is the problem. Marshall has seen a lot of combat in the last couple of years, and he's a close combat guy. He could not put Archmage Rowan on the ground in under six seconds even if she started within the reach of his sword, probably, but Avaryne? Less squishy than the average wizard at her circle though she may be... of course he wouldn't, unless she were Dominated or turned out to have been secretly a spy or something, but he could. Between that and the direct chain of command, it's not a great look. 

Tap-tap-tap go the deceptively delicate mirror-polished fingernails of the witch, on his paperwork, thoughtfully. 

She gets up, and assumes a professional standing-at-attention posture in front of his desk. 

She's objectively very chilly to the touch at all times, probably for magic reasons, but somehow he feels colder for the absence. 

Because of her contract. Which says a million things in it about obeying the chain of command because people can't be trusted to just not be idiots without being specifically instructed not to. 

Who cares. She could just ignore it, what's the worst that'd happen, that she continues to ping Chaotic Evil which doesn't mean anything anyway-- 

Marshall cares, is the thing. 

"Sir," she says, carefully, and waits for permission to speak.

Ow. "...go ahead, Farseer." 

"In accordance with policy, I am informing you of my intention to resign from crusade service at the end of my contract. Which, I am sure you recall, is in approximately two months." 

You what--

Cough. Deep breath. "Understood, Farseer, thank you. I will file the appropriate paperwork."

She is scrupulously, distantly professional for the next eight weeks.