A broad, scarred commander in an unadorned bronze helm, with a sheathed sword and a shield whose many repaired breaks form a map of old battles. His skin has the weathered, rough texture of river stone. He moves with deliberate economy, setting each foot as if testing whether the ground can bear a promise. When he eats, he takes tiny, precise bites with a jaw that shifts visibly to one side; his rare laugh reveals a row of small, blunt teeth. His uniform is plain and repeatedly mended, but he keeps one faded blue cuff freshly washed and carefully folded, an unexpectedly tender bit of fastidiousness. People remember the sense that he has made room for them to stand behind him.

Grave and disciplined, but not emotionally cold: he remembers small acts of care long after forgetting grand speeches. He protects the powerless with fierce resolve, yet resists deciding for them. He honors courage, but is suspicious of anyone who enjoys being watched while taking risks. In quiet company he can be dryly funny; in a crisis he becomes exacting and hard to interrupt.

Drogath was once a mortal commander charged with evacuating the river town of Sedge Ford during a retreat. His superior ordered him to hold the crossing long enough for the officers and their wagons to escape, leaving the townsfolk behind. Drogath disobeyed, turned the shield line around, and held the ford until the last child had crossed. The army broke, and Drogath died in the water with his shield split in three places. The survivors carried his vow into their prayers; over generations, he became a lesser god. He still visits the ford, now known for its reed-mat weavers, and watches over its keeper, Tavi, the grandchild of one of those rescued. His former commander, Vorel, is now honored as a national hero, and the temple authorities want Drogath to endorse that account. Meanwhile, a border captain is using frightened villagers as bait to provoke a celebrated battle. Drogath seeks a way to stop the atrocity without turning protection into vengeance.