To lay siege to a city, Shahin discovered, was a surprisingly boring venture.

To note boredom, of course, was not to say that there was nothing to do—idleness was an affliction all too rarely found in wartime. Quite the contrary, the workload was endless: fortifications were perpetually being erected, maintained, and altered when the need suited. The army in the first month would certainly have its hands full ensuring it had cut off every trade route which Cadosa might use as a supply line. Off in the great, crystal-blue ocean Shahin was well aware that Andrea would busy herself with all the duties of a successful blockade, whether it involved attacking fishing skiffs, chasing away merchants, or even engaging with the occasional skirmish with the Elusian navy maneuvering in Oceaf leagues upon leagues away.

Meric, too, was occupied in a lethal battle for the city: she and the army's four other battlemages were engaged in an invisible struggle with the various healers and hedge-witches who called Cadosa home. Though the Wicarian-trained battlemages had the edge in experience and raw power, they contended with more than a hundred men and women who knew the land and had worked with its magic their entire lives. At that very moment Shahin could picture Meric with ease, sitting in an arcane circle, chanting charms to beat away the fever-spells the enemy sorcerers sent at their troops, even as her colleagues struggled with city wards which had stood for hundreds of years. Should they succeed, they would be free to whisper blight-spells and spoilage into their enemy's storehouses, hastening the fall of the city before Elusian troops could come to aid their beleaguered brethren.

But for Shahin? His expertise was not required—Cadosa had not grown desperate enough to directly engage the Adrigolans with all their impressive fortifications. For him, there was little of substance to do besides micromanage the army engineers, beat off mosquitoes, and think.

"See this big fella right here, my friend?" The warm drawl of Cassius's voice snapped Shahin out of his reverie. "He's not quite as accommodating or understanding as I am, y'see? And sad to say, he's our resident intelligence officer, so he's got final say in whether or not you walk free to go join your wife and kiddos. You say you can offer us some tidbits to buy your way through this blockade? You gotta impress him, my friend."

The portly merchant cast a glance over to Shahin, noting his missing eye, scarred face and limbs, and unamused expression. He swallowed, an impressive wattle quivering with the motion, and shifted position on his knees. The tunic covering his legs was made of fine cloth, the quality easily visible even muddied as it currently was.

"Well, sir knights," the merchant began, a wheedling tone in his voice. "I can assure you that I, a lowly fishmonger, would pose no danger to your, ah, interests in this region. Surely we can work out some sort of bargain so I might go and meet with my family in—"

He wastes time, Shahin signed to Cassius. The merchant squeaked and went silent at the unexpected motion. Ask him a direct question already so I can leave.

Cassius rolled his eyes, but gave the merchant a reassuring grin. "No need to fret, pet— he's just an impatient one, our Sir Shahin. He's not much for gold, either; what he simply adores is information, the kind that might gives an idea of how to pry Cadosa open like a nut. Do you think you'd be willing to help us there?"

The merchant hesitated, looking over Shahin again. He responded in kind, expression as impassive as a stone cliff.

"...yes, I could help you there if it meant my freedom."

There was no odor of honeysuckle.

He's telling the truth.

Shahin spotted Cassius watching him closely, eyes reptile-cold. He gave a barely perceptible nod, and the other knight returned to his mask of smiles.

"Perfect! Tell me, friend: how many trained troops might we find in the walls of that pretty city? Include the guardsmen, if you please."

"I...ah, I estimate perhaps a thousand, including the guardsmen. Cadosa was not expected to be the prime target of an attack until later in the war; most of our soldiers were sent to other battlefields."

Truth, Shahin signed, and Cassius hummed with pleasure. What about men and women old enough to fight? Drafts are rare, but permissible under Elusian law. The soldiers that remain could well be conscripting and training others.

I'll ask for the draft, but not population— the king's got records of that already, Cassius signed back, fingers flickering effortlessly through the odd signs of Bard-Speech. It was almost too quick for Shahin to catch; he had only begun to study Cassius's sign language a month ago so that he might not be forced to communicate entirely in limited battle signs and grunting. "How about a draft, my friend? Nasty things, drafts— I've never been the infantry type myself, so knighthood is my contribution to the war effort."

The merchant's eyes widened; a bit of patriotism must have still niggled at his conscience. Shahin knew before he detected the odor that honeysuckle would fill the air: "No, sir knights."

Predictable things, the lies of the desperate. Nonetheless, Shahin allowed his expression to darken to thunderous, one hand creeping for his sword. Cassius glanced up at him; the bard-knight's lips tightened, and the smile disappeared like the sun behind a cloud.

"My, my, my," he murmured, voice smooth as ice and twice as cold. "Sir Shahin here thinks you're lying to me, and he's an excellent ear for lies. That's not very friendly of you, Master Fishmonger. And here I thought we were getting along splendidly?"

The merchant made an interesting squeaking sound which under other circumstances Shahin might have found amusing. He raised his hands pleadingly, gaze fixed on Shahin. "I'm sorry! I—I didn't mean to—"

A draft isn't good news, Cassius signed, fingers hidden from the pleading man. If Meric and the other mages don't blight the supplies in time, we could have a population full to bursting of trained fighters. Any strategist worth their salt will keep the most promising back and trained for sabotage and resistance, unless they somehow get word of reinforcements to break the siege in time. It could make Cadosa hell to occupy, maybe even more trouble than the siege proper.

"We don't like liars, Master Fishmonger," Cassius crooned. Shahin wondered which was the real man: the eerie smiler or the dispassionate analyst. "It's so very rude. Tell me, do you have any other information? Something sweet and nice, so Sir Shahin doesn't feel as inclined to kill you."

The night around them was muggy and fogbound, and the merchant's clothes were already dark with mud and sweat. Nonetheless, Shahin would swear the fabric near the crotch of the tunic went even wetter.

"I—" the merchant went wider, eyes wide with the same terror that kept him from forming words. Shahin eyed him for a moment, then snorted as he signed.

You went overboard, minstrel. He's useless now.

Cassius pouted. I doubt he knew much more in any case. The draft bit was clever thinking— how did you know Elusians allowed it?

Shahin's lips tightened. I have some experience with Elusian law. Best to finish with him now.

"Please don't kill me," the merchant whispered. "I have a family. I—I just wanted to see my daughter. Please."

"Well, Sir Shahin? Are we feeling merciful towards liars today?"

Something tightened in Shahin's throat as he looked at the groveling man. He's soft. There's no danger from him. Send him home: a prosperous merchant won't be used to rationing himself during a siege. He'll be another mouth eating away at their storehouses, and voice to surrender and get his comforts back.

Cassius raised an eyebrow at that, but turned to the merchant. "My brother-in-arms here must be in a good mood. If I were you, I'd scuttle on back to Cadosa before his mind changes."

Bleating various blessings to a vaguely familiar ocean god, the merchant scrambled to his feet and sprinted away into the night, crashing through the underbrush in a desperate flight to the doomed city.

Cassius sidled closer, watching the merchant go with his head cocked to his side. "I do love the power of a good story— in a matter of hours, he'll be spreading tales of bloodthirsty knights who stare into your very soul, undermining morale for us. My, if this work is proper sabotage, maybe my choice of career wasn't so unwise after all. What do you say?"

The clouds above shifted, covering the bright moon and casting the night in even deeper shade.

This is death by constriction, minstrel. To work, our battle must take them on all sides and all battlefronts.

Cassius grinned. "Now there's a quote worthy of a song."

The field was just as Cassius imagined it in the sense that it freezes him with dread. That his steps collapse so it seems he's walking atop the tempest Western Sea rather than just a sea of bristles and buckwheat. In other senses, it strays from his haunting incubus. It resembles more what his attentive mind has thought would be better. There is no bridge because there is no river for it to span, both of which, inconsequential absentees. More transformative is the lack of an army other than their's - at least not one showing themselves. Cay tries to squint between the trunks of far-away trees to catch any sign of ambush, though he knows there are taller men with eyes more waned by battle surrounding him who would see the enemy five paces before he could. The place of inquiry is a little grove which sits between the plain and what the navigators say are the footsteps of Galesia. The breadth of it cannot be said other than it goes back further than three lines of trees. Even if it fell behind that, it could still be host to a standing army.

Mumford before has been adamant that it could not, when Cay, in his tactical naivety, has pondered aloud on why soldiers do not make more use of the elements, including that of surprise. "These are noblemen, not pirates, Cassius," he would tell him. "And secrecy is less of an advantage than you would think." It always came off as dismissive to Cay, nobility is eschewed from his mind for images of raw meat when he thinks of soldiers. For pirates, he imagines their rotten and chipped teeth biting into rankfruit robbed from some family bazaar. It makes him grimace, but stops his gut from somersaulting. Thievery he can stomach.

Now, as the field continues to bear no opponents, Cay prods his friend on the issue again and given no response. Since the time they spent together in the dungeons, the Adrigolian ones, all he has been able to see of Mum is his chin. Professionalism in response to growing pressure would be a common explanation for such distance, but Cay and his insecurities can't help but prescribe it to a cold.

The sun is blocked off by clouds which coagulate the sky like a web, or the great bushy beard of a holy chin. Upturned, like only a god could do to only his subjects. Despite this respite from what has been a summer of dry heat, it still feels as if he's about to melt into the ground any moment. He was never built for marching - skipping, rather. Perhaps a gallop or two. His churning legs carry the rest of him as if it were a knapsack, his skin drapes from him like a cotton throw. The grass he's crushing, crushing, crushing, with his steps, is in want of water, just as it has been in his night visions. His night visions - pah! - as it has been for nigh on three moons. Making note of it is akin to making note that he is always he in those foolish, imaginary mares. Those manifest insecurities, never fortunes. For the risks they have been ordered to take, their fortunes have been spotless. For all the grass he crushes in the march of war, it only bites at his ankles, and has not yet had the chance to feed on him to the bone as it would if he were laid in it dead. He hesitates to think on his luck and doesn't dare utter it for a dread that his braggary would by cut short by an arrow through his chords. He looks back to the treeline and sees nothing. The Adrigolian barracks keep marching.

They've since passed the midpoint of the prairie, which is not marked, nor even defined by anything but his perception. Those at the front are around two-thirds of the way through already, so certainly, the equilibrium is in even his lagging wake. If the Elusians come out now, they'll only be fighting to keep a major loss in ground from turning into a total one. "Relax, Cay," it's Leo from behind (where she has lingered for the company and often jests about his pace). Her shoulder plates creak as she tousles the shoulders he was only given a tunic to protect. Quality boar leather; strong as thick parchment. "Nobody here is going to come at us."

"What do you mean?" he looks over his soldier, trying to keep pace marching still. "What are we doing here then?"

"Look, I don't like it either."

Cassius frowns. He doesn't know what that means, but after a minute to think, he has an inkling. During all this thinking grass is crushed and crushed, and he thinks of what he thinks they are about to instigate and thinks he should stop crushing grass and he does. Only because he's crushing dirt now.

The orchard is piebald from where infant leaves have drowned out the ground at their lushest, and left it to be scorched in their absence. A three-abreast path weaves around the trees and is widened and embedded with gravel on the gradient toward civilization. Stones and twigs stud the way, and the way it pains him to proceed, he may as well be walking without slippers. Trees block off every way he can see other than the way ahead, their bodies closing in on him, and their crowns leering over. Above the buzz of the state, which must be coming from the famed marketplaces, bubbles the joyous cries of children at play. "Lords, make me deaf," Cay whimpers.

Coming into view, is a cobblestone square which wraps around a fountain that looks to have been left dry and static for too long. It depicts a merchant in olden garb who is lifting a kettle over his own head. Presumably, the water is pumped out the spout to trickle over his marble skin. Cay is kind enough to guess it means more symbolically to the Galesians than it does he. The kids he hears are running around the bowl of it and whacking the figure with sticks. They have good technique. Man, even these little tykes have him beat in a tilt - False-Prince Johnathan's honour knows what he's doing here. Other than mucking about and penning trite verses, naturally? Things would be much better at the castle. Summaries of these battles could be sent back his way by bird, and he would write chanties of superior quality as his mind and his self would be at ease. With much greater conviction, can he proclaim those who slaughter citizens as heroes if he only hears of it by birds; they never go into the foul details. And then the knights wouldn't have to lug his weak legs and weaker mind. If Gavin were to allow such an arrangement, Cay wouldn't even quip on what his amblings to the owlery have shown to be torrid conditions for the pheasants kept there: coops a rat would feel cramped in, and hardly a kernel of corn a day to eat, not to mention the birds, made to fly two-three times a week.

Mum and Leo would have to go out still, and he'll follow them until they tell him to stop.

Up close the children are even more impressive - at least twice the age of their laughter. The girl has been on the potatoes, lords! They could be siblings, or maybe they're a pair of knights like Leo and Mum. Meaning he's the fecking fountain. Fitting. The kids in turn are impressed by his company, taking respite from the game to glance at their blades like coy wantons and to gaze at their numbers. It looks as if they decide to run as soon as the barracks surround them in passing to take such an option away. Things will pass, though, and they will get out.

Past them, the square ebbs into a road, a spattering of hovels on either side. A mutt appears in one of the windows and starts off, looking ready to jump through it and sick them, but it never does. It only brings more heads to their doorways. Sullen eyes pop out of darkness and hover there haunted but unable to be pried away. Each pupil so selfish it would watch the other be spooned without blinking. Is he the only one in this land who cares, Cassius wonders, as he only stares right back at them.

Distractions and consistency lulled the stain on his tendons until he treads only half on an inlaid stone. The slight imbalance pulls out the pain from his knee, and he has to bite down to clip his howls. Those around him close in a half-step extra while their hands flash to weaponry. For whom?

When the front line breaks past the first bazaars, shushes spread through the market alley like a spell. Customers shuffle away and the shopkeeps shrink back as if their stands were homes continued from the street down. A bag of pears is spilled out into their way in the bustle, and a soldier trods on one and smashes it into the ground. The pear woman has a bold-print sign dangling from her awning which says if you touch it, you must buy it, but not even she speaks up. Only a particularly tone-deaf man with bright red cheeks, and an exuberant mustache which sits atop them, keeps talking. He waggles the sprout-end of a carrot at the army like they were nothing other than new customers. "Five coin for a bundle - best carrots in Galesia! Get yers, get yers!" he shouts with a stilted western dialect.

Cassius immediately takes a liking to him; he makes him smile. It's the first thing he has seen his soldiers take humour with since Leo had fallen into the river mange days back. Whether to settle his stomach, or somehow settle his mind, Cay decides he will buy from the man. Moving against the stream from in to out, he tickles his pockets for currency. The man greets him with a smile and pulls him in with a hand around his shoulder. "Yessir. Carrots for you? Best carrots, best carrots?"

"Best carrots," he affirms, spilling five coin onto the counter. The man puts a bundle of carrots in Cay's hand and grabs it with both of his, shaking it with fervor. He laughs like a waterfall and sputters blessings. What a beautiful exchange, Cay thinks as a passing soldier asks him what he's doing in jest. Cay pulls away. Then leans in, trying to look serious though the man's countenance makes him want to sing. "Get out of here, okay? Can you understand me? Go," he says as loud as he dares. All he gets is squints and tilts, but he cannot iterate more with the flow of those who would take objection to it at his back. He falls back in line, biting down on a carrot like a pipe. The salesman nods at him as he goes, and he can only hope it isn't hollow or placating.

It's a tasty carrot; nothing special.

When he makes his way back to Leo and Mum he is greeted with shaking heads. They will have words for him too, but he stays far enough behind that they cannot express them without shouting or breaking stride. It seems to break stride is impossible in this flesh and alloy stream when you're in it. He just did so and it wasn't even hard, but it dragged him back in eventually. Stopping it completely is another mountain; impossible for a man of his stature. And then it stops. Right in the bustle. 'Not here,' he mouths. Of course it was going to be here.

His company stops for just a breath to look around before taking Cay by the wrist and squeezing from position to the perimeter. Halfway up a paved-over hill is a stand more sturdy than most. It is a caravan closed off on three sides and dripping in cheap jewelry. The proprietor, a woman wrapped in many shawls, watches with fear as Leonor marches up to her and her establishment.

"Get out," Leo orders. The woman only stammers. "Run!" she repeats, this time wrapping her fingers around her hilt. It works. Leo jumps up to replace the displaced, checking the view from a few different perspectives. "You should be able to see almost everything from here," she tells him. "And it should ward off most attacks. I don't expect many attacks in general, anyway." She hops back to the stone and bids him up.

Cassius falters,"Please," he so gently pulls her back from the pending conflict, "this is no battlefield."

"Nor is any field before battle." It sounds dismissive, and his mouth opens to ask her how she can be so, but on even such brief reflection, it unravels to become a yarn with much more meaning. The cry of a combattant compulsed into conflict. What makes them easier to slay than a civilian? She gives him a weak smile, and he gives her a weak frown.

Mumford touches him, it startles him so that he cannot tell where. The blood agitated from the contact has exploded to his every extremity. He pouts like a stray, purely from sympathy. "Will you sing for us still? It helps, you know. I've never told you before how it helps us, but it does. Oh Cassius, sing for us so we may come back to you," he says as he pushes Cay up to his perch.

Silence follows. Cay takes out another carrot and chews it. They leave. It's a struggle to swallow.

Cassius switches out his half-eaten root for a charcoal nub and some parchment, and peeks over the counter. A man of stature greater even than Mumford's is bellowing out commands. The Elusians must not hear them, their focus too spent on bowmen who tease their strings. None of them dare start even a war so evidently on its way. "Ready!" the general crows. Everything after that is drowned by the explosion of belated chaos. Noise from every angle. Something whooshes over there, a young shopkeep falls dead across from him. He watches every black-clad soldier with a bloated heart because quick after the action they became a hundredth Mum and Leo to him by probability. One of them is flayed by a chef's knife, and Cay's intake is as cold as a mint leaf. The corpse rolls over to reveal a big bloodied beard, and he exhales like cassia.

A tomato smashes against the post of his caravan, then a hunk of flesh he wishes was a tomato is flung inside. Someone must have seen the drivel he has down so far. He ducks into a curtain of baubles which tug at his throat and tangle with his hair. Panicking, he picks them out faster than his fingers can work, exasperating the mess before tidying it. When he pops back up to the counter, a woman wrapped in shawls leers over him.

No! Why would she come back?

"My store," she cries, pushing him back with two heels to the chest, and it turns him weightless. From a unitary object, his stomach is turned into a loosely connected menagerie of its contents. Of carrots and butterflies. His head hits the floor, cracking the board directly under it to an extent he cannot guess. It does not knock him cold, because that would spare him the pain of asphyxiation. Hands the size of flounders press down on his chords until his squeals cannot come out. "Get out! Isn't that what yer lady friend said? Get out?" She laughs, and it warbles his muted voice. "Think cuz I'm juss a jeweler yous can whip me around? Go on 'ed, keep underestimating me. I love a reason to hurt an Adrigolian! This hurts donnit? Heh. Yee, I know." Two shadows fall over her. Cassius squirms, he tries to point and to tell her to get off and she can go then, but he cannot. He blacks out for just a second, and wakes to the warmth of blood on his face, and the sound of his own face ringing in his ears.

Leo pulls out her sword, spitting more body down his tunic. The woman falls beside him. He runs his hand across static hair, feeling violent heartbeats through his bones. He looks into the yawning custard eyes and speaks tenderly, "A plague o both-"

The body is whipped away from him. Leo has it by the foot and flings out the caravan and onto the street with the others. Mumford and she replace its presence, clotting away the outside. Between gasps, they ask if he is alright, and don't listen to him when he says he is - probably because he's crying. They sit him up against a heap of uncomfortable beads and prod and prod at his throat. There's nothing to say, but as usual, Leo has to talk.

"Hey," she smiles, "I got your coins back for you." She opens up his fist and places them in his palm. They're slick. Mum and Cay look at her like a stench. 

He awoke on a cot, coarse blankets stuffed around his legs, under his head, and a cold sweat on his brow, and a gasp in the little slit between where his beard should've been, and then a scream in his throat, for he not where where he was, or what had happened, or how he got here - all he knew, at first, was the panic. "Where's my wife?! Bring me my boy!" The demand was hoarse and shrieking, worry lacing his vocal cords. But the next call was louder, more sure: "Bring me my sword!" he roared. "I'll put a damn blade in their knees before I let them touch my boy! I'll put a damn-"

Hands touched his chest, pressing down harshly, and he knew not what sort of hands they were or whose hands they belonged to before he took his own and launched a knotted fist against the flesh and bone as hard as he could. Whoever they were cried out in pain, brought their arms away. Vere moved to sit, to get away, but those same young hands came into his vision, and with a fierce, high-pitched cry, they struck his nose and knocked him flat on his back. There wasn't any air in his lungs after that. He felt a throb and smelled metal. More hands had come, several pairs, all restraining him. Oh, fuck off, the lot of you.

"Vere Lennox," the voice above him said irritably. He tried to focus on her face, but everything blurred together. "You ought to know better than to put your hands on someone who's just trying to help you. Bloody hell, it's already bruising!"

"You," he said, wagging his finger aimlessly, "put that surname back where you got it. You-" He squinted, pieces coming together: her dark hair, the toned olive of her skin, the wide cheeks and pointed chin. "Avice." Relief came; he knew her, she knew him. But then the other crushing weight came, the remembrance: his wife was dead and so was his son. He'd flung a sword into the knees of everyone he could already. There was nothing to be done. So then- "What happened? What's happening?"

Avice looked up, her brown eyes shooing the others away; they seemed hesitant to leave, but she assured them it was fine, somehow (he'd zoned out). Then she sat on the edge of the cot, laid her bruising arm upon her lap, and stared down at Vere's strained features. She was very pretty in the way she showed concern. He was sure he looked deranged himself. Was he hyperventilating? "Please just tell me."

She pursed her lips. "You've been here a while. Thrashing here. We had to tie you down a couple nights-" A breath, sucked in. "We had to wait while your treatment from Feralian came in."

The beads of sweat on his back felt like ice, like he'd been dunked in a pond n slapped upon the bed. He shuddered against it. "So it was the condition." Not a question.

"Yes," she said anyways.

"And I missed a battle." Not a question.

"No," she said anyways. "But you will be in a few hours, at the very most. They are in Elusian territory."

There it was again, the panic. No- adrenaline, flushing through his veins. He felt it, tight and swelling and ready to burst straight from the capillaries. He moved to stand, and Avice's hand pressed firmly against his chest, keeping him still. Even that left him dizzy. He looked at her, desperation plain as day in the creases of his face. "Please. I need this. I've always needed this. You remember how I was, how bad I needed to fight. How hard I did."

Avice sighed, tucked smooth hair behind her ear. "Yes, I remember. You came in afterwards in delirium, covered in blood with all your fingers mangled. You collapsed right on the ground from exhaustion. You were in no condition to fight then and you are in no condition to fight now. Do you understand me, Vere?"

There was pressure behind his eyes, so he closed them, and inhaled deeply. He smelled faint traces of vomit from the corner, faint traces of flowers right in front of him. It soothed him, despite the anxiety building in his chest, and he took up the familiar woman's hand, and he held on tight as he once had. "I understand you perfectly well, Avice. But you need to understand me too." Silence. He swallowed, felt dryness. "You know I respect your word. If you say not to go, I will not go. But can you bring water? Everything's..." He clenched a fist in front of his lips. "All scraping together."

The hand squeezed back, then detached, and the pressure on the bed ceased. "I suppose. Stay here. I'll be back quickly." It was a warning.

And then she was gone, having zoomed away, and probably moving with the intent to return similarly. She knew Vere, and Vere knew her, which was why when he heard the heavy wooden door to the other room fall behind her, he lunged out of the bed and carried himself at a limping hobble toward the outside. His vision was blurred, and spots appeared from standing too fast, but that didn't matter; he had to get out, he had to fight. He had to fight because his wife was dead and his son was gone and his body was dying and he had nothing left but the power in his hands and the frustration in his fingers.

Those hands, those fingers, fell upon something cold and wet shortly after being exposed to the fresh air of a morning rain. He hauled himself up over the large wagon's edge, muttering loudly to the person manning the thing, "The Elusian battle. I mustn't miss it."

He heard the shift of someone turning around, and hoped that he looked better than he felt. His back was pressed hopelessly against the back end of the wagon, legs splayed out amongst hay and buckets of feed. The individual clicked their tongue, sucked in a sharp breath. "Vere. I didn't think you'd be making it. Are you sure you're up for this?"

This, he thought about. But he only gave it a few seconds before answering, with absolute certainty, "I am completely at my senses, and I say that this is the surest I've ever been." Despite fearing the death of a involuntary fight just weeks before all this. Am I at my senses?

The driver nodded, needing nothing else, and took off with a flick of the reigns. Probably glad to have something important to do, Vere theorized.

As they moved along, the trees became clearer, and the feeling of their dew slipping down and plodding against his skin felt fresher, and his body began to feel new, and he looked back at the little medical center the Adrigolians had made for themselves and saw Avice, arms crossed but eyes knowing - not disappointed - as if she had known this'd be the outcome all along. If anyone knew him well, it was she. Always Avice.

He held eye contact with her until she faded to a pinpoint. Perhaps she did the same only because she figured this would be the last she'd see of him. And if that truly were the case, then, well-

So be it.

The rest of the ride carried along like this: thinking, maddened muttering to oneself, the frantic pull of a thumb in order to crack it every few minutes or so, fists built and resting solid at his side and alternatively fists gathered up by the temples, pressing in, wondering if this was truly his fate or if this was a simple case of unanticipated suicide. Part of him wanted his mind to shut down, to let him enjoy the bumping, bumbling journey, but there was no way - not even with the most fervent of prayers to his heavenly father - to turn it off. The only way he found any sort of reprieve was by interrupting himself-

"Faster, I beseech you!" Father, I beseech you-

The reigns cracked, the wagon jostled, his neck whipped back against the wooden backboard, and then they were there.

For a moment he simply lay there, listening to the strong commands of men and women alike in the distance, to the sounds of swords on the grindstone, the scraping song it screamed, to the calm thwacking of tent posts being thrown into the ground, to the stretch of rudimentary mechanics as the catapults were placed and readied. He knew all of these sounds by muscle memory, and part of him thought what a vivid memory. I could reach out and touch it. But then someone, the driver, reached out and touched him, and he was awake, on his feet, wide-eyed at the realness of it all.

This is real. I will fight again.

Adrenaline took the driver's hand. "Thank you," Vere said, looking the man earnestly in the eye. "Thank you for this. I have nothing on me, but- hell! Take the sword when I'm done with it."

"That's-" the man began, but Vere had already vaulted over the edge of the wagon and landed in the mud, all the brown muckiness of it splattering up his pants, wet on his ankles. There wasn't any weakness in his step, aside from a stumble here, a buckling of the knees there. But he was fine. He'd be fine. He sought an armory and an arsenal and his youth.

God, the other soldiers looked at him as they did in youth, didn't they? Heads craned and mouths turned into O's and double-takes were no infrequent reaction. He could envision himself as he was, yes, he could. Broad shoulders, clean beard, quick legs - he embodied direction and emphasis and wit. But part of him felt the grime of his chin, felt the smallness of his calves. He hadn't moved like this in quite some time. Would he be alright? He waved the doubt away; of course he would. 'Course he would.

When he came to the armor, all the pristine bits and pieces'd been taken already, but while disappointment sat in his gut, it didn't sit there long. He grabbed up a heavy breastplate and slipped it on; he grabbed up dirt-encrusted sabatons and slipped them on; greaves, pauldrons, he took them all - but he took no helmet and left some parts of his body free. That's how he'd done it back in the day, and he'd been perfectly fine. It was against orders, but it was perfectly fine. He needed to be able to move. To run, to swing. The authorities were wrong in their commands - he knew better. He always had.

As he came to the weaponry and surveyed for a blade of perfection (one that "spoke" to him, per se), a voice emanated from behind. "Vere Lebriole. Seems to me the devil is dressed a little too valiantly."

He didn't know who the voice belonged to, so he didn't look back, and instead let his sights fall on a beautifully crafted blade, hilt bronzed over and weight situated where it needed to be. "Perfect."

The voice returned, strained now. "What are you doing here, Vere? You can't expect to actually fight, can you? You look like you just crawled out of the grave!"

"Perhaps I did," Vere said numbly, flashing the sword free of its place. It rang smoothly against the other blades and glinted in the sparse light of a morning rain that'd passed. Peace. War brought him peace and a steady exhale. "Perhaps my young soul has crawled out of the grave and possessed me." Finally, he turned, eyes narrowed and a smile between his hollow cheeks. He pointed his sword at the man. "Perhaps my young soul was sent by the devil, if you're so insistent on my being him."

Vere meant to move past him, then, and he did, but the man grabbed him by the forearm and sent a pleading gaze through the eye slits of his helmet. "Do you wish to die?"

Vere's expression did not change. "No. I don't intend to." Then a grin, a pat. "Have faith, brother! Have faith."

Armor squelched beneath him, a pep in his step as he moved towards where the battle'd be (based on overcrowding, naturally). Everything was so sharp, so clear, but blurring together all the same. The sounds perked his ears but he couldn't tell where they came from, just that the horn had sounded and there was marching all around him and he was slipping through the wet grass. A woman made a speech. Soldiers moved in silence.

And Vere remembered.

Fingers smoothed themselves across his smooth cheeks, wrinkles not yet lain down like a corpse on the earth. Corpses lingered in their minds, but this was no place to dive into the details, so they didn't. They held one another instead - his face in her hands, his hands 'round her waist. Eyes closed. He didn't need to see his wife to know the features of her face sharply in his mind, though later he'd regret not looking longer than he had that night. He'd regret not taking the time to memorize everything he'd already memorized. Smell. Touch. Sight. Sensation.

Sound.

"The stymphalian bird," she whispered softly, talking to herself, almost, "is made of bronze. It is large and fierce and loves real flesh." Nails trailed his jaw. "It's warm. But what they love most is when the flesh fights back. So I tell you now, Vere: don't fight back. Outsmart them. Be wise. Don't act on impulse this time, love. Don't get yourself killed."

Vere snorted, but it wasn't anything condescending. "There are no such things as stymphalian birds. I can't be killed by a myth."

But at this, the woman sat up. Her hands never left his face. She made him open his eyes. "There is truth in every myth. Don't miss the point. That's the point of giving our son the feather, yes? So he remembers. Truth in every myth. Repeat after me."

"Truth in every myth," they said in unison.

"Don't forget it, Vere Lennox. Be smart."

Metal clashed and blood spurted and he came back into the world with the feeling of that wicked red splashing on his cheek, sticky and warm and like death. It made him gasp; he wasn't expecting it. There wasn't even any time to see who'd fallen. The sword came for him.

He thrusted upwards, blocking the blow, and shoved forward, shoved the enemy away long enough for him to bounce backwards, create distance. She was a harsh woman, with scars under her eyes and fire in her swings. She was fire and she burned him- a gash opened on Vere's arm. The split made everything throb and pound. Temples, arms, blade, throat, blade to throat. More blood. It speckled him but wasn't his.

Gasp! Throb! Pound! Step away, young man, and run from these horrors! But wait - oh, no, no, this was the fight that blinded you, took your family from you with spark and flame. You weren't there when you should've been. They blinded you.

Where's my wife?

He ran. Blood pumping from limb to limb paled him and flushed him pink. His heels popped out, tripping every unaware victim into their opponent's swords. He clashed blades with everyone he passed before finding escape. He was looking for something.

Bring me my sword!

An adept Elusian came at him and parried a passing blow. But he wouldn't let Vere leave, no, he caught up and pushed him back and swung that silver blade at his neck. Vere barely dodged; it shaved a few hairs from his blackened beard. He swung upwards, craze in his eyes, a war cry in his throat. The scream caught the attention of the surrounding soldiers, caught his off guard, and he slid the blade down-

Someone new but altogether familiar rammed him from the side, knocking him to his hip, sinking into the earth. He scrambled for visual of the boy again, of the Elusian he knew, the Elusian he was told to torture but couldn't because he'd collapsed before then (and still wouldn't, simply for his looks). Stymphalian bird, he was, with those bronze arrows in his crossbow, aimed at him. This was the boy he'd caught in the forest with that girl.

Bring me my boy!

It happened quickly. A dark-skinned woman he recognized came curling around the corner, and the two Adrigolians made eye contact, and she, the snake-woman, snuck up with the slyness of her little pets and brought her own blade up into the crossbow of the boy, knocking it clear out of his hands. It landed by Vere but he had his sword. He had his sword and she had hers and she'd knocked him off balance in just the right way so that when Vere looked up and the boy was forced to look down their eyes met and

Vere saw his wife's eyes.

Bring me my boy!

The woman arched her blade far above the boy's head, and panic wrenched Vere's gut. He reached for the crossbow with no clue how to use it. Bronze arrows. Stymphalian bird. He aimed.

I'll put a damn blade in their knees before I let them touch my boy!

Bronze caught the woman fiercely in the neck, and she seemed not to know what to do with herself as she stumbled back - a fellow soldier, once - and collapsed. But she didn't matter to him then, not after all the carnage he'd seen. He saw the boy. He saw the feather strapped to his arm and he saw the grey blue and he saw the complete lack of understanding in the other boys face just a little too late.

Truth in every myth.

The smell of the sea salt, hitting with every wave that sprayed the bow of the ship. The rock of worn, water-warped wood and the buck and tilt as the clouds clashed above. A black sky and strong white caps dashed against rocks on the horizon. Sails that billowed now strapped down with thick ropes and a wheel spun fast and dangerous.

There was something about the sea that put Andrea's soul at ease. The spring in her step was fresh again, the light in her eyes brightened. A smile threatened the tip of her lips, swallowed back down when the hull smacked into the dock. Tilting dangerously, the boat swung away and hit it again on the second trip. Andrea shifted her weight, felt the boards beneath her feet level, and leaned against the railing in relief. Nothing lost in a storm of this size was a miracle in itself. They'd only been hit with the tail end of it as it slipped away from the ocean and onto the mainland.

Before them sat the entire harbor of Galiesia. Rain pounded the rock slicked pavement and formed hearty puddles for knights feet to splash through. Tents colorful tops fluttered in the distant, most shut down due to the storm. Soon they would be in flames. You cut off the head of a leviathan and the body will flounder. You cut off Elusia's main import of food, weapons, and trading goods, and it will do the same.

Eagerness coursed through her blood and she gripped the soaked side of the boat to vault herself over the edge. A hand—deadly harsh in its grip—stopped her. Andrea cast her eyes back, peering up at Shahin through dripping locks. His lips twitched, a silent warning, and she stuck out her tongue in response—one that had become increasingly more insulting as of late. With a huff of air through his nose, the knight let go. He gave her a brief hand gesture, then brought his hand back to his eye to shield his vision from the heavy rain.

"I am being patient," Andrea argued. Wet droplets trickled down her back and pelted her shoulders as she leaned farther over the rail right up until she was in danger of falling into the choppy water below. A flicker of silver disrupted the pocketed surface. Her teeth flashed back from between her lips. Where few fish would venture on a crisp, clear day, they now darted about to and fro as they pleased. She would have stuck her own hand into the water to try and touch one on the slimmest chance they would be close enough to the surface, but there was no way she would get away with it while Shahin stood beside her like a strict nanny.

Perhaps that was for the best. Cassius had almost slipped into the sea more than once on the voyage there. His prancing, irritating energy had begun to eat on her nerves more than her worry for his safety. More than once she'd thought to push him off the edge herself when he swung from the ropes climbing the mast and strummed as he balanced along a rail. His endless crafting of sea shanties was impressive, but after the fifth time he sung about them being devoured by sharks, Andrea had her fill. It was the cheery forcefulness that ate at her the most. The way the notes strained at the end when it became clear even the singer was sick of singing and the notes fell sour. At least it beat the silence of the dungeons.

Out of the corner of her eye, Andrea caught her fellow knight motion to her again. What the gesture was through the heavy rain she couldn't guess. Ignoring it for another view of the harbor, she noticed a boat arriving. The masts were thin, the wood color deep. It was not one of their own, but some Elysian model made for speed instead of warfare. Shadows masked by a dark sky clambered out and looped a rope around a wooden post as they left it behind.

A hand slipped around her arm and yanked her back for the second time. The girl twisted her head back to complain but was interrupted by the thunk of the plank being lowered right in front of her. Meric tested it with a thin foot before ensuring it'd hold and stepped off the boat first. Andrea hurried to be second, bumping past a few other knights that rightfully should've gotten off before her. Form buzzing excitedly, she followed the small group of knights up past the docks and to the south of the town along a trail cut out of stone.

The rain accompanied them the whole way. It made it impossible to sprint ahead when Andrea couldn't see more than three feet from her feet. It also made it impossible for Cassius to try and sing, which was a blessing. He walked a few steps ahead of her but kept his head down, his arm slung protectively over the bag that held both his lyre and the many lyrical "masterpieces" he kept inside. It'd be a shame if the bag wasn't waterproof.

"Halt." The instruction came from a dark shadow before them, only reaching Andrea's ears once she had crashed into the musician's back. Peering out from behind him, her eyes caught the captain of the ship they'd traveled on, Noah. He was the war-worn sort of handsome, with scars carved deep into his flesh and skin darkened by years at sea. He almost would've reminded her of her father, but he had too much of a backbone. With a flash of teeth, Noah introduced himself to the stranger who had spoken and revealed the Adrigolian symbol sewn in the inside of his coat. A sharp nod got them permission to enter.

As the stranger moved out of the way the girl hurried forward. When she passed, she caught the tail end of the conversation spoken between the two. "You were almost late," the guard hissed between his teeth. "We're mobilizing in under the hour." A shrug was given in response, the captain tugging the brim of his hat lower over his eyes. "They'll be ready," he promised and walked beneath the entrance to the encampment they were joining. It couldn't be seen by the naked eye, jammed behind what appeared to be a high wall and a cluster of trees close behind it.

Andrea ducked beneath the large, stone archway with the others and felt the slight shimmer of magic through her veins. What stood before her was another world. Tents of red and gold and green and blue stood erect on fresh grass. Soldiers milled about, busying themselves by strapping on armor and polishing swords. Rain poured down, hitting the protective dome above and rolling off. The sky around was still dark and the air cold. Her dripping clothes became more noticeable as she walked, clinging to her skin and trickling frozen water down her spine. She could get dry later, though. She was searching for something.

Giving her group a quick slip was easy enough. They didn't even notice—except for Shahin, but it wasn't like he was going to tattle on her anytime soon. Andrea dipped down a back path between a row of tents and kept her eyes peeled wide. Some knights sat cross-legged around an open pot, cracking themselves up in the short time they had left and distracting themselves from their own nerves. She couldn't guess all of them would come back either. That was alright. Sacrifices were necessary, so long as she didn't lose what she was looking for. And she didn't, finding the boy tucked beneath the open flap of a tent, shining his sword. His orange hair was a glistening amber from the nearby fire, and as she drew near his eyes gravitated up to her and spurred him to his feet.

"Casper!" A grin split open Andrea's face as the boy wrapped his arms around her and tried to squeeze the life out of her. He didn't have the muscles for lifting her more than a few inches off the ground, but she appreciated the effort. A laugh bubbled from her lips. "Okay, let me down." She struck him on the shoulder and reluctantly, he obeyed her request.

His face was sun baked, his eyes crinkling as he took her in. She knew the sight was less than pleasant. Her lip was split open, her leg bandaged in a stiff swaddling. Water dripped down the sides of her face and soaked her tangled, clumsily pushed back hair. She was in one piece, though, which was more than could be said about all her companions. Out of habit, she reached a wet hand out and thumbed the scar that ran along his cheek. He faked a wince as if the blow stung, but her smile was more infectious. "Glad to see you alive."

A huff escaped her lips. "You too." Andrea reached out a fist and tapped it against Casper's armor electing a soft clang. "So, you going to suit me up?"

"I thought you said armor weighed you down," he replied with an arched eyebrow.

She shrugged her shoulders, gesturing down to her own outfit's state. "I'm not going looking like a sopping wet mutt, so unless you want me to fight in nothing more than a towel—"

"Okay, okay." Casper held his hands up in mock surrender and grabbed her arm to lead her into the tent. "But no complaining."

***

It wasn't the most stylish mishmash of clothing the world had ever seen. However, it might have been the least. Andrea shoved at her brown sleeves for the twelfth time, pushing them above her elbows so the fabric didn't distract from her swing. They needed to be tied off or cut, but she had promised she wouldn't purposely tamper with Casper's "last good shirt." The pants she'd had no issue slashing to ribbons along the bottom. What came to be the only useful item was the thin chain mail beneath her shirt. Whether it was enchanted to be light or made out of some exotic metal, she couldn't have cared. Whatever the shit was it worked.

A sword tip glanced Andrea's side, slicing through her shirt and scrapping the metal beneath. She stumbled back. A bitter taste rose in her mouth, sweat stinging her brow. Water sent her feet slipping as she lunged forward. Her dagger caught the blade above her head. Rain-slicked its edge and rolled down to the handle where strong hands sat. The man was tall and his beard scruffy. His eyes hinted like he had a joke on the tip of his tongue when he swung again. The clash of metal reverberated through Andrea's skeleton as she caught the blow a second time. This one was stronger, pressing her back until her knees buckled.

Theirs wasn't the only fight. The sounds of scraping and banging echoed through the sky. It was impossible to see how the other fared or how far away they'd been carried. Beneath each knight's feat ran a river of pink, the water streaked with blood being washed away. A shriek broke through the downpour. Andrea didn't turn her head. To look away when an adversary advanced was the stupid mistake of a rookie who had never seen a lick war before. She would find out a list of the dead when the battle was won.

Sidestepping a heavy thrust of the sword, Andrea rolled off the strike. Her form slide within striking distance. Too heavy was the cuirass to penetrate, instead, she took to the lower side. Her knees bent down low, and she was so close her hair brushed against the man's arm as she sliced into his thigh. Blood bathed her blade and trickled onto her hand as she spun away and pulled herself back up. Stumbling, the man heaved himself around to face her. His pant leg grew red and wet with blood. The rain was unable to wash away the stain that spread up quickly.

Andrea leapt back. A wide, clear attack met the ground where she stood a moment before. The blade sliced through nothing again, forcing a steady backpedal as wide, thick strokes of her foe's sword cut through the moist air. He swung with a violent rage. It wasn't blood loss making him stupid, but frustration. A howl burst from his lips as he missed again, and Andrea tumbled back over a merchant's crate. Oranges tumbled out, the rain taking them spilling through the street.

Laughter broke the girl's composure. She refused to watch the fruits go but out of the corner of her eye. It was a funny sight, the little, bright spheres bounding through sword fights and knife fights and one being smashed apart by a hammer who had the unfortunate mess of gathering sticky orange peel on its blunt end. The rest disappeared through the rain, which was beginning to lighten up overhead.

A violent thwack caught the wooden crate before Andrea's feet and split it in half. Splinters flew across the cobblestones. Staggering through the shop, she dodged around a barrel filled with apples and overturned a table behind her. Finally, this blocked the path of her attacker. His swings were too powerful to block with her thin weapon, and the blade was too long to get in with her damaged fingernails. She took a stand behind the wood, reaching back and plucking up a strange, barbed fruit the size of a large ball before chucking it at the Elusian's head. He batted it away with his sword, so she tossed a second.

This one got stuck. It caught on the middle of the blade. Juice leaked out and down, running onto both the man's hands and filling the air with a sweet, tangy scent that overpowered the rain. Andrea breathed deeply. It was intoxicating but nauseating at the same time, and her head swam from sniffing too hard. Focusing back on the man before her, she found him with his sword on the ground and his foot pressing down on the fruit to try and pry it off. A smile twisted up her lips. With the opening given, she vaulted over the tabletop and flicked her wrist. Slicing neatly, her dagger pierced through the man's neck and cut across. Blood flooded down his chest and soaked his shirt as his body crumpled to the pavement.

Andrea turned away, looking for a new opponent. Instead, she found a fire. The smoke curled into the air and met the drizzle of rain with an onslaught of grey. Beneath the smell of fruit rose flames. It was the charring of vendors booths and houses lighting up, and she scrambled away back into the street where bodies lay, now clear beneath the bluing sky. Trailing between them lead to a gruesome sight. Her stomach squeezed tight when her eyes fell upon Noah, the ship captain, whose eyes someone had decided to gouge out. A gaping hole remained in his chest cavity where someone had inserted a barbed spear and pulled it back out.

There was no sign of Meric either on the ground or standing as she wandered through the small, battle-torn zone. Cassius was easy enough to find, a perfect C ringing out between furious scribbles of a pen on paper checking and changing lyrics. The rest gathered nearby, watching the destruction they reeked. She should've noticed the way the group looked smaller than when they'd marched out, that most were bleeding, including herself, but all she was looking for in the sea of bodies was a head of curly, orange hair. It was nowhere in sight. A cold set of fingers wrapped around her heart as she pressed up on the top of her toes, catching a glimpse of Shahin alongside a familiar bearded knight, who held a sword instead of glass clutched firmly in his hand.

Then a tap came on her shoulder. Spinning around, she found herself faced with a wide, brimming smile. Blood leaked from beneath it, a new scar carved along his chin. It didn't match the first, but it lent a bright red hue to his face that rivaled his glossy cheeks. He held out his good hand to her, which turned out to be his left while the right was swathed in a thick cloth stained with more blood. Andrea took it softly, afraid to break Casper as she pulled them together and pressed her nose against his shoulder.

"You okay?" Her voice didn't waver but dipped low enough that no one else could hear.

The boy's chin nudged her frame as he gave a gentle shake of his head. "No, but what can you do?"

Her lips pursed against the fabric of his shirt. An accidental kiss left there as she pulled back. Nothing. She could do nothing. This was the way war was. She would tend to her wounds, she would slip out of her armor, and tomorrow she would look at the list of dead. And she would feel nothing.

 The magic was back.

It had crept into her chest overnight, while she and her had companions slumbered beneath towering oaks and the tents of their legion. In the morning, it was there again, the warm, tingling weight just to the right of her heart. Truly, it had never left—the seal had cut it off from Meric's perception, but the magic felt as if it had been restored rather than revealed.

In the quiet of the tent, Meric let a small smile grace her mouth.

"Pleasant dreams?" said a voice beside her. Meric squinted through the darkness, though she could already identify the speaker. Andrea sat cross-legged in the packed dirt, dirty-blonde hair twisted into a ponytail, her bedroll folded next to her.

"Not quite," Meric replied. The smile did not fade as she stretched and began to tidy up her belongings. "Looking forward to a pleasant day."

A single, razor-thin eyebrow rose on Andrea's forehead. "You enjoy burning and pillaging?"

"Under the right circumstances, perhaps." They were to march on Fallholt that day, as soon as the horses had been saddled and every knight had donned their battle gear. The thought might have troubled Meric, or at least evoked some anxiety, but she found herself content. How could she not be, with her identity returned to her? The colors of the tent seemed more vivid now, and the distant sounds of clanking and laughter were a calming melody rather than a nuisance. The world was right, now that the magic stirred within her again.

What Meric felt was less the magic and more the seal she herself had wrought for it. The magic itself might feel overwhelming, a fast-flowing current engulfing her willowy frame. But the weight localized in her chest was the magic contained, the dam she had painstakingly erected over the course of years. Maintaining it cost Meric some effort, of course, but that cost had decreased over the years as she had grown stronger. Now the magic would do what she wished; now she could trust herself, anywhere and anytime. It was a comfort that she might have thanked the gods for, had she still dwelled beside a Feralian chapel.

At any rate, the magic emboldened Meric, and she found herself asking, "Have the reserve knights arrived yet?"

"I'm not sure yet," Andrea replied, and Meric peeled back the nearby tent flap to investigate for herself. The world outside was still gray with morning haze; Fallholt oaks circled the growing camp like unwitting guardians, shielding the legions from native eyes. A host of knights sat around a miniature fire, roasting breakfast sausages on slender branches, but they were the same knights that had greeted Meric and the escaped prisoners a few days prior. Having seen them, Meric let the flap fall and resumed rolling her bed-mat.

Only when Meric was eating own breakfast outside the tent did the first of the new knights reveal themselves.

Meric had heard much of the reserve knights. They were supposed to be older and slower, experienced in the knight tradition but less active in their senior years. Still, Sir Garner had insisted the day before that these knights were due the highest respect. They had witnessed horrors the young knights could barely imagine, and each was a hero in some capacity.

Seeing the first of these knights, Meric could not fathom how anyone might disrespect him. He was a monolith of a human being, his legs like iron-wrought tree trunks, his arms like weighted clubs. His helmet hung from his left hand, so Meric could examine his features—the gray mustache covering his upper lip might have been grandfatherly on another man, but here it seemed ruthless. His eyes, steely and deep-set, told the same story. This man would not hesitate to kill those who blocked his path, and probably boasted a record to confirm that.

He was asking Cassius about Sir Garner—Meric could only hear the name and see Cay's gestures toward the stable-tent, where the Glaressian stallions fed on cornmeal and apples. Off went the beastly knight, and Meric slipped between two half-armored men to tap Cassius on the shoulder. He startled when touched, a grin breaking across his face upon recognizing Meric.

"Ah! The arcane maiden, with sausages laden—"

"No time for this," Meric interrupted. Cassius's eyes seemed to widen, and she continued: "That man you spoke with. Who is he?"

"Arrived late last night with the reserves," he said, his stare tracking the invisible path of the giant knight. He began to grin again, mouth opening partway, but the grin disappeared when his eyes flicked back to Meric's. He coughed. "Sir Bruzio, I think it was?"

"Bruzio?" Meric nearly dropped the sausage stick she was carrying. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, you know him, then?" said Cay, a flicker of interest crossing his face. At Meric's lack of response, he added, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

"Excellent. Thank you," said Meric, and she pushed past Cassius and headed towards the stable-tent.

Her mind was racing faster than she could keep track of. Bruzio's name had filled the bar-tales on which she had gorged herself for years. His deeds saturated Wicarian legends, of course—Bruzio had slain a conjured fiend in the foothills, and he had singlehandedly negotiated a hostage situation involving the dean's son—but, more importantly, he had frequented the Silver Chalice on his trips north. Most importantly, he had drunk at the center bar beside Sir Amidex Ophelen.

The tales were flitting through her head now, flashes of images and spoken words. The friendly rivalry, the house record for Chestnuts each knight would struggle to beat; Dex's attempts to force Bruzio to sing with the band; the favorite drinks, the favorite songs, the clothes and the nicknames and the special impact they'd left on each bartender, even after years away. Meric had heard all the stories each Silver Chalice employee had to offer and imagined even more.

And there he was, his armor glinting in the morning sun, his posture rigid as he approached the stable-tent. His gait was slow (Sir Garner's words echoed in her head: older and slower), but Meric could hear the thud as each iron-encased foot hit the ground. This was the legacy the elder knights offered: slow passage wherever they went, but passage no one would forget.

Meric lingered behind a tree as Sir Bruzio entered the tent. Sir Garner was likely tending to the horses there, enchanting the meal so that their steeds would face the day bravely. As Bruzio disappeared from view, Meric imagined the conversation between them. How would Garner handle himself, speaking from a position of command to a hero like that? Garner had to realize that his face was young and his hands were soft; he had to see the contradiction, staring at the creases in Bruzio's face and the dents and scratches covering his gauntlets. How Garner would conduct himself, Meric could not conjecture.

But then Bruzio was leaving the tent, and Meric was stepping into the sunlight before fully realizing what action she took.

The magic hummed in her chest, sensing the danger but unable to combat it. A hum had materialized in her head, too, an anxious whine that stopped her from processing the man before her. Somehow, his features were less clear now than they'd been in the camp, at a greater distance. He had stopped walking, but Meric could discern nothing in his expression—no motive as his eyes roved her green-cloaked body, no change in demeanor as his gaze settled on her face.

They stared at one another for half a minute. The passage of time was dulled for Meric, but in that time, she noticed a few changes in Bruzio's expression that she could not understand. He blinked too quickly, for a few seconds; his lips pursed, as if his tongue were moving behind them; his jaw clenched and unclenched. Perhaps she might have deciphered these clues had she been a passive observer, but the gravity of the situation muted her judgment.

Finally, Bruzio's mouth opened. "Wicarian mother?" he said. His voice was coarse, as if it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. His face did not change.

Meric stared, the words failing to find purchase in her mind. "What?" she said dumbly.

"Your mother," said Bruzio without pause. "Is she Wicarian?"

"I don't know," said Meric. She didn't know. This fact, at least, was clear.

Bruzio's gaze fell to the ground, and the toe of his boot lodged itself in the dirt. "Oh, hell," he said, and something in the atmosphere snapped. Suddenly, Meric knew what the past minute had meant for Bruzio, and the cogs began to turn in her mind once more.

She took a step closer. Which features had stood out to him? Did her nose match Dex's? Did he have the same tangle of hair, the single dimple, the thick obsidian brows? How much of Dex did Meric carry with her?

But as she opened her mouth, the question she had meant to ask was already dissolving. He had already answered it, hadn't he?

He didn't know her mother.

"He never had—did he have lovers?" The word "lovers" felt strange in her mouth; she wasn't sure she had ever said it in her life.

Bruzio's gaze had moved from the ground to the trees on either side of them. "He was a man's man," he said. "If he ever had relations with a lady, she would have sought him out. He didn't chase women."

"In Wicaria," said Meric, "at the Silver Chalice, did a woman ever chase him?" Her words came out surprisingly even.

"Plenty, but he didn't—he wouldn't."

"He must have."

"He wouldn't."

But he had made love to a woman, or else Meric would not exist, and Bruzio would not have seen his friend looking out through her eyes.

The questions were running dry now. Meric had anticipated a different Bruzio, someone good-naturedly gruff, someone whose eyes twinkled in a weathered face. But this man was a shade darker than the one she'd come to know through bar-tales. This man balked in his speech because he balked at the truth; he would not offer anything to Meric because he refused to believe he could.

The feeling needled at her. A history she had never learned stood in front of her, and because of one man's reticence, she never would learn it.

Only one question remained:

"Where is he now?"

The change that came over Bruzio was immediate, and Meric realized that she should not have asked what she did. His eyes squinted so deeply that they were almost shut; his protected fingers curled at his sides; his shoulders slumped.

"I ask the gods the same, every day."

Meric had nothing else to ask.

*

The road into Fallholt was too barren. Meric, Andrea, and Shahin were part of the second wave, those knights who were still recovering from Lemarian torture, while the rest of the elite team had advanced with half of the reserve forces. Cay had gone, Sir Garner had gone, Bruzio had gone; it seemed Meric was truly alone, despite the companions on either side of her.

Meric had woken up with her magic—her identity—restored. That should have been enough for her, but she hadn't been able to resist the lingering temptation that had brought her here in the first place. Emptiness had placed her in the Adrigolian guard, and emptiness had found her again.

The day before, a piece of herself had been missing. Something different was missing now, but it felt the same.

As the knights crested a hill, Fallholt came into view. The fires caught Meric's eye first—the incoming first wave had torched the fields, distracting the farmers and scarring the land. Some of the fire had spread, licking at the outskirts of Fallholt; a crude stone wall separated the buildings from the outer fields, but the flames had burned the grass leading up to it. Even if Fallholt won today, their means of production were doomed.

The town was screaming. A great cacophony of sound rose from behind those stone walls, but Meric heard the screams most clearly, keening above the din like birds. The iron gate was wide open now, melted by Sir Garner's power; even now, Meric could peer inside the town and see hordes of people in simple dress, running and shrieking. Some were streaming from the entrance itself, carrying buckets of water. Others owned no weapons, as Gavin and Garner had predicted—they were too poor, and the war was too early for Johnathan to have armed them. For all their numbers, they were useless.

The screams had lodged themselves in Meric's mind. When she closed her eyes, they came from the beaks of birds, birds that circled the town and flapped their wings futilely. The more they screamed, the more their fields burned, but they kept flapping and circling and screaming. What else could they do?

Nothing felt right to Meric. Her mind was wrong, and her emotions were wrong; she knew all this, but she could do nothing about it.

What was there to do now?

As Meric's horse cantered past mobs of people fleeing Fallholt, and as she passed through the warped, melted gate, the scene that surrounded her matched the dismal scene inside of her. Peasants clad in brownish-gray filled the streets. Knights hefted weapons and gold they had stolen from houses. Smoke rose from a fire Garner would have just started in the center of town, where the spire of Fallholt's town hall pierced the sky.

What was there to do?

Andrea and Shahin rode further into the city, while Meric paused in the middle of the street. Her horse whinnied beneath her and shuffled its hooves, but Meric did not move. Her eyes passed over the shrieking children clinging to their mothers, faces wet and sticky with tears. The bell tower was ringing in the distance, a constant noise that permeated the cries for help. It never stopped. Nothing stopped. The town continued to fall apart, regardless of any desire for something different.

What was there to do?

Meric had never lived without hope. In her darkest moments—in the tangled forests of her adolescence, when the magic had twisted her will into something horrific—she had forged onward, trembling but confident. At the end of the line waited someone who cared for her, someone with the same magic and the same troubles, someone made from the same fabric as Meric herself. All she needed to do was get there.

But with the road severed, what was there to do?

Years ago, in an introductory magic theory class, Meric's instructor had told their class the same thing every morning: "Separate the inside from the outside." What she had meant was that the inside of a magician was uniquely powerful. The inside of a magician wanted to remake the world in its own image; this was how magic worked, always striving to make tangible the whims of its owner. But a good magician separated the inside from the outside. For the sake of the world and its inhabitants, the inside needed to be cut off. Meric had always succeeded at this more effectively than her peers. After all, she had learned the lesson already, through years of hardship and failure.

But what was there to do when one no longer cared about the outside?

Before, the world had meant people Meric loved. The most important of these people was someone Meric had never met, but she had loved her anyway. Still, her mother was gone now. She still existed, but Meric could never find her. Dex was missing, and her mother was missing, too.

All that was left was Meric.

Who was Meric, without the imaginary person that had guided her?

The magic provided an answer on its own. With the advent of her magic—her whole self— Meric had nearly forgotten about the anger she had felt without it. But it was still there, burning beneath the restored power, waiting for the sense of loss that was finally descending upon her.

The world began to change.

As the anger twisted and stretched within Meric, so did the ground. Fallholt's cobblestone streets were cracking, and rising from the crevices were thick tendrils of vines, writhing and coiling around one another. Screams in the air grew louder, but Meric did not hear.

So much had been taken from her.

The vines were wrapping around buildings, crushing them into dust. People still stood inside those buildings, but Meric did not care; others' legs were now trapped in the embrace of the outgrowths, bones bending and cracking with the weight, but Meric did not see. The inside of herself was all she could feel, all she could mourn now. Slowly, the outside was beginning to match that inside.

She would not leave this town the same as she had entered it.

How would I tell the eclipse? As an absence, probably. As the fear that comes when something on which you rely disappears; the panic when the centre of your world vanishes, and you're left to wonder whether it will return; of the anxiety that comes from each moment it is gone? But perhaps I could also speak of the eclipse as a story of return. They all end eventually, after all. And when they do, the world returns as normal – but this time, you know: if the sun should ever disappear, you would live on.

Solaria Meridan knows a thing or two about returning. Coming to her family after a battle used to feel like a magnificent occasion, like a miracle she should devote herself to celebrating. Then she got used to it, and though her return was never guaranteed, she began to see it as part of a routine. It is dying that would be exceptional for her, not coming home; such is the life of a knight. Her sister never understood, her mother never allowed herself to think about it, but Solaria knows. One day, she might not come back; the sun might not rise. This is a danger she has accepted.

But she has never thought about what it would mean to come back to the war. She has, after her brief vacations home, had to re-enter in the battlefield, but that felt more like a new beginning than a continuation. This is the first time that she finds herself having craved a return to the safety of the battlefield, where her life and her death are in her own hands. In the dungeons of Lemaria, her hands were bound. Her fate belonged to someone else. The tattoo on her triceps is a constant reminder of this. It itches constantly, and though she wants nothing more than to scratch at it, she has been advised that to do so would be to invite infection or destruction. Though she cares little about keeping the mark intact, the idea of dying because she couldn't stop from scratching an itch does not appeal to her. She has too much control over her own body to ever fall prey to such a fate.

The sword in her hand feels heavy in the most familiar of ways, and Solaria finds that though holding it is more straining than she remembers, she has missed it. The air smells of salt; with Miras so close to the sea, she can practically taste it. It stings in her mouth and prickles her nose, but even this has something invigorating to it. It beats the smell of musk and slowly building moisture, at the least. She will never be prisoner again; it would be better to die in battle than be captured. The next time the sun falls from the sky, she promises herself, it will fall for good.

Miras is all cliffs and sea, greenery and glistening blue waves. It's a sight to behold as the sun shines atop it, its reflection bouncing into Solaria's eyes and nearly blinding herself in the process. Scowling, she turns her attention away from the view and back to the Adrigolian encampment. The troops are ready for battle, waiting merely for an order, but Solaria finds that her sword doesn't melt into her hands as it usually does, that her mind doesn't clear itself for battle as it always has. It jumps back, from time to time, to the cold of iron against her wrists or the blaze of the rod against her flesh; to the tang of the dungeons and the eerie chill of the torture chambers. Do the other escaped captives feel as she does? It's hard to imagine Shahin cracking or Andrea ever being weighed down; it's hard to imagine any earthquake that could shake Meric for long. Only the sun ever leaves the sky – this has never dawned to Solaria before.

Meric appears from inside the tent, head high and eyes boring into Solaria's. Neither has spoken about their time in the Lemarian palace, but their comradery has only grown since then. This, of course, is what brings knights together: hard times, and the knowledge that they have seen each other through it. It is the kind of bond that doesn't break; it is iron shackles that never quite leave. Solaria doesn't feel trapped by them, though. It has been a while since she's felt this comfortable around someone who isn't part of her family or Mariana. She smiles; Meric smiles back. Sometimes, silences are when people communicate more than they normally would.

"Is it time?" Solaria asks.

Meric nods.

Solaria slides her sword back into its sheath, missing its strength the second it leaves her hand. She raises her chin and slides on her helm. The sun bounces off it, blindingly bright to any who might gaze directly upon her.

"Alright," she finally says. "Let's go."

\

The beginning of a battle is the fall from order to chaos; troops laid out in ordered lines fall apart and clash into each other, and any hint of a placement to the way they were laid out falls apart. It is in this morning that Solaria finds the energy she needs for battle; it is this shattering of structure that she feels the shackles break and finally, she is free to run. Her legs almost buckle under her as she tries to take too many steps at the same time. A laugh escapes from her lips, far too gleeful for the battlefield. She has missed the feeling of adrenaline running through her veins, of her lungs feeling with air sharper than the blade of her sword. Soon, the battle begins, and she is still smiling.

Fighting is slower than she remembers. Solaria's mind has focused on the moments of glory and victory, the times where she conquers her opponent and shows her strength to her comrades; it has forgotten most of the fight. The tedium of looking around has escaped her, the boredom of finding a target has eluded her. But she is back in it now, and she has no choice but to throw herself back into the fray.

Luckily, it doesn't take her long to find a victim. As he removes his sword from an Adrigolian knight Solaria has met a few times but cannot remember, the boy who marked her's eyes land on her own and a hint of recognition flashes through his eyes. If she was smiling before, Solaria is downright radiant now. A phantom pain sears the skin above her triceps, but it fades when she tightens her grip on her sword. She can practically taste the spicy taste of retribution on her tongue, and as she walks closer to the boy, she can practically taste it.

The fighting begins with a swing of her sword, slicing the air where he stood just moments ago. Solaria curses under her breath, but doesn't dwell on her disappointment. Instead, she leaps to the left just early enough to avoid the rival knight's strike; it's a pleasant surprise to see that her body hasn't lost much of the agility and grace with which she has always liked to parry. She feels, occasionally, the protests of a back which spent days hunched in a cell, or the cries of knees on which she has not stood for a hint too long, now, but they don't halt her. If anything, they remind her of the reality of her body. She knows just where each limb is at any moment, moving them around as required to save her skin.

The sound of steel clanging against steel is a familiar melody to her, and it is once that she has missed. This is where she excels, and the sound of sparring is like a second home to her. It brings back memories of training and past battles, comrades both living and dead – that duality, perhaps, is what makes the life of a knight so beautiful: she never knows what the next day will hold. A scream jumps through the air, and in that moment Solaria doesn't know if it's friend or foe. All she can do is hope.

But it seems that Tedric does not take the same approach as her. He freezes, just for a second – perhaps he recognizes the scream – but whatever the case it's long enough for Solaria to take advantage of and by the team he's moving again, her sword resting in his stomach. The sight of a person's life leaving them has never been something that brought Solaria joy, but she always watches, nonetheless. She owes it to them – this one final honour, in respect of their worthiness in battle. It is the least she can do, and so she never fails to do it. Even as the battle winds to a fade and the Adrigolian troops approach the gates of Miras, Solaria makes sure to watch each foe fall to her sword.

Slowly, night rises and the sun begins to fall. So be it; she knows it'll return in the morning.