Calix jerked awake with a start, blood pounding in his ears. Disoriented, he lurched to his feet to find himself tangled in something. He tripped, his knees hitting the ground just as a low laugh sounded. Breathing hard, Calix held himself still, eyes darting around.

The first thing he noticed was the dirty wood beneath him. Then the warmth, and his muscles relaxed as his brain caught up with reality.

Sheepishly, he peered over the edge of a table to find Arcturus grinning at him. The general's wolf-dog, Bellos, cocked an ear at him from where he lay beside Tarquin's feet near a brazier. His brother was smiling, though the expression couldn't quite mask his concern.

They were back at Thurius, safe behind the walls of a Metian camp. Or...as safe as could be on the island. 

Calix sighed and pushed to his feet, freeing himself of the blanket he didn't remember having before he fell asleep. He settled back into the chair and eyed Arcturus. "You should have woken me."

"You need sleep," Tarquin murmured, flipping a page of the report he was reading. His gaze flicked up, staring pointedly at the dark shadows that had become a permanent fixture beneath Calix's eyes.

There was no use arguing. He did need sleep. It was just easier said than done.

Rubbing at his gritty eyes, he asked, "When can we send Spurius home? Is there any news on that?"

Arcturus and Tarquin exchanged a worried glance that he stubbornly ignored. It had been a fortnight since that night in the Narrow Valley. Two weeks' worth of nightmares and empty promises.

He couldn't go to the hospital tent with nothing but platitudes on his lips again.

Arcturus let out a sigh, knowing when to leave well enough alone. He dug through a stack of papers balanced precariously close to the edge of his desk and the nearby brazier. Briefly, Calix wondered if any of the older general's paperwork ever "accidentally" made its way onto the baking coals. His attention was pulled back to Arcturus when the older man made a soft sound, extracting a crumpled sheet of parchment.

"It's the beginning of winter here, Calix," he said, apology heavy in his voice as he handed over the missive.

Calix read the words no less than seven times. Ships delayed two weeks. Grain shipment sunk. Ordered half rations.

"Storm season," he whispered, crumpling the paper just as Arcturus must have.

Like saying it provoked the island's weather, the wind howled, the sound of sleet driving into the oil-skin tent around them growing loud enough to nearly drown his thoughts. Calix slumped back in his seat, suddenly remembering the nightmare that had woken him. 

Water, everywhere. Filling his mouth, his nose. Burning down his throat and weighing on his chest. Freezing his muscles as he fought to stay above a vicious riptide.

Calix scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to rid himself of the feeling of water beading down his skin. He supposed it was better than the dreams where he burned alive. The image of hideous, dead eyes silently cursing him reared in his mind.

He shook off the thought. The death maiden's magic was fearsome enough without wondering if she could also drive him mad.

"So, he's stuck here?" Calix swore under his breath. "His wife..."

"Is still receiving his pay," Arcturus reminded him gently. "Nothing has left the island either, boy. Including casualty reports. He'll get home before the bureaucracy knows he's wounded."

Calix closed his eyes, pretending like the howl of wind outside didn't remind him of Spurius' screams as the man's arm disintegrated before his eyes. It was a useless endeavor. Arcturus must have seen something on Calix's face, because he stood and came around the desk. Putting a heavy hand on his shoulder, Arcturus leaned down and whispered, "You need to stop, Calix. Now. If you don't, it will eat you alive and kill you."

Turning, he met his mentor's eye. Sadness glimmered in his hazel iris, but alongside it was an expression Calix was far more familiar with: expectation.

Expectation that Calix could beat anything he put his mind to. Could rise to the occasion and conquer what needed conquering. Whether that was an enemy, or his own unruly mind. Calix let out a juddering breath and nodded.

Arcturus squeezed his shoulder. "Back to your tents, both of you." He stepped back around his desk and glanced at Tarquin. "I don't care if you both need to get blind drunk over it, just make sure he doesn't go to the hospital tent tonight."

One part of that statement was vastly appealing. Calix didn't protest as Tarquin tossed him his wolf-skin coat. Over that, he threw an oiled cloak, pulling up the hood in an attempt to defy the storm beyond.

Neither of them spoke as they sloshed their way through the camp, listening to the laughter and griping that rose from the legionaries' tents. Out of instinct, Calix turned toward the center of camp, but Tarquin grabbed his arm. When he met his friend's eyes, Calix was suddenly furious at the worry he saw there. 

He jerked his arm away. "I'm fine, Tarquin. Leave it be."

Tarquin just watched him. Sleet beat down around them, bitterly cold, plastering the cloak to him. Even the oiled fabric wouldn't bear up under this for long.

"I don't need a babysitter," he hissed, turning and moving back in the direction of the Seventh's tent lines. He heard Tarquin's sloshing footsteps behind him, his pique rising with every stride. He stormed past his guard, not bothering to wave them toward their tents. They wouldn't listen anyway. Some silly idea that he was in danger.

It wasn't until he was inside his tent that he finally allowed his temper to break. "Leave me, Tarquinius."

A snort. "Don't you full-name me. That only works when my mother does it." There was a soft swish as Tarquin removed his cloak. A creak as he settled in a chair. "Mindra," he said, voice quiet enough to break Calix's heart.

His vision blurred, his eyes burning. He couldn't do this. Not here. If he cracked, he'd shatter. And there was still work to do.

"Stop." He ran shaking hands through his hair, sliding his hood back. "Tarquin, I just...I can't."

There was a silence that pulled tight across Calix's skin. Then, his brother sighed. "Fine," he murmured. "Fine, mindra. We won't talk. But we should at least follow some of Arcturus' advice."

He watched as Tarquin went into his sleeping quarters, heard as he riffled around through what sounded suspiciously like Calix's trunk. When the Sorveti returned with not one, but four bottles, Calix's mouth dropped open in surprise.

"Call the boys in," Tarquin directed, scrounging up cups left over from their days spent plotting how to defeat the death-maidens. "Min will be in for a treat."

Squinting against the dark, Calix realized two of the bottles were Metian wine, deep red and potent, while two were the clear, bitter liquor Sorvetis preferred—saj. Calix had never quite developed a taste for it, but it certainly did the job when one's goal was to get absolutely plastered.

"Since when have those been in there?" he asked, sticking his head out of the entrance to the tent to wave the two guards inside.

"Since we left for the Valley," Tarquin said, wet hand sliding on the first wine bottle as he struggled with the cork. "A gift from my father." He smiled with triumph when the cork finally popped free and handed the bottle to a soaked Tullus. "I figured they'd be safe stashed in your trunk."

"Go fetch the others," Calix told a shivering Valerius. "Including Calion."

Calion's actions in the Narrow Valley had warmed the rest of Calix's men to him considerably, but the five who made up his personal guard had become close-knit, looking at any others as outsiders. Especially after the near death of Littera and Min.

Valerius nodded, darting back into the downpour in search of his comrades. Calix shed his own soaked cloak and accepted a cup of wine from Tullus. The liquid had been heated, and warmth traveled down to his belly as he drank. Soon they were joined by the others. 

Candle stubs burned merrily as they bickered and teased, growing steadily looser as the bottles grew steadily emptier. As if by magic, more appeared, much to the pleasure of everyone present. Calix downed cup after cup, not caring what he'd been poured. He knew Tarquin was indulging him, allowing him to sink as low as he wanted tonight. 

These men wouldn't care. They would love him all the more for his weakness. The rumor of his humanity would not travel beyond this circle. 

He sat in his desk chair, muddy boots propped on what were probably important papers scattered over the table. Tarquin filled his cup in passing as he made his way toward where Littera and Petran had begun a game of dice, Valerius watching in amusement as Petran swore over a bad roll.

It startled him into nearly dropping his drink when Calion set a chair down next to him, plopping into it. His full cup sloshed, red wine staining the chapped skin of his fingers. They sat quietly for a while watching the others, simply enjoying the small pleasure of being with their comrades in a moment of dull peace.

The dice game exploded in raucous laughter, one voice winging above the others in complaint. Calix allowed himself a small laugh.

"I'm glad to see you like this, Calix." The low murmur of Calion's voice quickly sobered him. 

"It won't last," he replied after a long moment of silence. Unbidden, his thoughts drifted to the Valley. To the horror waiting there at its end. He took a sip of whatever Tarquin had poured him, grimacing at the sharp bite of saj in the back of his throat.

Calion stretched out his legs, free hand absently massaging his thigh. "It's never meant to. Peace is fleeting and rare. That is why it's prized."

"By others, maybe," Calix said, mouth twisting. "Not by Metians. I'm not sure we'd know how to survive peace."

A snort from Calion made him look over at the older man. His eyes were red with drink, but his expression was serious. "What is it you think we're fighting for?"

Calix blinked, sure this must be a trick question.

"The men here," Calion gestured to the others, "they don't fight for the king. They don't fight for the empire, or for some old edict from the gods."

"They fight for each other," Calix murmured. It was an old, familiar refrain from Arcturus.

"Well...yes," Calion said, a wry, half smile tugging up his mouth. "But it's more than that. You fight for your brothers to keep you standing. You fight for the people behind you to keep you sane." A faraway look glazed his grey eyes. "You fight here or Mortania or whatever other gods-forsaken land, not because the king's order sent you, but because you know if you don't those people will come to Metus and take what belongs to you."

Calix sensed he should tread lightly. "Is that...why you joined?"

The older soldier froze, knuckles turning white as he gripped his cup. Then, he relaxed. Nodded. Kept his eyes straight forward as he said, "I had a wife, once. Not an overwhelmingly beautiful woman, but lovely, in a way. Strong. Tolerant of my bullshit."

Calix smiled, his heart aching as his thoughts strayed to the one woman who had ever made him consider marriage a worthwhile institution. 

"She gave me a son and two daughters. They filled my heart with pride and joy." Calion spun his cup in his hands. "We lived on a decently sized farm near the border of Khanatum."

Calix's heart turned cold as several things about Calion clicked into place.

"The messengers were about a day and a half too late," Calion said, voice rough and eyes bright as he stared blindly across the tent. "The warning that the horselords were pushing west came after it didn't make a damn bit of difference. They wanted the valley land there, never mind it had belonged to Metus since Auralius was a child. The land was fertile and they wanted it. So they took it."

Calion didn't say what had happened to his family, and Calix certainly wasn't going to ask. It didn't take a genius to write the rest of that tale. Calion was here, grizzled and worn thin by war instead of there, happy and gone to fat as his children's children worked the land.

"We fight for peace, Calix," Calion said, draining his cup. "You do not need to ask them to do such a thing, and so it is not your burden to bear when they die for it. Or when they're wounded."

Calix turned that over in his mind for a moment. His gaze drifted over the men surrounding him. His friends. His brothers. He listened as they talked and laughed. Then, he shook his head. That was not what had chased him from sleep each night, growing the shadows beneath his eyes.

"It's not that I must ask them to fight," Calix said, watching Tullus argue with Min over the practicality of his long hair. "I know how to do that. I know how to ask men to fight. To kill. To bleed and die for peace or glory or their brothers or wives."

Calion stayed silent as Calix threw back the last of his saj. It slid straight to his heart, warming his joints. 

"It's what I ask them to fight," he whispered, wondering if the fires had really darkened, or if he was simply that drunk. "It's the evil I require them to face."

Calion downed the last of his drink as well. He held out his cup, nodding when Littera filled it on his way across the tent. Calix watched as Littera threw an amiable arm around Min's shoulders, listening to Tullus with all the concentration only the extremely inebriated can manage. All three broke into laughter when Littera yanked at the string tying Min's hair back, making it fall in the other man's face.

"Exactly my point!" Tullus roared, pointing and wheezing with mirth.

Min launched himself forward, tackling Tullus out of his chair and to the ground much to the delight and amusement of the others. Calix was still waiting for Calion to respond, but he didn't hold much hope. What answer was there?

"It's evil," Calion finally said, watching in vast amusement as Tullus and Min wrestled across the floor, swearing in their respective languages.

Calix frowned and went to drink before realizing his cup was empty.

Calion offered his own cup, which Calix waved away. He'd probably consumed far more than he should have.

"These things? These...death-maidens? They are a thing of pure malice, with hatred for every living thing."

"So that makes it our job to rid the world of them?" Calix shook his head. "This is beyond us. We can't do this." Dimly, he realized he needed to stop talking. He was drunker than he'd realized and more likely to spill his deepest thoughts and darkest fears.

Calion's eyes flicked around, but everyone was so caught up in cheering on the tussle between Min and Tullus no one was paying them any mind. No one had heard.

Leaning over to speak directly in Calix's ear, he said, "Carefully, General. These men love you. If they think you doubt them, they'll start doing some very foolish things to prove themselves to you."

His mouth turned dry at the thought. Calix cast his eyes down, nodding. But he couldn't quite leave it alone. "It is not them I doubt," he whispered. "It took more than twenty men to bring down one of these creatures. What happens when we run into a contingent of them? What happens when they all realize this is far beyond them, not because they lack the skill but because these monsters are not of this world."

Brow furrowed, Calion sat back. "Why would you say that?"

His alcohol-soaked brain couldn't understand the question.

Calion grabbed his shoulder, face inches away. "What makes you think these women are not of this world?"

A laugh bubbled its way up, incredulous. Calix grabbed Calion's shoulder as well. "How could they be? They hold the power of death, Calion. They bend it to their will. They're fucking Hallor."

Calion glanced down nervously, and Calix laughed again. "We pray to them, thinking just because they're ours that they protect us. If that's the case, then why did our goddess give our enemy this power?

"They are from some dark hole Torvan forgot about. They got out...and it's somehow our responsibility to rid this world of them?" Calix scoffed, leaning back in his seat. "Fuck the gods."

A hush suddenly settled over the tent, the other men looking over, and Calix realized he'd said that far too loudly. Tarquin met his eyes, then glanced down with a sigh. He met the eyes of each man there, their expressions ranging from indifference to nervousness over his heresy.

"The gods don't work like that, Calix," Calion said softly as they others began to speak amongst themselves again, more drinks being poured. "They struggle as we do, just on a grander level. I very much imagine Hallor is displeased by these usurpers. If you were to give her half a chance, you might just find her willing to help."

Calix barely even believed in her.

The other man squeezed Calix's shoulder gently. "Perhaps it shouldn't be our charge. But that doesn't change the fact that it is. Those things are a threat, Calix. To all of Metus. To our empire and everything within it. So we end the threat. That is the only thing required of us now."

With that, he stood and wandered over to where Petran and Valerius were attempting to coax Maximus into trying a drop of the wine. He plopped down onto the floor beside them, laughing as the dog sneezed violently after sniffing curiously at the alcohol.

Calix looked down into his empty cup. Our empire.

He cocked his head as the realization occurred to him.

Her empire.

They were a threat to her. To her work and her blood-right.

He might not believe in the gods, but Cassia did. Perhaps they'd listen to his prayers on her behalf.