The candles burned lower and lower, making shadows skitter over the walls of the tent. Evening cold was beginning to creep in around him, but Calix's focus was on the cramped row of numbers he had spent more than half an hour on.

There were too many men in the Eighth Cohort. Or...there seemed to be. Calix hissed in disgust, scribbling out yet another column, just to start again. The cohort had too many men, but the legion didn't exceed the standard five thousand. And there were no corresponding shortages of food, gear or bunk-space.

Try as he might, he couldn't find where he'd screwed the calculations up.

He sat and struggled through another long calculation, but got the same solution as before and growled in fury. Swearing filthily, he threw the quill down and shoved back from the table. His muscles cried in relief as he stretched and walked away from the chair he had been sitting in for most of the day.

His back and hips ached horribly with the inactivity, his eyes and head throbbing from staring at scraps of paper for most of the day.

The only relief he'd had was a little before noon, when Martialis had come to his tent. Calix scowled as he bent forward to touch his toes, his hamstrings snarling in protest, his lower back sighing its relief. That meeting had been more interesting than the grain requisitions he'd been slogging through, but not terribly heartening.

"What's the worst of it," he'd asked the commander.

Martialis pursed his lips in thought. "Basic swordsmanship for a good number of them." He paused as Calix had stood, ambling toward the map hung on one of the tent's walls. Then he continued, "Formations are still sloppy. The men are learning to work as a unit."

Calix had traced his fingers over the southern half of the map, his hands practically twitching with the need to move, if even for just a moment. His gaze strayed to the blank northern portion of the map, wondering what horrors and secrets awaited them there.

"Appropriate swiftness in following orders."

At that, Calix hung his head, hands falling to his sides. So they didn't even meet the basic requirements demanded by a proper Metian legion. Lovely.

Almost afraid of the answer, he asked, "Are there any who have any real potential?"

"There always are, sir," Martialis said kindly. "It's just a matter of separating wheat from chaff." The commander stood. "Luckily, the winter season is upon us. We should have four or five good months of little fighting to do the threshing."

Wars were typically fought in fairer seasons, but something told Calix his legion wouldn't have the peculiar luxury of boredom most soldiers suffered through when the snow began to fly. He hadn't said that, though. He just nodded, and planted the seeds of the plan that had been forming in his mind for the better part of the morning.

"Give them a month of hard training, Commander," Calix said, finally turning to face the man. "Five- to seven-mile marches in full kit, followed by calisthenics until noon. After that, an hour of lecture on basic maneuvers and formations. The rest of the day I want spent on sparring and formation drills."

"Yes, sir," Martialis responded, an enthusiastic light kindling in his eyes.

"I want bi-weekly reports on progress," Calix said, allowing himself to pace a little before the map. "And at the end of the month, I want ten names from each of your legates—the best men from each cohort."

A hundred of the best men his stripling legion had to offer. That is what he'd begin this hunt with.

A look of surprise had been quickly wiped away by Martialis, who simply nodded, saluted and then left without another word once Calix had dismissed him.

Calix slowly righted himself before he stretched his arms over his head, still musing over that conversation. Several hours had passed since, and Calix had gone back and forth with himself at least a million times, arguing both for and against the fledgling plan.  

The clear, brassy ring of a lone bugle sounded, making a jolt run through him. The gates were closing, the day winding to its finish. Calix wandered into his sleeping quarters, stretching his arms over his head again. A battered, copper pocketwatch sitting on a low table beside the bed showed that it was nearly the nineteenth hour. 

Arcturus would be expecting him.

Calix scrubbed at his tired eyes before he slid one knife into his right boot, another into a sheath on his belt and donned his jacket. He took the papers containing the most sensitive information from the desk and put them in his trunk, locking it firmly before he left the tent.

He stopped in surprise at the sight of four men with spears loitering outside his tent. They snapped to attention when they saw him and he realized with a start they must be his personal guard. He waved them off when they began to follow him, making a mental note to meet them more personally tomorrow, possibly replacing them if there was something he didn't like or trust.

He shifted his coat as he began to walk, making sure the folds of soft leather wouldn't get in the way if he needed to go for his knife. Then he smiled a little, amused by himself. It would seem old habits died hard. It wasn't as though it was all that likely anyone would try to kill him in the middle of camp. The assassination of generals wasn't entirely unheard of, but didn't often happen on the frontier.

The camp was almost as big as a small city, housing not only the Seventh and Second Legions, but a majority of the Sixth as well. Calix enjoyed the walk, though the cold was cutting against his face and legs where the coat didn't quite reach. His mind was still tumbling over some of the things he'd read today.

A few of those things—like the retreat from Grana—he wanted to talk to Arcturus about. How had they lost such a fortified position?

The thought of talking to Arcturus brought on a strange mix of nostalgia, excitement and nerves. 

When he had been fifteen, newly banished from his father's house and exiled to the lowest ranks of the legion, Arcturus had made it a point to stop by his tent every night. He had never asked if Calix was okay. He'd never asked about the black eyes or raw knuckles. All he'd ever done was ask what Calix had learned that day. Eventually, when Calix had proved he was simply too stubborn to quit, Arcturus had begun inviting him to the general's tent. And then he'd started making Calix into a proper soldier.

As Calix had grown and began to rise through the rank, the talks had turned more friendly. Conversations held between two friends, not lessons between a mentor and student.

He hadn't seen Arcturus for many miserable months and was almost embarrassed to admit how much he wanted the old man's thoughts on a lot of what had happened when he was in the capital.

Even with all that, he was nervous, too.

Arcturus had always firmly believed that each man's fate was his own. He had a policy of not interfering with his mens' lives, unless the choices of those men began to affect the health and reliability of the legion. 

But that had never stopped him from lambasting Calix for a few of the more idiotic decisions he'd ever made.

Calix looked up, watching as the first few stars began to sprinkle themselves across the deep blue sky. The camp was beginning to quiet down, most men huddled in their tents out of the cold. The few guards he passed didn't bother him and he soon found himself standing outside of Arcturus' tent.

Arcturus' guards nodded amiably at him, but didn't move from where they were crouched over a game of dice. They were far to familiar with him after ten years' worth of visits to the general's tent to bother trying to stop him

He glanced up at the flag of House Auralius, the golden falcons shimmering faintly on their red field. Then his eyes dropped lower to the flag of his father's house: A snarling bronze fox crouched over two crossed daggers on a deep blue field.

He had fought under those banners since he was fifteen years old.

Now, the only banner he fought under was that of the Heir's house. Calix swallowed hard against the combined anger and pride that swelled in him at the thought. 

This was still the king's army.

But it would eventually be hers. Calix was suddenly glad for his new rank, realizing how well placed he was to make sure the military obeyed her when she took her rightful place on the throne.

Shaking his head to clear it of such delusions of grandeur, Calix pushed through the flap of the tent, unsurprised when he found Arcturus sitting behind a battered desk, his boots propped up on its edge and his chin resting on his chest as he dozed. The man had always been able to sleep anywhere, at practically any time. A brazier smoked gently in the corner, keeping the room washed in warmth. Bellos lay in front of the brazier, his ears pricking and a soft growl rumbling in his chest as Calix approached.

"Hush," he reprimanded, making the animal bare its teeth, though there was something lazy about the action—it was more gesture than true threat.

"Don't blame a beast like that for his nature," Arcturus murmured, opening his eye to blink blearily at Calix. "You should know better than most that he can't help it."

Calix snorted, raising an eyebrow in acknowledgement before he sat in a chair opposite the general. The cold had made the pain in his hips worse and he grimaced, shifting to try and find a more comfortable position before giving up with a muttered curse.

Arcturus watched him impassively and they sat in silence for a long while.

His confession from earlier seemed to echo around him, but he wasn't going to be the one to breach that topic. Instead, he glanced down at Bellos, watching as the candlelight played through his white fur, turning it gold in some places.

Arcturus had had him since he was a pup, having found him wandering in the wild. They had never discovered what had happened to its mother, or if it had ever belonged to a pack. Arcturus had always suspected that the owner of the mother had abandoned the pups when they realized the animals were halfbreed wolves. Bellos was loyal to the general and had even saved his life a few times in battle during the past four or five years since he'd been found.

"What happened at Grana?" Calix finally asked, his voice rough with disuse. "Why did we give it up? How could we have given it up?"

Grana had been an important victory for them. It had been the farthest north they had ever managed to get, not to mention its more strategic charms. The river caves had been well fortified and would have made the perfect launching point for missions farther into the island.

A soft sigh came from the general, and he scrubbed a weary hand over his face. His mouth thinned into a grim line. Bellos let out a soft whine and heaved himself to his feet. The wolf slunk across the room toward his master, one eye warily on Calix before he sat and rested his huge head on Arcturus' leg.

Arcturus put his hand on the animal's head, absently scratching around his big ears as he considered the question.

"Officially," Arcturus began, his gaze focused on something in the middle distance—focused on memory, "we retreated because we were overwhelmed. Which is true enough." His gaze sharpened. "But barely."

Calix had a sinking feeling of suspicious dread. "Unofficially?" he managed to croak.

"Unofficially..." The general, looked down at Bellos, gently rubbing the bridge of the wolf's snout. "Men started dying. Dropping like flies in the dead of winter." He shrugged his lean shoulders. "At first we just dismissed it as disease. Some...nasty Brunian flu or plague that we'd never seen before."

"The surgeons found no such evidence," Calix asked quietly. "Did they?"

"Nothing," Arcturus rasped, a shadow of something like fear passing over his rough features. "Not a drop of ill humors. No scarred lung tissue. No poison in their blood. They were all perfectly healthy, aside from the fact that they were dead."

"You were thinned out."

It wasn't a question, but Arcturus nodded anyway. "Aye, so it would seem. By what means or device, no one knew. Until one day the Wolfclaws appeared a godsdamned mile away, and we scrambled out to meet them. We saw, then, what it was that had been killing our men."

"The death-maidens." Calix couldn't help but shudder as he spoke the words, burrowing more deeply into his coat, like that would keep out the chill of fear.

"Death-maidens, witches, Hallor's fucking whores." Arcturus bared his teeth. "I don't care what you call them. I just want to see the end of them. That's why I sent Tarquin to the capital after the battle."

Calix was a little surprised by the vehemence in his mentor's voice. Usually it was nigh onto impossible to rattle that impeccable cool of his. Then he began to consider how he would feel if it was his men dropping dead around him, without even a chance to raise their swords in defense of their lives. It wasn't a particularly pleasant feeling.

It was one thing for a soldier to die in the field, rent by sword or pierced by arrow. It was quite another for them to die unaware of the danger they were in.

It was insulting, in a way. It showed the Brunians to be an honor-less people, the fact that they would resort to such tactics.

The silence was only broken when Bellos whined, nudging Arcturus' still hand with his nose as he sensed his master's distress. Arcturus shook his head, the shadows clearing from his face. He began to stroke the top of Bellos' head again, placating the beast. "See to it that they suffer," Arcturus said.

Calix looked up in surprise, caught by the fiery rage in Arcturus' hazel eye.

"I don't know if those men died too quickly to be afraid, but they might have been," he continued, his voice low and vicious. "You're here to hunt them, and I do not envy you that task, Calix. But the men they slaughtered deserve vengeance. And the ones who did this deserve to die like the cowards they are."

The only real response he could give to that was a nod. They had been his men, too. He understood the need for retribution. So he nodded again, more firmly. That was all the promise Arcturus needed.

Arcturus rested his cheek in his palm, regarding Calix thoughtfully for a long moment. He knew what was coming next.

Finally, the older man let out a long sigh, rubbing at his temple. "What an asinine thing you've gone and done, boy." He shook his head, looking almost amused. "Couldn't you have just tumbled a scullery maid like a decent soldier?"

"Not when I was in that house as Lord Julianus," Calix retorted, crossing his arms and failing to keep a sneer off his face at the words.

Arcturus dipped his chin in acknowledgement of that. The amusement faded somewhat from his expression. "Does Tarquin know?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Calix scowled. "He didn't like it. He thought me a fool for taking such a risk."

"Yes, well, that's because he's smarter than you." Arcturus let his feet drop to the floor, his boots thumping dully against the wood. "Does anyone else know?"

Uncomfortably, Calix's thoughts flashed to Prince Marcus. But what good would it do the prince to reveal this secret now, when Calix was so far away? What did he gain from keeping it a secret?

The silence was enough of an answer for Arcturus, but he didn't ask who else knew. Instead, he just shook his head sadly, the candlelight glinting over a few silver hairs. "In all my years, I've never seen anything that will ruin a fine soldier faster than a woman that's waiting for him."

"She's not," Calix snapped, then closed his eyes, taking a short breath. "She's not waiting for me." Pain and longing flared in his chest at those words, but he shoved them back down. Perhaps if he simply ignored them, they would die of neglect.

"Well and that's worse, isn't it." Calix looked up at the soft quality of his mentor's words. Arcturus offered him a knowing sort of smile and said, "I've seen the Heir once before, when she was but a girl. She was a beautiful child. I imagine she grew into something quite stunning."

At first, Calix couldn't answer, his mind sweeping him into memories of eyes turned golden by the candlelight. The soft silk of her brown hair wrapped around his fingers. The little furrow that appeared between her brows when she was thinking.

"She is the most beautiful woman I've ever met," he finally said hoarsely. "But she's more than that. She's clever. And brave—gods, braver than some men I've known. She is noble and kind and..." He trailed off, embarrassment flushing up the side of his neck. 

Nobody but himself needed to know that her hair always smelled of jasmine or that her lips were always sweet, no matter when he kissed them, or how often. Nobody else needed to know that she held his heart in the palm of her hand.

By the look on Arcturus' face, he knew his silence hadn't fooled his mentor one bit.

"She wanted to learn how to fight. She asked me to teach her," he said, finally meeting Arcturus' gaze again. "Her father refused to prepare her for the first of the trials."

Arcturus looked dismayed, but unsurprised. "He would prefer that she die."

"Yes." Calix stood up, unable to stay still any longer and began to pace. "He wants one of his sons on the throne."

"Marcus or Malitech?" 

Calix barely turned his head. "I'm not sure he cares, just as long as it is not Cassia." He bit his lip and darted a glance toward Arcturus, but his mentor either hadn't noticed or didn't care about the familiarity with which he spoke the princess' name.

"We should have a care," Arcturus said. When Calix turned to look at him, Arcturus continued, "You were there long enough to see the kind of men they are. Marcus might be cruel, but he is intelligent. Deviously so."

"Meanwhile, Malitech possesses all the same cruelty and half the brains," Calix muttered.

Arcturus stood and threw a few more coals on the brazier. "Tarquin tells me the younger prince vouched for him rather fiercely before the king's council."

"He did?" Calix asked, startled. Tarquin hadn't mentioned such a thing.

Arcturus lifted a hand, scratching absently at the skin beneath his eyepatch. "It would seem Marcus understands a threat when he sees one." He suddenly looked at Calix. "Whose idea was it for you to hunt these witches?"

"The...the king's," Calix said. "As soon as Tarquin gave his report, he told me orders would be sent to Brunia to begin scouting missions in an effort to learn more about these...women. That I was to begin hunting them as soon as I returned."

Which seemed impossible, given what he had seen this morning.

"None of those scouts ever returned." Arcturus moved to the map hanging from one of the tent's walls. He stabbed a finger at where the river caves of Grana were. "They started here." He traced his finger an inch north. "They went ten miles past the battlefield and then..." Arcturus flicked his fingers at the map, producing a sharp rapping sound. "They vanished. There was no sign of a fight. They just disappeared."

"So we have no idea where to start looking?" Calix sat back down in his chair, resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands like a child.

"North," Arcturus answered grimly. "The only bit of information I have for you is that you must send your men north."

To slaughter, Calix thought, his throat closing with dread. To certain death or worse.

Arcturus rejoined him at the table, his brow wrinkled unhappily. "It seems like no coincidence, the fact that you were called away just weeks before the attack. That you were given command of a legion. And not just any legion, mind, but the Seventh."

After what had happened to the Seventh under the leadership of Gaius Lucans, the rumor that the legion was cursed had begun to swirl. The thought had gained so much traction that the number seven was now widely considered unlucky by the legionaries. Calix had always dismissed the idea as nothing but silly superstition, but now an unnatural chill skittered down his spine.

"But the Seventh was being reformed long before we learned of these death-maidens," Calix said, his voice too quiet in the gathering shadows.

Arcturus tilted his head. "The timing still strikes me as strange." He snorted. "Now I sound like some superstitious old woman. Still, I would advise caution. I know your orders say to begin immediately, but those men need training. They need to see you, know that you're here and unafraid. That you would never abandon them to save your own skin."

"That's what I intend to do," Calix said, eagerly turning his thoughts to something he understood—something concrete. "And with what happened in Antelium, I suspect the king's attention will be turned farther south for at least a little while."

"I received your letter about that," Arcturus said. "I wish you needn't have learned of the elder prince's bloodthirstiness in such a way."

"I was the one who killed them." Calix knotted his fingers together, staring at the worn floorboards beneath his feet. "Malitech crucified most of the surviving men and I couldn't just leave them like that. Not after I'd promised the princess I would try to keep her brother from starting another war."

"You killed them because you had to," Arcturus said flatly. "Because there was nothing honorable about the prince's actions. Murderers belong on a cross, not soldiers, no matter who they fight for. It gladdens me to know the Heir understands the value of mercy, at least. Though where she learned such a thing, I can hardly guess at."

Some of the tension leaked from Calix. It had tortured him, the knowledge that many might have perceived his actions as weak or treasonous. Hearing Arcturus say the exact opposite was a balm to his heart.

Arcturus leaned forward, resting his forearms on the tabletop. "I'll give you what help I can, Calix, you know I will. But we're still trying to rebuild our own numbers and—"

"And this is my task," Calix said with a small smile. "It is for me to do."

Arcturus shrugged. "I know you like to believe that the gods don't have anything to do with you, but it would seem something has put you on this path."

All that earned his mentor was a sour look, but even Calix couldn't quite make himself believe that it was just sheer bad luck that had put him in this position. He stood and Arcturus did the same. Calix chewed thoughtfully on his lip, but before he could open his mouth, Arcturus was shaking his head.

"I would love to have Tarquin watching your back," he said gently. "Gods know you need his level head around. But the Second needs a good, strong backbone."

Calix stuffed his hands in his pockets with a rueful smile. "And there are none stiffer than Tarquin's."

"I'm going to give him a commission," Arcturus said, still sounding apologetic. "We're desperately short on experienced officers and he deserves it more than most."

Pride mixed strangely with an icy cold fear in his gut. "Put Vitorius with him. Please."

Arcturus placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing briefly. "You should know better, boy." He sighed, shaking his head. "I expect that the men will overlook any flaws"—he sneered slightly—"in favor of the fact that Tarquin is a damn fine soldier and will do everything in his power to keep them alive as their centurion."

"But in the event that they don't?" Calix pressed.

"Yes, I am also promoting Vitorius to lieutenant," Arcturus said with a sigh. "And I'll keep an eye on him, as often as I can spare it."

A small smile flickered on Calix's lips at the joke. 

When Arcturus had first lost his eye, Calix had been afraid to so much as look at that side of his face, lest he offend the general. So Arcturus had made a point to make as many jokes at his own expense as he could. When that hadn't forced Calix into a semblance of normal behavior, he'd taken to walking around without an eyepatch just to force people into realizing he was no less than he'd been when he had two working eyes.

"Thank you," Calix said with a sigh of relief. He made a mental note to make it a point to talk with a few of his own friends in the Second, asking them to keep an eye out for troublemakers as well.

Arcturus nodded and moved around the table. He pulled Calix into a quick embrace and said, "Just be careful, boy. I've spent too much time and energy making you into a soldier for you to go and die on me now. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Calix whispered.

"Be suspicious of anything that looks too good to be true." Arcturus finally let him go. "If it seems that way, it is. Don't trust to chance and it couldn't hurt to find a few good men to surround yourself with."

Calix began to move toward the flap of the tent, skirting around a dozing Bellos. "I'm trying," he said before he bid his old friend goodnight and disappeared into the shadows.