2nd Week of March 1460

  The vista of his prized vineyards was a splendour Philemon never grew numb to. Rows of vines rolled down the hill in ordered waves, their budding leaves catching the late-winter light in a gentle, golden sheen. It washed over the bountiful promise of harvest like a balm on his frayed temper and, Philemon thought wryly, served as a good omen for what was to come.

  His quill moved up and down with the precision honed by years of practice, scratching across fine paper in a steady, elegant rhythm as he drafted letters and proposals to further his gains. He’d learned and perfected every curve of ink necessary to cultivate allies, whether it be through blackmail, honeyed words, or gifts so generous they might as well have been shackles. Astuteness, he reflected, was oft misunderstood. It was not about taking the most obvious path to victory, but the most meandering one – the road that wandered through the prettiest views, where other men forgot where they were going.

  Sights so beautiful his enemies could not help but get lost in the view.

  “Master Philemon.” Arsinoe bowed into view at the edge of the balcony, black, lustrous hair swaying with the light breeze.

  “Yes, my dear,” Philemon said soothingly, his tone genuinely pleased. She was one of the most prized assets he possessed – one of the hardest to acquire, and one he had made the best use of. It warmed his heart to see a weapon wielded as cleanly as she had been. Then again, he had expected nothing less from himself. That Zeno, the spawn of that wretched bastard of a brother, was now beholden to him, and had no doubt begun to realise the futility of his little vendetta, was a sight almost as fine as his vineyards.

  “We have received word from the Capital,” Arsinoe said. She held a carefully folded letter in both hands.

  Philemon did not immediately answer. He let his quill continue its deliberate dance, each stroke as florid as the prose it laid down. Normal servants might have grown impatient at being ignored so openly, shifting from foot to foot, but Philemon had long since weeded out such temperaments. Obedience, to his mind, was like a carefully tended garden: now and then a weed would sprout, and one had to be sure to tear it out by the root, but a variety of herbs was still necessary for a healthy soil.

  In the same vein, Philemon had a myriad of servants he knew to be spies for various players in the principality. He had broken them down, then remade them in the sweet fire of discipline. Let his enemies think themselves clever. They didn’t realize he was feeding them enough truth to keep them hooked, and enough falsehoods they'd never be able to stop him.

  Only when the last line of the missive was penned did Philemon finally put down his quill with almost ceremonial care. It was an old thing, its wooden shaft worn smooth by another man’s hand. It was a gift from his uncle, a man whose opinion Philemon had once valued above all others. It was he who had taught him that the pen was mightier than the sword, and how to kill one’s brother to wrest control of the House. A lesson he had demonstrated on Philemon’s own father. One he had taken quite dearly to heart.

  Philemon blew gently on the ink, folded the missive with practised fingers, and poured molten wax over the waiting mould. The royal seal of House Makris pressed down a heartbeat later, crisp and perfect when he lifted it away. It was the ultimate symbol of his authority.

  He raised his hand in a casual gesture. From between the nearby Greek columns, a servant seemed to materialise from the marble itself, stepping forward with head bowed to receive the letter. She knelt to kiss his hand before accepting it, as was proper.

  “Send this to Suyren,” Philemon said. He passed the missive to her, and she took it as if the paper-thin orders weighed as much as a boulder. In a sense, they did.

  As the servant retreated from the villa, leaving behind the murmur of the bubbling fountain and the pale gleam of the marble floor, Philemon finally turned from the view and took Arsinoe’s letter from her. The creases were perfectly aligned – Markos’s fastidious work, he could assume – and the edges were stained faintly with grease from Lustinianos’s grubby fingers, no doubt.

  He broke the seal and read through the missive with a disinterested expression, eyes flicking down the neat lines until they reached the end. Outwardly, he was the picture of bored nobility. Inwardly, every word was weighed and filed away, his expression betraying nothing of the calculations running behind his gaze.

  He handed the paper back to Arsinoe. “Read it.”

  She took the letter with careful, unhurried movements and unfolded it, eyes tracing the cramped lines.

  The report was stark. The galleys sailing under Philemon’s name had been harried in the narrow straits, trapped between unfavourable winds and Genoese sails. They had been run down, boarded, or sent to the bottom, and what had not sunk now flew foreign colours. The few survivors had been taken in chains. The grand attack meant to send a message to his enemies had been an utter failure.

  By the time she reached the last lines, her voice was not as steady. “All… all five galleys either sunk or captured,” she read aloud, a faint tremor creeping into her tone. The parchment rustled in her hands.

  “Give me your opinion of it.” Philemon’s tone was flat, almost bored.

  “It is a sizeable blow to our treasury,” Arsinoe said. Her voice was cautious. She knew what a single misstep could cost her if Philemon was in a bad mood.

  “And?” Philemon probed, his tone darkening.

  “And we have to adapt our timeline now. Play more carefully.” Arsinoe tried.

  “No.” Philemon made a sharp, cutting gesture with two fingers. A burly servant stepped from the shade by the fountain where they lounged, whip in hand. Arsinoe trembled, but knew what she had to do.

  Slowly, she undid the fastenings of her robe, shrugging the expensive silk down to the floor to avoid staining it, baring herself nude in the process, though with her back turned to him.

  It revealed a disgusting landscape of old violence, pale skin broken by ridges of scar tissue and burn marks.

  “The other way, niece,” Philemon commanded impatiently. He’d rather not have to stare at that hideous back of hers and would much rather gaze upon her unblemished front.

  Philemon snapped his fingers.

  The whip cracked, a single, practiced stroke. A red welt blossomed amidst the myriad of other wounds, making it uglier still. Philemon always had his servants whipped across their backs. Discipline was a necessity, but he prized beauty too highly to let ugliness sit where his eyes might linger.

  “Try again,” he commanded.

  “T-To lobby for a counterattack against the traitorous G-Genoese,” Arsinoe stammered.

  “No.” Philemon snapped, and the whip matched him in rhythm. Arsinoe crumpled to the marble floor with a choked breath.

  “I-I don’t know, M-Master.” She cut a pitiful figure, knees drawn in, shoulders shaking. The sight sickened Philemon in a distant, clinical way.

  He rose slowly, every movement deliberate.

  “Master yourself, child.” He extended a hand, and after a heartbeat’s hesitation, she took it. The test had served its purpose, and she had failed it. In doing so, she had failed her master, and that, not the whiplashes, was the cruelest punishment of all. The knowledge of it settled on her face.

  “No. The plan moves forward,” he said, his certainty cutting through the courtyard air. The conviction surprised Arsinoe. Of course it did. It would surprise them all. None of them could see the full board as he did.

  All they saw was the smoke and the mirrors.

  3rd Week of March 1460

  “You little rascal, how many times I gotta tell you those sweets aren’t for you?”

  Iason ducked under the outstretched hands of the castle’s cook and darted between the long tables lining the kitchen, snagging a handful of honeycakes in between dodges.

  Iason always thought that if the cook didn’t eat half the sweets herself, she’d be able to catch him. As it was, she puffed and wheezed after him, red-faced and scowling.

  It was only fair that he got a few of them. There were so many, stacked high in neat little mountains of glazed dough. They never let children have more than a few per meal, even though there was plenty left over after every supper. It was utterly unfair.

  He was only evening out the scales, Iason thought, shoving an entire honeycake into his mouth as he ran, sugar sticking to his fingers.

  He managed to escape the kitchen unharmed, though he did have to duck and weave as loaves of bread sailed past his head. The cook’s squawking faded behind him as he bolted down the corridor, still catching his breath and savouring his stolen treat when a familiar shadow fell across him.

  “Big brother Othon!”

  Iason thought it was strange that he had to treat a commoner bastard like Othon as family, but Uncle had been strict that they were all part of the same branch of trees… or something like that. Iason had a feeling that wasn’t how the saying went, but he wasn’t one to stress over those kinds of details. There were more important things to worry about, like getting more cakes!

  “Big Brother!” Iason yelled excitedly, the words muffled around a mouthful of cake. Othon was one of the nicer cousins, and he occasionally snuck Iason extra sweets, so Iason made sure to butter him up whenever he saw him.

  “No ‘big brother’ this time.” Uh oh. Othon was looking at him with that scary look grown-ups got when he’d messed something up. “There was a message coming through the castle a while ago, and you were nowhere to be seen.”

  Iason gulped. He knew he should have snuck into the kitchen sooner, but the sweets hadn’t even been out of the oven the first time he’d checked. What was he supposed to do?

  “You’re Lord Adanis’s page,” Othon went on, voice slipping into the lecturing tone that made Iason’s shoulders hunch. “You need to be present at your post at all times. You never know when an important message comes through.” He reached into the outer pocket of his coat and took out a folded letter. It had a wax seal with that weird cup thing on it.

  Oh, that looked like one of the super important messages.

  Oh no, that was one of the super important messages!

  Iason’s eyes dropped to the floor, and he grabbed at his hands behind his back. He'd found that the scared look was usually enough to delay or even avoid punishment.

  As expected, Othon exhaled sharply and held the letter out to him.

  “Here. You know what to do with it,” Othon said. More quietly, almost under his breath, he added, “Seeing as I can’t.”

  “Yes, big brother. I’m sorry. I’ll go deliver it straight away!” Iason put on the best wide, apologetic eyes he could manage. Othon smirked like he knew exactly what Iason was doing, but he still reached into his other pocket – the important one that held the treats – and produced a sweet fritter.

  Everyone had a pocket like that, Iason had noticed, and he knew every adult’s sweet pocket by heart. An accomplishment he was extremely proud of.

  He ate the fritter in three bites as he bounded away towards the Nomikos common room. He nodded at the guards on duty, and they let him pass with no issue. The Nomikos common room was only for members of the main household, which was why big brother Othon wasn’t allowed inside.

  Iason half-skipped over to the heavy double doors that led to Uncle’s office. He always had to strain extra hard to open them, digging his heels into the ground and leaning his whole weight into the handles. The doors groaned open just wide enough for him to slip through.

  He marched up to the desk and smacked the letter down in the centre of the polished wood. There. That did it.

  Task done, he turned on his heel and made his escape, already munching on the last of the sweets he kept tucked in his own secret pocket.

  When he finished them, he was left with the familiar hollow feeling of sadness that came with a lack of sugar. Then he remembered he had an easy way to get some more.

  Iason ran back out into the corridor and through the castle’s twisting hallways, practically sprinting the whole way. He knew he had to get back to his post quickly, but first he just needed a quick snack.

  He found his target in one of the upper corridors, just as the man was leaving his room.

  “Old man!” Iason yelled, sprinting so fast he nearly collided with him.

  “Oof, whoa there, young sapling. Where are you off to in such a hurry?” The old man was a bearded fellow, with white in his hair and beard both, and he had been Iason’s most generous sweets provider as of late.

  “Searching for you!” Iason declared proudly.

  “Oh?” the old man asked, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  “The Lord received a new letter,” Iason whispered excitedly.

  “Did he now?” The old man smiled kindly. “And did it have a goblet on the seal, Iason?”

  “It did, Demetrios.” Iason nodded earnestly.

  He knew he wasn’t supposed to talk about the Lord’s correspondence, but he wasn’t saying anything about what was in the letter, he didn’t even know even if they asked! And the old man didn’t, he only ever wanted to know what symbol was on the wax Uncle received.

  And he gave the best sweets, so it was a pretty sweet deal if you asked Iason. Pun intended.

  “Good job, Iason. Here you go.” The old man produced a small bundle from his sleeve and pressed it into Iason’s hands. Inside were a bunch of honeyed sweets he said were from the nomads. They were the best of them all, and he gave so many all at once that Iason felt spoiled.

  “Don’t eat them all at once, do you hear me?” Demetrios warned.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Iason heard him, all right, but he was already turning and running away with his loot, so he could pretend he hadn’t.

  He felt ecstatic at getting his hands on some sugary treats. He was just evening out the scales against the adults, that’s all. It was only fair. They shouldn’t be able to keep all the sweets to themselves.

  Iason would make them rue the day they tried to withhold sweets from him.

  Christos’s mornings used to be quiet and uneventful. Showing up for morning assembly, going out on a few patrols, training, and scrapping in the dirt courtyard that ringed the centre of their little billet quarter. And marching, lots and lots of marching. There had been a sort of simplicity to the routine.

  Now his mornings were anything but simple.

  “Morning, Christos, do you have any news on the captain’s training schedule for the upcoming week?”

  “Christos, one of the townsfolk is complaining about a neighbour throwing refuse out on the street again, despite the standing order to throw it into the buckets.”

  “Christos, some of the men got into a scrap last night over the winnings from the rest day competition. What should we do?”

  Question chased him from the moment he stepped out of his bedroll. Christos tried to deal with each problem as it came, but the burden of leading men was something he was still trying to grow into. After the siege of the ‘Ashen Fort’, as people had taken to calling it, his position had quietly settled into that of an unofficial sergeant amongst the troops. The Captain had seen fit to use him for the task, and while Christos might once have jumped at the opportunity, he now realized the strain of having men beneath, the heaviness of being placed in charge of other men's lives.

  He supposed he was finally learning what Leonidas had meant about the weight of a sword, though this wasn’t any conventional sword he knew of. It was not just the steel in your hand, but everything that came with it. He had always valued strength of arm over mind, and problem-solving had never been his strong suit. Now he was learning just what it took to solve problems.

  And that some problems were harder to solve than others.

  “Agapios, get out’ta your tent already, you old geezer!” Kratos fumed at the cottage door where Agapios had been billeted. His fist hammered on the wood, the sharp raps echoing down the narrow lane between houses.

  Since his suicidal escapade during the fight at the riverbed, Agapioshad been a shell of himself. He no longer gave his all in training, he didn’t try to cheer up the men during the hellishly freezing patrols. The company felt that hole like a missing tooth.

  In a group of so few men, the absence of the three men who died during the siege was keenly felt. As was the absence of the kind old man who used to lift people up.

  There had been another change in the company as well, however, as if to make up for the loss.

  “That’s it, I’m breakin’ down this freaking door,” Kratos warned, voice snapping and cracking with an attempt at authority. That he was willing to drag Agapios out by his neck so he wouldn’t be late for assembly was just as stark a change, if not starker.

  The idiot actually took a few steps back to get a running start, ready to throw himself shoulder-first into the solid wooden slab.

  Christos stepped in to stop him, placing a meaty hand on Kratos’s shoulder.

  The teenager turned to him with a furious expression, the one he wore whenever someone dared interrupt whatever he’d set his mind on.

  “Ah, Christos, you’re up.” Kratos’s face smoothed a bit around the edges when he saw who it was. “Quick, help me break down this damn door and drag the old fool out here.” He set his feet as if to try again.

  “We can push together. One, two, three-”

  Christos had to physically hold Kratos in place to stop him from injuring himself on the door.

  “No,” he rumbled.

  Kratos turned on him, incensed.

  “No breaking down doors,” Christos said, fixing him with a flat stare until some of the fire left Kratos’s eyes.

  “Then how do you propose we get him out?” Kratos backed down a step, but his expression remained tight with exasperation and worry.

  “There are other ways.”

  Christos moved up to the door, calloused knuckles brushing the wood, and attempted something he was terrible at and had no confidence he would succeed in.

  Persuasion.

  “Agapios.”

  He spoke into the door and the shadowy confines beyond it. The wood was cold beneath his palm. For a moment there was only the muffled bustle of the camp waking up around them, then he thought he heard the faintest shuffle inside.

  “The end-of-season competition is today,” Christos went on, pitching his voice low. No need for others to overhear. “It’s the last event before we’re sent back to our villages.”

  And to the drudgery of planting and bowing, of broken backs and bent heads. Christos was fairly certain the Captain would hire him on as a man-at-arms if it were solely his decision, but the Captain wasn’t the man who decided these things. So Christos wasn’t so sure of anything now.

  “It’s important for us all to be there,” he grunted into the nothingness beyond the door. The words felt clumsy, like they were stuck in his mouth.

  He had almost convinced himself there would be no answer when a small, rough voice scraped its way through the wood.

  “Not all of us are there,” Agapios said. The sound of him felt rough from disuse, as if the man behind the door had aged tenfold in the span of a few days. “Are they, Christos?”

  Christos went quiet for a long stretch, staring at the knots in the wood while he thought of what to say. Fancy words weren’t going to fix this, because he had none to give. And overcomplicating things would get him nowhere.

  So he just spoke his mind.

  “Crying by yourself won’t bring them back,” he said, blunt as a hammer. “Raging and pretending you’re better off alone won't either. You’re just making yourself miserable.”

  Silence swallowed the words. Kratos shifted behind him, boots scuffing on the packed earth. Then another quick answer slipped through the crack between frame and door.

  “Are you not supposed to feel miserable when friends die?” Agapios asked. “Or are you too used to that to care, Christos?”

  “I try to move on because I care,” Christos replied. “Because I know locking myself away from the world doesn’t do a damned thing for them. The dead stay dead whether you stare at a wall or not.”

  He didn’t receive an answer to that. Only the sound of someone breathing, ragged and uneven, on the other side.

  Christos exhaled through his nose. “If you’re going to throw a pity party, don’t bother coming out,” he said at last, turning to leave. "But the living won't wait forever."

  Kratos looked unsure as Christos walked away from the door. The boy’s usual fire had banked into something tighter, more uncertain.

  “Are ya sure he’ll come after that speech?” Kratos muttered. “Wasn’t exactly the most inspirin’ one.”

  “He might, or he might not,” Christos said with a shrug heavy with armour and fatigue. “We’ve done our part. The rest is up to him.”

  Kratos looked down quietly at that as he fell into step with Christos, mulling over the situation and the words spoken. His hands opened and closed at his sides, as if still itching to batter the door down.

  “I still think we should’ve broken the door down,” he muttered under his breath.

  Christos barked out a short laugh. “You can’t solve everything with a head-on charge."

  Kratos’s lips curled into a grin. “Somehow, hearin’ that comin’ from you only makes me believe in it that much more.”

  …

  The mood in the courtyard was as dangerous as a knife’s edge.

  All the companies were assembled for a competition they’d been training toward since the first day they’d marched through the fortress gates, the one they’d been told the Lord himself would be watching. Men jostled and shifted in loose ranks, rubbing at their hands, checking straps and buckles. Laughter came too loud and died too quickly.

  But it wasn’t just the contest knotting everyone’s guts. For the past few days something else had been ratcheting the tension in the castle higher and higher.

  The arrival of an army.

  Men had come in droves and batches over the last couple of days, clogging the roads and filling every spare room and corner. Some were clearly peasant levies, dragged from their fields by their betters, with earth under their fingernails, and holding their spears like hoes. But others were mean-looking, quiet types, with the easy way of standing only men who’d lived too long with steel at their sides possessed. Those were the ones Christos watched.

  Soldiers. Mercenaries. Even Nomads.

  And Christos wasn’t sure he liked that at all.

  In the centre of the courtyard, garrison men-at-arms shouted themselves hoarse at the seasonal levies, trying to separate the soldiers by companies, often just by picking a knot of men and bellowing a name until someone moved.

  “Oy! You there!”

  A rugged, black-haired man called out to Christos and the small trail of militia hovering around him. The fellow was slightly taller than most of the crowd and properly well-built; which only meant he was a bit less smaller than the rest of the men when compared to Christos. He still had to crane his neck to meet Christos’s eyes, and he seemed to take offense at that fact immediately.

  “What company you lot from?” he barked. Christos didn’t recognize the man.

  “What’s it to you?” Christos shot back, the words slipping out before he could sand them down. He didn’t particularly enjoy being addressed like some lost sheep.

  “What’s it to me?” The man grew red-faced at the mild challenge, veins standing out along his throat. “It doesn’t fucking matter to you, does it? Us soldiers have to sort you lot into groups, and I need to know what fucking sorry company you peasants are from.”

  “Well, I’ve never seen your ugly face around,” Christos said, jaw tightening. “So how can I know you’re from the garrison? You look like a fucking thug.”

  Christos’s bad mouth was something he’d been trying to keep in check and change, but it tended to escape him from time to time. Especially around assholes like this guy. He heard Kratos snort approvingly at his shoulder.

  “That’s ’cause you lot haven’t had the privilege of meetin’ us proper soldiers from the Nomikos estate,” the man sneered. “Lord Hypatius has seen fit to add us to bolster this fortress, since the pathetic militia that’s been manning it did such a shit job, I suppose.” He spat the taunt out with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “So that means you do what I say, when I say it, you twat.”

  Christos narrowed his eyes. He had heard that the garrison was being overhauled and placed under Hypatius’s command. Clearly, these were some of his lackeys.

  He glanced around and saw that their little spat was turning into quite the spectacle. Hypatius’s men in the garrison were looking their way now, hands on hilts and shafts, eyes alight with that hungry look men got when they smelled a fight brewing. His own company had gone quiet behind him, waiting to see what he would do.

  Christos took a deep breath through his nostrils, tasting dust. There was no good reason to cause a commotion and call this idiot out on his bluff. No reason except pride, and that wasn’t enough anymore.

  Not when he had more than his own skin to think about.

  He had a reputation to keep, not only for himself, but for the company that had begun to look to him.

  “Sorry,” Christos ground out, forcing his shoulders to loosen. “We’re Captain Theodorus’s company.” He kept his face as placid as he could manage, swallowing every curse that wanted to follow.

  “Then you’re in that line over there,” the man grumbled, jerking his chin toward the far side of the yard. “Damn waste of space, all you idiots.”

  “Come on,” Christos said. He put a hand on Kratos’s arm and physically steered him away. The boy looked about ready to launch himself at the soldier, teeth bared like a stray dog.

  Kratos spat on the ground in the man’s direction but let himself be dragged toward their designated spot, the muscles in his jaw working furiously. Christos kept his eyes ahead, feeling at least a dozen stares on his back.

  …

  The Captain was already in position at the head of the portion of the company that had arrived. Posture straight, eyes dead-set forward, hands clasped lightly behind his back. To anyone else he looked carved from stone, calm as ever. But Christos had known him for some time now, long enough to see the small tells. Something had him on edge.

  And that was just fine, Christos thought. When the Captain got on edge, he didn’t fray, he just became that much sharper.

  “Christos, you’re here.” The Captain greeted him with a slight turn of his head.

  It pleased Christos more than he cared to admit that he’d gone from being just another Stratiotes to being acknowledged by name.

  “Captain.” He saluted.

  “Come along with me. There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

  He beckoned Christos away from the forming lines and the noise of the courtyard. The murmur of men and the barked orders of sergeants fading with each step.

  It was telling that the only other person present as they left was Stathis, the Captain’s ever-present shadow these days. The man walked half a pace behind, silent and watchful. Whatever this was, it was serious.

  “You’ve noticed that we have more men garrisoning our little fortress,” the Captain began once they’d rounded a corner and the courtyard noise dulled to a distant hum.

  “Aye.” Christos glanced around as they passed an open arch, catching sight of unfamiliar faces. Men in neat, matching bourbon brigandines striding through the halls as if they owned them, snapping orders at servants, militia, and even the original garrison’s men. “They are noticeable,” was all he said aloud.

  The Captain’s mouth twisted with something that wasn’t quite a smile. “They are a sign,” he said. His voice dropped, darkening and lowering in volume so much that Christos had to lean in slightly to catch it. “They are amassing an army.”

  Christos didn’t know where the conversation was leading, so he chose to remain silent.

  “An army to rebel against our Principality.”

  The declaration hit so hard Christos nearly tripped over his own feet.

  “What?” The word tore out of him louder than he intended. The Captain silenced him mid-shout with a single stern glance.

  “Lord Adanis and other nobles in the Principality mean to revolt against the Crown,” the Captain continued, his tone flat as a blade. “And I, being an agent of the Prince, am in danger if they find out I know that much.” He paused and finally turned to face Christos fully. “As are my men.”

  Christos gulped. This was no small piece of gossip the Captain was choosing to share with him. Beneath the quick flare of pride at being trusted with it lay a deeper, colder fear: that they were all trapped deep in enemy territory.

  “What can we do?” he asked.

  “I will not leave my men to die or be interrogated,” Theodorus stated resolutely. There was steel in his eyes now, harder than any sword. “We will escape today. All of us.”

  He reached out and touched a finger to Christos’s chest. A light tap, but it landed like a hammer. “And I need you to help lead the men through the escape.”

  Christos finally began to see the broader outline of the picture, and it wasn’t pretty. “We leave tonight?” he asked, unable to keep the perplexity from his voice. This was all too sudden, too large.

  “Today,” the Captain corrected. “We will use the commotion from the end-of-season competition as cover. The final event is between the finalist teams. We will do our utmost to lose while appearing not to, and stage our escape while the militia and the garrison are preoccupied with the final.”

  That set all kinds of alarm bells ringing in Christos’s head, which was unusual for one of the Captain’s plans.

  “Wouldn’t we be more likely to succeed if we stormed out of the castle at midnight?” Christos couldn’t help but ask.

  The Captain smiled faintly, like he could read the hesitation on Christos’s face. “I know this is sudden,” he said. “But there is something I must do today that might blow my cover, and we cannot stay here until nightfall. I also couldn’t risk divulging the information early due to the risk of spies in our midst.”

  The mention of possible informants among their own people made the hair on Christos’s arms rise beneath his sleeves.

  “The information will be divulged selectively,” the Captain went on. “Only a select few will be told the truth. The rest will think this is an elaborate training exercise.” He inclined his head toward Stathis. “Stathis has the details of the plan and will share them with you.”

  At last, their destination became clear. The Captain hadn’t led them through meandering paths at random. The clang of hammer on metal and the smell of coal and hot iron grew stronger with every step.

  He’d brought them to the castle’s blacksmith.

  “And for this plan, there is something I want you to have,” the Captain said, voice taking on a faintly mysterious lilt.

  Inside, the tang of metal and oil mixed with hot sweat. A soft-spoken, stocky old man who served as the blacksmith bowed as they approached, pausing from his work with tongs still in one hand.

  “Is the piece I had commissioned ready?” Theodorus asked by way of greeting.

  “Aye, milord,” the man confirmed.

  “Please bring it here, then.” The Captain’s tone left no room for delay, and the man moved to comply. Christos watched them both, trying to piece together what was happening.

  The Captain turned to face him fully. “When we first met, you were a peasant not just in name, but in demeanour,” he said. “You were rough, rowdy, foul-mouthed and ready to pick a fight with anyone and anything that so much as looked at you.”

  Christos couldn’t deny any of it, so he remained silent. He’d already made amends with who he had been, and who he wanted to be.

  “You were also using a billhook you’d stolen from your village as your only weapon.”

  The blacksmith came back then, and in his hands was a massive weapon wrapped in linen. Christos’s eyes widened despite himself.

  “I told you I would never let my soldiers take a farmer’s tool into battle,” the Captain reminded him.

  Christos’s head swivelled toward him like it was on a hinge. Shame and pride flooded him at the memory of that conversation back at Probatoufrorio near the latrine. It felt like a lifetime ago, like it had happened to some other thick-headed fool.

  The Captain took hold of the wrapped weapon with some difficulty, which spoke to its heaviness. “You’ve grown far past who you were before, Christos, and you deserve a weapon that reflects that.” He offered it out. When Christos accepted, it landed in his hands with a satisfying, solid thud that ran up his arms.

  “Captain, I…I can’t take this.”

  “You can, and you will.” The Captain’s tone firmed. “That is an order, Stratiotes.” His eyes, however, held a wrinkle of barely contained laughter.

  Christos peeled the linen back, and his breath hitched. The ash-wood shaft sat snug and heavy in his calloused palms, and the long, single-edged blade at the end felt perfectly balanced, its weight wanting to pull his hands forward into a strike rather than drag them down.

  “It is called a glaive,” the Captain stated. As Christos ran his thumb along the flat of the blade, feeling the clean, cold bite of the edge and the faint ripples where the metal had been folded, he couldn’t help but feel it had been tailor-made for him. It simply felt right, as if his grip had been waiting for this haft all along.

  “What do you think?” the Captain prompted.

  “It’s…” Christos gave a few tentative practice swings. The weapon carved an easy arc through the air, humming softly. “It’s like a giant billhook.” He couldn’t help but laugh.

  “That’s because it is,” the Captain said, grinning from ear to ear like he was in on some private joke. “We used the metal from your original billhook to carve part of the blade, though the slag was hammered out.”

  “What? But how did you get the billhook?” Christos asked, then immediately realised the culprit.

  “I had help.” The Captain stepped aside to let Agape slip through the blacksmith’s entrance and straight into his arms, pulling him into a running hug.

  “You!” Christos blurted, surprised. “So that’s why you kept asking about that old thing!”

  Agape pulled back enough to grin up at him, eyes bright. “Surprise,” she said.

  On impulse, with gratitude and something warmer crashing through his chest, Christos leaned down and kissed her. Agape stiffened, startled, then melted into it, pulling back with her face burning redder than the coals.

  The Captain cleared his throat as he moved forward again, voice turning solemn. “We need your strength now more than ever, Christos,” he said, and Christos felt his back straighten.

  He nodded to the glaive. “With great power,” he turned to him, “comes great responsibility.”

  The words landed heavier than the glaive.

  “I won’t let you down.”

  “I know you won’t,” the Captain replied, gripping his shoulder.

  Christos looked down at the deadly weapon in his hands. The glaive felt heavier than its steel and wood should, as if every ounce of trust and expectation had been hammered into the blade. If that was the weight he’d been given to carry, then he would bear it. And he would swing it as many times as it took not to fail the people who’d placed it there.

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