4th Week of March, 1460

  The room was packed to the brim with more sweat and grit than Silvanus liked. A few dozen men stood shoulder to shoulder around the long map table, swords oiled at their hips, faces set in that tight, hollow way men wore when they knew war was no longer a rumour but a date. The air was thick with unspoken worry and a grim acceptance of the task ahead. To Silvanus’s annoyance there was, beneath it all, a faint stink of defeat in the posture of some of the younger officers.

  Still, he preferred this stale, heavy atmosphere to the cloying perfumes and whispered threats of court. At least here a man told you he meant to kill you by the way he stood, not by how sweetly he smiled.

  The Doux entered, cloak brushing the floor, followed by three of his military aides. Silvanus noted the thin, reedy fellow from the Nomikos house was absent. The Makris one also wasn't present, though, which was more of a surprise given the history of enmity between that boy and his own blood. SIlvanus would have thought it was almost inevitable he would end up on this side of the table, but the Doux wasn't taking any chances it seemed. It was quite a dramatic family business what happened with this Zeno. Silvanus had had more than enough drama of his own, though, so he could not judge anyone.

  In any case, the veil was off now. Knowledge of the rebellion was no longer being concealed. They were in a state of open war.

  Captain Theodorus’s militia had been welcomed into the capital and folded in as reinforcements for the main body. Only around fifty men, true, but fifty men not fighting for the enemy was a swing of a hundred in their favour. In a Principality as small and strained as theirs, that was no small gift. God knew they were outnumbered and outmatched as it was. The purpose of this council was simple and brutal: to decide how in the hell they were going to close that gap.

  “I see we are all assembled,” the Doux said into the gathered murmur. Conversations died off. Heads turned.

  “Many of you have already an inkling of what is to take place in the Principality in the coming days,” he continued, “but for those unaware, know this: the Principality stands on the brink of civil war.”

  The statement fell over the room like a hammer.

  “The northern Nomikos lands and the eastern Makris lands will likely revolt,” the Doux went on, voice steady. “They mean to overturn the current regime and place the Principe in power in the Prince’s stead.”

  A few gasps broke from men at the back, the unlucky ones hearing the full scope of it for the first time and trying to swallow it all at once. Silvanus felt a flicker of pity for them. It was a great deal to digest in a single breath.

  “Our agents report roughly fifteen hundred men on the enemy side,” the Doux said. “They have a sizeable mercenary contingent, well equipped and experienced.”

  The numbers hung in the air. Fifteen hundred. Heavy as lead.

  “Additionally, they are well supplied and possess a healthy treasury,” he added. “Unlike the crown’s finances, which cannot sustain a prolonged war.”

  A heavy quiet followed. At length, one of the old hands spoke up, a veteran sergeant of the Royal Guard whose beard was more grey than black.

  “Then perhaps we rely on our fortifications, my lord,” he said. “Adopt a defensive posture.” It was a sensible suggestion, the instinctive answer of any Theodoran officer. Their whole doctrine had always been to dig in, to hold the passes and let the enemy bleed on their walls. Especially when outnumbered and outgunned.

  “That is out of the question,” the Doux said flatly.

  The men stirred, taken aback by the sharp rejection.

  “We have to force a decisive engagement,” he said, and the words set a new, sharper edge on the fear already in the room.

  “But with the forces arrayed against us…” the sergeant began, then let the words trail off. There was no need to finish the thought.

  “The Genoese Republic has publicly condemned our privateer initiative,” the Doux said, picking up where the man had left off. “They threaten to invade our sovereign territory if we do not pay them a sum of two thousand hyperpera.”

  The number landed like a stone dropped into a still pond. A few men who had not yet heard the figure sucked in sharp breaths. Others simply stared at the map, faces tightening.

  “Make no mistake, gentlemen,” the Doux went on, sweeping the room with his gaze, “we are fighting for our very survival. We cannot play on the defensive or we will find our enemies multiplying.”

  That snuffed out any lingering hope of retreating behind walls.

  “How many men do we have in total?” the sergeant asked, sounding already defeated.

  “Assuming we leave only a bare minimum garrison in both Mangup and Kalamita,” the Doux replied, “the Principality can muster one thousand men of its own. Three-quarters of that number would be peasant levies.”

  The reality settled over the room like a heavy cloak. One thousand against fifteen hundred, many of those hardened mercenaries, with the enemy coffers swollen and theirs nearly empty.

  “It is daunting,” the Doux conceded, “but we have one thing working in our favour. A singular piece of information that can change everything.”

  That brought heads up. Even Silvanus, who had thought himself apprised of most matters, felt his attention sharpen. He had heard nothing of any such advantage.

  “Captain Theodorus,” the Doux said, easing back into his seat and yielding the floor.

  All eyes turned to the young officer, who remained seated near the end of the table, injuries making any attempt to stand an ordeal.

  “As many of you know,” Theodorus began, voice steady despite the strain, “I was sent as military aide to Lord Adanis Nomikos. During that time, I began to suspect something was amiss, that the Lord was… dissatisfied with the Crown.”

  Silvanus suspected the Doux had chosen him for that posting with exactly that suspicion already in mind. He knew enough of Panagiotis to know the Doux liked to mix his rewards with fresh duties and danger.

  “I gained access to his correspondence with Philemon Makris,” Theodorus continued, “and learned that they plan to combine their forces somewhere south-east of Mangup. They mean to feign an attack on the capital, but strike in truth at Kalamita.”

  Silvanus watched the change ripple through the room. Backs straightened. Eyes lit with a fierce, almost hungry interest. Knowledge of the enemy’s first move shifted the ground beneath their feet. That is, until someone at the far end of the room spoke up.

  “How can we be sure that information is correct?” a languid voice drawled from down the table.

  Silvanus glanced over. Cosmas lounged there, chair tipped back on two legs, boots carelessly propped on the edge of the map, and dropping crumbs of dried mud onto the painted hills. His tone was casual, bored even, but his dark grey eyes held a hard, dangerous glint.

  “How did you obtain it?” Cosmas probed, tone suspicious.

  “I read the personal correspondence between Adanis and Philemon,” Theodorus answered, unruffled by the suspicion.

  “Well, that is most fortunate,” Cosmas said lightly. He always sounded as if he was leading you somewhere you would regret going. At a cold look from the Doux he slowly lowered his feet from the table, though his expression did not change. Cosmas was a bandit through and through - once literally so, before trading the life of a brigand for a royal surcoat - and Silvanus had never held much of an opinion of him. A man who had crossed everyone he had ever served was bound to imagine the same in others. Perhaps that was why he was so quick to prod at the Captain.

  “And when you ‘obtained’ this letter,” Cosmas went on, “They did not notice someone had broken the seal?” He asked as he would a child.

  “I did not break the seal,” Theodorus said matter-of-factly.

  That drew a different kind of gleam from Cosmas’s eyes, and from everyone else's. “Well, well, well. Now that is something,” he murmured, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Would not have taken the pious Captain for such a… cunning individual.”

  “Cosmas. Enough,” the Doux rumbled, his tone absolute.

  The room stilled at once.

  “I have full trust in the Captain’s information,” he said. The fact that a man like Panagiotis was willing to tolerate someone as slippery as Cosmas spoke volumes about how deadly the former bandit was with a blade, and how useful his cunning could be. But there were lines he would not allow him to cross.

  “Alright, alright,” he said easily. “I just think we should ask whether spending so much time with the Lion in the North has not turned him into a little lion cub of his own.”

  The tone was light, but the barb was there. Cosmas enjoyed poking at people whenever he saw an opening.

  “The injuries I received were from being ambushed by that same lord as I left for Mangup,” Theodorus answered, voice icy.

  That ended the jest neatly.

  Cosmas lifted his hands, palms out, as if to show he meant no harm. “I get it, I get it. Just doing my due diligence, Captain,” he said, that mischievous smile still hanging between the stray strands of his shock of greying hair.

  “Then we can move on,” the Doux said, taking hold of the room again. The candlelight caught the hard lines of his face as he straightened. “We need to force a decisive engagement that breaks this revolt to its knees.”

  “An ambush,” Silvanus said at once. He leaned forward, knuckles resting on the edge of the map. “We know where they will join forces. We know their likely first target. With our inferior numbers, it is the only real chance we have.”

  The Doux nodded. That had been the obvious conclusion from the moment the enemy's military plans were revealed.

  “All that is left is to decide where exactly we will have it take place,” he said. “Get to it, gentlemen.”

  He opened the floor, and suggestions began to spill forth.

  “We can strike them before they join up,” one of the captains proposed, tapping a spot on the map with a calloused finger. “Catch each host on the march, split them before they become one army.” It was a sound strategy on paper.

  “That would require a sudden mobilisation of our forces,” Silvanus replied. “Not all of our men have reached Mangup yet.” He knew for a fact that the Doux had abandoned any pretense of secrecy and was calling every levy he could to the capital, but they were still arriving in trickles, not in a single wave.

  “We can move the troops already here,” the captain pressed. “The reinforcements can take the walls when they arrive.”

  “That is a risk,” an old guard officer said, frowning. “Leaving the gates to raw militia. They do not know the protocols. One panic and the city is lost.”

  “They will not know them in time regardless,” the captain argued. “We need every member of the royal guard if we are to stand a chance in open battle or in an ambush.”

  “Then what?” Silvanus countered. “We march blind toward their chosen ground? We do not know the precise point where they mean to join. If we misjudge and find ourselves between them, we will be pincered on both sides and destroyed.”

  Murmurs of agreement circled the table.

  “God Himself will guide us in battle against the infidel mercenaries and the traitorous rebels,” the captain said, seizing the pause to lift his chin. “He will grant us victory, and then we will not have to fight outnumbered.”

  The Captain proclaimed, using the opportunity to call on God and paint himself in a pious light. A common enough occurrence to gain standing in these sorts of meetings.

  Cosmas snorted openly at that, a low sound of contempt from his corner, but he held his tongue.

  “We also have to consider that any large troop movements will be spotted at once,” the the Doux said, speaking for the first time. He looked down at the map as he spoke. “Philemon is not an adversary to take lightly. He almost certainly has agents inside and outside the walls ready to report on any major movement.”

  “Then we are restricted even in how we plan an ambush,” Silvanus said, exasperation bleeding through his composure. The mood in the room darkened. Even with priceless knowledge of the enemy’s next moves, it was not as simple as laying men in wait and hoping for the best.

  If they wanted a decisive blow, they would have to find a way to make the hunters believe themselves safe, and then strike before any whisper of warning could leave the field.

  “What do you think of the matter, Captain Theodorus?” the Doux asked.

  Every eye in the room turned to the young Sideris boy. In a way, he was one of the most proven commanders present, the only man there who had already turned one hopeless engagement into victory against a superior foe. Theodorus shifted slightly in his chair. Preparing himself.

  “I believe we have to think in terms of priorities,” the Captain began slowly, rolling the words over his tongue as if weighing each one. Silvanus doubted it was hesitation. More likely, the boy had already thought this through long and hard and was simply choosing how best to serve it to the room.

  “We have already reached the conclusion that we must ambush the rebel forces if we are to have any chance of surviving,” Theodorus continued. His good hand rested lightly on the edge of the map table, fingers tracing idle circles through the hills and valleys as he spoke. “Especially given that we must force a decisive engagement within the month.”

  He had a steady way of speaking, not loud, but clear enough that the men leaned in rather than drift away.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “The concerns about the enemy having in-depth intelligence systems in the capital are warranted,” he went on, glancing up to sweep the room. “Both lords have ties and clients here. Their eyes and ears run deep.”

  Some of the officers shifted uncomfortably at that.

  “But that does not mean we cannot move our troops,” Theodorus said.

  A few heads snapped up at that.

  “We can move them,” he said, “we simply have to mask that movement from outside eyes. We can send trusted members of the guard, men who have been vetted, out in small groups. Piece by piece. They travel south toward Kalamita as common merchants and pilgrims, with the occasional military patrol among them. We time their departure with the arrival of reinforcements, so it seems, from the outside, that the garrison numbers remain unchanged. Eventually, someone will notice that the garrison is not swelling with each new arrival, but it will take time.”

  “That solves the problem of how to sneak out the troops,” Silvanus acknowledged. He could not deny the elegance of it, yet he saw the flaws in it as well. “But it is slow. It would take weeks just to shift even half our strength.”

  “We do not need to move the entire army this way,” Theodorus replied. “Only the key personnel.”

  “Key personnel for what?” one of the captains asked.

  “For preparing the ambush.” Theodorus allowed himself a thin smile. “Any movement that is not telegraphed to our enemies will take time to arrange. I suggest we confront the rebel host after they have joined and begun their march to Kalamita.”

  He straightened a fraction in his chair, his gaze returning to the map. “This serves several purposes. First, it makes their route more predictable. Once they move south as a single mass, they will have to use the main tracks. They do not have local guides from the southern Principality. They will know the land, yes, but they will not know it as our hunters, trappers, and shepherds do.” He tapped a finger lightly on the southern hills. “That swings some of the advantage back to us.”

  He glanced toward the Doux, who gave a small, tacit nod.

  “It also allows us to move a large contingent of men completely unseen,” Theodorus added, and there was a faint gleam in his eyes now, the look of a man enjoying the shape of a plan.

  “How so, Captain?” a junior aide asked.

  “The reinforcements from Kalamita,” The Doux stated before Theodorus could answer.

  Silvanus caught on at once. Of course. The troops being mustered in Kalamita were already meant to march north. If the timing was handled with care, they could move first, melt into the countryside, and be in position on the enemy’s line of march before the rebels ever guessed they were there.

  Ingenious. It turned what had been a delay and a weakness into the hammer that might break the rebellion’s back, and it offered yet another glimpse into the quiet, unsettling kind of warfare that Captain Sideris seemed born to wage.

  “Exactly. We spread a rumour that the reinforcements from Kalamita are late and everything is disorganised,” Theodorus said. He leaned forward slightly in his chair. “They ‘march’ on paper, then get ‘stuck along the way’.”

  “Why such a convoluted rumour?” Silvanus asked. He could not help himself.

  “When you are weak, appear strong. When you are strong, appear weak,” Theodorus replied calmly.

  The words caught Silvanus off guard. He turned them over in his head with a slow frown.

  “But we are weak,” Cosmas laughed from his corner.

  “Not if we attack from a position of strength,” the Captain said, unbothered. “The reinforcements from Kalamita can arrive quickly at a pre-planned site and begin preparing it for the perfect ambush. That is how we win this battle. Not by meeting them wherever they choose, but by choosing our ground with care and turning it into a trap they cannot escape.”

  His eyes shone with a hard, focused light as he spoke. The room quieted around him.

  “So we sneak out the sergeants and the men skilled in fieldworks,” the Doux mused, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Let them go ahead and begin preparing the site.”

  The logic was sound, Silvanus thought, and all the more impressive coming from a man who had limped into the city on the edge of death.

  “We have what, five hundred men coming from Kalamita?” Cosmas asked. His tone was sceptical, but not dismissive.

  It was a paltry number for the second-largest city in the Principality. Years of tension with the Genoese and strangled trade had hollowed it out, dragging men away in one levy or another. Mangup itself devoured manpower simply to keep a skeleton crew on its vast spread of walls. They needed at least five hundred men in the capital at all times just to hold the gates.

  “We cannot fight them with just those men,” Cosmas finished.

  Theodorus did not flinch. “If we are smart, we can smuggle out perhaps a hundred over the next days.”

  “And the other four hundred?” came the obvious question.

  “Well,” the Captain said, and a slow, unsettling smile tugged at his mouth, “those, gentlemen, are the final piece of the puzzle.”

  Every man at the table went a little still. It was the sort of smile that belonged on someone who had already seen the whole board and knew exactly which way it would tip.

  “Those four hundred we take north,” he said.

  The room went quiet at the apparent absurdity.

  “North?” Silvanus breathed. It made no immediate sense. The threat was to the south.

  “Let me explain what I have in mind,” Theodorus said.

  What followed was a plan so bold in its overlapping strokes that every man in that room fell silent, listening to a young teenager speak of war for well into an hour. By the time the Captain finished, Silvanus understood at last how he had crushed the Tatars in the north and smuggled out the rebellion’s secrets. Layers within layers.

  A good commander thought one move ahead.

  A great one calculated all the way to checkmate.

  “How is he doing, Demetrios?” Theodorus asked.

  The infirmary was dim, lit by a few oil lamps that threw long shadows over rows of cots. The air smelled of vinegar, stale sweat, and the sharp, bitter edge of herbs. It was late, the war council had lasted the entirety of the day, a draining exercise that had thoroughly exhausted a still recovering Theodorus.

  “He will not wake, my lord,” Demetrios said by way of greeting.

  He looked like a shadow of himself. The two nights since their escape had hollowed him out. His clothes were rumpled, his eyes red and swollen, dark half-moons bruised beneath them. It was as if something had reached in and trampled on his soul.

  “The physician has tried smelling salts, vinegar, even spicy pepper,” Demetrios went on, voice fraying at the edges. “Father Damianus has whispered every prayer and blessing he knows. We feed him every few minutes. The sips we coax into him keep him alive, and I pray every waking moment.” His hand clenched on the side of the cot in anger. “But he. Just. Will not. Wake.”

  Demetrios sagged in on himself, as if the statement cost him something.

  Theodorus lowered himself onto the stool beside him, moving carefully so as not to jar his own healing wounds. Stefanos lay between them, pale as wax, chest rising in shallow, even rhythm, bandages stark against his skin. The boy looked almost peaceful, if one did not know what lay beneath the linen.

  As ‘only’ a servant to Captain Theodorus, Stefanos had not been granted a private chamber the way a noble would. Theodorus had surrendered his own room without a second thought so the boy could at least have a quiet corner to recover.

  “It will be tough, my friend,” Theodorus said softly.

  Demetrios knew what he truly meant. The Captain did not believe Stefanos would ever recover. Demetrios had spent too much time watching those sharp eyes, wondering what they saw and what lines they drew in the privacy of his mind. Tonight, for the first time, he found he did not want to know.

  He feared that if he looked at the future the way Theodorus did, he would see how hopeless this fight really was, and lose the last fragile thread of hope he was clinging to. “The physician said as much.” Demetrios admitted.

  “He did not bloodlet Stefanos, did he?” Theodorus asked, worried.

  “No.” Demetrios’s voice was thin, worn down. “He just comes every two hours or so during the day. He checks on him and tries the smelling salts to… to stir his vigours.” He swallowed. “But he says there is nothing else to do but wait. He said…” Demetrios had to steady himself, forcing the words out correctly. “He said that today is when Stefanos is likely to perish.”

  His grip on Stefanos’s hand tightened until his knuckles went white.

  Theodorus set his good hand on Demetrios’s shoulder, firm and warm.

  “What hurts the most,” Demetrios whispered, eyes shining, “is knowing I was not there for him. In his final moments.”

  “You are, Demetrios,” Theodorus said gently. “Even if he is not awake, even if it seems he does not know you are here, you are. And he knows.” Theodorus’s tone held no doubt. “Deep down, he knows.”

  For the first time in days, something that resembled a smile tugged at Demetrios’s lips. “I’d like to believe that, my lord.”

  …

  Theodorus stayed with Demetrios for several hours more. They spoke little, simply listening to the faint rasp of Stefanos’s breathing and the distant toll of a bell somewhere in the fortress. When Theodorus finally rose, wincing as his leg protested, it was deep into the night.

  “Rest when you can,” he said quietly, before letting the infirmary door close behind him.

  Demetrios remained. Exhaustion pressed on him from all sides, but he could not bring himself to leave. He sat slumped on the stool, elbows on his knees, Stefanos’s hand locked in his own. The candles around the cot burned low, stuttering, and he roused himself only to replace them. More than once his head dipped forward, sleep dragging at his eyelids, and only the fear of waking to find the hand in his grasp gone cold snapped him back.

  Hours blurred. The infirmary settled into that strange silence that only comes just before dawn, when even pain seems too tired to make a sound. Demetrios’s thoughts wandered in circles, prayers and half-remembered memories tangling together.

  He knew he should just accept the outcome quietly, but despite all the warnings he’d received, despite the odds being near nonexistent, Demetrios knew Stefanos could survive this. The boy held an incredible resilience in his slight frame.

  If there was one thing that Demetrios had learned over his long life, it was how to spot great men, exceptional individuals. He had lived in their shadows for a great many years. And he’ ’d long since resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t one of them. He had decided instead that he would struggle to see the new generation through. To nurture and protect these fierce candles that were just starting to burn.

  He could feel that same flame spark inside Stefanos. He knew the boy had greatness in him. He knew the boy would accomplish much more than Demetrios ever had in his life. It was his duty to see the boy through this.

  Demetrios brought his hands together for one last prayer. The final one he would allow himself.

  “If you are to take anyone, God,” He whispered into the void of the night. “Please let it be me.” The words felt lost in the black, and nothing had truly changed by saying them aloud, but in Demetrios a quiet, dark peace settled with the fact that he had truly done everything he could. He had offered his life to God, whether that was enough or not, was not in his hands anymore.

  He rose from his stool to go about changing the almost spent candle, fingers clumsy with fatigue, when he heard a faint rasp.

  “Demetrios… is that you?”

  The voice was weak and thin, hardly more than a breath, but it cut through his stupor like a blade.

  Demetrios froze. For a heartbeat he did not dare turn, afraid the words had been a trick of his mind. Then he whipped his head toward the cot where Stefanos’s eyes were open, dull but aware, searching for him.

  God had answered him.

  And God would expect him to pay the cost

  1st Week of April, 1460

  It was the dawn of a new day, and the April sky could not have been clearer, a hard, glassy blue that heralded the coming spring. Spring not only for the turning of the seasons, but for Philemon’s own life.

  His army was arrayed on the plain below the fortress of Funa, a thousand men drawn up in ordered ranks. Sunlight glanced off polished plate and well-kept mail, off helmets and spearheads. Composite bows and crossbows rested in disciplined lines, long pikes stood like a forest of iron, and armoured cavalry pawed at the earth. All of them ready to usher in a new regime. His regime.

  “Philemon.”

  The Principe approached at a measured pace, a lithe figure with sandy hair and deep, crystalline blue eyes that almost made him look a capable ruler from a distance.

  Of course, one careful look from a closer distance would immediately unmask him, but Philemon didn’t think that too important. He had found that people cared mainly about appearances. They could easily look past the brittle pride, the boyish spite if it served their purpose. Just as Philemon himself could for the hatred the boy held for him, thinly veiled but ever-present.

  That was fine. No, that was perfect. Philemon needed him only to play his part. Afterwards, the boy could be discarded when it suited him.

  “It is beautiful,” Philemon said aloud, unable to quite keep the satisfaction from his voice as he took in the sight of his gathered strength.

  “They will bring about great change and help save the gates of God,” the Principe replied, though his tone carried a faint distaste. Philemon knew why. The most cost-effective mercenaries were rarely Orthodox. Philemon had been summarily prohibited from hiring non-christians which had been a hassle, but a necessary concession to have the boy play his role.

  “Of course,” Philemon said mildly. He could tell the Principe did not believe him.

  The Principe turned that unblinking, almost uncanny gaze on him, the look of a man who valued life very little, least of all his own. It might faze the whimpering sycophants at court, but it held no sway on Philemon.

  “Your army awaits, my liege,” Philemon said, bowing with just the right measure of respect, and with it giving the Principe the cue to move.

  The Principe stepped forward toward the slight rise that had been chosen as his platform, the standard-bearers falling in behind him, banners snapping in the crisp morning air. The murmur of the assembled host dimmed as men turned their faces up to him.

  “Men of Christ!” the Principe called, his voice carrying cleanly over the plain. “Sons of Gothia and of Theodoro! You stand today not as rebels, but as defenders of God’s own gate!”

  Lustinianos, fat and flushed with excitement, waddled closer to Philemon’s side, his jowls quivering with each breath. “Soon we will have everything we have always wanted, my lord,” he murmured, almost purring with satisfaction.

  “Yes,” Philemon said, eyes never leaving the Principe. “We will.” There was a dangerous curve to his smile.

  “My Father has forgotten his duty,” the Principe went on, lifting an arm toward the distant hills as if pointing at Mangup itself. “He grovels before foreigners, insults our faith, and lets the enemies of Orthodoxy grow fat upon our toil. He would see our churches turned to stables and our sons sold as chattel!”

  A low growl rolled through the ranks. A few men spat on the ground.

  “Our cause is just!” he cried. “We do not raise our swords for gold, but for faith! If we do nothing, if we bow our heads like beaten curs, then the fire that devoured Constantinople will one day consume us as well.”

  “Listen to him,” Lustinianos whispered, eyes bright as he watched the men’s faces harden. “He thinks himself a champion of God.”

  Philemon’s smile did not reach his eyes. “A true martyr,” he said softly.

  The Principe lifted his hand high. “Follow me, and together we will cast down a faithless tyrant and raise up a realm worthy of His favour!”

  A roar answered him, standards dipped and lifted, spearbutts hammered against shields, the sound rolling across the plain like thunder.

  “Vae Victis,” Philemon said quietly, his lips shaped in a thin, ominous smile.

  Spring was coming.

  So was his reckoning.

  Soft knocks echoed from the door of Cassandra’s bedchamber.

  “Who is it?” she asked from under the covers. She had not found the strength to leave them since she woke. She had, however, found plenty of strength to cry, her voice coming out strained from her raw throat.

  “It is me, little fawn,” her father’s voice came softly from the other side.

  Cassandra stilled and did not answer. Her mind was in turmoil.

  “We are leaving Suyren now,” he said through the door. “I wanted to say goodbye.” His voice sounded spent. She knew it tore at him that his daughter refused to see him.

  “I know you do not agree that war is the way forward, but...I wanted to say farewell to my daughter before I left.” He spoke in a soothing tone, muffled by the wood.

  “If you see the Captain, will you kill him?” Cassandra asked quietly.

  Something in her still believed the Captain wouldn’t have done the things they’d accused him of, but she knew something had happened in their last date, something terrible she knew not the shape of.

  The Captain was not the heartless traitor her father painted him to be, but he also wasn’t the shining knight she’d become enamoured by. His truth lay somewhere in the middle. That thought pained her - that she was no closer to solving the puzzle of his heart.

  If anything, it had only become more of a twisting, convoluted mess.

  She also knew, with the stubborn certainty of a wounded heart, that something else was at play. They were lying to her. She could not forgive her father for that. Nor the Captain.

  Her father did not answer.

  Cassandra felt tears sting again. This was not what she wanted. She loved her father more than anything, but she did not want anyone to die. And this war, this pointless war, would do nothing but kill.

  “I will think of you, Cassandra,” Adanis said at last from behind the door, voice heavy with sentiments he could not share cleanly. “Everything I do, I do for you and for this family.”

  She stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched. Liar, she thought, fury and grief twisting together. If this was love, she wanted none of it.

  His footsteps faded away down the corridor.

  For a while there was only silence, broken by the faint bustle of the household preparing to depart. Cassandra dragged the blanket higher over her head, as if she could shut the world out by its thin weight alone.

  Another knock came, this one a little more hesitant.

  “Who is it?” she asked, voice rough.

  “Cassa… it is me,” Apostolos said. “I came to say goodbye.”

  “Even you are on his side, Apostolos?” she asked. The words came out sharp, edged with hurt.

  Apostolos was quiet for a heartbeat. “This is for the betterment of the house,” he said at last.

  “How can you believe that?” Cassandra pushed herself up on her elbows, staring at the door as if she could see him through it. “Tell me true. You were there. Did the Captain truly kill Kyriakos and betray us for his own gain?” She tried to pry away the truth.

  Silence again.

  “Tell me!” she cried.

  “No,” Apostolos said, so softly she almost missed it. “I killed him, Cassandra.”

  The blood drained from her face. “What?”

  “I ordered the archers to shoot. Him and the Captain both,” Apostolos said, each word dragged out of him. His breathing sounded shallow, as if it hurt to force the truth free. “I did it. Forgive me.”

  Cassandra flung the blanket aside and stumbled to the door. She fumbled with the latch and pulled it open.

  Apostolos stood there, decked out in shining armour, eyes glazed over in quiet horror at what he’d done. For a moment they only stared at each other, both stunned by the nakedness of the moment.

  “Oh, brother…” Cassandra stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. She knew Apostolos. He would never have done such a thing of his own will. Not to Kyriakos. Not unless commanded.

  He stiffened, then sagged into the embrace. “I am sorry,” he whispered into her hair, breath hitching in waves. “I am so sorry.”

  “I know,” she murmured, holding him tighter. “I will pray for you, brother.” She rested her forehead, warm to his cold touch. “So please… come back alive.”

  “I will.” He promised tentatively, as if sealing a vow he was not sure he could keep.

  They stayed there in the doorway, siblings clinging to one another for strength, neither knowing if they would ever see each other again.

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