--------------------------------

  Ignite

  --------------------------------

  The Waverake was a mess of panicked activity behind Ignite. He ignored it. Just before the Admiral had made her announcement of the Champion's damnable, utterly moronic decision, a courier ship had arrived. It was a regur occurrence among the fleet, the supply ships arriving with goods such as fresh fruit and letters from the sailor's families, but it had never mattered to Ignite. His family, whom he had not seen in years, thought him dead. If they knew he lived, they would have been ashamed of it. After Pupil's betrayal, he had no one who cared to send him letters.

  Until now, it seemed. He had received a small, unremarkable wooden box, slightly more than a foot in length. It had been delivered to him personally by a member of the courier ship's crew, without an expnation of its source.

  It had captivated his attention immediately, of course. There was a weight to it that spoke of significance, his instincts told him. Even while the Tulian fleet fell to chaos as word spread that the Champion had left the city with all her cannons, leaving it open to Sporaton naval assault, Ignite had moved to a secluded portion of the orlop deck. He did not want to open the package on the spar deck, after all. Enchanted traps delivered in unremarkable packages were not unheard of, and with the advent of bckpowder, he feared their potential even more than he once had. Considering his betrayal of the Carrion Navy, then the Tulian people, he had legitimate reasons to fear reprisal from those of means. Best to open the package where no others would be harmed, and if harm should come to him, so be it.

  He pried loose the nails with his fingers, four at each corner, and dropped them into a pocket. He hesitated only briefly, wondering if he should ask among the fleet if there were any capable of inspecting the package. Then he discarded the thought, sliding off the lid.

  No fmes erupted. There was only a slight puff of dust as his eyes fell on unremarkable straw, packed tightly to ward off the corrosive effects of the salty sea breeze. Atop the straw rested a single sheaf of paper, written across the front with a precise, aristocratic style. Ignite picked the paper up, holding it to one of the crystal nterns which lit the gloomy orlop deck.

  To First Sergeant Ignite of the TRN, For His Perusal Only, from Evie, Provisional Steward of the Tulian Republic

  First Sergeant Ignite. I write to you in a capacity both official and unofficial, whilst recovering from injuries sustained by Sporaton assassins, the details of which you have no doubt been privy to by the time of this package's arrival– though I must profess my ignorance of the logistics required to resupply a fleet at sea. If this letter has somehow reached you prior to news of the assassination attempt, I will briefly assure you of the following: all survived, and though my injuries were the most severe, with the aid of healers, they are recoverable. Further information will no doubt be made avaible to you as time progresses, if such a confused awareness of political events comes to transpire.

  Regardless. As you are aware, I have a great deal of experience with penning formal correspondence such as this. However, having been influenced by my continual companionship with the Champion of Amarat, I have found much deficient in my prior modes of communication, which no doubt mirror in no small part the official dispatches of your former employment. In deference to my growing familiarity with the Champion's preferred forms of address, I will hereafter write my intent pinly and without polite obfuscation. If such is disagreeable to you, and if you should in future prefer the more traditional formality common to our respective cultures, I ask that you make me aware.

  Speaking directly, then. You have been emotionally devastated by the perceived betrayal of your former shipmate and romantic partner, Pupils. As a result, you have requested a return to a position you feel is appropriate for one of your supposedly diminished stature. At the time of your request, I did not advise the Champion against granting it, believing your desires a matter of honorable discretion upon your part, and therefore your choice to make.

  I now regret this.

  Through the early days of the Tulian Republic's formation, you were an indispensable tool to my Master, and without you, I believe many avenues of success that are presently avaible to us would have not presented themselves. The purpose of this letter and the accompanying package is therefore to inspire in you a return to the pride in your work that formerly characterized your efforts. In simplest terms, it is a ploy intended to retain your loyalty. I have spent near every free moment since arriving in Tulian working to ensure the safety of my Master, to root out enemies who would sabotage her, and I will confess to you in this letter that I have on numerous occasions acted in secret, against my Master's wishes, killing those who I believed to be a threat to her goals or person.

  If you have not already, now would be the appropriate time to note that you are indeed still alive, Ignite Parables. You are not among their number. Having now come so close to death myself, I seek to strengthen the bonds of those who I believe are best suited to aid my Master. During my recovery, I have prepared an index of over a hundred individuals I wish to ensure the loyalty of. On this list, you are third in priority, behind Admiral Nora and the archmage Garen, and above the witch Selliana. However, unlike the others, who have their own priorities which will undoubtedly supersede those of Tulian, you are remarkable for your keen sense of duty. Bluntly, though you may not readily believe this cim, I trust you more than anyone other than my Master and Hurlish.

  Thus, the package. Proof of my trust in you, First Sergeant Ignite. If you have not already, remove from the straw what I have delivered.

  Ignite's shaking hands set the paper upon his knee, moving as if he were in a dream. He brushed the straw aside gently, careful not to spill it on the deck, and looked upon what was revealed.

  It was a firearm. Ignite could tell that much. A pistol of some sort, but beyond that, he could not say. It was made of golden brass and cool iron, clearly of a design far more complex than any of the muskets or pistols the Tulian Navy had been provided. It had a dark, curving wooden handle, which rose to connect to the golden enclosure enshrouding a strange cylinder, the face of which had six holes drilled into the metal. Unlike the naval muskets, which relied upon flint to strike a spark, the hammer which rested at the rear of the weapon was tipped with a faintly pink crystal, a match for the six others which dotted the rear of the cylinder. Ignite reached to pick it up, but was stopped by the sight of his own trembling hands. He returned to the letter instead.

  What ys before you is known as a revolver, and this particur example was the first of its kind. Produced by Hurlish, it was originally intended for my personal use, until testing found its ability to pierce enchanted armor inadequate. A second, different design was ter constructed for myself, one which supersedes this example, and so this revolver has nguished, sadly unused. Across all the world, only this revolver and my own presently exist.

  I give it to you. Armor is a rarer sight in naval battles as I understand them, and thus I trust you will make far better use of it than I. The cylinder within, once prepared, is capable of rotating to align itself with the barrel, allowing the wielder to fire six consecutive shots without reloading. This is an advantage that cannot be understated. In Master's world, near five hundred years of firearm development passed by before this innovation came to be. As you may therefore expect, it is of the utmost importance that you do not, under any circumstances, allow this weapon to fall into enemy possession. However, unlike the Carrion Navy, I will give you one order to supersede this: preventing the revolver from falling into enemy hands is not worth your life. You, Ignite, whether you believe it or not, are an asset worth cultivating.

  Ignite cautiously lifted the revolver in one hand, feeling its heft. It was not overly heavy. Beneath it he noticed a leather scabbard, perfectly designed for his Carrion armor's equipment belt. Swallowing hard, he read the final few paragraphs.

  This revolver, as is befitting the first of its kind, was given a name. While it is now yours, and it is therefore your right to change, I will tell you that I named it "Kate." This was the name given to the first colred sve my Master personally freed, and it was in her honor that I named the weapon. It is my hope that it will continue to liberate those suffering a fate such as Kate's. Should this war come to an agreeable end, it is my fondest hope that you will employ her in the taking or destruction of sve-bound ships, and that you do so as often as is practicable.

  In some ways, this weapon represents a greater trust in you than even the supply of cannons to Admiral Nora. You think yourself stained by dishonor, a failure to two peoples.

  I do not.

  If you cannot trust yourself, let this weapon be the proof of my trust in you. Beneath it lies a brief set of instructions on its use and care. Acquaint yourself well with it, for I intend it to save your life.

  Ignite reverently set the revolver down on his p, lifting the scabbard out of the case. It was made of finely oiled leather, stitched with thick threads that looked as if they would st a century before snapping. Beside it y a brass tube topped by a small funnel, a set of six repcement sparking crystals, and a bag of a hundred lead balls. He dusted aside the st of the straw, searching for the instructions Evie's letter had mentioned.

  He couldn't help but ugh. The sound echoed oddly in the orlop deck, for it had been long indeed since he had st heard his own ughter. Evie's 'brief' instructions were no less verbose than the 'blunt' letter which proceeded them. Twenty or so sheets of parchment were tied together with twine, written front-and-back in dense, sprawling text. It was practically a treatise on the care, employment, and design of firearm pistols. He was thankful he had practiced his skill at reading the Continental nguage, else it would have taken him the next month to parse all she had written for him.

  Up above, he could hear the frantic preparations of the fleet continuing onward. Admiral Nora was desperately reversing course from her raiding of the Sporaton coastline, feverish in her desire to reach the capital before the Sporaton Navy could take advantage of the city's absent defenses. Nearly every word out of her mouth that wasn't an order to her crew had been some variation of cursing, most often directed towards Sara's rashness, and though it had been several hours since she had received news of the Tulian Army's abandonment of the capital, her fury showed no signs of abating.

  Ignite, as First Sergeant, had little to do with the preparations. That was sailor's work. And so he settled into his seat, bringing a ntern closer as he began to inspect the weapon Evie provided him. For the first time in weeks, months, he felt a small smile slipping onto his face.

  For so long, he had thought himself the remnant of an old world, a Marine born fighting in an era that was soon to fade to mere memory. He battled with sword and shield, trusting his armor to absorb the blows of iron and steel. Lead and powder were foreign things to him, the tools of a different, newer generation.

  He pulled the hammer back on the revolver, listening to its quiet, satisfying click.

  The world was changing. Ignite would change with it.

  --------------------------------

  Sara

  --------------------------------

  The wind was dead. The air sat lifelessly over the field, the yellowed grass limp and exhausted. The only movement in the distant jungle trees came from the birds which hopped from limb to limb, rarely flying, seeking deeper, cooler pools of shade.

  Yet on the field before them, the nd writhed. Thousand of bodies gathered themselves across a span of two miles, milling boots crushing the dead grass to dust. Sara had just crested the st hill before the Sporatons, finally bringing them into sight, and had ordered a halt as she sat high in Trot's saddle, spygss pressed to her eye. The field of battle that Graf had chosen was a valley in miniature, a two-mile swathe of ft ground set between two rge hills, each stretching perhaps three-quarters of a mile wide. The terrain between the two hills varied only slightly, rising no more than a handful of feet at a time. Nothing that would matter over the course of a battle. This was one of the rgest open expanses Sara had seen in Tulian, one where the jungle trees were only sparsely scattered at the very edges of the slight valley as a thin, freshly grown treeline. It would provide little shelter for her troops even if she managed to draw the Sporatons towards it. If battle was met in the middle of the valley, no side would benefit from terrain, while either hill would provide an ideal pce to make a defensive stand.

  Through the lens of the Carrion masterpiece Nora had gifted her, the details of the Royal Army leapt into stark relief. Across two miles, even the magically enhanced spygss couldn't make out individual faces, but she could get the gist of the formations on dispy.

  The enemy's presentation was as she expected. Twelve thousand soldiers, eight thousand of them divided into tight rectangles of two hundred. The bulk of their number were aligned across the middle of a rge hill, backs against its slope, content to wait patiently for Sara's approach. Before them, appearing far greater in number due to their spread, though only numbering half that of the spears, were the loosely arranged archers. Until a few short moments ago, many of them had been sitting on their haunches in the grass, their light gambesons removed and draped over their head, providing mediocre shelter from the bzing sun. Her army's emergence had been a kick to their anthill, the bre of bugles and rattling snap of drums sending the archers scrambling to their feet, donning what little protection they were afforded.

  The cavalry were nowhere in sight.

  Sara lowered her spygss, handing it to Evie, who stood beside Trot.

  "It's a textbook formation," Sara said. "Exactly what we expected."

  "So it would seem," Evie said, peering through the gss for herself. After a moment, she snapped it shut, returning it to Trot's saddlebag. "That is concerning."

  Sara grunted her agreement. The picturesque formation on that distant hill was an exempry rendition of what exactly should be done by any commander pced in the Royal Army's tactical and strategic position. With forewarning of an approaching enemy, Graf had arranged his troops with their backs to favorable terrain, the blocks of spears arranged in a neat semi-circle on the hill, as if ready to embrace the archers before them.

  By the textbook, the bows would loose shots as rapidly as was practical during Sara's approach, afforded greater range by their forward positioning, only to melt away through the gaps between spear blocks the moment they came under actual threat from Sara's onrushing halberdiers. The spears would then pour down the hill– because high ground was anything but advantageous in a melee fight– and use that momentum to sm into Sara's troops, arresting her charge. The Sporaton archers would then have a height advantage from atop the hill, safe behind a wall of spears, allowing them to unch volley after volley over the heads of friendly troops. Arrows would rain into the deepest core of Sara's army, and all the while the spears blocks, which far outnumbered Sara's halberdiers, would creep around the fnks, steadily enveloping her. Though they certainly could, they would not fully enclose her army. They would leave a small avenue of escape at the rear, so that her troops would know that breaking and running was always an option. The moment they did, however, Sporaton cavalry would thunder out from its hiding pce behind the hill, cutting down her fleeing troops with impunity.

  It was exactly, to the tee, what should be done. Sara had studied endless manuscripts at Evie's behest, and had she been in Graf's position, her army would have been taken up a carbon copy formation.

  "What are we missing?" Sara asked.

  "I don't know," Evie replied. "I doubt we will know until the trap is sprung."

  "That's a formation built to crush a charge. But we obviously aren't going to charge. We have artillery. Graf has to know that."

  "Of course. His presentation of this formation is clearly trying to misdirect us."

  "But to do what?" Sara asked. "He knows you're with me, and he knows you're smart. We aren't going to fall for that. So why bother trying to set the trap?"

  "Presenting a more obvious trap to obscure the true danger, I can only surmise."

  "Well it's fucking working. I don't know what he's pnning."

  "Neither do I."

  Sara swore under her breath. She lifted her communication crystal, ordering the army's Lieutenants and Colonels to gather.

  As she waited, she ordered the rest of her army to remain behind the hill. She knew the Night's Eye were with the enemy, including Sen, the famed scout Evie had once dueled. The dead grass was no more than knee height at its tallest, but that hardly mattered. Sara could only assume she was being watched at all times, some Skill keeping the elite mercenaries from being spotted. That said, she wasn't going to just sit her entire army in pin sight of the enemy. She kept them behind the hill, affording herself at least the illusion of stealth.

  It took only a few minutes for the army's command staff to arrive. She set up a simple covering in the meanwhile, a canvas pavilion just tall enough to provide shade while they spoke, but didn't bother with chairs or a table. The entire army could see them standing there, after all, and the common troops were baking in the sun. Shade was the only luxury she'd allow herself.

  The discussion with her commanders proved less than productive. More than half of them had been suitably tricked by Graf's positioning, taking the trap at face value, and hadn't even considered that it was a double-bluff. Those few that had seen through the ploy still didn't know what to do about it. Lieutenant Shale, shockingly, suggested a prolonged artillery bombardment to begin the battle, as she had for every conflict, problem, or mild inconvenience the army had ever faced since she had first gotten her hands on the cannons. Colonel Targ, Voth's old army buddy, wanted to try limited hit-and-run tactics, sending a selection of muskets up to unleash a volley or two before retreating, hopefully springing the trap with minimal risk to the greater army. Colonel Ese, surprisingly, wanted to march directly in. She was confident that the Tulian infantry were superior enough that, even outnumbered four-to-one, they'd come out on top in a direct melee conflict. She was alone in that thought, however, and Sara didn't want to take that kind of risk.

  "The problem," Sara expined to Ese, "is the enemy Knights. Yes, our regur infantry might be able to kill four conscripts for every one they lose, but there's no way they can stand up to a Knight, and Evie and I can't be everywhere at once."

  "Which is why we need to blow them to pieces from a mile out," Shale said for the dozenth time. "We have enough powder to keep up the barrage through the night, General. Nothing'll be standing after that."

  "Not if they just stood there and took it, no, but they sure as hell won't. If there's one thing Graf knows for certain we're going to try, it's artillery."

  "So?" One of the Lieutenants spoke up. It was Lieutenant Leso, recently promoted from Sergeant. Most of the newer Lieutenants didn't have the guts to contribute during a meeting like this. Sara respected those who did. "They know we've got artillery," Leso continued, "but can they do anything about it?"

  The assembled officers looked at one another, considering. Sara chewed her cheek. The Sporaton mages had demonstrated some limited shield spells, but that was it. One or two shots had always been enough to crack them. And Sara's spygss hadn't seen any specialized siege equipment, like enchanted ballistaes or the like, which may have been capable of replying to the cannons.

  "Good point, Lieutenant," Sara said. She scanned the officer's expressions. "I don't see any reason why attempting a barrage could cause problems. Is everyone in agreement?"

  Shale opened her mouth.

  "We know, Shale."

  The artillery Lieutenant slowly closed her mouth as a chuckle circled its way around the pavilion. No protests were raised, and so the order went out. Sara and several of the other Evie-trained Irregurs joined the cannoneers as they began to roll the cannons forward, first struggling up the hill with them, then throwing their entire weight against them as they threatened to race down the slope to to their destruction.

  They had just finished inspecting the cannon's carriages for damage when a shout drew Sara's attention, one of the cannoneers pointing towards the enemy army. Sara's heart leapt into her throat, fears of a sudden cavalry charge filling her. Then she recognized the fg of parley, and a new fear took hold of her.

  An absolutely massive white fg was being trotted out from the Sporaton Army, easily visible even from two miles away. Sara snatched up her spygss, trying to soothe the shaking adrenaline that the shouts had raised in her.

  "There's only one person," she whispered. Evie turned toward her, head cocked.

  "One? Who?"

  "Who else?"

  She watched the elderly Graf walk across the field, thick fg pole clutched in one hand. He was dressed in his battered armor, sword at his waist, but his helmet was nowhere to be seen. He walked with a straight back and easy gait, as if he were strolling through a peaceful garden. The distance between the famed mercenary and her army slowly closed.

  Sara licked her lips. Looked at the cannons. Shale caught her gaze, a silent question in her eyes.

  Sara's attention flicked down to Evie, who was watching Graf approach. Her tail swiped side to side, ears twitching rapidly. Even Sara couldn't pce the expression on her face.

  Sara looked back up at Shale and subtly shook her head. The woman nodded, unsurprised, and bent back to preparing the cannons.

  "Are you going to be alright?" Sara whispered.

  Evie's tail continued to swipe.

  Left.

  Right.

  Left.

  Right.

  She remained silent.

  "Okay," Sara murmured. "I'll handle most of the talking. But I'll follow your lead if you want me to."

  She nodded.

  -------------------------

  ----------------------

  -------------------

  They met halfway between the two armies. A mile separated Sara from any hope of reinforcement, while the same distance separated Graf from any cover from cannon fire. It was a meeting on equal ground, but only in that any betrayal would end up with all involved dead. The mercenary could take Sara's head from her body with barely a twitch, but it would cost him his life. Shale had thirteen cannons aimed directly at him. Even Graf couldn't survive that, surely.

  For Sara, it was the first time she had gotten a look at the mercenary in the full regalia of his time-worn armor. The steel breastpte he wore was deeply gouged in a dozen pces, only the barest slivers of once-elegant engravings visible beneath the scars. His arms and legs were protected by the pinest of designs, absent any decoration or embellishment, though that didn't mean the equipment was poorly made. Rather, it was beautiful in its simplicity. The joints and folds slid over one another silently, the bare minimum of complexity required to ensure the mercenary's extremities were uniformly protected. The leather scabbard hanging from his hip was discolored and stained, more appropriate for a lonesome bandit than a renowned general, but the pommel which rose from it was... different.

  Graf's sword seemed stark, somehow. It caught Sara's attention and didn't let go. It was as if the weapon were more... present, perhaps, than that which surrounded it. More real. If all the world was a painting rendered in gentle watercolor, the sword of Graf Urs was a ssh of dark ink, asserting, no, demanding a pce in the foreground of reality. She didn't know what the weapon was, what had gone wrong to allow such a thing to exist, but even the sight of it stirred felt a deep, primal fear. She knew, somehow, that if that sword was drawn, the world would be a worse pce for it.

  Sara tore her eyes away, forcing it from her mind.

  Graf stopped within ten yards of Sara and Evie, impaling the fg of parley into the soil. Sara searched the air around him for disturbances, wondering if he had any invisible guards. She didn't know if such a thing was possible, but if she were to encounter it for the first time, she expected now would be the moment. She noticed nothing, which didn't reassure her.

  "Champion," Graf said. "Lady Evie."

  "Commander Graf," Sara replied.

  The moment stretched. Evie shifted in pce, weight sliding from foot to foot. Sara didn't look away from Graf to see her expression, but through the colr's bond, she knew it was one of many, many emotions.

  "This battle does not need to happen," Graf eventually said.

  Sara's eyebrows rose. "You picked an interesting time to say something like that."

  "Privacy is a scarce commodity in a King's army. My opportunities to pass a message were few, and sadly, I unknowingly squandered them."

  "Not fwless after all then, are you?"

  Graf smiled sadly. "Of course not, as you should know. I expect dear Evie has provided you a record of my life's battles."

  "You've lost before." Sara looked back at her army, a thin line on a distant hill, and then to the swarm of Sporaton troops behind Graf. "But not like this."

  "I have never fought weapons such as yours, either."

  Sara did not immediately reply. The air was still stale and lifeless, and beneath her bck armor, she was pouring sweat. A breeze would have been a godsend.

  "Why are you encouraging me?" She asked. "You say you don't want to fight, and then you assure me my victory is possible. That's a poor way to convince your opponent to retreat."

  "I've grown too old for dithering." Graf put a hand on the parley fg, resting some of his weight against it, gncing backward. "Leave the politics to the nobility. You've earned Lady Evie's trust, Champion. I'll speak the truth with you."

  Sara squinted slightly. Mulled it over. She believed him.

  "Alright," she said. "Why avoid the fight?"

  "Because thousands will die. Why else? I've no more taste for spilling blood than you."

  "I've read your life's story, Graf. It didn't strike me as the tale of a pacifist."

  "Pacifists are fools," he replied immediately. "They are idealists who would rather see their own throats cut than admit their error. I've killed a great many pacifists, Sara Brown." He took a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were less hard. Sad. "But I respect them dearly. And in my most foolish dreams, I imagine a day when their kind rules the world."

  Sara couldn't help it. She ughed. "Really? You respect them? I sure as hell don't. I never have." She looked up at the Royal Army, where thousands of faces were staring at the small exchange of words. "Out with it, then. Why shouldn't I fight?"

  Graf's jaw clenched. "I have already said why. Because thousands will die. Because blood will be spilled that did not need to be spilled. Because this foolish war, which has thus far cimed so few, will become something worse. Grudges will fester, debts will be incurred. Your nation will grow, and with it will your enemies. For the first time in decades, Champion, Sporatos will have a threat on its border. Wars will sprout from this moment like the petals of a poison vine."

  Sara leaned back on her heels, absorbing Graf's words. It wasn't what she'd expected from the man. That was rare.

  "And if I surrendered?" She asked. "If I let the King march into Tulian, let him raise his banner over the walls? What then, Graf? The people I have fostered will return to their suffering. The progress I've made, the lives I've worked to build for them, it will be gone."

  "But they will be alive." He took a step forward, expression drawing inward with intensity. "They will go home to their husbands and wives, to their children. They will live to see a new dawn, their return to the Embrace of the Gods deyed for as long as they may please."

  "Why are you a mercenary?" Sara asked. "If that's your goal, if keeping people alive is what you're here for, why do this? Why spend your entire life fighting, killing? Surely you're not that much of a hypocrite."

  "Because I do not fight with honor," he said simply. His face hardened yet further. "Because the wars that I involve myself in end. They do not become squalid affairs, years of siege and marching, disease ripping through the popuce. I do not bear grudges, nor swear vengeance, nor seek battle for battle's sake. And when I kill, I kill because I am better at it than they are. When I take a city in days, sughtering the defenders to a man, it is because others would have taken months. They would have burned the fields, bombarded the walls, taken prisoners and executed dissidents. Instead, I crush them utterly. The war is won, and life continues."

  "Merciful violence," Sara scoffed. "How honorable."

  "I am no fool," Graf snapped. "I know better than to think like some petty Knight. I've rejected more Knighthoods than you can dream. When you announced this war would be fought without chivalry, without honor, I rejoiced. It is as wars should be fought. Had the King given me control of the army from the start, I would have overwhelmed your forces, shocked them into surrender, and in doing so spared as many as I could. Now it has gone too far. There is no simple victory to be found. Only horrible, grinding sughter."

  Graf's words grew ever sharper as he spoke, his face twisting into a jagged scowl. Seeming to realize this, he paused to take a deep breath, gathering himself, then continued in a more even tone.

  "Please, Lady Sara. Surrender. Or if that is too unpatable, flee. I will convince them your retreat is a trap. You will have time to reach your city and evacuate. However it is done, please, do not make our peoples suffer."

  Sara barked a sad, incredulous ugh. "If I left them to your King, they would suffer anyway." She shook her head, looking away from Graf. "You're smart, Graf. Hell, you're a genius. You were born a peasant, too, and no amount of forged lineage changes that. Do you really think they deserve to live like this? With Lords and Ladies breathing down their neck, treating them like disposable tools?"

  "I–"

  "How many times in your life have you seen them starve, Graf?" Sara asked, bowling over his words. "How many times have you seen the rich stay fat and happy while their people wasted away? How many times have you seen the people tending fields of fx and silk with gaunt faces, their ribs pressing against their skin? How many times have you passed someone on the street, head hung low, hands in their air as they beg for a single coin from those that have thousands? How often have you–"

  "Enough!" Graf bellowed. He took another step forward, jabbing his finger at her. "Do not lecture me, girl, on the miseries of the world! You are a child! You speak of starvation, of injustice, but I have seen so, so much worse. I have seen horrors that you cannot fathom! I have seen bodies bent and broken by foul magics, the perpetrators walking free, heads held high. I have watched helplessly as the light faded from the eyes of the innocent, their minds robbed of all which made them human, and I have cut down the monster that emerged! I have seen the seas boil, flesh falling from the bones as screams, endless screams filled the hissing skies, and I have been cursed to hear them again and again every time I close my eyes! I have seen things that made the gods weep, girl. Do not presume you can lecture me on the agonies of the world."

  Sara didn't back down. She moved forward, matching Graf step for step.

  "Then why fight?" She all but yelled. "Why do this now? Step down, refuse command. I'll win! We both know it. The King doesn't understand the power that these guns give me, but you do. You're their only hope of stopping me. If all you want is for the war to end, why are you doing this?"

  "Because I have seen what happens when a King is denied his prize, Champion," Graf hissed. "Because I have seen the wars that tumble on and on, one after the other, as grudges deepen and wounds fester. This is but a paltry offering of what the King could have brought to bear. He has tens of thousands more peasants, thousands more Knights, and the wealth of a Kingdom to be brought to bear! What will you do when ten times this number bears down on you? What will you do when you face not five hundred Knights, but five thousand? How many nobles have your guns killed, Champion? Dozens? Hundreds? They had families! Families with power, authority! And now they despise you. Do you really think this will be the end? That one war will decide it all?"

  "I don't care if it does or not." Sara felt herself growing frenzied, irrational, but she didn't fight it. "I'll fight as many battles as it takes. I'll spill as much blood as they bring me. I'll drown them in it. The lives those so-called-peasants live, it isn't a life at all. It isn't right. The agonies of my home were a luxury compared to what they suffer, and even then I fought. With all I've seen, with all I've done, do you really think I could just lie down and accept that fate?"

  "And what will you provide them instead?" Graf spat. "I have learned of your pns. Of a Republic ruled not just by the elite, but by every person, every citizen. Have you any idea how you will achieve such a thing?" Graf's scoffed in disbelief. "I have fought for the merchant republics. I have seen their democracy. It is a useless, awful affair. They fight and squabble over trivialities, ignore what matters to the people in light of what matters to them. They can coordinate nothing, save for lining their own pockets, and they colpse as often as they rise."

  "Better chaos than tyranny!"

  "When your system crumbles and the riots began, I implore you to walk out into the streets, to look a trampled, dying child in the eyes and say the same thing. I doubt you will have the stomach for it."

  "At least the child will have had a chance!" Sara roared. She didn't know when it had happened, but she realized she had closed the distance to Graf, standing within arm's length. "King or Queen, peasant or Lord, there is no difference. They all deserve a pace, and if I can't give that to them, at least I'll give them a home. Say you're right, Graf. Say Tulian is doomed to chaos! Is that really so different to a Kingdom? I would rather be lost on the merciless sea than chained under a torturer's bde."

  "And you know what?" Sara threw an arm behind her, towards the army. "The people agreed! I told them what they're here for, what they're fighting for. I told them the risks, I warned them that everything I hoped for may fail. And look! They're standing with me! How can you deny that? How can you pretend that there isn't a chance for something better here?"

  Graf's teeth ground, the muscles of his jaw jumping beneath his leathery skin. He opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it closed, visibly composing himself. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice lowered from the shouting match that they had both been reduced to.

  "I pretend nothing. If what you say is true, if your hope is not a passing dream, I will rejoice. I will appud your success, and implore others to follow in your footsteps. But I have seen far too many failures to trust it. I have seen rebellions lead by charming demagogues, powerful men and women who promise the peasants everything you have and more. I have been hired by them, fought for them, and I have won their wars. And when they have taken the throne, I have watched as they returned to what you call tyranny. I have watched power coil in their fist as inevitably as a boulder rolls down a hill. A tyrant always emerges, Champion. Perhaps you are truly virtuous. Perhaps it won't be you. But one will rise, and your people will fall under their sway. And all the lives lost this day will be for naught."

  Graf ran a hand through what remained of his wispy hair, blinking the sweat from his eyes. "I cannot allow that risk. I will fight for the King, because this battle must be decided as soon as possible. If I know it is lost, I will retreat that very moment. I implore you to do the same. It is the only mercy that we may offer our troops."

  "I'm sorry. But we'll fight to the end."

  Graf breathed in slowly, deeply. Looked up and away. He let the breath out. Nodded. "So you will."

  Sara stepped back. Graf's face turned down, towards Evie. The feline looked at him, motionless. Her ever-twitching tail y still, her ears frozen.

  "You will command from the rear, right?" Evie asked. Her voice was quiet, pleading.

  Graf smiled sadly. "I will, dear. I have no intention of dying this day."

  "It... it may not matter," Evie said. "Will you be shielded, at least?"

  "No. The mage's shields must protect the troops. Not me."

  "One can be spared for your sake," she insisted. "You are valuable. It makes sense to protect you, tactically and strategically. There is no need to feed your pride by exposing yourself to danger."

  "I am doing no such thing. It is for the morale of the troops that I will not steal their protection. They will fight all the harder for my risk."

  Evie moved ahead of Sara, standing before Graf. Barely a breath separated them.

  Evie suddenly lunged forward, wrapping her arms around the grizzled mercenary. Graf stood immobile for a moment, shocked. He had to be aware that the King was watching him, had been watching this entire exchange.

  With gentle, halting caution, he wrapped his arms around Evie, returning the embrace. The feline lifted her head, speaking in a soft whisper.

  Sara hastily turned away as she forced her Blessings off, deafening herself to their words. This wasn't her conversation to hear.

  Graf tucked his chin down into Evie's head, murmuring something back. They held each other for no longer than a minute, speaking to one another in gentle mumbles.

  Then Evie released Graf, and after only a moment's hesitation, he released her. The mercenary lifted his head to look at Sara, blinking his eyes hard.

  "She trusts you," Graf said.

  "I know."

  "You will live up to her expectations."

  "If it's the st thing I do."

  "Good."

  And with that, Graf Urs, Commander of the Night's Eye, General of the Royal Army, picked up his fg of parley and walked away. Evie returned to Sara's side, eyes red. They said nothing to one another.

  Behind them, the armies stirred.