Ava should have stayed with Grainne in Acre, curled up in the ruins of the city. Even among rubble and rot, it had been bearable. Ayyadieh was not.

  At the foot of the mountain, she stood with Reynard and the rest of the Silver Sword. Marshal Louis loomed above them, a shadow over the carnage below. He was close to Richard the Lionheart, close enough to see the fire in the king’s eyes, close enough to imagine a man who could command the world and bend God to his will. Once, Ava had believed in such men. Now, she was not so sure.

  Louis’s voice tore through the air, but words could barely compete with the shrieks and the metallic thud of falling bodies. She caught one phrase:

  “This is your punishment! These men’s blood lies on your hands!”

  And then the first head rolled.

  It bounced on jagged rock, smearing the slope with streaks of dark red, a grotesque bead of life spilled too soon. The screams of the dying and the wails of the survivors fused into a single, monstrous drone. Ava’s stomach lurched, eyes burning. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth, the acrid stink of sweat and fear and unwashed flesh burned her nose.

  She counted obsessively. One. Ten. One hundred. Each number, a desperate tether to sanity, a ritual against the impossible. Her throat tightened, bile rising in violent spasms. She turned to Reynard; his eyes were glazed, fixed, steady. She could not find her own anchor. She sank to her knees.

  At the base of the hill, movement caught her eye. Ayyubid soldiers surged forward — some bare-chested, some clad in patchwork mail, swords raised, shouting for their comrades. This was her duty, this was what they were stationed to do, so why did she hesitate to mount Grainne?

  Then, First Company Captain Gandry drew steel first. He was in charge of the vanguard, whilst Louis was with the other military leaders. He screamed a rallying war cry.

  “All Silver Sword Knights, Charge!”

  …

  With every swing, Ava hoped the Muslims would lose the will to fight—before she did.

  Horseback combat had never been her favorite; that was always Philip’s specialty. Philip. Philip…

  Grainne and Ava leaped into action, slashing and charging through the enemy line. Their bond needed no words—Ava didn’t even need to steer. Grainne angled, sidestepped spearmen, and made space so Ava could strike. The longsword was not ideal for cavalry combat, but it was still deadly from above. Reynard’s spear would have done the job better. Speaking of Reynard.

  Ava stole a glance at her comrades. Reynard wrenched his spear free from another soldier and rode on without looking back. Cold as steel. What could drive a man to be so disillusioned about the sanctity of life?

  A spear jabbed up toward Grainne’s foreleg. Ava knocked it aside, then slammed the pommel of her sword into the soldier’s face. He went down screaming, and that was enough—for now. With any luck, he’d give up.

  The deputy turned as she heard a deafening scream; it had to be Thomas. That voice was too familiar. Immediately, she spurred Grainne onward, leaping across the battlefield. He couldn’t be dead, surely not.

  …

  Thomas thought he’d seen it all.

  Bloodshed, maimed bodies, the Marshal’s wrath.

  Nothing came close to Ayyadieh.

  He swung his sword, trying to look more confident than he felt. Blood splattered everywhere—he was used to that.

  What he wasn’t used to was falling heads.

  As he wrenched his blade free from an Ayyubid soldier’s eye socket, he almost let out a sigh of relief. He was no longer the completely green recruit. Six kills since Fiana—nothing compared to the veterans, but he was improving.

  Then it happened: a skull dropped from the sky, muscles still twitching.

  “Urgh—AHHHH!”

  Thomas’ horse bolted, throwing him to the dirt. On his back, sprawled and disoriented, he realized just how unforgiving mounted combat could be—especially for someone who hated horses. If he hadn’t been so jumpy from the fall, he might have lost his head anyway. A soldier—judging by the uniform, a general—lunged at him with lethal precision. Thomas barely rolled out of the way. Every inch counted between life and death.

  Where was his sword? He needed it.

  Blood pools blurred his vision as he scrambled, but the general gave no mercy. Spear flashing, steps precise and fluid, he moved like a dancer—a Dance of Death. All Thomas could do was run. All the general did was pursue.

  …

  She was still counting. Two hundred and thirteen.

  Ava hacked and slashed her way across the battlefield, Grainne covering her blind spots. No enemy could keep up. Grainne leapt over them effortlessly. Ava almost allowed herself a smile—Grainne had loved that move ever since the day they met. Then her face hardened. Two hundred and fourteen.

  Thomas lay in a pool of blood. Really, the whole battlefield was soaked in it, Crusaders and Ayyubids alike. His hands shot up as a spearman pressed a blade to his face, preparing the final strike. Ava had no more time.

  Grainne, reared as a fallen soldier, blocked her charge. Ava vaulted off, landing in a crouch, sword raised. The general lunged at Thomas, but she intercepted him effortlessly—every strike precise, deadly, and entirely human.

  “Thomas!” she shouted, locked in a deadly duel. “Get out of here and report to Reynard!”

  Thomas scrambled to his feet, footing faltering in the blood. He tried to appear strong in front of his superior officer.

  “Deputy… I can’t leave you here alone! Let me stay! Together we can—”

  “You’re outmatched!” Ava snapped, slipping the general’s spear by mere inches. A thin line of blood marked her cheek, another for the collection. “Get out of here! You’re in the way!”

  The Ayyubid soldier pressed the advantage, eager to exploit Ava’s split-second distraction. Sword versus spear—he had the upper hand, at least for now.

  “Go! I will reunite with you later! And take Grainne! She’s a trained warhorse—she’ll keep you safe!”

  Thomas swallowed hard, eyes locked on the deadly exchange. Where had the Deputy learned to fight like this? Her split-second instincts, her precision, saving her from death time and time again…

  He clenched his fist, heart hammering, and mounted Grainne.

  …

  He was good. Extraordinarily good.

  Any slip was death, and Ava knew he had killed Crusaders before. A lot of them.

  The pressure never let up. His thrusts snapped back quickly, tempo constantly shifting. He didn’t give her a pattern to exploit—not good. His feints were flawless; any overreaction would be fatal. Not a quick death, either. Death by spear was slow, brutal, stretching each second into agony. Ava would have preferred a clean beheading any day.

  But she had a plan. Reynard, her captain, was one of the best spearmen the Order had ever seen, and from countless duels with him, she had learned the spear’s weaknesses.

  The general pressed forward, relentless. Ava barely parried, studying the pole’s length. She met it at the same spot every time—a single misstep would mean death.

  Then she lunged. The pole cracked under her strike. She leapt sideways and slashed with all her might, splintering the shaft into pieces.

  She didn’t wait for him to recover. A swift kick sent him sprawling to the ground, sword hovering above his chest as he lay in the blood of his enemies.

  “Sir, I do not know your name, but you were a great warrior. You have my respect. It is a shame we had to be enemies—I could have learned much from a warrior of your calibre.”

  He didn’t understand. He spat in her face. Ava’s hands didn’t falter. She drove the sword into his throat, steel sinking deep. Blood bubbled up as she forced it home, adjusting her grip, plunging it again and again.

  Two hundred and fifteen.

  “Ha—ha… ARGHHHHH!”

  Her cries were merely one of many on that bloody day.

  …

  Reynard was accustomed to blood; nine years as a professional killer would do that to a man. But Ayyadieh?

  That scarred all of his men—he could see it.

  Two in particular stood out. Thomas, he expected. Ava? The outcome was a given.

  She was a gentle soul. For as skilled as she was at snuffing the life from another, she never took pleasure in it. Every life she’d ended weighed on her; her conscience was far too strong for a profession like theirs. That was why Reynard was so good at it.

  He was a bastard of a human.

  Ayyadieh had been a massacre. There was no doubt about that. Reynard had heard it from the higher-ups—or rather, he’d overheard Gandry speaking to his deputy captain, Gwen. Saladin had delayed and disrespected Richard the Lionheart; in retaliation, Richard butchered 2,700 captives. The reason they went to Ayyadieh? So Saladin could witness firsthand the slaughter of those who had pledged him allegiance. Even Reynard had to admit—it was grotesque, even by his standards.

  The Order marched back to Acre. After the massacre, there was much work to be done: military campaigns, funding, logistical issues. More work.

  Reynard really needed a drink after that; thankfully, Malcolm had him covered.

  “Captain Reynard, you’re not one to sit in silence. You’d have downed at least one bottle of ale by now,” Malcolm said, his tone stiff, somber—he had seen enough to be affected too.

  “Yeah,” Reynard admitted. “Guess my stomach isn’t ready for it after seeing all those bodies,” He forced a chuckle, no more of that, he felt his stomach’s insides seep out, “That was barbaric. They’d surrendered, and Gandry and I… we ordered the slaughter of those trying to avenge their fallen.”

  Malcolm reined his horse to the side, still struggling with his missing arm. “God’s will, I guess. You used to tell me: the more attached you get to this job, the worse it gets. Take your own advice, Captain. You have a company to lead.”

  He rode forward, ever the pragmatist.

  …

  He lied. Malcolm couldn’t handle it either.

  If his stomach had anything left, he would’ve thrown it up. The mass slaughter of surrendered men… that could not have been God’s will.

  He scanned the battlefield, looking for the pair he cared for most. The Deputy and the boy—Thomas. They were the kindest, most compassionate people in the company. If he felt this shaken, he could only imagine their grief.

  He spotted them only because of Grainne’s mane, flowing like liquid sunlight. The horse seemed almost regal compared to the others. Palfrey, his own mount, was the opposite: a black, armored juggernaut, built for intimidation. No matter how magical the Deputy’s steed looked, she rode with calm confidence. It still unnerved him.

  “Deputy Ava… Brother Thomas,” he called, keeping his voice steady. “Are you both alright? Did the enemy hurt you?”

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  To his surprise, it was Thomas riding Grainne. Strange—Grainne usually let no one but the Deputy ride her. Something was deeply wrong. Malcolm’s gaze drifted lower.

  Ava, hair loose, was crying into Thomas’s shoulder. He had suspected as much: after this much carnage, if he and Reynard were struggling, she would be spiraling.

  “Aveline. Get. Up.”

  Thomas and Malcolm turned so fast it felt like their heads were on a swivel. They knew that voice. It could only be one person.

  The Marshal loomed over them, eyes bored, as if watching a play he found stale. Malcolm thought he even caught a yawn escaping his lips.

  “Third Company Deputy Aveline, you will rise.”

  She stalled. After what felt like an eternity, she pulled back from Thomas’ shoulder, eyes bloodshot and puffy.

  Louis appraised her like she was a rodent, then barked. “This is war, Deputy. Thousands have died before you,” he spat on the ground. “And thousands will die after. If you can’t get your act together, go home. I have no use for an emotional woman in my ranks.”

  Before anyone could respond, he hastened his march, shouting as he went.

  “Men, forward! We must reach Acre by nightfall! Jaffa awaits Christendom! Those who cannot keep up will be left in the dirt.”

  …

  Reynard did not sleep that night.

  Drink offered no relief. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw heads hitting the floor, the wet, sickening thud echoing in his mind. When morning finally came, he was almost eager for Louis’ militant commands—they would drown out his own thoughts, at least for a while.

  His private quarters in the Order’s barracks were sparse but intact. Acre had been reduced to rubble after two years of siege, yet the Order still found a place for him. Alone, he felt the weight of it all pressing down—the massacre at Ayyadieh, the carnage he had enabled. Reynard hoped, at least, to share the unease with some of his brethren. But they had their own ghosts, and he was left to wrestle with his.

  He thought of Godfrey. Likely rolling in his grave.

  As with every morning, he made the sign of the cross—twice, to be certain. After what he had seen, after what he had enabled yesterday, Heaven would not be waiting for him. And if it was… he would have to face Godfrey again. That alone would be a punishment worse than any hell he could imagine.

  With a heavy heart, he draped his red cloak on top of his uniform, another roundtable.

  Fitting the cloak was red, as Reynard stared at the colour, all he saw was the heads that hit the floor at Ayyadieh.

  …

  The Marshal’s words blurred into a single, hazy clump, incomprehensible amidst the roar of the room.

  Gandry, ever eager to prove himself to Louis, boasted of his company’s exploits. Last Reynard remembered, it had been Ava—not Gwen—who had taken down the spear general, but the other captains nodded eagerly as if convinced otherwise. Reynard shrugged. He couldn’t blame them; two of the five women in the Order, probably looked the same to most of the men.

  Speaking of Ava… it was only now that he noticed her absence. A pang of unease twisted in his chest. For Ava to miss even a single one of her Crusader duties… something had to be terribly wrong.

  His mind raced. Her agony must be immeasurable.

  Reynard’s hands clenched at his sides, a cold knot of worry settling in his stomach. He scanned the room again, half-expecting to see her stride in, hair disheveled, eyes burning with determination—but she wasn’t there. Then it hit him.

  “Third Company Captain Reynard!” Louis barked, his voice shaking the room as he rose. His roundtable robe, the most elaborate of them all, shimmered with blue, white, and black. “Your superior is talking to you!”

  Reynard’s fists tightened on the table. Gandry’s sly smirk only made it worse. He couldn’t afford to zone out anymore—not with so many power-hungry eyes watching.

  “Marshal de Bergliez,” Reynard said, rising to bow. “My sincerest apologies. My mind was racing with all the logistical issues for the march to Jaffa. My company must be in perfect condition.”

  Louis sank back into his seat, head cocked to the right, resting in one hand, the other clenched in a violent fist. “Reynard, next time you do not respond immediately, I will have you publicly cleaning the stables in front of your men. When I say jump, you tell me how high. Understood?”

  Reynard fought back a sigh. “Understood, Marshal. I do not even deserve to stand in the same room as a man as brilliant as you…”

  Louis allowed the barest smirk before continuing. “All captains will begin preparations to assist King Richard in his next campaign to take the city of Jaffa. Dismissed.”

  …

  Ava made the Sign of the Cross.

  “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…” Her voice cracked. She could not shake the blood, the screams, the cries for vengeance from her mind.

  “…thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…”

  Tears streamed down her face, nails digging into her palms. The weight of her actions pressed on her chest; no prayer could lift it.

  “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses…”

  Her body shook, involuntary hiccups wracking her chest. Swollen eyes barely opened, blurred by grief.

  “As we… forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation…”

  “But deliver us from evil. Amen.”

  Today, she was not in her Silver Sword uniform. Today called for something heavier, more remorseful. She wore a long black dress, flowing to her ankles, plain and unadorned. Her hair was tied into a tight bun, just as Lady Grainne would do for her. A wimple and veil framed her face perfectly, each fold immaculate.

  The chapel was heavily worn, a relic of haste. Built in a matter of weeks by the few remaining missionaries, it was all that survived after two long years of Muslim rule had reduced Acre’s churches and cathedrals to rubble. Here, Ava had the rare luxury of repentance—alone in the Order’s chapel, beneath a faded blue cross tapestry that stretched solemnly overhead.

  It had been six years since she had worn this attire. Normally, Ava served the Lord with action rather than prayer; she had no time to change out of her uniform. But today was different.

  “Dear Heavenly Father, I beg your forgiveness—for I have greatly sinned… in my thoughts, in my words, in what I have done, and…” Her tears returned, crawling over her cheeks. “…in what I have failed to do…”

  She knelt on the harsh cobblestone. Penance. This was how pious minds were shaped in Canterbury Abbey: pain sanctified the mind. The harsher the penance, the purer the intent. And her mind was in dire need of sanctification.

  Her gaze went skywards as she dug her knees further into the stone. Pain, she needed to inflict more pain.

  “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth;

  and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, Our Lord!” She began to cry a deep, wailing scream.

  “Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried!”

  “He descended into Hell on the third day. He arose again from the dead. He ascended into Heaven, and is seated at the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from thence He shall come to judge the living and the dead!”

  The Ayyubid soldier Ava had suddenly appeared in her mind, holding the drawing once more, “And.. his kingdom shall have no end…”

  “Amen…”

  Her legs finally gave way, to both pain and guilt, as she collapsed on the cold cobblestone floor.

  …

  Ava rose and saw the familiar tuft of brown hair she had grown so used to.

  “Thomas… why are you here?” Her voice barely carried, throat raw from the weight of sorrow.

  He was reading his Bible. She couldn’t make out the verse, but the way he studied it—so intensely, so mournfully—told her enough. Then she met his eyes, and saw the same grief she had witnessed that day: the massacre of Ayyadieh.

  The boy from Fiana Village was gone. Something heavier, something sadder, had taken his place. Something more worldly.

  “Deputy Ava… how are you? Are your knees okay? I—” He hesitated. “I dressed your wounds… Ah, forgive me, I changed your clothes too.”

  Sure enough, Ava looked down. Her standard orange tunic set fit her perfectly, her knees carefully treated, washed clean of blood and dirt. Everything was to her liking, except her chest wrappings. She clutched and adjusted them, letting out a fleeting smile—at least he was innocent in that respect.

  She reached for his Bible to see the verse he was reading, but he stopped her gently.

  “Deputy, please… I need to know. Why? Why did we slaughter those innocent soldiers? Are we not holy crusaders? Are we not fighting for the Glory of God? What glory is there in putting thousands of men to the sword? Tell me!”

  Those eyes. Despairing, pleading, aching for justice. She had seen them so many times before—how they could drive even the strongest men into darkness, into hopelessness, even threaten to pull her to the edge of madness.

  The deputy braced herself, knees still sore, creaking under the weight of her own body. “Thomas… turn to Matthew 5:44. Let us pray together.”

  …

  Her command of scripture was flawless. Thomas struggled to keep up, even with the text in front of him. Ava rarely needed a Bible—she always said reading could distance the heart from God’s voice.

  “You have heard it said,” she began softly, “‘Love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy.’ But I say unto you: love your enemies. Do good to those who hate you. Pray for those who persecute you.”

  She paused, drawing in a breath before continuing. “So that you may be sons of your Father who is in Heaven.”

  Ava turned to him. “Thomas, would you finish it?”

  He swallowed, then read, voice unsteady. “He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous…”

  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Ava said.

  “Amen,” they answered together.

  Thomas watched as she rose, hands folded, candlelight catching the curve of her shoulders, the quiet steadiness of her posture. Even in grief, she carried herself with a strange, gentle authority. Every movement seemed deliberate, every breath controlled, as if she were holding the chaos of the world at bay simply by standing.

  “Thomas,” she said quietly, “I cannot explain Ayyadieh. God must have His reasons… even when we cannot bear them.”

  She removed her wimple and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “But I know this. If we are to walk His path, then we must try—however painfully—to follow His Word.”

  Her fingers tightened just slightly. “Love your enemies. Even the Ayyubid soldiers we are forced to fight. Love them.”

  …

  Love your enemies.

  What a joke. Ava felt as though she’d lied to him. How could she claim to love people she killed almost daily?

  She changed from her orange tunic into her blue and white—the Order’s colors. Night had fallen. Now was her chance. She needed to see Reynard.

  She walked up the stairs of the barracks, cold, dark, and desolate. The effects of the siege are spreading everywhere in the city. Cobwebs littered the halls, and she inhaled more web than she’d care to admit. Still, she would see Reynard tonight, whether he was drunk in a ditch or not.

  She applied a firm knock to his door, the third down the hall, as he was the third captain, despite there being only seven doors; the first five captains maintained priority. Louis’ orders, God knows why.

  The door creaked open. Ava prayed he was not deep in a stupor; it would be impossible to achieve what she needed to do next.

  “Ah, there’s our heroic Deputy! I missed you at today’s roundtable!”

  Reynard’s subtle trace of sarcasm immediately dissipated, his face hardening, “Come in, Ava, we have much to discuss.”

  …

  Reynard knew it was coming; if she didn’t bring the topic up herself, he would’ve dragged her aside next chance he got. She needed this.

  “Captain Reynard, I’m requesting a leave of absence from my duties as Third Company Deputy Captain. I intend to leave Malcolm Hastings as my stand-in as temporary Deputy.”

  Reynard, with all his might, held back a cheer; he had to follow proceedings, since he’d be the one sorting it out with Louis. “Deputy Ava, may I ask what is the reasoning for this absence?”

  Her weight shuffled; he already knew, but he wanted her to say it, for her to stare her humanity in the face in front of her superior.

  “I need some time, time to figure out God’s plan for me, for this land, if crusading is what I need to do to attain my place in Heaven… or if it’s damning me to Hell…”

  She continued, “I plan to visit the Cathedral of Our Lady in Tyre…”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle; it had been rising in his throat the whole time, “Ava! If you are going to Hell, I don’t think most Christians on the planet stand a chance!”

  He reeled in his laughter, all-consuming. Ava tried to stop him; he might wake the other Captains, worst of all, Louis, who would be on stable duties for a month. Minimum. When he finally finished, he reached into his pocket. Ava was about to draw steel right there until she saw the glowing object.

  Cheese.

  “I had this prepared for you today as a gift…” he began, “But then, you didn’t come. I was worried, but my duty comes first; I couldn’t abandon a roundtable.”

  Reynard pressed the cheese into her chest as she bared it with both hands.

  “Ava of the Silver Sword, Third Deputy Captain, I, Reynard Blackwood, grant your leave of absence and will raise it with Marshal Louis de Bergliez.”

  Tears threatened to well in her eyes as she leapt into his arms for a hug, “Reynard! Thank you! I promise I’ll return!”

  Reynard’s smile dropped into a stare, half joking, half deadly serious, “You’d better, who else would we rely on to save the common man? To feed the poor, to rescue any hostage, and to save kids with broken legs?”

  Ava gave Reynard a punch to the chest, lightly; she couldn’t hold her tears back now.

  “Thank you, Reynard. Help Malcolm with his duties whilst I’m gone; it won’t be long.”

  Puzzled, he took a step back, “Wait, you can do that yourself, you’re leaving tomorrow, right?”

  She shook her head, “No, tonight, under the cover of darkness—travel is easy for me, you know I’ve always liked the shadows.”

  She had a point, well, more work for him, Malcolm would get to speed fast enough, but until he did, he had to do even more admin for him. God help him; her departure already hurt, and she hadn’t even left Acre yet.

  “Take care, Ava. I’ll see you again soon.”

  She smiled and waved as she walked down the dark stairs.

  …

  Grainne had been waiting for her. Bless Thomas for feeding her grain and water while she was away. She would need to thank him for that.

  She would need to thank him for a lot.

  “Grainne, dear, I’m so sorry you had to see that. I’m here now. Did Thomas treat you right?”

  Grainne let out a meek neigh, not like her usual self. Ava just prayed she hadn’t understood the massacre. She began stripping Grainne’s armor and cleaning her, as always before an expedition. But just as she was finishing…

  “Deputy Ava?”

  Thomas’ meek footsteps approached. He was fully armored, every strap fastened, every piece in perfect order—a job so meticulous even Louis would struggle to find fault.

  “Are… are you leaving the Order?”

  Ava finished inspecting Grainne. Aside from a few cuts—which she cleaned thoroughly—her best friend was perfectly healthy. She pressed her forehead to Grainne’s, just like Grainne of Canterbury once did.

  She unhooked Grainne from her pen and faced Thomas.

  “No, I’m not…”

  Mounting her steed—reliable, steadfast, extraordinary—she spoke with measured resolve:

  “But I need time to think. I’m heading to the Cathedral of Our Lady in Tyre. It’s said that great kings have received divine favour there. I hope to be blessed enough to be guided by the Lord.”

  Thomas looked down, then met her gaze with burning intensity.

  “Then I’ll join you. I need to know if what we did at Ayyadieh was righteous—if it was God’s will.”

  Ava sighed. She had feared he might do this.

  “Thomas, you need to ask Captain Reynar—”

  “I already did. I’m coming with you.”

  She paused, noting Grainne’s eyes on him. At least the horse judged him worthy—one of only three people, including Ava, ever to ride Grainne without being thrown.

  “The road will be long. You’re still green. Stay with Malcolm, and he’ll teach you how to—”

  “I want to learn from you!”

  Silence cut the air, wind soaring past as the two knights stared each other down. His gaze would not falter. Anyone would be shaken by Ayyadieh.

  Ava let out a half-laugh, half-cough.

  “Do as you please. Find yourself a steed, and we’ll leave immediately. Make it quick—I will only wait so long.”

  That was a lie, she would wait for as long as she needed…

  …

  The night sky was beautiful.

  The night over Acre stretched like a velvet cloak, black and heavy, flecked with pinpricks of distant firelight from stars. The city’s lamps and torches glimmered along the walls and streets, small echoes of the constellations overhead, as if the heavens themselves were mirrored in the human world.

  The Mediterranean beyond the walls reflected a pale smear of moonlight, silver and restless, its surface rippling with the faint echo of waves. A faint haze lingered over the city, scented with salt and smoke, softening the edges of towers and ramparts.

  Ava couldn’t tear her eyes from the sky, riding Grainne with Thomas close behind. The city lay silent beneath them, the streets dark, the distant torches flickering like tiny echoes of the stars above.

  They moved slowly, letting the night swallow the noise of war, until they reached the city gate. Curiosity tugged at her, insistent and gentle.

  “Thomas… your sister—Isabeau, right? What did she call those flashes of light in the sky? The… the ‘Balls of Greek Fire’?”

  The young Crusader smiled, hair tousled in the breeze, eyes soft. He inhaled, quiet as the night, and whispered,

  “She…”

  “She called them… stars.”