Apostolos circled his men, boots crunching over the packed earth as he took in their tired faces, lowered chins and ragged breaths. They were at the end of the competition, sweat-soaked and swaying on their feet, but still standing. Suitably tired, he thought with pride. Apostolos made sure to instill at least a passable determination into his troops.

  A man had to be ready to lay down his life in the name of duty. If they could not handle even this much, then Apostolos would have failed in his own. Of that he was certain.

  “We are in the final stretch, men!” he bellowed. “One more push! Just one more competition for glory!” The words echoed off the troops, and the men answered with a ragged cheer, their backs straightened, pride stoked for one last effort.

  The last trial would see both full companies marching and wheeling in concert, executing a series of drill manoeuvres while a handful of veteran officers judged their performances. In a normal noble house the result might have been skewed in Apostolos’s favour simply for being the Lord’s firstborn. But his father had never played favourites with him in that respect, nor had he burdened him with large, easy favours since birth Apostolos thought with a slight tinge of bitterness.

  No, he told himself, forcing the thought aside. His father was only tempering him, teaching him to conduct himself dutifully, with honour and without complaint. Apostolos repeated it in his head like a lesson learned long ago.

  He dragged his gaze from his own file and eyed his opponents as they stepped into the courtyard from the opposite side. A host of servants and townsfolk had gathered along the rim to watch the informal competition, their chatter settling into a tense hush as both companies formed up.

  Kyriakos had long been Apostolos’s only real challenger for the last few years, but this year his company was exceptional even by those standards. It felt faintly ironic that the level of competition had climbed so high because of someone who had finished in third place.

  Captain Theodorus’s methods for training his troops had been eye-opening, and Apostolos had to admit he would be doing many things differently for years to come based on what he’d seen. Kyriakos had enjoyed the good fortune of befriending the Captain early, weaselling his way into his good graces. It was very much in line with how his cousin operated, so Apostolos was not surprised.

  For his own part, Apostolos would have preferred to win on the merit of his old methods alone. Pride tugged at him to prove that he had not needed anyone else’s help. But even he had to recognise how far behind he risked falling if he clung to that pride. In the end he had gone to his sister and asked her to intercede with the Captain on his behalf. It was not something he was proud of, yet he was not above such measures if that was what it took to secure victory.

  Victory itself was not about earning a bit of pocket change from the fines purse. He had no need for the money and never kept it when he won, anyhow. Nor did he care overmuch for the prestige the victory would bring, though that was a pleasant enough benefit. No, he had to win because he knew his father would be watching. Though he would never say it aloud, Apostolos knew he expected his son to win. And Lord Adanis could be strict when he chose to be. Apostolos knew that better than anyone.

  Across the courtyard, Kyriakos caught his eye as he paced before his own troops. He had returned from the recent siege changed, carrying himself with a bit more weight, a bit more measure in his movements. His cousin had always struck him as too laid-back, too quick to confrontation, to ever serve as a proper military officer. Frankly, his appointment as a military aide had sounded like nothing more than a favour granted in repayment of his father’s martial heroics, not a reward for any merit of his own. But now he could finally see the outline of the commander Kyriakos might become.

  Apostolos felt the first stirrings of unease. Kyriakos had grown into a dangerous opponent, and this time, victory would not be easy or guaranteed.

  Apostolos steadied his nerves, thinking back to all the preparation, all the late nights he’d stayed up incorporating the Captain’s methods into his own personalised regime, all the custom drills to prepare for the competition. That was the cost to always be seen at the top, always proper, and always cultured. It was a struggle Apostolos cherished, a weight he willingly set upon his shoulders.

  He smiled, and a hint of his predatory instinct bled through his usual polite countenance. The nearby men who noticed traded grins, understanding that if he was showing his teeth, then they were expected to bare theirs as well.

  Today would be the day it all bore fruit.

  That was when an old knight approached him, pace steady and unhurried. His clean-shaven head and neatly trimmed beard, paired with the easy way he carried his mail, made him the picture of martial prowess.

  “Sir Dysmas,” Apostolos said, bowing deeply at the old knight’s approach.

  “Apostolos, are you ready for the final?” Dysmas asked. His dark brown eyes sized Apostolos up and then swept over his tired company with an experienced eye that missed little.

  “As ready as I will ever be,” Apostolos replied. The line came out smoothly enough, but under Sir Dysmas’s withering gaze it soon folded into a nervous smile. He had never been able to lie convincingly to his master. Sir Dysmas had served House Nomikos for many decades and had taught Apostolos much of what he knew - perhaps more than his father in certain matters.

  “The correct answer is yes,” Dysmas said in his patient tone. “A commander is called that because he must always be in command. The first soldier you have to command is yourself. If you cannot accomplish such a thing,” He struck a mailed fist against Apostolos’s breastplate, the dull thud ringing between them. “then you do not deserve to lead other men.”

  Apostolos drew in a long breath, forcing his heartbeat to slow. He focused on the press of the armour against his ribs and the steady sound of his men shifting behind him. When he exhaled, his mind felt clearer.

  “Good,” Dysmas said, reading the change in his face. “I could not let you see your father in that state.”

  Apostolos’s head snapped up. “My father called for me?”

  “Yes. In the loggia,” Sir Dysmas said.

  “But the competition…” Apostolos glanced across the courtyard to where Kyriakos was still arraying his men.

  “It can wait. He has a task for you.” Dysmas’s tone left no room for argument and told Apostolos the task was a serious one. Frustration surged up in him at having his moment stolen, and he had to take another heartbeat to master himself, to press it down beneath duty.

  “Of course, Sir Dysmas. I will go this instant.”

  The knight nodded, satisfied, then bade him off with a flick of his hand. “Go. I will keep your pups in formation while they wait for you.”

  Apostolos turned on his heel and bounded across the castle, taking familiar corridors at a near trot toward the gardens. His father was waiting beneath the small ivy-clad arch there, where Uncle Hypatius’s chess table lay half in shade. In his hand he toyed with a white knight, rolling the carved horse’s head between his fingers as if contemplating some private move.

  “You called for me, Lord,” Apostolos said, coming to attention and snapping off a proper military salute.

  “Did you know that after your grandmother passed away, this garden was left neglected for the longest time?” His father’s voice was softer than usual and he looked melancholic. But it wasn’t his place to comment, so he remained quiet. “My father had no use for such things, so he left it neglected, weed-stricken.” He reached down and caught the stem of an orange tulip between calloused fingers, turning the bloom so its petals caught the light. Strange, Apostolos thought, he didn’t remember any such flower in the garden.

  “One of the first things I did, once I had the authority, was to rejuvenate the garden, to bring it back to the image I had known since childhood.” He released the tulip and turned to face Apostolos fully, his gaze searching. “It helped me remember the good times of my youth, and treasuring such memories is important, my son.”

  A chill ran down Apostolos’s spine at the gentle address. His father rarely spoke to him with such open care. It made the air around them feel suddenly fragile.

  “But times change, and even this garden has.” He swept his hand around them. Following the gesture, Apostolos saw beds crowded with colours he did not recall, unfamiliar blossoms threaded between the old shrubs and climbing vines. “In the end, the only thing one is left with are the memories,” his father said quietly.

  Apostolos didn’t know what to say, but he could feel that something else lay coiled beneath the reminiscing, waiting to be pulled into the open.

  “Poisonous weeds have entered our garden, my son.” His father’s eyes darkened, the haunted look there making Apostolos’s stomach tighten. “And we must weed them out.”

  Stefanos adjusted the stirrup clumsily, fumbling with the leather as he struggled not to fight the reins and tumble off the saddle. The horse snorted in irritation at his shifting weight.

  He could passably ride a horse across an even field, but there was a world of difference between that and the valleys and hills of the trek up to Mangup, especially along the adjacent, more hidden path he was taking now. Loose stones rolled under the hooves, and every misstep reminded him how little margin for error he had with only one arm to steady himself.

  He couldn’t deny the time he was making, though. His Lord had insisted he learn to ride, and Stefanos could definitely see the use of that insistence now. Not that it was easy to admit such a thing at this particular moment, given that his Lord had poisoned and possibly killed Lady Cassandra.

  The time on the road had given Stefanos room to vent his frustration beneath his breath and think things through. He had tried to warn the Lady with his poem and, in doing so, risked jeopardizing the plan, he knew that. But he couldn’t reconcile staying quiet and doing nothing. Not that the verses had accomplished anything in the end, he thought bitterly. The Lady had probably had them burned for even suggesting such a thing about the Captain. Matters of the heart were not easily influenced, and when you fell in love with someone it clouded your judgement. Stefanos could certainly attest to that.

  He could not, no matter how many circles his thoughts traced, forgive Lord Theodorus. He had dragged Stefanos out of poverty, he had taught him many things and lifted him to a position any peasant boy would envy, he had always treated him with respect and had never beaten him… but he had played with Lady Cassandra’s heart and tossed her aside after using her.

  Stefanos gripped the reins with sudden strength at the memory, knuckle whitening. Whatever happened now, their promise of writing poetry together would never come true. Only the little lines he’d left on a benchside.

  He understood his Lord’s rationale well enough. The rebellion threatened to kill hundreds, if not thousands. On paper, sacrificing one woman to reach the documents that might stop all that was almost… reasonable.

  But surely his Lord, with all his intellect and cleverness, could have found a better way to get to those documents than poisoning Lady Cassandra. The thought gnawed at him, no matter how often he tried to push it aside.

  As he passed along a low ridge where a small stream threaded its way through rock and scrub, Stefanos realised his thoughts were running in tight circles. By his reckoning, he was maybe a quarter of the way to Mangup, and making excellent time. However, it had come at a cost. His thighs ached, his back burned, and his horse was starting to froth at the mouth. The stablemaster had been very clear about resting his horse when it came to that.

  He eased the horse down toward the stream, and led the beast to water. Once the reins were looped over a low branch, Stefanos knelt by the bank and splashed cold water onto his face, letting it drip down his neck, hoping that the cold water would cool his head. And his thoughts.

  It was then that an idea struck him. Perhaps by helping the Principality in the rebellion, they could gain some post of importance, then the Lord could shield the Lady. And if Stefanos played a large enough part, perhaps he could eventually be granted a title. Then he and the Lady could…

  A sharp snap from behind him shattered the fantasy. Someone was there.

  Stefanos turned on his toes. A man in mail stood at the edge of the clearing, fully armed, sword hissing out of its scabbard.

  Stefanos had only a moment to hurl himself sideways, splashing through the shallow stream as the overhead slash tore through the space where his skull had just been. Water sprayed, the impact of the strike sending a shudder up the attacker’s arms.

  “Who are you?” Stefanos demanded, breath coming fast.

  The figure did not answer. He charged, closing the distance in long, bounding strides, sword arcing for another cut. Stefanos was light enough on his feet to dodge the blow, backstepping hard while keeping half an eye on the slick rocks and treacherous roots beneath his boots. One bad step, one tumble, and it would be over.

  Seeing that Stefanos was not the helpless whelp he had expected, the man lowered his visor with a sharp click and shifted his stance, changing tactics. “Good afternoon, Stefanos,” the man replied, lifting the visor just enough to show a polite smile that was utterly at odds with the situation.

  Stefanos’s breath hitched. “Othon?”

  “Hand over the letter, Stefanos, and no one has to get hurt.” His expression was almost apologetic, as if they had simply bumped into each other in a corridor.

  “I’m not sure what you are referring to, Sergeant,” Stefanos said, matching his tone with forced politeness, trying to buy himself a few precious seconds. “This is all a big misunderstanding.”

  “I believe you,” Othon said lightly. “You seem to misunderstand that I will not ask a second time.” His smile did not falter as he settled fully into guard, sword poised. “I’ve cut off your approach to your horse. I can catch you, and I am armed. Lord Adanis will pay you handsomely if you provide the letter of your own free will. There doesn’t need to be any bloodshed.”

  In a strange way, the confrontation made Stefanos’s mind clearer than it had been for the entire ride. He could hand over the letter, bargain for coin, perhaps even visit Lady Cassandra. He could keep his life. It sounded…

  …absolutely terrible.

  “I would rather die than betray my Lord,” Stefanos heard himself say, the words leaping out before he could think them through. And as soon as he spoke them, something inside him settled. His mind became clear about a great many things.

  “I’m afraid we are past talking, then,” Othon declared. His smile vanished as his visor dropped in the same smooth motion, the courteous sergeant dissolving into a faceless, efficient killer.

  This was Death coming for him, Stefanos knew.

  Stefanos set his feet. It was not his first brush with it. He would not let it take him easily.

  Othon really wasn’t paid enough for the headaches he had to endure.

  Playing double agent to both Hypatius and Theodorus without either man catching a whiff of it was like dancing on the edge of a knife in a storm. His father really couldn’t give him an easy assignment for once, could he? Hmm, he supposed that taking a letter from a one-armed servant wasn’t the most difficult task he’d ever been given.

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  People often mistook his mercenary attitude for a lack of loyalty, which made it all too easy for foul players to approach him with their whispered offers against his father. Let them think him coin-hungry and rootless. It kept their guard down. Othon might not be a true member of the Nomikos family by blood, but he had his own sense of loyalty and standards.

  You did not turn your back on your father just because someone dangled a pouch of coins in front of your nose. Besides, if all went according to plan, Othon could still expect a sizeable fortune once the rebellion succeeded and the dust settled. He didn’t see why duty and profit couldn’t walk hand in hand.

  First things first, Othon. Focus on what’s in front of you.

  “Prepare to die, Stefanos. But please believe me when I say this is nothing personal.”

  He didn’t relish killing the boy, but life was made of trades and tradeoffs, and Othon believed the trade for this particular blood would be worth the price.

  He stepped forward, boots squelching faintly in the damp earth as he eased down the bank toward the stream. The water was only ankle-deep, trickling over smooth stones, but it made footing treacherous. Othon moved with measured grace, sword angled low as if this were nothing more than a training bout.

  Stefanos, wisely, did not turn and run for the horse. That wouls make his target all the more telegraphed, and easier for Othon to catch himm. Instead, the boy retreated along the far side of the stream, keeping just out of reach, eyes fixed on the point of Othon’s blade.

  The first thrust came quick, a straight stab meant to test him rather than kill. Stefanos sprang back, water splashing around his boots, the tip of the sword missing his jerkin by a wide margin, the boy trying to stay well out of sword reach, using his unemcumberance to dance around Othon. Othon pivoted, bringing the blade around in a rising cut. Stefanos kept stepping sideways and back, one arm flaring for balance, his feet picking their way between slick stones and exposed roots.

  For a one-armed farm rat, the boy moved well. Better than he had any right to.

  Othon pressed, strikes coming faster now, the calm amble giving way to purposeful steps. Stefanos gave ground, always just outside the killing arc, sometimes slipping, sometimes skidding, but never quite where Othon needed him to be when the blade came down. He had previous training, and didn’t fold neatly at the sight of a blade. Othon had not accounted for this.

  Annoyance pricked at him. He had expected a quick ending.

  Othon smoethered the feeling before it could truly form. Rage made for messy sword work. He took a slow breath and murmured, almost to himself, “All right. No more playing around.”

  He stepped towards Stefanos with deliberate care, each step placed with a veteran’s precision. This time he did not chase. He herded.

  His sword cut not to strike but to close off paths, to push Stefanos where he wanted him. Step by step, Othon penned him in, shrinking the circle.

  Stefanos kept moving, light on his feet despite the mud, but there was a tightness around his eyes now, a stiffness in his shoulders. Othon noted, with a flicker of curiosity, that the boy’s gaze kept darting away from him and up the ridge line, as if searching for something.

  “I’m over here, boy,” Othon said mildly, using the opening to kick Stefanos’s feet out from under him. “You really should have your eyes on the man trying to kill you.”

  Stefanos tried to turn his fall into a backwards roll, but Othon drove his mailed boot forward in a brutal kick that crashed into the boy’s side.

  Stefanos folded around the blow with a strangled gasp, all the air punched from his lungs, crashing into the muddy riverbank.

  Othon stepped in, the point of his sword lowering, breath coming steady and controlled.

  “So,” he grunted, looming over the boy, “this is the end of the line. Death has come before you, boy.”

  Stefanos’s head lifted. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, bright against his pale skin. He spat a crimson thread into the dirt and let out a ragged laugh that sounded far too calm for someone about to die.

  “Unlucky for you, Master Othon,” he rasped, “I’m very good at evading her grasp.”

  There was something in his eyes - a look that said he knew something Othon did not.

  Every instinct Othon had screamed danger. He shifted his weight, drawing his arm back for a quick killing thrust.

  The twang of bowstrings cut through the air a heartbeat before the pain.

  Arrows slammed into his back at close range, each impact a violent, hammering punch. Two of them embedded themselves into the mail with a screech of metal. A last one found a gap in the rings and bit deep, tearing, padding and flesh. His breath left him in a harsh wheeze even as he drove forward with the pain. He wasn’t about to leave a job half finished. First you deal with the enemy in front of you.

  He skewered the boy below him. The angle was wrong, though, hitting the boy’s side instead of center. Stefanos screamed, a high, shrill sound.

  Othon hit the ground hard, vision flashing white at the edges. He sucked in a wet, ragged breath and pushed himself up on one hand, ignoring Stefanos’s choked gasps beside him. The boy was still alive, unluckily for him. That wouldn’t last long.

  Slowly, he turned to face the direction the arrows had come from.

  Three figures emerged from the scrub and rocks, moving with the easy stride of veterans. Othon recognised them as men-at-arms from Suyren.

  Specifically, from Theodorus’s company.

  Othon stared at them for a heartbeat, then let out a breath that turned into a short, incredulous laugh. Of course.

  “Now,” he managed, voice edged with wry humour, “how on earth did you lot end up here?”

  A rugged, wild-looking sergeant stepped forward, boots squelching in the damp earth. His beard was a bristling tangle, his hair tied back with a strip of leather, eyes bright with a rough sort of humour.

  “Did you really think our Lord would trust a Nomikos bastard?” he drawled. “We’ve been following you for some time and have known your deceitful little game for quite a while.” He let out a snarky laugh, then lifted his sword in a mock flourish and slipped into a sing-song cadence. “Ye been played, my good man. Lay down your steel and spare us the pain. No need for more blood to darken this plain.”

  Othon snorted.

  He glanced sideways at Stefanos. “So. You were buying time for the men following me to arrive?”

  The boy managed a weak smile, sweat and blood beading at his brow.

  Othon couldn’t help but feel admiration both for the boy and for his master. Captain Theodorus had been one step ahead of him the entire time, and now he was well and truly screwed.

  “Pity the men who came were only these fools,” Othon called out loudly, letting the taunt ring across the stream.

  The rugged veteran’s smile thinned. “Careful, Othon. Surrender. You don’t have to die here.”

  “Charilaos,” Othon said, tasting the name like old wine. “After skewering this little boy,” he gestured down at the messenger bleeding at his feet, “I doubt your Captain has much sympathy left for me.”

  Charilaos was silent for a moment, but he didn’t bother to deny it.

  “Besides,” Othon added, letting his gaze travel over the man’s battered mail and heavy sword, “are you even sober enough to wield that thing properly?”

  “Unfortunately for you, my good Othon,” Charilaos replied with a grim smile, “I’ve not touched a drop in over a month. Our good Captain is… stringent on that account.”

  “Truly, of all the miracles your Captain has produced, that may be the greatest of them all,” Othon laughed. “I’ll still take my chances.”

  “Then we’re done talking,” Charilaos said, voice devoid of jest.

  He raised one hand slightly, and the veterans fanned out with practiced movements, moving to encircle Othon, shields shifting, blades held low. Othon adjusted his stance, the ache in his back burning hotter with every breath. Water from the stream chilled his boots, tugging at his balance, but he set his feet and raised his sword.

  The first man came in from his right, testing his guard with a probing cut. Othon parried, the clash of steel rattling through his arms, and riposted with a sharp thrust that slid under the man’s shield and bit into his hip, striking mail. The veteran hissed, but looked none the worse for wear.

  Another darted in from the left, blade flashing toward Othon’s shoulder. Othon twisted, letting the blow glance off his mail, and answered with a savage backhand that opened a bloody line across the man’s forearm.

  It came at a cost though. Pain flared in his back and side, growing worse with every movement. They could afford patience. He could not.

  A shield slammed into him from behind, unseen, driving the breath from his lungs and pushing the arrow deeper into his flesh. He screamed as he went down to one knee in the shallows, then in the same motion surged up with a roar and caught one of the veterans across the helm with the flat of his blade, sending him sprawling.

  Two blades came at once, taking advantage of the overextension. He caught one on his sword, but the other slipped through. Charilaos hooked his sword in Othon’s armpit and for a sickening moment held it there. Othon closed his eyes.

  This would hurt a lot.

  Charilaos ripped his sword free, taking a third of the joint with him. A scream tore itself from Othon’s throat and the world shuddered.

  Othon collapsed, the water rushing cold around him. He tried to heave himself up, but it was too late.

  Charilaos stood above him, framed by the clouded horizon. “It’s over, Othon.”

  “Wait, I can-” Othon began.

  The final stroke was swift and almost gentle, a professional’s mercy.

  The world narrowed to the sound of the stream and the taste of iron on his tongue.

  “You were a stubborn bastard, I’ll give you that.” Charilaos muttered, then stepped past him towards the boy as if he were an afterthought.

  I suppose this is the end, Othon thought, as the warmth ebbed from his limbs into the water. In a way, it was unsurprising. He had always known his fate was not some grand tale sung by poets. But to have accomplished so little? That still ached.

  He cursed the heavens for being born a bastard, cursed his blood, and cursed the Captain most of all for taking the last of his pride - for outplaying him so completely.

  The stream carried his blood away, and Othon Zervas, bastard of Nomikos, slipped quietly out of the world.

  “Stefanos.”

  Charilaos knelt by the boy’s side. Stefanos’s face had gone a worrying shade of pale, sweat and blood mingling at his temples. The sword had skewered him clean through the side and out the back, the wound was already soaking his torn tunic.

  “Hold on,” Charilaos said, voice rough but steady. “We’ll get you to safety.” He promised it because that was what men in his position were supposed to say, but in truth they were far from any city or healer. Out here, with a wound like that, the boy’s chances were slim to none.

  “Take… the message,” Stefanos forced out. His fingers, slick with his own blood, fumbled at his belt until he tugged free a crumpled envelope, stained dark where it had pressed against his wound. His hand shook as he held it up.

  “What?” Charilaos’s eyes widened as he took the letter.

  Stefanos managed a faint smile, lips trembling. “To the… Megas Doux,” he whispered. His breathing was shallow, each inhale a battle.

  Charilaos’s expression hardened with understanding. Whatever schemes their Captain and Lord were playing at, this letter sat at the heart of them. He nodded once and tucked it safely away.

  “And tell the Lord… I’m sorry,” Stefanos choked, tears welling despite the pain. “Tell him I’m… sorry.” His strength seemed to spill out of him with every word.

  “Tell him yourself,” Charilaos ordered, more sharply than he intended. He would not let the boy sink quietly into apologies and farewells. “You can do that when we’re back in camp.”

  The last thing Stefanos saw was a blurred image of Charilaos barking commands, veterans moving to obey.

  Then blackness rolled over him like a closing curtain.

  His last thought was of Lady Cassandra’s copper hair in the sunlight, and of the poems they would never write together.

  Theodorus watched from the sidelines as the two finalist companies battled it out in the formations drill, and the stark difference between them became apparent.

  Kyriakos’s company executed the drills with almost machine-like precision. His vocal commands were steady, his tone clear, and the timing sharp. Over the course of his stay, Theodorus had seen how far the young man had grown as a commander. Pride stirred in him, the same satisfaction he used to feel when former students went on to distinguish themselves after his tutelage. He could tell himself they had had a good teacher, but in the end the most important factor was always the individuals themselves. Kyriakos had worked for this success.

  Still, the final should not have been as one-sided as it was.

  Apostolos was uncharacteristically off-key. Seeing as he had won every end-of-season competition he had taken part in, Theodorus had expected more from him. Certainly not this visible fraying at the edges.

  The drill ended with both companies snapping back into their starting ranks. Kyriakos’s men halted exactly on the final beat of the drum while Apostolos’s company finished a heartbeat later.

  A town crier in Nomikos livery stepped to the centre. The murmuring crowd hushed.

  “After due deliberation by the attending officers, the scores have been tallied.” He spoke to the crowd that awaited the result with bated breath. “The winner of this year’s end-of-season competition is…Kyriakos Nomikos!”

  A cheer burst from the onlookers, and Kyriakos’s company erupted, men clapping each other on the shoulders, helmets thrust into the air. Kyriakos turned, laughing, to be swallowed by the congratulations. For a moment he let himself be jostled like any other officer, then his gaze lifted over the heads of his men and found Theodorus.

  He winked, then raised his fist with his men in a shared shout. Theodorus felt the corners of his own mouth lift. He met the young man’s eye and gave a small nod, jutting his chin to signal he wanted a word in private. Kyriakos grinned wide at the gesture before being swallowed by his mobbing milita.

  Christos ambled up to Theodorus’s side, pitching his voice low. “The last of the men have set up camp outside,” he reported.

  “Good,” Theodorus said. “Just one conversation and we’re off. Have your men ready.”

  “And you, Captain,” Christos added, visage grim.

  “Just a few minutes,” Theodorus replied. “Enough for a conversation.”

  As if on cue, Kyriakos managed to detach himself from the knot of cheering soldiers and made his way over, still flushed with victory. Theodorus turned and walked away from the courtyard, leading him toward a more secluded stretch of stone.

  “So, how are you feeling?” Theodorus asked with a lopsided smile as Kyriakos caught up, his gait a self-important strut.

  “Careful how you address me, Captain. At this rate I might be named the next Hypostrategos,” Kyriakos replied, adopting the lofty tone of a noble addressing a peasant.

  Theodorus couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. “If you are, I fear for us all.” He glanced skyward and mimed crossing himself.

  “What? I did all right in the siege, as I recall,” Kyriakos protested.

  “I fear not for your strategic acumen,” Theodorus said dryly, “but for the tyranny you would inflict on the rest of us plebeians.”

  “You had better be worried about that, yes,” Kyriakos answered with an ominous smile, and the two of them laughed.

  Then Kyriakos's tone smoothed into genuine warmth. "I finally have the money to help my father and leave this forsaken place," He turned to Theodorus with affection in his eyes. "I cannot thank you enough Theodorus, I won't forget it."

  "You better not." Theodorus answered with snark.

  Despite himself, Theodorus had struck up an unlikely friendship with the young Nomikos, born of shared danger at Mangup. Which was why, now, he felt an obligation to warn him of what was coming.

  “What’s the matter?” Kyriakos’s smile dimmed slightly as he noticed Theodorus grow thoughtful.

  “There is something I have to warn you about, Kyriakos,” Theodorus said once he was sure they were out of earshot. His voice had lost its teasing edge. “You have to flee Suyren at the earliest opportunity.”

  Kyriakos’s grin vanished and he stopped dead. “What do you mean, Theodorus?”

  “Lord Adanis is planning a rebellion against the realm,” Theodorus replied. Kyriakos’s eyebrows shot upwards. “And war is on the Principality’s horizon.”

  “Madness,” Kyriakos breathed, not believing him.

  “The men he has been gathering outside these walls. The nomad deal,” Theodorus went on, watching Kyriakos’s gaze sharpen as he pieced the puzzle together in real time. “He is amassing an army, and he means to march against the crown.”

  “How in all the saints’ names do you know this?” Kyriakos whispered, eyes flicking around their surroundings before he seized Theodorus’s sleeve and pulled him even further from view.

  Theodorus shook his head once, warning him not to pry further.

  Kyriakos looked at him with new eyes. “Are you a spy?” He whispered.

  “If you do not leave immediately, you will be dragged into this war, Kyriakos,” Theodorus said.

  “Good god,” Kyriakos muttered, taking his non-answer for confirmation.

  “You need contingencies.” Theodorus’s tone turned firm, moving the conversation forward. “Plans. I am leaving Suyren today. Leave as soon as you can.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Kyriakos began to pace, running a hand through his hair, lips moving as he counted options. “I’ll take the money from the contest and get my parents to the coast. Then we can set sail for Damascus.”

  “You must do so quickly,” Theodorus warned. “The rebellion’s first target will be Kalamita.”

  Kyriakos stopped pacing and gripped Theodorus’s shoulders, fingers digging into the leather. “You must really stop giving me all these surprises, my friend. You’ll give me a heart attack.” The jest was thin and brittle, but it was the only way he knew to keep his footing.

  “Thank you for trusting me with this, Theodorus. Truly.” There was no jest in that, however.

  “I will pray for your safety, Kyriakos,” Theodorus said. He offered his forearm. “And for your father’s recovery.”

  Kyriakos hesitated, caught by the mention of his father. When he finally clasped Theodorus’s arm, it was with a desperate strength. “And I yours, my friend,” he said solemnly. “When my father is healed, I promise I will return for you.”

  He made the vow simply, but the words fell heavy between them. Theodorus felt that strange sensation again, something he had known only twice since arriving in this world - when he had sworn to save the Principality, and when he had promised Demetrios he would not lie to him. It was as if something unseen tightened around his chest, a bond forming and a chain linking the two of them together. No glow, no thunder, just a quiet certainty that what had been spoken could not be easily undone. Something beyond words. Something permanent.

  “Come,” Kyriakos said at last, breaking the moment when Theodorus found himself too flabbergasted to speak. “We mustn’t let the others worry for us.”

  The two men walked back toward the courtyard with an easy camaraderie, trading light jests about drills and sieges, the way men did when pretending nothing had changed.

  Apostolos was waiting for them at the edge of the training ground.

  “Theodorus,” he said. His eyes were fidgety, not quite meeting Theodorus’s, and his speech came out stiff. The greatest tell, however, was that he did not greet the Captain with his usual polished courtesy.

  “Apostolos,” Theodorus replied, inclining his head. He noted his fists were clenched so tightly the skin had gone pale. Apostolos was rattled.

  “I wish to speak to you about something,” Apostolos said.

  “You wish to whine about coming in second place?” Kyriakos laughed, oblivious. “There is no shame in it.”

  Apostolos gave a strained imitation of a smile. “Something like that. I would speak with Captain Theodorus alone, if you wouldn’t mind, Kyriakos.”

  “I’m afraid I have some business to attend to now,” Theodorus said. The wrongness in Apostolos’s demeanour crawled at the back of his mind. “Perhaps another time.”

  “It is quite important,” Apostolos insisted. His voice trembled, just barely.

  “So is my business,” Theodorus answered, more sharply than before.

  “The Lord has commanded your presence,” Apostolos said, forcing the words out with more force.

  Kyriakos glanced between the two men, finally sensing the undercurrent. “I can attest to Theodorus’s urgent business,” he said. “He will be with you shortly.”

  “Cousin,” Apostolos said, turning to him. There was almost a command in his tone. “I believe I told you I must speak to Theodorus alone.”

  “And I believe he has said that he has urgent business at this instant,” Kyriakos fired back, refusing to yield.

  “Please leave,” Apostolos said. The edge had gone from his voice. It was almost a plea.

  Kyriakos and Theodorus both stayed where they were.

  “I told you to leave. I didn’t want to do this,” Apostolos mumbled, his teeth chattering. Theodorus had never seen him so distraught, and the sight set the hairs on the back of his neck on end.

  “Apostolos, what is happening?” Kyriakos demanded, voice tightening, eyes wide.

  Apostolos squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat, then opened them again. They were rimmed red, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  A dozen men sprang up from behind the courtyard wall above them, silhouettes framed against the sky. Bows bent, strings drawn taut, and arrowheads glinting as they aimed down at Theodorus and Kyriakos.

  For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

  Then they loosed. A dozen deadly arrows hissing through the air towards them both.

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