Arming squadrons made up of civilians into a proper platoon might be the hardest task I’d ever set out to do, minus maybe coming clean to Maggie about my identity. It was certainly harder than going to war and claiming the Leddian throne and enacting legislation built on a foundation of fear – that was easy. In the morning, after a fitful few hours of sleep for everyone, I went with Sybil into town to talk with Maggie, who sent her husband, Charles, off to rouse her own troops for an emergency town hall meeting.

After which, Sybil and I stand outside Maggie’s house. Sybil hmms and haws, digging her feet into the earth for a solid ten minutes before I get fed up. “Come on, it’ll be better if she hears it from you,” I take her elbow and steer her through town.

She grimaces. “I don’t need to hear that from you.”

I pull her into a halt. “You do,” I narrow my eyes at her. She holds my gaze defiantly. “I’m exactly the person you hear that from.”

Understanding flickers in her eyes and she sighs, “I know. I’m sorry,” she relents. “I’m just scared. He’s her best friend, and…” her throat bobs, and I know she’s holding back tears. Her voice cracks just a little. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“It’s not your fault.” I tell her firmly. “And anyways, you’re here now. That’s what matters. We’re going to get him back.” I look over her shoulder to the outskirts of town where the hammering of metal has already started up, clanging its tattoo against the small, waking buildings of Reisau. “It would be better if it came from you than Charles.”

She cracks a smile. “He’s the worst.”

“Don’t know why Maggie married him,” I add, though I don’t mean it. I don’t think anyone in town means it. I’d only laid eyes on the man, myself.

She starts walking more confidently then, and I follow behind.

When we turn the corner into Haven’s yard, the hammering is interrupted by the hiss of squelching. “Syb!” Haven calls, excited, until she sees me behind. Sybil keeps her eyes low to the ground as we pass through the front gate, and Haven’s face falls further. “What happened?” She gives me an ugly look, “Why is he here?”

Sybil hesitates for a brief moment, casting an apologetic look over her shoulder at me before she steps into the forge. “You’re going to want to sit down for this.”

Haven’s scowl is so heavy I’m worried the lines will be etched permanently over her freckled brow. “Sybil, what happened?”

Sybil chews on her lip. “I’m sorry.”

Haven’s eyebrows shoot up and she quickly sets down the project she was working on, taking Sybil’s shoulders. “Baby, what’s wrong? What happened?” She gives me a fierce look. “Did you hurt her?”

“No, Haven.” Sybil’s voice cracks. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”

“Then wha–” Understanding crosses her face, and her hands drop from Sybil’s shoulders. “Soleil?”

Sybil swipes a hand over her face and Haven pales. My stomach turns over. I try to imagine the nauseating fear I’d feel if I’d lost Tols and my heart swells in empathy. “I asked him to come up to the house and–” She stalls to catch her breath. “Haven, they arrested him.” The words begin to tumble out of her mouth. “I’m sorry. After Jun, things got to be too much and I didn’t know what to do, so I gave the bones to Via and ran off–if I had stayed, I would have been closer and we could have gone after them sooner and–” her babbling is cut short by a sob, and Sybil slides to the ground at Haven’s feet.

Haven looks between us, shock wearing down to be replaced with determination. She kneels to Sybil and pulls her to her feet. “Baby,” she tells her, cupping her chin. “Baby, it’s not your fault,” she wraps her arms around her and Sybil melts into them. She looks over Sybil’s shoulder at me and asks: “We’re going after him? You’re building your army?”

“We are,” I say. “I need your help. We need to outfit everyone.”

Haven nods, and ducks her head into Sybil’s waterfall of onyx hair.

I know a dismissal when I see one. I also know an agreement when I see one. I turn on my heel and retreat from the yard, letting Haven and Sybil hold each other. My heart aches to see it, my fingers itching to hold Tolstoy close. It could have been him, if he’d come with Simon and I into town to fetch Soleil. It could have been any one of my new friends. My feet carry me up the farmhouse, alone, to relay the news to my new troops–and maybe get a chance to get Tolstoy alone.

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I do find him in the kitchen of the farmhouse, after bypassing several members of my new command who ask me increasingly irritating questions like: “What’s next?” and “When are we getting weapons?” and “When do we leave?” – none of which I have clear answers for. I extract myself from each of them with vague answers and excuses.

Tols is standing at the stove; having just put a metal sheet of something into the oven that smells heavenly. He looks up when I walk into the room and his ears pop up, tail swishing to match the smile that creeps over his face. I collapse into his chest, and he wraps his oven-mitted hands around me. “Hey T-man,” he whispers into my hair.

“It could have been you,” I mutter, clinging against him.

“And you would be gathering up an army to come get me,” he reminds me sweetly. “Just like you’re doing for Sol.”

“I would,” I grumble.

He yanks his oven mitts off without breaking my grasp around him and runs his hands up my back to sit between my shoulder blades. “That’s the man you are, Antonio de Cardenas,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. My heart flutters and I lean into it. “But it’s not me, I’m right here. And you’re going to war.”

“You’re not coming with me,” I remind him.

“I’m not,” he nods. “But I’ll be here when you come back.”

I pull away then, my chest splitting. “But I’m not coming back.”

“Of course you aren’t.” He nods and pulls me to the little kitchen table in the corner of the room. “Not to stay.”

“I will visit.” I let him push me into the chair and brush my hair away from my forehead, leaving tingles along my skin.

“Hopefully for longer than a kiss?” He teases cheekily, sliding onto my lap and holding my face in his callused hands.

I smile and kiss him, just long enough to know he tastes like cookie batter and home, before I set my head against his shoulder. “What are you doing in here anyways?” I ask, pulling him closer.

“I wanted to make some cookies for Sybil and the hands. Some food motivation, I guess. Everyone’s been on such high alert lately. I needed to feel useful, what with the roof project stalled and the field hands… well…” He glances back at the door to the kitchen, and I remember the teams lined up outside the farm house, swinging wooden branches through the air in a haphazard training ground.

I grab his chin and turn it back to me. “Always taking care of everyone else,” I chide. “When are you going to take care of yourself?”

He wiggles tantalizingly against my crotch with a playful grin. “This evening, probably.”

The mind boggling sensation elicits a low growl from me and I try to pull him closer, but he dances away from me, traipsing back to the oven. “Go see about your troops, T-King.”

I stare at him. “T-King?” I frown.

He sticks a tongue at me, his tail flicking playfully, and I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t like it?”

“Not at all.” I stand and move to the door, pulling my shirt down.

“Come back for cookies!” he calls. “And other things!”

I ignore the heat that rises in me as well as the grief that fills the bottom of my stomach. I fight the twinge of sadness as I walk through the empty house that just the night before had been filled to the brim with loved ones, bright music, and laughter. I’m glad Tolstoy is staying behind. It comforts me to know that he is happier where he is at; and even if I sit on the throne, he won’t be plunged into the world of fake smiles, careful jokes, and subterfuge… he’ll be free from it all. And while I’ll wish he stood by my side, it was more important to me that he was free.

I step out onto the grass to find my troops taking a water break, their bodies glistening with sweat already in the mid-morning light. I catch sight of Simon across the field, a notebook open across his lap, scribbling furiously, and make my way over to him. I get close enough to see that he’s scratching out some runes and taking notes alongside them, but he closes the notebook when he notices me, looking up and scowling at me. “What do you want?”

“Let’s talk.”

“You lied to me,” he says matter-of-factly. “For months.”

“What was I supposed to do?” I roll my eyes. “You’d have let me die.”

He hesitates, feet stalling. He balls his fist and lets it fall. “Yes. I would have.”

“Simon,” I start, my voice is firm, kingly. “I owe everything that I’ve learned to you. You held me accountable. You taught me morality and ethics. You informed me of my shortcomings, how wrong my understanding of our histories were. You did that.” He doesn’t turn. He does, however, start walking again. “I owe everything I am to you!” I call after him, but I let him go.

He has already agreed to join us in our march on the capital city out of some silent necromancy code of conduct, the same that Sybil is held to. The same code that marched her family against me in the war. The list of names Luis showed me all those years ago weighs heavier on me than ever these days, now that I understand the tradition. The necromancers weren’t given a choice in the matter: while they wielded as much strength as they could against my army, they knew they were doomed from the start.