Staffmaster Lefe, an orthodox chain;

the Septemvirate’s surly, conservative strain.

He’s pure to the bone and he’s filled with distain.

Lord Fate lost it all. Wrath blooms from his pain.

“The Puritan,” an excerpt from “Killián’s Guard”

At dawn, I deposit my wages in the well-built depository beside the inn. The matron gives me a finance number affiliated with my swordsman bona fides, and she assures me the papers will be sent via hussar to banks in the Second Circuit. I name my sisters as beneficiaries and give them access to the trust, and I pen a quick letter to Akeeva with details on opening an account. A hussar takes it and tells me delivery is approximately two weeks.

I withdraw a handful of francs and buy apples from the market next door. I give one to Sinope after lancers fetch her from the stables. She nearly takes off my fingers, and she bucks when I mount. Dust rises around us from her trampling hooves.

Linden dismounts, rushes over, and strokes Sinope’s nose until she’s steady. Kempe pulls her white stallion beside us.

“Yosif’s tits,” she says. “That horse hates you.”

“Our relationship is a work in progress,” I say.

Somehow I manage to remain on Sinope’s back. I re-check the bridle buckles. She tips forward, and I grab the saddle horn with my working hand. Linden glances over his shoulder. Killián and Bardic departed minutes ago. The sun has almost crested over the Pinenut Mountains. We’re killing daylight.

“Do you groom her yourself, or do you make the lancers do it?” Kempe squints at Sinope. “That’s the quickest way to build trust with a steed.”

“Groom her?” I ask stupidly.

She eyes the three titles pinned to my new jacket.

“Was your internship with the equestrian unit?” she asks. “Segolé sent me off after Session Two. I missed brigade training—took me forever to learn how to get my fighters into formation.”

“I never graduated.”

She nudges her stallion closer. “How in Hel did you get three laurels?”

“I ask myself that question every day.”

Linden laughs. He remounts, and we head east. Even with one thousand troops flanking us, I still feel unsafe. I remain on alert—posture tense, head aching, shoulders pulled back—as the barren farmlands ascend into rugged hills. We pass a few settlements and a tiny market, and we pause to let the horses drink at the Rivière de l’Ouest, the river that stretches through the Fifth and Sixth Circuit.

Kempe rides beside me, and I’m able to piece together her story. She was born and raised in a blacksmith sect in Navolidad, and she graduated from L-DAW alongside Linden. In all of L’Anglimar’s history, their class was the only session wherein five students made it to graduation without washing out. They’re unduly proud of this fact.

“I’m shocked Lindy got his third laurel before the rest of us,” Kempe says as we cross the shadows Yosif’s Peak casts on the valley. “We thought he’d be dead by now.”

“Be nice to me, woman.” Linden nudges her horse. “I outrank you.”

“Call me woman and I’ll steal your bedroll.” Kempe glances in my direction. “You know what Adali used to call him? Puppylove. He followed the Dame Cleo around like a mutt. Then he started writing those creepy songs about her, so we switched it up and called him Rhymester.”

“They weren’t songs,” Linden says. “They were poems.”

“That’s worse,” Kempe says. “You see how that’s worse, right?”

Linden yanks one of her braids. She tugs her stallion a safe distance away and grins at me.

“Rhymester was better than my epithet,” she says. “River called me Gore Gaze.”

She gestures to her left eye. The iris is glassy, gray, and pale with blindness.

“Can I ask what happened?” I say.

Linden cuts in before she can answer.

“Kempe changes the story every time she tells it,” he says. “Once, she said she was attacked by a deadcrow. Another time, it was a rivershark. The first time I asked, she claimed the God King blasted her face, giving her the divine power to strike nosy hunks to the nether.”

Kempe grins a self-satisfied smirk.

“Did you get an academy nickname?” she asks me.

“Slutboy,” I say.

Kempe lets out a short, sharp howl of laughter.

“It’s because I grew up on Leisure Street,” I say. “It’s nothing personal.”

“I don’t judge,” Kempe says. “Adali grew up in a slum. That’s where she learned to fight. She’s wicked with a blade—ask Linden if you don’t believe me. We kicked his ass during every one of Leómadura’s sick challenges.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I stiffen. I open my mouth. No words come out.

“You didn’t beat me every time,” Linden says. “Well…okay. You did, but Adali didn’t. I disarmed her once.”

“When she got stung by those hornets and her entire face swelled up,” Kempe says. “She could barely open her eyes, Lindy.”

“It still counts!” Linden nudges Sinope. “Back me up, Ko.”

“I don’t know who we’re talking about,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Your loss—Adali’s awesome,” Linden says. “Why’d you guys break up?”

“We wanted different things,” Kempe says.

"Meaning?”

“I wanted to get married. She wanted the Dame Cristya.”

“I take back everything I said.” Linden makes a face. “Adali’s a demon, and she can rot.”

“Watch it. She’s still my best friend.”

“Kempe, no.”

“Kempe, yes,” she says, then turns her attention to me. “My parents disowned me when I started dating her—they grew up in the dark ages. It was expected, but I took it hard. For whatever reason, Segolé told Killián what was going on. He stopped by L-DAW to give me a horrendously awkward but well-intentioned pep-talk. It was a bizarre way to meet the general—he’s been good to me ever since.”

“I’ve got you beat,” I say. “I saved his daughter’s life and he took me to Marbecante. Lady Fate threw fruit at my head.”

“Tough break, Slutboy.”

“There’s more.” I take a deep, shaky breath. “I need advice.”

“Don’t ask Linden,” she says. “He doesn’t know shit.”

“I’m asking you,” I say.

Shame and frustration curls within me, along with something darker. Maybe Kempe would understand why I left the academy. She’s a pretty girl in the army—there’s no way she hasn’t brushed up against her fair share of creeps.

I need to tell somebody.

I can’t do it. Not yet.

“I told you last night—you remind me of my sister,” I say instead. “Felicity’s pissed at me. How do I make it up to her?”

Kempe gives me a quick once-over. “What did you do?”

“Our mother died on the frontline. Lici didn’t want me to enlist.”

“Oof.” Kempe winces. “That’s a tough one.”

I wait for her to continue. She thinks for a minute. Her braids blow in her face, and she tugs them with the hand that’s not gripping her steed.

“Grief takes time to process,” Kempe says. “After Sawyer died, I hiked into the mountains and screamed until my voice stopped working. I beat the shit out of an evergreen tree and broke two fingers. Then I assaulted a boulder—broke a few toes to match. Not fun. I had to get over myself. My fighters needed me to be functional. When you’re stubborn and tough, you want to control everything. It hurts when you can’t. It hurts so effing much—”

“Be quiet,” I say suddenly.

“Excuse me?” she growls. “I’m baring my soul to you! You asked for advice!”

I point to the foothills southwest of Yosif’s Peak—my geography is rusty, but I’m pretty sure that’s Liluire’s Crest. At the summit, sunlight glints off armor.

Chain-link armor.

Kempe swears. “I’ll tell Killián.”

“No need,” Linden says.

The den trailing us has flanked into a loose quadrilateral formation. Flaggers raise black banners toward the sky, and a trumpet blasts an insipid tune. Sinope stiffens at the sound.

Bardic and Killián are several hundred paces ahead, but they turn their steeds and gallop toward us. I soothe Sinope and give her another apple. She nips me. Red droplets of blood ooze from my finger.

Killián stops his steed before us. His black stallion grinds his hooves into the ground to stop the forward momentum, and dust sprays toward me. His scythe curls above his head, and the maxims stare down.

Protect the innocent.

Strength lies in honesty.

“Linden, lead two dens northwest,” he says. “Block off their escape to the upper foothills. None of their men make it off the Crête de Liluire unless we see white flags, understood? Keep your men in line and wait to engage until the vanguard rushes.”

Linden flicks the reins. His mount gallops toward the dens flanking us.

“Kempe.” Killián nods in her direction. “How many fighters can you keep in formation?”

“As many as you’ll give me.”

“Take three hundred. Order the forward penetration movement on your call. Be safe.”

She salutes, dips her head, and dashes after Linden. Killián glances at Bardic, who turns his steed and barrels away to assemble the rest of the murder front. Only after he’s gone does Killián turn his attention to me.

“Continue eastbound with one hundred men,” he says. “I won’t be able to supervise you—I’m leading three dens into augmentation positioning. Get the prisoners to Cahuela. Don’t leave them unattended. We’ll catch up with you once this has been handled.”

There’re only three hundred soldiers up there. Kempe and Linden should be able to eliminate the threat. Still, I duck my head.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing, sir. Understood.”

His voice is sharp. “We don’t have time for you to hold your tongue.”

I glance toward the assembling forces. “They haven’t called a retreat.”

“No,” he agrees.

“They see our hive,” I say. “We outnumber them ten to three. That never happens.”

Trap, my Leisure Street instincts scream. Trap, trap, trap.

A raw, pulsing ache pounds behind my temples, and I remove my left hand from the saddle horn to rub my neck. I expect Sinope to buck—she loves to move when my guard is down. To my surprise, she stays still. Her nostrils quiver.

“I don’t like this,” I say. “Something’s about to go wrong—”

“You have your orders,” Killián says. “I’m counting on you.”

“Aye, sir.” I dip my head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Heart hammering, I turn my steed. My prisoners are waiting for me, and so are my troops.