Staffmaster Péri, a beacon of light

always ready to laugh, always down for a fight.

Soldier by day, storyteller by night.

Don’t look at his daughters. They’ll be your last sight.

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

Once again, I find myself the pridemaster of one hundred men. It’s a slow procession; the prisoners are chained together, bound by coarse rope at their hands and feet. I try not to look at them, but it’s hard. I circle the pride to ensure my nestmasters are keeping the packs in formation. Ninety percent of our prisoners are injured in some capacity, and half are limping. For once, I’m grateful to be mounted. I pull another apple from my kit bag and share it with Sinope. She doesn’t even bite me.

Nestmaster Paadrick rides alongside me. I appreciate the company—he fought beside me at the Battle of Crête Déchiquetée. We should’ve died that day, but we didn’t. It feels fitting that he’s with me now.

We’re about to cross into Logrolés when battle sounds begin. They echo down the valley—shrieks, yells, the clash of metal against metal, death screams. I press forward. I have my orders. I’m getting these prisoners to Cahuela if it’s the last thing I do, and it very well may be.

A drawn-out scream ricochets down the summit. Paadrick stiffens. I glance at him, then reach over to pat his off-white mount. That’s what you do when your fellow officer is suffering. You touch his horse.

The steed—I think her name is Dixie—nuzzles against Sinope. My leg brushes Paadrick’s.

“Sorry about Taylen,” I say. “She was a good nestmaster.”

He dips his head. “She’d be honored you wear her helm.”

I adjust the jaw strap. The leather is tight and uncomfortable. There was another helm in the kit bag Linden gave me. I prefer this one, smallness aside.

“She didn’t like me,” I say.

“She didn’t know you.” He stares straight ahead. “None of us do.”

That’s pivotal mistake number one in Training the Untrainable. Failing to bond with your men. If they don’t respect you, how can you expect them to die for you?

“My name is Ko,” I say. “I’m an academy washout. I have three titles, two won in combat. I value family, politeness, and the duty of obligation—in that order. I’ve fought for my status, and I’ll continue to fight until my last breath.”

It’s the first time I’ve excluded Leisure Street from my identity.

Paadrick turns to look at me.

“My name is Paadrick Ripley,” he says. “I’m the new commander of K-Pride’s alpha nest. I don’t like small talk. Taylen was my friend and my mentor. I miss her.”

“Now we know each other,” I say.

He smiles. It’s a small, grim twitch of the lips.

“Is that important?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess we’ll find out.”

###

The ambush hits us after we pass the western border of Logrolés. We’ve covered two miles in an hour, but it’s not enough—I knew it wouldn’t be enough from the second Killián ordered me to leave.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

They descend on us from the northern crest of the Crête de Liluire. Our scouts report it’s an army of about two hundred. We see them coming. Out here with no CO, I’m the chain of command. There’s a call to make, and make it I do.

I order my men into formation, and we leave the prisoners with an escort of ten fighters. They’re outnumbered five to one, but the prisoners are bound and gagged, and I promised Killián I wouldn’t leave them unattended. I don’t like it—we need every fighter we have.

“This is going to suck,” I tell my assembled men.

I’m not great at giving rousing speeches, but either way, my fighters hang onto my every word. Acknowledge where they’re coming from, I tell myself. Sympathize. Stroke some egos. Strike.

“This is going to really suck,” I amend. “We have ninety fighters, and an enemy army of two hundred soldiers will be here in minutes. We don’t have time for fancy tactics. Go in strong. Wreak some damage. Give it everything you’ve got. That’s all any of us can do. I’ll lead the vanguard—”

There’s an intake of breath at that. Placing yourself in front of the lancers goes against every officer guide out there, but if I die, I’ll die leading these fighters.

“Paadrick, lead the left flank.” I look him dead in the eyes. “No small talk, right? Hit them from the side and hit them hard. Garcia, fake left and penetrate the right—”

I’m out of time. The enemy forces have crested the lower foothill, and I can already taste the dust from their steeds…

“Move!” I scream.

I urge Sinope forward, and she follows the command without hesitation. Ears pulled back, teeth bared—Great Yosif, she’s magnificent. I say a silent prayer that she survives this battle.

I draw my sword.

I scream something out. Orders. I don’t know what I’m saying. I charge, and a wall of chain-linked foes slam against my vanguard. Slam against me.

My blade swings down. Knocks the steed out from under an enemy combatant. I scream something—it’s either a battle cry or a message for my fighters. I think I say with everything we’ve got. Sinope nickers and rears. I hook my maimed arm around the saddle horn, plunge my blade into a bronze-armored chest, and—yes!—it was leverage I didn’t know I needed.

I’m circled. Five men surround me, blades cocked. I slash. I duck, multiple times—I’m good at that. Paadrick’s surrounded, too—he’s on the edge of the battlefield. I knock a foe off his horse and race toward him. I dismount, slide under four kicking legs, cock my blade…

Something slams against the back of my head.

The sweet spot.

The world goes black with shocking suddenness.

My last thought, which my brain barely has time to formulate, is I’m about to die.

###

I drift in and out of consciousness. The throbbing, pulsing ache behind my temples is the only constant. I didn’t know it was possible for my head to hurt this badly. I try to open my eyes, but my motor functions are impaired. A moist warble hisses between my lips.

My working arm is bound to my chest, and the coarse rope rubs fleshy skin off my wrist. My right arm flails limply at my side. The ground jerks beneath me in a steady thrum-and-tug. A canter.

I’m tied to a horse.

Time drags by—the moments are fast and excruciatingly slow. I’m yanked off the horse. I hit the ground. Someone picks me up. The hands aren’t gentle. I’d flinch away from them, but I can’t move.

“I got two officers,” a gruff voice says. “You reckon Jude will get anything out of them?”

“This one looks like a child,” another voice says. “No one’s taught him how to shave.”

Someone rubs my chin. I open my eyes and find I’ve been blindfolded. A canvas band is strapped around my forehead, shielding the world from view. Somewhere nearby, a horse nickers.

“I guess cultheads are letting kids lead their armies now,” the gruff voice says. “Jude said they’d run out of men eventually. It’s not like they have a lot of soldiers—eight thousand troops, give or take. You gotta find warm bodies somewhere.”

“Sure.” The voice is emotionless. “But a kid?”

“He isn’t our problem. Jude’ll get him to talk.”

“And then?”

“He’s wearing black leathers, Simon. What do you think will happen?”

That’s not good.

I hope Akeeva gets my MIA pension—Lancer Nox helped me sign the clause.

I drift back into the blackness.