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It was not unexpected that the grey mare took off, separating itself from Typhonos and his guard and making its way through the back of the ranks. Had Iros thought for a moment that Marat would not do something immensely stupid, he would have been surprised to see the sun reflect from the unpolished black armor plate on his back move rapidly away from him.

The chaos was momentary; the men saw their general move, and they did not give pause. They spurred their horses, not a single soldier looking back at the devastation the iron sphere caused. All knew who was at the head. All knew the painted golden lion on his back.

Iros glanced back to where Yaro sat atop his horse. The red-bearded man frowned and swung Anushka down from his back.

“Good’a time a-s ever!” He shouted, his words barely audible above the noise.

Iros kicked, and his own stallion took off. All around them were men and horses rushing forward toward the northern army.

“For the Ember Sword!” He called as loud as he could, his throat straining. And then he called again. The men around him picked up the chant, and in moments, the words rolled like thunder across them all.

Again, he looked back to Yaro. The man’s face was beet red as his voice joined the others, over and over again.

“For the King! For the Ember Sword!”

The battle chant did not end when the enemy’s arrows rose in the sky. They fell, a metallic splintered rain upon the men. He saw that they had clipped the arms, legs, and shoulders of some of them - but not a single one slumped in his saddle, and not a single one fell from his horse.

“For Marat!” He shouted back to Yaro, and the hunter’s lips moved, catching the same words.

When the two armies met, the air filled with sparks. The unbearable scrape of metal on metal drummed through his teeth. He swung, and the force of his sword meeting a man’s chest jerked his arm back, and so he twisted it, letting the sharp edge of the blade catch near the man’s neck.

The pikes, arrows, swords, and shields became but a blur of weathered steel, blood, and splintering wood.

“To the right!” Yaro roared.

Iros turned.

Rurik, his face bloodied and bared teeth clenched, held the reins against his chest, making the horse back up while a line of men advanced past him and toward their deaths.

If only one leader fell.

The death of one man and it would quiet the chaos.

Iros turned his horse, leading the stallion to break through the mass of soldiers. He felt the hooves nearly stumble against soft, yielding flesh, and a chill ran through his gut. That night, a funeral pyre would take it all with them, and he was determined for it not to take him.

Rurik turned, his eyes bulging, a cut on his forehead pulsing blood. He shouted something to those near, but Iros had already cut down the two nearest to him.

Anushka came swinging through, and another two fell - the insides of their helms making an audible slosh as the metal bent inward at the mace’s force.

The horse’s reins pulled close, its chest heaving and spit foaming at the mouth, Iros momentarily came side by side with Rurik, and both swung their blades before the horses parted again.

“Son of a whore templar!” Rurik spat, twisting around and kicking his horse to advance as Iros turned his around.

“What you have done is a disgrace!” Iros shouted back.

Their swords met again, this time with greater force, shaking Rurik in his saddle.

“And yet you found your way with my creative notchposts, did you not? Did they not guide you here, templar?” Rurik laughed between deep breaths, desperate for air.

“May your bones be treated as poorly as you have treated them!”

Anushka took down another man, the crunch of his bones muffled by the meat around them, audible even above the noise around.

“It’s really too bad you did not stick around to receive my hospitality!” Rurik roared, thrusting his sword at Iros only to be met with a parry. “You would have been the very first of them!”

Again their swords met.

But, this time, Rurik’s was just a little faster.

It slipped at the very crease of the elbow, the gap of Iros’ armor, just deep enough that he cried out, dropping his sword. His other hand remained on the reins, immediately drawing them back.

The animal was just fast enough to get out of Rurik’s reach.

And just slow enough that Iros didn’t.

Rurik’s hand dragged him out of the saddle, letting go only when the Templar hit the ground and on his injured arm. The commander did not wait to get a final word in before he swung his sword, and brought it down on Iros with all his weight.

Anushka swung at Rurik’s horse, and the sound of the bones in its back leg crunched. Both the animal and its master came crashing down, his neck making a similar sound as the body of the horse folded Rurik’s head against his chest.

Yaro stood, bent over, breathing hard, his red hair plastered wherever it landed, bits of spit and blood still soaking in his beard. He looked up.

The desperate last swing of his mace had not been delivered in time to save the High Templar.

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Iros’ body was taken back west by an outfit of thirty men.

Marat did not speak of it, not to Val, not to anyone.

When soldiers surrendered and fell to their knees, dropping their swords, Yaro carried Iros back.

He did not speak of it either.

“They will do a big ceremony,” Dimos told her, “one befitting of a High Templar. One befitting the King himself.”

Val was the only to approach the body, laying her hands on the man’s face. She wept until Marat’s hand touched her shoulder.

“He has to go.” He said, his voice devoid of emotion.

The funeral fires of the fallen men burned bright that night. There were four of them, set a distance apart, released a devastating smell that spread through the valley with dreadful columns of smoke.

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No man there differed from one another. All were birthed of a mother, all died with their lifeblood spilled.

Typhonos, side by side with Marat, watched the smoke go up.

“What will happen to them?” The general’s voice held only monotoned darkness.

“They have been stripped of the three-headed dragon. The infantry was allowed to return home; the rest will be under guard as they are taken west.” The King answered him. His eyes were tired, and he did not look away from the distance where the four black billowing clouds met in the sky. “Rurik was proud, reckless. It is unlikely many were left behind at Midtrade.”

“I will send scouts to Batyr.” Marat turned away from the blackening sky. “If they join us at the occupied city we can head North by midsummer.”

But, the King shook his head.

“Korschey will bring the full of his force at us before then. Armies that size travel slowly, but the hand that drives them is strong. We would do well to force a siege if the South brought supplies.”

“The South has no supplies left…” Marat muttered, “Roska’s men could split off and take the West while we are occupied here. They have the numbers.”

The King’s eyes squinted in a smile, but it held no joy.

“I have chosen well indeed.” He said.

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When the peak of the Cathedral appeared above the walls of the city, the King’s men threw up dark blue flags with the golden lion. By the time they neared, men were lined up outside the gate, their shields stacked far ahead of them in surrender. Not one man contested the victory in the hills.

The very first time Val and Marat walked into the great room, he took her hand in his.

“You will remain here when we go. I will make sure you are safe.”

“No.” She said. “You stand against a man who cannot die. A man I cannot bind, as he holds no thread. You will die, simply because he cannot. I will not remain.”

“Then we will chain him, the deepest dungeons of his keeps. And we will down the Obsidian Tower.” He promised her.

“Marat,” she slipped her delicate hand out of his and put both of them on his face, one on unmarred skin, one on the twisted scars. “You cannot chain him. Even the collars of the Sisters cannot hold one such as he. We do not know how many gods he consumed over the years, we cannot know what names he gave them when he did.”

They stood against each other, his hands loosely on her waist. The silence confirmed the acceptance of the truth in her words.

“I do not know what to do, Val.” He said quietly. “I cannot do that again. It was too many. Too many met their death. There was a time when no man fell by my hand. There was a time when I did not care if they did. I am not either of those men. I have a choice now. And faced against them, I cannot be everywhere. Like I couldn’t be…”

His voice broke, and only a pathetic deep swallow said what he meant to say. Iros.

“Then we will find another way…” She whispered, bringing his face down against hers, where skin to skin she felt the cooling tears on his lips.

The aftermath of Rurik’s occupation disfigured the city. The enslaved were freed, but void of emotion. They returned to families that were fewer than when they left. The ruined houses the soldiers had occupied were cleared. The food and supplies were brought out of the guarded warehouses and distributed among the starving, reminding them of why so many of their own lay dead in the streets.

It was two weeks before the southern banners appeared on the horizon.

To their surprise, both Asim and Batyr rode with the armies.

The berserkers of Sudraj came first, bearing the crests of the White Cities, a golden stripe against them. The men that followed were a mix of the South’s fathers and sons and those of the West who were shipped out to the South before the armada fell.

No man arrived without a wound or scar.

They’d taken back the two cities that fell, but not without a cost.

Their military camp joined that of Typhonos, the row upon rows of tents lining the hills. If one were to look out from the tallest wall, they would not see the end.

“We are fewer than Korschey’s, even still” Batyr said.

They were gathered in the great room: the kings, their generals, their sergeants, Yaro and Val.

“We meet them in the North, it will be in an open field, but they cannot split up. The main road is the only one that can lead them past the frozen desert and the Deep Wood.” Typhonos stood above a map, his eyes following the narrow strip of cleared ground running from Volkograd to the valley that opened up toward Midtrade City. “They will have to take a strong swing west as the road curves, so they will come from the northwest when they arrive.”

“Too many will die if we meet them in the open.” Marat shook his head.

“We are at war, General.” Batyr hissed at him. The animosity in his voice gave away the thoughts he harbored. “People will die.”

“Not my people.” Marat muttered, unbothered.

“They aren’t your people–” Batyr’s voice rose but Typhonos held up a hand, and even the other king quieted.

“He’s right. We have… advantages on our side. But we are fewer, still.”

He turned to Marat.

“Well, general, what would you have us do?”

Marat stood looking down at the map in front of him. His eyes scanned every road and open field. Every mountain and river. But, before he could answer, a small, soft voice sounded somewhere from the back.

“We go through the Deep Wood.”

Yaro made his way through the people so she could come forward. The blind girl stood in front of the room full of men, looking like a child among them. Every eye was on her.

On the Witch.

“That’s right, we would lose men in battle. Let’s instead get them eaten in the most gruesome of ways!” Batyr was getting red in the face.

“What do you mean, Val?” Marat’s voice was soft when addressing her.

“If we go through the Deep Wood, can we make it to the capital before they make it here?” She asked, brushing her fingertips across the map.

“With much time to spare.” Marat nodded.

“Then I will open up the way,” Val said. Her voice was grave but certain.

The looks on the faces in the room were full of doubt. Only Typhonos and Dimos exchanged knowing looks, and the King nodded.

“Then we will take the Deep Wood.” He said.

The noise of arguing men rose about the room, Batyr’s above them.

“Are you mad?!” His argument was with Typhonos, not Val. “I will not take my men in there. I will not take them to their deaths.”

“They’ll die regardless. Let it be for their country.”

Batyr slammed his fist on the table, rattling it.

“My men have been dying for eight years while yours sat behind the walls. Eight years they have fought your battles.”

“I have sent men that fought alongside yours. Do not forget that.”

“They have families, Typhonos, families who will starve.”

“They will starve regardless of where their fathers fall,” Typhonos answered calmly, then turned to Val. “What do you need?”

“I’m not sure…” She turned her head slightly, listening for objections, and the murmurs among them told her that the confidence in her words was limited to only five men in the room.

No one’s eyes left her. Not until Typhonos spoke.

“My general has made a decision.” the King said. “So he will have my men, and my trust.”

Again, the murmur rose, and Batyr’s face twisted in defiance.

“Then you will go alone.” He said through his teeth.

Val stood atop the wall by the gates, the soldiers gathered tightly below. Both armies came to hear their kings’ addresses.

Batyr announced first that a portion of them would stay there, and the rest would return to rebuild the ruins of the two White Cities. This sent voices through the crowd that could not be read as approval or disagreement.

Typhonos came forward next.

“Men, friends,” He started, “We have divinity on our side.”

That alone raised the noise in the crowd, but he did not wait to continue.

“We have hope and the love of our country, families, and our own lives on our side!” His voice grew, “But what is more, we have a leader whose heart lays with every one of you when going into battle! A leader who came forth to the front lines of the Battle on the Hills! A leader who led the people of Nashtuun out of the city when Misfortune came! A leader whose sweat dampened the earth just as yours had when the refugees had arrived in Barzah! A leader who I have given my armies of the West!”

Val heard the rising tone underneath, and her heart beat faster. The words rolled across the gathering, at first quietly and then with full force.

“A god, the last born of this earth! To lead you to victory against the Northern horde!”

For a moment, she felt as if everything had slowed. The stone on which she leaned vibrated as the shouts rose.

“The Ember Sword!” Typhonos’ deep voice strained inside the shout, and immediately, his words caught through the men in an excited chant.

The Ember Sword! The Ember Sword! The Ember Sword!

To her surprise, there were more voices than she expected. She heard the accents among them. She heard the dialect of the South.

Batyr’s men shouted his name as well.

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