Some days passed. Taramiel spent most of his time training, on his own. It wasn’t difficult to find a quiet space with some distance from camp. When he had the patience, he’d return before the sun had set and eat with a few of the other soldiers he had a favorable opinion of. He wasn’t sure the feelings were reciprocated. The Sacredate’s men were mostly quiet around him, now—unsure what parts of him they were seeing. The Sacredate had painted Taramiel as champion and nemesis, and while on the night the Sacredate had spoken the opinion of the masses had been unanimous, the revelry the Sacredate inspired always faded.

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The Sacredate was on his way out. Soon enough the entire camp would disperse to the corners of the land and begin the final leg of their conquering journey. Sweep around the edges to collect the smaller villages that they’d forgotten, then return to strike at the center. The Sacredate was about, preparing to bring the whole army to one point, and storm the kingdom’s defenses. At this point, Taramiel thought, all of it was inevitable. He’d lead a small army of his own like a loop from this place, trace out their path in blood and followers, and arrive at the castle at the center of it all with perhaps enough men on his own to storm the defenses on his own. And he was only one of five.