How could I have been so stupid? I’d thought myself immune to the tenant’s charms, but I let myself be deceived by soft blue eyes and the wistfulness in his voice when he’d given me his nickname. Stupid, stupid, stupid. All the years of secrecy, the lies, the meticulous training—all of it wasted in a single, stupid decision.

I wait for the captain’s next move, for him to call my name and demand I step forward. But he only stands there, staring out over us like a spider surveying its web. Beside him, Chass is looking at everyone but me.

“Well?” Captain Oristel says. “Which of you is it? Step forward.”

Then Chass didn’t tell? Or he told them there is a Wordweaver, but not who it is? I search the group, trying to calm the sick swirling in my stomach, but nobody speaks.

Captain Oristel’s stare turns into a glower. “You have been given an order from your commanding officer. Step forward, now!”

“Captain,” Chass says when no one moves. “Let me question the recruits. I’m sure I can find the Wordweaver.”

“See that you do, Tenant,” Oristel growls. “It is no small thing to ignore a direct order.” He gives us one last glare before turning on his heel and disappearing through a door near the gatehouse.

“Explain their duties,” Chass says to the other tenant. “But keep them in the yard. Hothram will begin the training when you are finished. Send them to me one at a time for questioning.”

The tenant inclines his head, but something about the gesture seems mocking. Chass turns away and follows the captain, leaving Tenant Tyrr in command.

“Each quarter will be responsible for their share of work,” Tyrr says. His voice is a reedy reddish yellow, like pebbles in a shallow brook. “Quarters one and two will begin with cutting and gathering wood, while quarters three and four work in the tunnel. When you are not learning to fight, you will be working.” He pauses to eye one of the villagers, a Norwikk boy who can’t be older than twelve. “The work is part of your training. It will make you strong.”

A few of the soldiers snicker, but not the gray-haired Wordweaver. He has given up his search and is listening to Tyrr with an expression of intense boredom on his face.

“Hothram,” Tenant Tyrr says, nodding to a soldier beside the Wordweaver. “I can do nothing more if we keep them in the yard, so you might as well start your practicing.” He points to the man at the end of the first row and gestures to where Chass has just ducked into a room on the southern wall. He doesn’t speak, but his dismissive wave is enough of an order to send the man scurrying across the yard.

“Partner up!” Hothram yells, stepping out of rank and moving to take Tenant Tyrr’s place. The tenant turns away, and I lose sight of him as the recruits spread out across the yard. Hothram coaches us through drills for footwork and sparring, but my attention is not on the lessons. Anxiety gnaws a hole in the pit of my stomach that seems to grow larger with every passing moment. Aze and I try to drift to the edge of the group, but there are too many people around us to risk a conversation.

It doesn’t matter—I can read the panic in his eyes. And, blurred at the edge of his concern, accusation. This never would have happened if you had just stayed home.

But it doesn’t make sense. I’m sure Chass had been sincere when he promised to keep my secret—there had been no sickly green in his voice, no hint that he’d been untruthful. He may have changed his mind, but he didn’t lie.

So what happened?

“You,” grunts Tenant Tyrr, appearing a few steps away and pointing at me. “Your turn. Then your friend.”

Shooting what I hope is a reassuring look to Aze, I hurry across the yard and knock awkwardly at Chass’s door.

“Close the door behind you,” Chass says in a deep, official voice. I do, trying not to let my worry show on my face, but his eyes soften as they meet mine. He beckons me in and moves to stand beside the window. The room is small and sparsely furnished, barely allowing enough space for the bed, trunk, and desk tucked under a tiny window. Chass looms over the furniture, a tree over weeds. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I swear to you, I said nothing.”

Relief drains me of my strength, and I sink onto the end of his bed and close my eyes. “What happened?”

“Can’t you sense it?” Chass asks.

I look up at him, frowning. “Sense what?”

“The other Wordweaver.” Chass searches my face, folding his arms and leaning against the door. “Brayam. He said he could sense another Wordweaver as soon as we entered the fort, though he can’t pinpoint who it is. You didn’t sense him when you arrived?”

The itchiness. It’s still there, faint but persistent, like a sunburn on the inside of my skin. “I didn’t know what it was. I’ve never met another Wordweaver.”

“I didn’t know Wordweavers had that ability,” Chass admits. “It complicates things.”

The panic surges back. “You’re not going to—”

“No, I’m not going to turn you in.” Chass pushes away from the door, pacing the length of the room in two steps. “I gave you my word, and I won’t go back on it. But whether I give you up or not, eventually you will be found out. It would be better for you if you went to Captain Oristel yourself. We can come up with a reason for why you didn’t step forward earlier.”

“Would he let me be a healer?” I ask, fighting to control the spark of hope kindling in my chest.

Chass’s look kills it. “All Wordweavers are sent to Andred for training before being assigned to a unit.”

I swallow. “Then… you want me to become his killer?”

“You didn’t think you could enlist in the army and not kill anyone, did you?”

“But I’m an healer,” I argue. “Can’t I do that instead? Surely a Wordweaver who can heal would be just as valuable as one that can kill.”

The look of pity on Chass’s face stops my argument short. “Healers are important,” he says hesitantly. “Perhaps I can persuade the captain.”

His tone makes it clear that he has little hope of success, and my heart sinks. “Is there no other way?”

“None that I can think of.”

My gaze sinks under the weight of my misery, settling on the floor as the hopelessness of my situation presses around me. I really have been unforgivably stupid. I never should have come.

“I’ll talk to the captain,” Chass repeats, but his voice is bleak. “Just stay quiet until then. I’ll come up with something, Braids.”

I furrow my brows, and Chass gives me a small smile. “It’s better than Fraele Solln, isn’t it? I have to call you something, and I can’t use your real name. Not that I think you’d tell me your real name.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Would you?” His eyebrows quirk up, but his voice sounds as tired as I feel. “Then perhaps I won’t ask. It preserves the mystery.”

I snort. “What mystery?”

“A healer who joins the army,” Chass says. “A female healer who joins the army. A female Wordweaver—”

“Fine,” I interrupt. “What about you? A tenant who agrees to keep a secret from his commanders is just as mysterious. You say you owe me a life debt, but…” I stop, afraid to say more and convince him he shouldn’t be helping me after all.

“But?” he prompts, resting his shoulder against the wall next to his bed. I have to crane my neck back to look up at him, taking in his height as my eyes move upward.

“But you’re putting yourself at risk,” I finish lamely. “If the captain finds out you’ve hidden me from him, won’t you be punished?”

“Severely,” Chass says. He takes in my crestfallen expression and laughs. “I would be reprimanded, but likely little else would come from it. I have friends in high places that will afford me a little protection. You needn’t worry about me.”

I look down at my bare hands, tracing the pattern of scars over my palms. “What should I do?”

“Nothing,” Chass says. “Not yet. Go back out and follow whatever orders you’re given, and I’ll find you when I have more news to tell.” He flashes me a quick grin, a glimpse of the confident, charismatic tenant who charmed my family only days ago. “Don’t worry, Braids. I’ll take care of it.”

But I do worry. I’m worried when I return to the yard, and I stay worried when Aze goes to be questioned, and when Kjerrin and his sparring partner drift closer after Aze returns. I’m so distracted that I don’t even notice who his partner is until he starts talking. I snap up my head, wide eyes taking in the beaming face of the last person I want standing next to me.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Say hello to your new quarter-mate,” Bronhold grins. “I got permission to switch into your group. I did promise to keep an eye on you, didn’t I, Aze?”

I pull my scarf higher on my throat, working to even out my shallow breathing.

“Bronhold,” Aze says, flashing a look at me. “This is my cousin from Norwikk. Brennr, this is Bronhold.”

I glance up. Bronhold gives me a pleasant nod of greeting before sweeping his attention back to Aze. “That was quite the to-do, wasn’t it?” he says.

Kjerrin knocks a half-hearted attack away. “A Wordweaver, here! Who do you think it is?”

“One of the men from Norwikk,” Aze says. He knocks his spear against mine, his voice spiking green with unfeigned enthusiasm as he changes the subject. “Can you believe we’re here? In a real fort?”

“What do you think the rest of the village would say of us?” Kjerrin asks.

“I just hope they aren’t too heartbroken,” Bronhold sighs. “Ynria was pretty upset when I told her I was leaving.”

I almost drop my spear.

“She cried, poor thing,” he goes on. “Couldn’t imagine life without me. But she promised to wait for me to return.”

“My Britte said the same thing,” Kjerrin says. “Not that I can be too worried, with all the men here with us.”

I fume silently, my eyes boring into my clumsy weapon. Aze makes a slow attack, and my block is hard enough to make him grunt.

“What about you, Brennr?” Kjerrin asks. “Did you leave a girl back home?”

I shake my head, pretending to be intensely focused on my footwork.

“Anyone who’s already been questioned by Gryfalkr,” yells Tenant Tyrr, unwittingly saving me from the conversation. “Return your spears. You, you, and you,” he says, pointing to Aze, Bronhold, and Darr, a Vallegat boy who stands as tall as Aze. “Report to Hothram for training. The rest of you will work until we lose the daylight.”

Disappointed looks fly between Kjerrin and a few others, but I’m not surprised at being excluded. I’m far too small to make a good warrior, even if I had the inclination. We return our spears while Tenant Tyrr surveys us like a farmer assessing a stunted crop. “Your task is simple, but imperative,” the tenant says. “Your tools are in the tunnel, and they are not to leave the tunnel. You will work until sundown.”

He leads the way across the yard, into the mouth of the tunnel waiting to swallow us up. Torches light the way down the corridor, which twists as though following the path of an enormous earthworm. “Lava trails,” whispers a man from Norwikk. “I’ve seen ‘em in our mines. The lava cuts through the rock and leaves these tunnels behind.”

Fragments of glassy black rock streak across the walls, reflecting the firelight and throwing our shadows as we pass. After what feels like hours, the tunnel opens into a cavern, its rock ceiling arching overhead as high as the Kynstett’s main hall before picking up again in a tunnel on the other side. The space is as long as the training yard we just left, and nearly half as wide, hidden in pools of darkness between torches. Near the center of the cavern, the floor dips down into a pool of water, with one side sloping gently like a smooth rock beach. Wheelbarrows, shovels, and picks stand before the pool, waiting for workers. For us.

“Welcome to the Phoenix Nest,” Tenant Tyrr announces. ,His voice takes on a pale yellow color as it bounces off the smooth floor and walls. “Named by our own Tenant Gryfalkr. Apparently some local myth features a phoenix burying himself in the mountain for three days as a tribute to Kuollsell.”

His words are a scarlet sneer, and I watch the villagers bristle against them. It isn’t a local myth—when the world was overrun by the minions of Kuollsell, death-watchman and gatekeeper to the lands of the dead, Ieldran took on the form of a Phoenix and made a bargain to save humankind. If Kuollsell would withdraw his forces to the realm of the dead, the Phoenix would deliver himself into their hands. Thinking he could kill the Phoenix and return to the world afterwards, Kuollsell accepted. He and his minions tortured the Phoenix for days before finally landing the killing blow, and they were instantly banished from the world. Humanity mourned the loss and buried the Phoenix in the middle of the mountain pass near where Vallegat now lies. But after three days, when the demons grew strong enough to return, the Phoenix was reborn and fought them off at the gates of the realm of the dead. Kuollsell was defeated and sealed in the lands of the dead for eternity, leaving humankind in peace at last.

The legend is the basis of faith that all men in Awnia and Ieli share—that I thought everyone shared. Apparently Tyrr does not.

“Interestingly,” Tenant Tyrr goes on. “You stand a mere stone’s throw from Ieli, could you pass through rock. We estimate only a hundred yards or fewer stand between us and fresh air. Has anyone here had experience with mining?”

A few Norwikk hands go up, and the tenant nods. “You will lead the groups, then. Explain how fire-setting works. We have some timbers for support, but so far we haven’t needed them. There will be three groups: the first will set and tend the fire while the second and third fetch water. When it’s time to douse the flames, group two will bring in the water while groups one and three clear out the rubble. Then group three will take over shoveling while groups one and two deposit the rock there.” He gestures to a pile of rock against the far side of the cavern. “No breaks. Get started.”

He splits us into three groups, and I’m thankful to be placed with Kjerrin in group three. One of the Norwikk miners describes the process of fire-setting while the first group gets to work in the tunnel. We haul in kindling already stacked beside the pool and set it ablaze against the rock wall, heaping more fuel on it until the air crackles with heat. Then group two comes in with buckets of water, dashing them against the flames and sending hissing clouds of steam through the tunnel. The sudden cooling splits the rock, and we rush in with our picks and wheelbarrows to clear the debris away.

In minutes I am soaked with sweat, my hair hanging in damp strings and dripping into my eyes. Most of the men strip off their shirts, baring chests that gleam in the torchlight. I push down my envy and roll up my sleeves, unable to do any more to cool off. My muscles ache with the unfamiliar work, but at least I’m only on wheelbarrow duty—the others in my group took one look at my stick arms and weak back and laughed away the thought of my carrying rocks. Kjerrin, strong from a lifetime of farm chores, loads the wheelbarrows with the steaming chunks of rock in terse silence. Everything is done in silence, except for the occasional direction from one of the miners.

This is not what anyone expected from life as a soldier.

Hour after miserable hour drags by, and Tenant Tyrr holds to his promise that there will be no breaks. He allows us to drink from the water barrels set up near the pool as long as he does not feel we’re spending too much time there, but otherwise we must be in the tunnel or wheeling rocks away from it. After the first fire is lit, he tells anyone not tending it to pick at the tunnel walls, chipping away any loose rock and widening the path. No one is idle. No one dares complain.

“At least the cavern is right here,” mumbles one of the Norwikk men as he loads up my barrow. “Open air, you know. I lost a cousin in a mine a few years back. They broke into a pocket of bad air and it killed the lot of them before they could get out. Fifteen men, gone in minutes.”

I swallow and try not to think of what could be hiding behind the walls and the hungry fire.

By the time Tenant Tyrr calls for us to pack up our tools and get ready to leave, I am a stinking mess of dirt and sweat. The villagers reluctantly drag their shirts back over their heads, trapping the grime against their skin. We trudge back through the lava-hollowed tunnels, the chill air freezing sweat to skin as we leave the Phoenix Nest behind. I can’t believe I already miss the heat of the cavern. Must the temperature always be extreme? Is a middling warmth with a slight breeze too much to ask for?

Ieldran help me... it hasn’t even been a day. Exactly how long are we expected to do this?

It’s dark by the time we reach the fort, and Tenant Tyrr directs us to get our meal while the food is still hot. I’d rather drop into my bunk and go without the meal, but since that doesn’t seem to be an option, I follow the line of men into the mess hall, collect my tray of unnamable meat and oats, and collapse at a table with the rest of my quarter. Aze, Bronhold, and Darr are waiting for us, already half finished with their meals. There is no lively speculation now—no discussion at all. The others eat as though it takes all their strength to chew. The meat is tough enough that it might.

I finish quickly and look at Aze, who downs the rest of his ale and stands. “I’m turning in,” he announces. The others give weak waves, their attention on their plates. I follow my brother, eager to hear about his time spent training, to lose myself in the familiar grass green of his voice and the inevitable embellishments of his story.

But when we leave the mess hall, a hand touches my shoulder and holds me back. “A word,” Chass whispers, beckoning me toward the shadows against the wall. I wave Aze ahead, though he walks slowly and keeps glancing back at us as he goes.

Chass watches him with a small smile. “I watched him train. He shows promise.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“No. I’ve spoken with Captain Oristel. I think I’ve bought us some time.”

“What did you say?”

Chass leans his shoulder against the wall. “I suggested the Wordweaver may not be aware of his own power.”

“Did he believe you?”

“It certainly wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, but as I was unable to tell him who the Wordweaver is, he has no choice but to accept it.”

“Then I’m safe?”

“Not exactly.” Chass exhales slowly, folding his arms over his chest. “The captain has ordered for tests to be conducted on the new recruits. He hopes the Wordweaver may be prompted into discovering his power.”

“Tests?” I echo uncertainly.

“Yes. I’m not sure what form the tests will take, so don’t bother asking. But that’s not the worst part.” I resist the urge to ask what the worst part is while Chass glances toward the empty yard. “I will not be the one administering the tests. That pleasure will fall to Tenant Tyrr.”

I scowl.

“I see you’ve formed the same opinion of him as I have,” Chass says, his voice dulled by a dark violet blue. “His father got him his rank—not that I can talk—but since Tyrr’s promotion to overseer of the workforce, he’s been... unpleasant. He’s unsuited to any position of power, but especially to that one. Your group is the third—” He breaks off awkwardly.

“What?”

“Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“Chass.”

He blinks, a slight flush rising to his face. “The third group we’ve had to replace.”

A hollow feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. “That’s why you came to the villages?” I say. “Not for soldiers—for slaves?”

“Not slaves,” Chass says, but his voice is weak. “The men are soldiers first and foremost.”

“Soldiers without a war to fight,” I say. “Forced to do the work you can’t risk the real soldiers to do.”

“Braids, please—”

“How could you?” Fury seeps into my stomach, pulling the chill from the icy sweat on my skin and crawling toward my tongue, energy building and threatening my slipping control.

He doesn’t argue. He stands still in the face of my wrath, soft blue eyes tight with guilt. He offers no excuses. No solution.

I could blast through the rest of the tunnel with a word, finish the work and free the villagers from their fates—and then what? There would still be work to do, in another fort, with another Tyrr to oversee them, and I’d be taken away as the Grand General’s new weapon. My anger fades under the weight of exhaustion and despair.

“What can we do?” I whisper.

Chass looks at me, his gaze settling over my frozen skin like a blanket. “Survive,” he answers.

“For how long?”

“Until we can’t anymore. For now, you’re safe. I’ll do my best to keep it that way.”

Survive. Is that really all we have left?

I return to my brother in a daze, swallowing back the frustrated tears burning in my throat. Aze watches me approach, waiting like a watchdog at the barracks door. “What was that about?” he asks, frowning at Chass’s shadow as he makes his way back to his quarters.

The barracks are empty, so we light the lanterns hanging inside and settle onto Aze’s bunk. “It’s a long story,” I say, crossing my legs and leaning against the ladder to my bed.

Aze waits, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. “Go on.”

“It started with the wolf attack...”