3rd Week of March, 1460

  “Theodorus!”

  Kyriakos’s scream came a heartbeat before his body did, slamming into Theodorus and shoving him sideways as the first volley hissed down before Theodorus could even react.

  For one stunned instant, he thought the world had simply… stopped. Then the arrows came, thudding into Kyriakos’s back. Theodorus felt a few impact his right side despite Kyriakos’s best efforts.

  He looked down to see two arrows embedding themselves into his armour.

  The Sideris brigandine was laced over his padded doublet, and his only saving grace was the martial image he sought to cultivate by wearing it in his daily tasks. The jolts rattled him, but didn’t pierce flesh.

  Appearances, it seemed, might yet save his life.

  Kyriakos grunted beside him as more shafts hammered into his side. He was fully decked out in mail due to the end-of-season competition, or he’d likely have never survived the hail of arrows. It was likely the only reason he’d dared throw himself into the storm in the first place, which had saved Theodorus from instant death. high-end armour was actually quite effective at stopping ranged projectiles before the advent of firearms.

  However, a cold fact lodged itself in the back of Theodorus’s skull - neither of them wore a helmet.

  One wild shot, one unlucky angle, and this would all be over in a spatter of bone and brains on the cobbles.

  He seized Kyriakos by the shoulder and shoved, trying to force some direction on their panic. “Move!” he barked, scanning for anything resembling cover. Of course, they had been ambushed in the perfect killing ground. There was nothing around them but an open courtyard, bare stone, and archers lining the ground around them.

  More enemies mounted on the wall made escaping up the stairs of the fortification a suicide, so Theodorus was left to scramble for a solution with no easy answers in sight.

  Kyriakos looked to him, wide eyes desperate for a solution. Theodorus didn’t have any miracles up his sleeve this time, so he defaulted to the least terrible option. “Behind the cart!” He shouted.

  They ran.

  Boots hammered over uneven cobblestone, every step a gamble. Arrows clattered and skittered, some shrieking off stone as dust and splinters leapt around them. But this wasn’t some fantasy tale where archers obligingly missed or forgot to hit their targets.

  Pain detonated in Theodorus’s calf, ushering in a white-hot explosion that almost folded him in half. His leg buckled, and he pitched forward with a strangled shout.

  Kyriakos roared, a raw, animal sound, as he hooked one arm under Theodorus’s chest and heaved, half dragging, half carrying him the last desperate paces. Arrows thudded into the ground around them, slapping stone, humming past their ears close enough to feel the air move.

  With a final surge, Kyriakos slammed his shoulder into the side of the handcart Theodorus had directed them to, likely some supply wagon next to the Castle’s warehouses. It lurched for a few agonizing seconds, then tipped, crashing over in a clatter of wood and iron rims. It was empty, thank God, or the weight would have rooted it in place. Theodorus landed behind its overturned bulk like a sack of grain, the breath knocked out of him for the second time in as many heartbeats.

  A moment later Kyriakos sprawled down beside him, half-falling, half-collapsing into the narrow shelter of the toppled cart.

  “Kyriakos!” Theodorus grabbed for him, fingers clamping around his wrist as if he could anchor him to by sheer will. “Are you hurt?”

  “Hale enough,” Kyriakos wheezed, the word torn out of a chest that sounded like it had forgotten how to breathe.

  Dozens of arrowheads jutted from his mail like hateful metal thorns, some punching partway through the rings, blood tainting the mail a dark crimson in colored spots across his back.

  “Bodkin points,” Theodorus said, cold recognition settling within him. It was the equivalent of armour-piercing rounds in the Middle Ages. The arrows ended in narrow, square heads meant to split mail links and plate.

  “They really aren’t playing around, my friend,” Kyriakos managed. He tried to smile, lips peeling back in something that was halfway between a grin and a grimace of pain.

  Theodorus felt something sink, low and heavy, inside his chest. His leg was immobilized, Kyriakos was riddled like a hedgehog and bleeding from a dozen wounds. And this ambush was carefully premeditated and executed upon.

  There was no clean way out of this. Not for both of them.

  They were doomed.

  “Apostolos!” Kyriakos bellowed, forcing his voice up over the fading storm of arrows. “Why are you doing this? It doesn’t have to end like this!”

  Theodorus could not see the aide from here, not with the cart shielding them, only the shadowed line of the wall and the glint of movement in the stones below it. But he heard the answer well enough.

  “I’m sorry!” Apostolos called back, voice breaking on the word. “I didn’t want it to come to this!”

  The arrow fire slackened, as if the men had been ordered to let the conversation be heard.

  “And it doesn’t, cousin!” Kyriakos shouted, a plea scraping his throat. He hadn’t given up hope, trying to do what he knew best - talk and cheat his way out of this situation. “Please! I know you don’t want to do this. Let us talk at least. Grant us that much! For the time we’ve spent together!” A fragile thread of hope crept into his voice. If Apostolos had doubts, if he was wavering, then perhaps-

  “They’re coming around our flank,” Theodorus murmured, voice flat and low, bringing Kyriakos back into reality. “He’s talking to keep us pinned while they close in.”

  Kyriakos’s eyes went wide, pupils blown, desperate. “Apostolos! Please!” he tried again, unable to accept their fate.

  “I can’t, cousin!” Apostolos’s reply cracked like thin ice. “Father gave the order!” His voice rose to a ragged cry. “He said this is what it would take to prove my worth to him!”

  “By killing your own blood?!” Kyriakos shouted, fury and disbelief scraping his throat raw. Shapes moved at the edges of his vision, archers slipping across the open ground to either flank.

  Theodorus twisted, angling himself deeper inside the overturned cart and dragging Kyriakos with him. Half a dozen arrows fizzed past where they’d been. Theodorus’s wounded leg screamed from the effort, and the stones beneath turned slick with blood, their trails mingling into dark smears.

  His only hope now was to buy time. Time for Christos and his squad to notice the racket in the courtyard and move to hit Apostolos’s men from behind and tear a gap in the noose. But even if they got past the ambush, where would they go? The fortress was full of Nomikos troops at every gate and corridor, men who would cut him down on command. Even if Christos came, that would just mean that his men would get themselves killed.

  It was at this point that Theodorus accepted defeat. His role in the rebellion was finished; that much was certain. If he was being ambushed in such a brutal fashion, then the Lord most likely suspected him of treason. There was no version of this where he walked away clean. All that remained was survival.

  “I have information!” Theodorus suddenly yelled, forcing his voice over the pounding in his ears. “Information about the rebellion Lord Adanis will want to hear!”

  The next volley never came. The hiss of arrows faded. Boots scraped to a halt. Theodorus could feel, more than see, the ring of men around the cart shifting, attention sharpening. Likely confounded at the statement.

  “What do you mean?” Apostolos called, after a long, uneasy pause.

  Kyriakos stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had. But as long as Theodorus kept breathing, there was a sliver of hope. He could try to play both sides, feeding Adanis carefully chosen scraps while holding back what mattered, making himself too useful to discard outright. It had almost no chance of success, but it was still better than dying behind a cart.

  “Did your father not tell you about the rebellion, Apostolos?” Theodorus shouted back, pitching his voice high and clear. “Then you do not have the full picture. Killing me is a mistake. I can be of use to the Nomikos House. A great use.”

  “I know you are clever, captain,” Apostolos replied, almost affronted at the idea that his father would withhold such an event from him. “You have a way with words, but you won’t fool me.” Likely even more insulted because he knew he might very well do so.

  But Theodorus heard the seed of doubt in his voice as clear as day. He pressed.

  “Then go ask Lord Adanis why he has gathered so many troops and so much coin,” he called. “Have you not noticed him more worried, tired, always working as of late? As if preparing for something?” Theodorus stoked the issues Apostolos had no doubt noticed in his father. Suspicions he might have had and never voiced. “I do not ask you to spare me,” Theodorus went on, keeping his tone even. “Only that you carry my offer to your father. We are pinned behind this cart, outnumbered and half-crippled. What danger is there in that?” Every word bought another moment.

  Apostolos hesitated. The silence stretched. Finally, he spoke. “Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands behind your back.”

  Kyriakos shot Theodorus a questioning look. Theodorus gave him a nod. This was the best they could hope for.

  They pushed their weapons out from behind the cart, metal scraping the stone, then forced themselves upright, wincing as fresh blood welled from their wounds. They’d bought themselves some time. And that was enough. It had to be.

  “I will escort you to Lord Adanis,” Apostolos began, but he never got to finish.

  Suddenly, the door of the storeroom beside the supply cart burst open with a crash.

  Every man’s head on that courtyard snapped towards the commotion.

  Through it, Christos and his squad came pouring through, shields up and spears bristling looking like vengeful iron guardians.

  Everyone stood stunned for a brief moment. One Christos and his men didn’t throw to waste.

  “Form up on the Captain!” Christos roared.

  The men moved with lightning speed, rushing to snap into a tight shield wall between Theodorus and the archers on the walls.

  “Open fire!” Apostolos bellowed.

  Theodorus and Kyriakos ducked low, making themselves as small a target as their battered bodies allowed, and sprinted toward Christos’s men in a staggering half-run, half-limp as archer fire rained around them.

  Arrows thudded into Theodorus’s gambeson, one punching through the padded cloth at his left elbow, the same side as his shot leg. He sprawled onto the pavement, crying out in pain.

  “Captain!” Christos bellowed, shouldering in front of Theodorus just as another volley came screaming down, his shield snapping up in the nick of time, as did his men.

  Projectiles slammed into the shield line almost at once - arrows and quarrels punching into wood and iron at brutal, point-blank range.

  “Are you alright?” Christos asked, voice taut with worry.

  “Inside. Now.” Theodorus ground out, forcing the words through clenched teeth. Every movement sent knives of pain up his leg and arm, but there was no time to coddle wounds.

  The men closed in around them without needing further orders. Shields locked and overlapped, forming a tight shell that crept across the blood-slick cobbles. Arrows rattled off the curved backs of the shields like hail on a roof as they advanced in a slow, hunched shuffle toward the open storeroom.

  “Don’t let them get away!” Apostolos cried from somewhere in the courtyard, his voice laced with panic.

  The formation surged the last few steps and spilled through the threshold. As soon as Theodorus and Kyriakos cleared it, the men at the rear slammed the great pinewood doors shut. The impact boomed through the cramped space. Christos stepped forward, muscles bunching as he seized the heavy bracing beam and heaved it up into its iron brackets by himself. The wood thudded into place, turning the doors into a wall.

  Arrows thudded against the other side a heartbeat later, a dull, muffled drumming.

  For the first time since the ambush began, Theodorus had half a breath to spare. He leaned one hand against a stack of crates, forcing his lungs to steady and feeling sweat run cold down his spine beneath the brigandine.

  “How?” he asked Christos, incredulous at the developments.

  “Don’t look at me, Captain,” Christos said, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth despite the tension. “I didn’t arrange for this. He did.”

  He jerked his chin toward a shadowed corner of the storeroom.

  Theodorus followed his gaze. A hooded figure stood there among the barrels and sacks. The round shape was familiar even before he drew back the hood.

  “Theophylact?” he breathed, astonished.

  “P-Please be calm, M-Master Inal.” Theophylact struggled to keep his tongue under control as much as his expression. His mouth went dry under the gaze of the giant opposite him. “We h-have many goods to p-pay you with. I am s-sure we can reach an agreement.”

  The interpreter, a painted, pale man with kohl darkening his eyes and scars across his knuckles, repeated the Greek into the rough, guttural tongue of Inal’s people. While he spoke, Inal simply stared, pale green eyes fixed unblinking on Theophylact, thumb stroking the haft of the massive war-axe resting across his knees. The slow, almost affectionate motion made Theophylact’s skin crawl and he averted his eyes, seeking comfort in the surroundings.

  Giant bull skulls jutted from the supports, their empty sockets glaring down, and at the entrance a great striped pelt - some huge feline, long dead and carefully preserved - hung like a curtain, a deadly promise. Theophylact swallowed, and prompt stopped seeking comfort in the surroundings, for there was none there.

  When the interpreter finished, Inal rumbled something deep in his chest. The sound was more like an animal’s growl than any civilized speech, each syllable punched out like a threat. His eyes never left Theophylact’s face.

  The interpreter cleared his throat and translated, every word clipped and careful. “No. Only coin, in the amount we requested and no less. Inal and the Mountain’s Tooth only fight when debts are paid. You can tell your little lord that, fatman.”

  He even added a sneer to the last two words, making sure the insult carried cleanly.

  “P-Please b-be reasonable, M-Master Inal. W-Would bundles of w-wheat not serve you just as well?” Theophylact asked, hands twisting in his sleeves. Under the war chief’s malicious stare he felt himself shrinking, as if each stutter shaved another inch off his height.

  Inal grunted again, a single harsh burst of sound. The war-axe rose and fell slightly as he shifted his grip, then, deliberately, he ran the flat of his tongue along the edge of the blade, eyes never blinking.

  “No, they would not,” the interpreter said, his tone almost bored. “We have no need of your food when we can take our own. That is how things are done in Circassia.”

  Could that many words truly come from just one grunt? Inal smiled - a broken, yellow, utterly ghastly smile.

  A fresh sheen of sweat broke out along Theophylact’s bald head. “V-Very well,” he forced out, bowing his head slightly. “I w-will speak with my lord and s-see that your p-payment is made in full, as agreed. You have my word.” Theophylact managed a jerky half-bow, backing away until the tent flap brushed his shoulders, then ducked out into the open air as politely and as quickly as he dared.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  As Theophylact gulped down the camp’s chill air, he realized it was hardly an improvement. War, he decided, was an unclean business. Everywhere he looked, more and more bodies were crammed into the valley: peasant levies in patched wool, hard-eyed foreign mercenaries sharpening blades, Tatar nomads tending wiry ponies and smoky fires. The ground had been churned into a reeking paste of mud, ash, and worse things he did not want to identify.

  The whole place was a cesspool. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the sour stench of too many men penned too close together. This, he thought grimly, was the true scent of war.

  And beneath it all lurked the question that had begun to gnaw at him the moment these contracts were signed. With so much steel and coin gathered in one place… what, exactly, was his lord planning to unleash them upon?

  Theophylact had barely ducked out of the felt tent, lungs pulling in the cold, foul air of the camp, when he was accosted by a most unwelcome presence.

  “Master Steward.”

  Iadeus appeared with a smooth bow, hands folded just so, looking the very picture of a dutiful assistant. “The Lord requests your presence,” he said, voice oiled with respect. The gleam in his eyes, however, carried all the nastiness that lay beneath the polished surface.

  Theophylact swallowed. His throat felt dry. “O-Of course. L-Lead the way.”

  They made the trek up toward the castle town, past the outer palisades and through the press of people. At the edges of the castle’s main courtyard, he could see the outlines of the end-of-season competition. Instead of watching with everyone else, enjoying the spectacle, Theophylact had spent his afternoon ankle-deep in mud outside the walls, haggling with brutes who demanded exorbitant payment just to point their axes in the right direction.

  Not that he particularly minded missing the competition. He had never been fond of watching men throw each other in the dirt.

  Iadeus led him in through a side passage and out into the inner garden, where the Lord was seated beneath a pergola of bare vines, receiving his son, Apostolos. At the sight of the pair, Iadeus slowed, noticing that Adanis was still engaged. He drew Theophylact a few paces back, leaving them just out of sight among the trimmed hedges, close enough that they could hear the murmur of voices.

  “The garden must be pruned,” Theophylact heard Adanis say.

  “What do you mean, Father?” his son replied.

  Theophylact felt a faint, familiar pang watching Apostolos answer so properly to his father. He had always found a sort of kinship with the young scion. Both of them were, in their own ways, bound by duty to Lord Adanis. Always at his beck and call. Always desperate to please.

  “Captain Theodorus has proved to be a thorn in our side,” Adanis said, tone almost conversational. “Kill him.”

  Theophylact went cold.

  “What?” Apostolos blurted, and Theophylact, unable to help himself, craned his neck just enough to glimpse the scene. The young scion stood rigid, lips parted as if the word had punched the breath from him.

  “Take a squad of men and kill him,” Adanis repeated. “No questions asked.”

  “But why, Father?” Apostolos asked, voice strained.

  “Because I command you so.” Adanis’s tone hardened. He rose from his stone bench with deliberate calm and placed both hands on Apostolos’s shoulders, forcing the boy to meet his eyes. “You want the best for this house, do you not?”

  Apostolos seemed frozen, caught between obedience and horror, but he could not help the small, jerky nod that followed.

  “I never tell you enough,” Adanis went on, softer now. “But I am proud of you.”

  “You are?” Apostolos’s voice sounded very small in the open garden.

  Adanis nodded. “Yes. And this is for the good of our House. Can you do this for me?”

  There was a long heartbeat where Theophylact thought - hoped - the boy might refuse. Then he heard the answer.

  “Y-yes, Father. Of course.” Apostolos nodded again, nervously.

  “Good. Go,” Adanis commanded.

  Apostolos bowed stiffly and murmured a hoarse “As you wish,” before turning away. His steps were quick, almost too quick, carrying him out of the garden like a man fleeing a noose.

  “My Lord.”

  Iadeus slipped smoothly into the quiet that followed, his timing impeccable.

  “Ah, Iadeus. Steward.” Adanis’s gaze shifted toward the hedge where they waited.

  Theophylact had to force his feet to carry him forward, muscles sluggish with shock. The Lord was seeking to kill the Captain? Why? The Captain had been a loyal servant, the very man who had shielded Adanis from the machinations of the dastardly Hypatius, with Theophylact’s own help, no less. Theophylact’s mind balked at the thought, skidding like a cart on ice. His heart hammered against his ribs at the image of Theodorus his… his friend...

  “-the forged documents are foolproof?” Adanis was asking by the time Theophylact’s thoughts snapped back into the present.

  “A-Ah, yes, my L-Lord,” Theophylact stammered to come up with an answer. “With them, n-no one c-can dispute your claim to these l-lands.”

  “Good. That will pave the way to Nomikos dominion over the North after the rebellion,” Adanis said, as if discussing weather. Theophylact’s eyebrows shot up as high as they could get, his heart fluttering. A rebellion?

  “My lord?” Iadeus furrowed his brows, not surprised at the revelation, but worried that Adanis was saying so much in front of the Steward.

  Adanis waved away the concern. “The Steward can know of our future plans now. He is necessary for what follows,” His eyes flicked back to Theophylact. “And he did a passable job in helping you with the documents needed to arrange the aftermath of our sovereignty from the Crown.”

  He held Theophylact’s gaze as he spoke the last words. Theophylact felt his knees threaten to buckle. He trembled under that stare, caught between pride at being called necessary and the sick, dawning realization of what, exactly, he had helped set into motion. Rebellion. He was helping a rebellion.

  “Wasn’t Hypatius meant to manage the accounts for the coming war?” Iadeus asked, looking worried.

  Theophylact snapped his head toward him before he could stop himself. What?

  “My brother is indisposed and has returned to his estate,” Adanis said, his face dark.

  “Very well, my lord,” Iadeus replied, though his worry didn’t ease. “The Steward will have to do.” He did not believe Theophylact capable of managing such an operation, that much was plain.

  It struck Theophylact that they spoke over him as if he were a piece of furniture. It galled him, a small hot coal of resentment in his chest, but he bowed his head and endured as he had endured a hundred such slights over the years. Stewards were to be useful, not heard.

  “With that being said,” Adanis continued, as if assigning a minor errand, “I need you to take hold of managing the payments and ensuring the supplies are ready for the coming campaign, Steward.”

  Theophylact’s stomach tightened. “M-Might I k-know more about the c-campaign, my lord?” he asked carefully.

  Both Adanis and Iadeus turned their eyes on him,scrutinizing him in such a way that made his palms damp.

  “I n-need to know things like the d-duration of the campaign and its aims, t-to plan p-properly,” he added, forcing the words out.

  “The army will travel south and engage in siege warfare,” Adanis said. “I require supplies for at least six months for five hundred men. I believe Hypatius has left everything well in order. You simply need to bring yourself up to speed and continue his work.”

  Six months. Five hundred men. He swallowed. How was he supposed to supply an army for a campaign no one would name? Was Lord Adanis preparing to revolt against the Crown? Was that why he needed forged documents to claim sovereignty over the Nomikos lands - legal armor for treason? Had Hypatius been meant to oversee the logistics of this new order in his stead? Why had that changed?

  A thousand questions swirled in Theophylact’s mind, but one rose above them all like a black banner: why did his lord want the Captain dead? Was this the coming storm Theodorus had warned Theophylact about?

  “I trust it will be no trouble to manage this and my lands during my absence,” Adanis said mildly, as though asking him to straighten a ledger, not feed an army and hold a domain together.

  Theophylact did what he always did when presented with an unreasonable command and told to make miracles from thin air. He bowed low, his sizeable bulk folding. “Of c-course, my lord. N-No trouble at all.”

  “Good.” Adanis turned away, already thinking ahead. “Iadeus, I need you to store the documents safely and to ready my battle armour, you will serve as my main squire. We depart in a week.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Iadeus bowed and withdrew when Adanis dismissed him, footsteps soft on the garden gravel.

  Theophylact, however, did not move.

  “If I m-may, my lord,” he ventured, his voice smaller than he would have liked. “M-Might I ask if we s-suspect any t-traitors in our m-midst?”

  He did not truly know why he was doing this. It was as indirect a question as he could manage, but the Lord was no fool. He would know it touched on the orders he had given Apostolos. In asking, Theophylact all but admitted he had heard more than he should.

  “Yes, we do, Steward,” Lord Adanis said.

  The words were simple, but his tone had gone dark and flat, a warning bell tolling in the quiet garden. Theophylact felt the hairs rise at the back of his neck, but wet his lips, courage and terror tangling together.

  “M-May I ask, my L-Lord,” he began, voice wobbling, “i-is the C–Captain truly a t-traitor? I… I only w-wish to understand how he has b-betrayed us.”

  The words started cautiously enough, but once they were loose, they would not stop. “I-In m-my experience, C-Captain Theodorus has always been… f-forthright. H-He helped me with the g-garrison muster rolls, the a-armoury inventory. A-and he was t-the main voice behind the m-market fair i-idea-”

  Inside, Theophylact could feel himself digging a hole. Stop talking, you fool, some sensible part of him hissed. But the rest of him, the part that remembered how Theodorus treated him like a person rather than a convenient piece of furniture, refused to be silent.

  “H-He has always done much for the h-house, my lord,” he stammered on, hands twisting in his sleeves. “For m-me as well. I c–cannot reconcile-”

  Adanis’s voice cut through his babbling like a blade. “That is not your concern, Steward.”

  Theophylact flinched. The Lord’s gaze had gone flat and cold, dark as a winter sky over deep water. “Your duty is to keep your mouth shut, do your work, and remain loyal,” Adanis continued, each word measured. “Is that understood?”

  Theophylact seemed to shrink under that ominous stare. “Y-Yes, my l-lord,” he managed. “I w-will do as you command, and r-remain loyal until my l-last breath. As my f-father did.”

  “Who?” Adanis asked, brows knitting.

  Theophylact stared at him, stunned. “M-My father, my lord. The p-previous steward.”

  Adanis’s expression did not change. There was no flicker of recognition, no softening. “Ah. Of course,” he said at last, as if recalling a minor footnote. “He was a loyal man.”

  He turned slightly, already dismissing the matter. “Now leave.”

  The command was firm, final, brooking no argument.

  Theophylact exited the garden with his mind in turmoil.

  His friend was about to be killed on the personal order of the very lord Theophylact had sworn his life to serve. The same Lord he had always tried to please and never cross. The same lord who had not even remembered that Theophylact was the son of the previous steward. The same man who, in all these years, had never once addressed him by his given name.

  His pace quickened along the stone paths, soft garden gravel giving way to flagstones and then to the packed earth of the outer walks. He clenched his fist until his nails bit into his palm.

  The same man who gave him impossible tasks with a flick of the wrist and then barely acknowledged the triumphs when he somehow managed to accomplish them.

  Theophylact’s teeth ground together. By the time he realized it, his feet had already carried him toward the main courtyard.

  The same man who had perpetuated his misery for his entire life. Not out of hatred, which at least would have meant Theophylact mattered enough to be despised, but out of simple, crushing indifference.

  And now, standing in the shadow of the keep, Theophylact understood that he had to choose a side.

  He already knew which one it would be.

  Across the courtyard, he caught sight of Theodorus and Kyriakos Nomikos heading toward the eastern section of the wall. The roar of the crowd from the competition grounds had dulled to a restless murmur - the finals must have ended. Through the shifting press of people and the lingering commotion, Theophylact saw Apostolos, pale-faced and with his jaw set, signalling to a dozen men-at-arms clustered discreetly around him as they peeled off to follow in the wake of Kyriakos and Theodorus.

  Theophylact’s heart lurched. He’s going to do it.

  He had to save the Captain.

  His gaze snagged on a familiar shape: a giant of a man watching the scene with narrowed, suspicious eyes, five others around him. Theophylact recognized all of them as men from Theodorus’s company. They looked coiled, ready to spring after their captain the moment their doubts solidified.

  Theophylact hurried to them, breath coming fast. He caught the giant by the sleeve just as the man took a step toward the eastern gate.

  “S-Stratiotes, c-come with me,” Theophylact blurted, trying to infuse his voice with some measure of the authority he’d heard the Captain use on his men a hundred times.

  All five men turned to stare at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted wings and flown across the courtyard.

  “Quick, we don’t have time!” The urgency in his chest squeezed the stutter right out of him. “The Captain is in danger!”

  The men’s eyes sharpened at once. They had likely reached the same conclusion on their own. The giant shifted his weight, gaze flicking toward the eastern wall again.

  “All the more reason to go after them,” he said, already turning.

  “A-Are you c-crazy?” Theophylact hissed, grabbing at his sleeve again. “You’re o-outnumbered t-two to one!”

  “Doesn’t matter,” the giant replied, meeting his eyes squarely. He looked to his comrades, a fierce grin tugging at his mouth. “If the Captain is in danger, those seem like good odds.”

  The others chuckled and fell in around him, ready to march toward whatever waited on the eastern walls.

  Theophylact was struck by the sheer willingness of the men to throw themselves into danger for Theodorus. Such was the loyalty he commanded.

  “Wait.” The word came out sharper than he intended, and something in his tone actually stopped the men mid-stride. “I know a way to help him.”

  They exchanged looks, the easy banter draining from their faces as they took him more seriously. Theophylact realised, startled, that perhaps confidence was all he had ever lacked.

  “Why would you help us?” the giant asked, squinting down at him.

  Theophylact grinned despite the panic buzzing in his veins. “Because I’m trying to save a friend.”

  The bald steward looked at him calmly while chaos reigned outside. For a heartbeat Theodorus wondered if the blubbering steward had in fact been playing them all from the very beginning, some hidden mastermind who had fooled the entire castle by pretending to stutter. Then the thought shattered as Theophylact’s face pinched in utter panic, his eyes flicking toward the barred doors.

  “W-We m-must move q-quickly, Captain. C-come.”

  “Of course.” Theodorus struggled to rise through the protest of his wounds. “You’ve come in the nick of time, Steward, isn’t that right, Kyriakos?” he asked, turning toward his partner, and his heart dropped.

  Kyriakos lay on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, one hand clamped to his neck around an arrow shaft.

  “Kyriakos!” Theodorus yelled, dropping to ground beside the aide without thinking.

  Kyriakos’s eyes were wide and terribly clear. He blinked up at Theodorus, tried to speak and instead hacked up blood that ran over his chin.

  “Sit still,” Theodorus ordered, pressing his hands around the wound as best he could without driving the arrow deeper. Kyriakos’s free hand seized his wrist with desperate strength.

  “You’ll be all right, just breathe with me,” Theodorus urged, forcing his own breathing to steady.

  “W-We m-must l-leave, C-Captain,” Theophylact cautioned from behind him, growing more frantic. “He is a-already…” He left the thought unfinished.

  “We can’t leave him,” Theodorus said forcefully, not looking back.

  “Captain,” Christos said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “I won’t abandon him!” Theodorus snapped, every muscle locked to the floor.

  Kyriakos shook his head, a tiny, stubborn motion. With effort, he pried at Theodorus’s grip, pushing his hand away from his throat.

  “No,” Theodorus whispered, vision blurring at the edges.

  Kyriakos swallowed, trying to clear his throat enough of blood to speak. “Look after… my family,” he wheezed.

  Theodorus wanted to shout that Kyriakos should look after them himself, that he needed to get up so they could leave together. But beneath the roaring in his ears he knew the truth. All he could do was nod, leaning close as tears fell onto Kyriakos’s cheek.

  “I promise,” he whispered. The words settled in his chest like weight on a scale, a charge taken on to replace the one Kyriakos would no longer be able to fulfil. Another chain settling into place.

  Kyriakos’s face eased, the strain smoothing into something like peace. “Thank you… my friend,” he breathed, already growing pale. Theodorus stared, frozen.

  “We have to move,” Christos said. It was not a suggestion.

  He hooked an arm under Theodorus and hauled him to his feet. This time, Theodorus did not protest.

  “Steward,” Christos looked to the round man. “Lead the way.”

  “O-Of c-course. This way.”

  Theophylact led them out of the storeroom into the dim service corridors of the castle, keeping to back stairwells and side passages he knew from a lifetime of invisible work, his steps never faltering as he hurried them on.

  “Wh-Where do you n-need to go?” he whispered over his shoulder as they paused by a narrow arrow slit.

  “The postern gate,” Christos replied, knowing that Stathis was waiting there with the token guards loyal to Theodorus, ready to let them through. “That’s our way out.”

  They just had to reach it alive.

  Soon Theophylact brought them to a plain, iron-banded door at the end of a corridor that smelled of damp stone and old rushes. He put a hand to the latch, then turned back to them.

  “B-Beyond this there’s a s-small stretch of open ground,” he said. “T-Then the postern gate. You’ll h-have to r-run for it. T-This is all I c-can do. I am sorry.” Theophylact’s voice showed the depths of his worry, Theodorus could understand it. He had placed himself under great risk just to give them a chance, and it wasn’t even a great one. There would be men on the wall, and the castle on high alert, although the crew would be skeletal, given the festivities in the castle and the fact that Adanis likely wanted to keep his assassination a low profile.

  “Theophylact,” Theodorus said quietly, his mood very much subdued. “Why help me?”

  He couldn’t help the question. Part of him had always believed Lord Adanis still held the steward’s full loyalty. Theodorus would have never guessed that the timid, stammering Steward would never find the courage to go against his lord.

  “B-Because y-you were the first p-person to ever c-call me friend and mean it, C–Captain,” He said with the most pure, innocent smile.

  “And because I d-don’t want to be s-scared forever.”

  In his eyes, Theodorus saw a determination he had never noticed before, like a spine of iron finally revealed beneath all the soft flesh and nerves.

  “I-I thought that t-this is w-what friends were for.” He admitted it almost shyly, as if afraid the words themselves might be too bold.

  Theodorus reached out, gripped his shoulders, and pulled him into a rough embrace. Theophylact froze, too stunned to move away.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Theodorus said, voice thick. “I will not forget this.”

  “B-Be safe, C-Captain,” Theophylact murmured when they parted.

  Theodorus managed a faint smile in response as he turned and began limping away, Christos stepping in to shoulder his weight.

  “Let’s move,” Theodorus ordered his men, and though his body ached and bled, his voice had regained some of its iron.

  They spilled out through the back door Theophylact had indicated and into a narrow stone walkway hugging the inner wall. The air outside hit them cool and sharp, full of distant shouts and the muted roar of the competition grounds.

  “Shields up!” Christos barked as he basically single-handedly hauled Theodorus with one arm. The formation closed around Theodorus at once, shields locking. They started forward at a steady, brutal pace. Each step jarred Theodorus’s ruined leg and torn elbow, sending spears of pain through him. It took all his effort just to stay conscious and place one foot ahead of the other.

  A shout went up from the battlements. A moment later, arrows hissed down.

  Shafts hammered into the raised shields, splintering wood, scraping off iron rims. One glanced off Theodorus’s brigandine with a hard jolt that stole his breath, the armour held. The men did not break formation - they hunched, pushed, and advanced like a slow, implacable tide.

  “Almost there!” Christos called over the clatter.

  The postern gate loomed ahead, a squat arch set into the curtain wall. Before it stood Stathis and his handpicked men, all of them already on high alert, helmets on, shields slung, eyes scanning the courtyard, they had not missed the commotion passing through the castle.

  Stathis spotted them and immediately began barking orders, men shifting to form a protective funnel toward the gate. “Make way for the Captain! Get me a cart and two horses!” he bellowed out of sight, stealing the messenger horses at the gate post.

  As Theodorus and his battered escort reached the arch, the small cart waited just beyond, its horses stamping nervously at the tension in the air.

  “Captain!” Stathis cried when he caught sight of Theodorus’s blood and the arrows sticking out of his joints, caked in blood. “By God-”

  “I’m fine,” Theodorus cut him off with a grimace as Christos helped him haul himself into the cart. Fine was a lie, but it would have to do. “Ride to camp. Now.”

  At Stathis’s shout, the guards and Christos’s men fell into formation, either saddling up themselves or breaking out into a sprint. The little column rolled out into the castle town streets at a brisk pace, the cart rattling over cobbles, Christos and the others jogging alongside.

  Inhabitants paused in their errands to stare, shocked and fearful faces following them at the sight of their beloved captain apparently fleeing the castle, wounded.

  No one moved to bar their path. No cries of alarm were raised. They just bowed in wordless acknowledgment as their favored captain was driven away into the sunset.

  Theodorus couldn’t help but look back at Suyren one last time as the cart rattled toward the outskirts and the waiting camp beyond the walls.

  Ancient stone and burgundy banners blurred through the haze in his eyes as he gazed upon the Principality’s northern bastion.

  He had accomplished his mission. He now held the tools to break this rebellion and keep the Principality alive. Along the way he had forged friendships, betrayed friends, and been betrayed in turn.

  But the ledger was far from balanced.

  Behind those walls, he had left a loyal friend to die on cold stone and another in the Lion’s claws.

  Theodorus clenched his fist until his knuckles ached, his silver gaze as sharp as a thousand blades as he made himself a quiet vow.

  He would be back.

  He would break this rebellion upon his blade. And he would butcher its Lion, no matter how many ghosts walked beside him when it was done.

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