The sun rose, pale and sickly, dragging a new day behind it like a dead weight.

  Wind slammed the wooden shutters.

  Slap. Slap.

  Liesel stirred. She pulled the blanket higher. The chill cut through anyway, needle-fine, finding every gap in the wool. She pushed out of bed, feet hitting boards so cold they burned. She crossed the room and unlatched the window.

  The wind rushed in, immediate, carrying pine sap and the rot of old timber. Snow swirled outside, erasing the ground, the trees, the horizon. Just white. Blinding. Untouched.

  Good.

  The cold snapped her mind awake. She needed the reminder. Northern Bastion. Shield of the faithful. Here, discomfort was a sacrament.

  She dressed fast. Fingers stiff on cold buttons. The uniform, fresh from the quartermaster, crackled like parchment. She smoothed the wrinkles from the white-and-blue wool, tightened her belt one notch too tight, and checked her buttons. The shine showed her face, distorted, stretched wide. She looked away.

  The door opened onto scorched grain. Burnt oatmeal. Her father’s morning offering.

  He sat at the table. Spine an iron rod. Shoulders square, even over his bowl. Two portions. Two cups of milk, steaming thinly in the freezing air. Always two.

  "Good morning," Liesel said. She forced her voice bright. It tasted false.

  He glanced up. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened, then softened. Just slightly. Just for her. "Morning."

  She yawned into her palm. Waved with the other hand, clumsy, still half-asleep. The washroom water crusted with ice on the surface. She broke through it to splash her face. The shock chased the last drowse from her skull, left her gasping.

  When she returned, they ate.

  The only sound was the scrape of wooden spoons on ceramic. To Liesel, it sounded like shoveling dirt.

  "The unit moves at noon," her father said. He did not look up from his bowl.

  "I know." She swallowed. The oatmeal had turned to glue in her mouth. "We’re ready."

  "Being ready is not being prepared," he muttered.

  But he did not stop her. He could not. In the Holy Kingdom, service was not a choice but a chain, pulled tight from birth.

  After, they walked together toward the church.

  It reared above the town, a mass of gray stone darkened by soot around the windows. Against the pale sky, it looked less built than grown, something thrust up from the earth by stubborn faith. They had no standing army, not here. They had parishes. Every believer a blade still in the scabbard. Every town a fortress held together by prayer.

  People passed them, breath blooming in the frigid air.

  "Marshal."

  Her father nodded, curt.

  "Praise our Lord."

  "Praise Him," Liesel echoed. She bowed her head until her neck ached.

  Inside, the warmth pressed against her face, humid with breath and melting snow. Candles guttered in the nave, throwing shadows that danced like uncertain spirits. The air thickened with beeswax and incense, cheap resin that caught in the throat. Liesel knelt. The stone floor leached cold through her wool leggings, biting her knees. She clasped her hands so tightly her fingers numbed.

  Her voice rose with the others. She knew the words before she knew her own name.

  “Grant us strength to smite the wicked.”

  “Grant us victory over the dark.”

  “Grant us peace in Your embrace.”

  She believed it. The man beside her believed it. They were the light. The Empire was the shadow. It was that simple. That necessary.

  To uphold the will of God, the Valcourt Empire must be purged. They had launched their righteous campaign a century ago, and still the war chewed through generations. The Empire endured. Strongest on the continent, because it did not pray. It simply refused to die.

  When the final amen faded, Liesel parted from her father at the oak doors. He placed his hand on her shoulder. Heavy. Warm through the cloth.

  "Be careful," he said. His voice scraped like the oatmeal spoons. He hid a tremor poorly. "Do not be a hero. Be a soldier."

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  "I will," she said. She smiled. It felt like a wound. "I'll be back."

  She headed for the training grounds. Her boots shattered frost with each step.

  Thwack.

  Thwack.

  Wood met wood across the yard. Liesel moved. Left parry. Right slash. Overhead guard. Her body knew the forms. Her breathing stayed steady. Her stance held firm.

  She waited.

  There.

  A hitch in his step. A half-breath of hesitation.

  She leaned in and thrust.

  Thwack.

  Pain lanced up her arm. He had twisted, caught her blade with his, and levered it away. The wooden sword spun from her grip and struck the frozen dirt.

  "Enough." The instructor raised his hand. His voice carried no farther than necessary. "We stop here."

  Liesel straightened. Her chest heaved. She rubbed her stinging wrist. The instructor approached, his one good eye narrowing, the scarred socket pulling his face into a permanent grimace.

  "Your guard dropped before the thrust finished," he said. Flat. Certain. "You are distracted."

  She looked at her empty hand. At the dirt on her palm.

  "My first campaign," she admitted.

  Nearby, other recruits pretended to adjust their gear. Marta caught her eye, looked away quickly. They all felt it. The march. The weight.

  "Fear is the body's wisdom," the instructor said. He nodded slowly, once. "But hesitation is a knife you hold to your own throat. The Empire’s mages will not ask if you are frightened."

  "Yes, sir."

  Liesel rode with the scouting unit. Fifty riders. Their armor, oiled the night before, gleamed dully under a sun that gave no heat. Snow compressed under the horses’ hooves, graying to slush as they neared the border.

  Behind them, the main force. Thousands of boots and hooves and prayer wheels. Her duty: ensure no Imperial scout survived to report their advance.

  She tried to stifle a yawn. Her eyes ached, dry from the wind, scanning every stand of trees for movement. Two years of drills, and she still started at every snapping branch.

  Marta rode beside her, chewing dried beef, looking far too at ease for someone riding toward judgment.

  "Nervous?" Marta asked. She grinned around the meat.

  "A little." Liesel adjusted her grip on the reins. Leather creaked. "Excited. Two years."

  "Don't be. Intelligence says the southern front holds their legions. Here? Conscripts. Lost boys. This will be easy. A warm-up."

  Liesel nodded. She tightened her grip until her knuckles whitened. "Right. Easy."

  They crested the hill. The valley opened below, marking the border.

  "Contact!" The captain’s voice cracked across the line.

  Liesel’s heart slammed against her ribs. She looked down.

  Three figures.

  Just three.

  They stood in the snow like ink dropped on clean linen. One tall, thin as a scarecrow. One small, child-sized. One lounging on the ground, casual as a picnicker.

  Imperial colors. No army. No support line. No fear.

  Behind Liesel, someone laughed. High. Terrified.

  "Is that all?" Marta snorted. Her hand found her sword hilt. "They are lost. Or they wish to die."

  The captain drew his blade. Steel sang.

  "For the Holy Lord! Charge!"

  "For the Lord!"

  The unit roared. Liesel dropped her visor. She kicked her horse forward.

  Thunder filled the air. Her blood burned. Glory. This was what the prayers meant. This holy, terrible rush.

  Two hundred meters.

  They did not run.

  One hundred meters.

  They did not draw weapons.

  Fifty meters.

  The small one in the center looked up. Smiled.

  Liesel frowned.

  Why are they not running?

  The report arrived at dusk.

  The messenger stood in the Marshal's office. His face was ash. His uniform carried no stain of battle, but sweat darkened his collar and soaked his hair. He spoke as if reciting a verdict, trying to keep his soul separate from the words.

  "The scouting unit. Engaged the enemy one-twenty miles forward of the designated line. Possibly while still in march formation."

  The Marshal did not look up from his paperwork. His pen moved in steady lines. "Outcome."

  "Annihilated, sir."

  The pen stopped.

  "Clarify."

  "No resistance logged, sir. The engagement lasted less than an hour. We recovered the horses." The messenger's throat clicked. "And pieces of the armor. No survivors confirmed."

  The Marshal listened. The clock on the wall ticked.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  "Understood," he said finally. His voice gave nothing. "Dismissed."

  "Sir." The messenger saluted and fled. The heavy door closed with a click that seemed to echo.

  The Marshal remained standing. His hands pressed against the oak table.

  His breath hitched.

  Cracks appeared in the wood beneath his palms, small and sudden.

  Mira groaned.

  Snow slid from her forehead and landed with a soft sound, like a sigh. She blinked. Gray sky. White ground, churned to mud.

  A thing stood before her. Flesh, wrong and stitched, bulbous, moving on legs too short for its body. It waddled through the slush.

  Thud.

  A bolt of light struck it. The thing fell back.

  It twitched.

  It stood, shook the snow from its hide like a dog shedding water.

  Thud.

  Mira turned her head. Her neck moved like rusted iron.

  Elira sat on a rock. Snow clung to her black uniform, caught in her hair like ashes. Her face held no expression. Her eyes were hollow, drinking the gray light.

  "Good morning," Elira said. She did not look away from the creature.

  "Morning," Mira croaked.

  Elira flicked her wrist. The flesh-thing dissolved into a puddle that steamed briefly, then vanished into mist. She stood, brushing snow from her sleeves.

  The wind howled through the corridor of trees. It carried the scent of iron. Of blood.

  Somewhere distant, the snow continued to melt where it touched the ground, turning pink, then red.