Captain Owen Hartman called to the knights as he joined them. The team's operations officer carried a bulging rucksack, a ridiculously massive gas rifle, and an equally impressive double-stack crossbow. “Director wants us?” he asked through teeth clamped on a toothpick.

  “Operational debrief,” Tobias said, waving him along. They scanned the sky as they moved, keeping an eye out for vultures. Rahashel could transport entire units of ghouls using birds that served as some sort of teleportation beacon. As usual, the skies were empty these days.

  Peter joined the other knights as they returned to camp. Well, sort of.

  He trailed behind them, a safe distance, a procedure that more and more left him feeling like an outsider. He hadn’t been with Nine Fingers from the beginning, like Van Dijk or Isabella. He didn’t have the field experience of Tobias or Owan, nor did he share their history.

  Sure, he had bled for Nine Fingers, but the only reason he was one of them was the Bedorven on his arm. He was an anomaly, looped in on a technicality.

  Peter sighed as the others discussed the brief, forgetting to turn and include him. He shouldn’t have been so irritable, but his stomach rumbled. Hopefully, the rest of Ash Company would find enough food to lift the ration restrictions.

  Tobias halted abruptly. Peter stumbled, catching himself before he could leech them.

  “What the—” the major frowned as they passed through an overgrowth.

  Peter saw it moments later. When they had left for the village, Cinder Company had struck camp alone, numbering under a hundred soldiers. Now thousands of civilians crowded the space, some murmuring angrily at the overwhelmed soldiers.

  “The spall is this?” Tobias murmured, taking in the mob.

  An aimless man with a dog on a leash wandered toward Peter.

  “Hey, back off, man Peter snapped.

  The stranger paused, clutching the lead as his brow furrowed. “What? He’s on a leash.”

  Tobias rounded on him. “Everyone, this man is a court; if you don’t want to gum your dinner, back away!”

  That earned a few angry stares, and only a few people shuffled away.

  “We’ll be here all day!” Owen sighed.

  Tobias turned, suddenly eyeing Peter like a battering ram. “After you, corporal,” he said, motioning into the tightly packed mob.

  “What?” Peter recoiled. “No, I'll—”

  “Clear a path, yes. Let’s go.”

  Peter sighed, then strode forward. Faint leech wisps started their macabre cry, and the tendrils drew into him when the first scream found the air.

  “Lich!”

  The crowd parted, people lunging out of his way as he carved a path into camp.

  “Make way!” Tobias hollered again.

  Peter apologised and winced as he stole days, weeks, and even a few months in the case of one man, who needed to be pulled back.

  Several infantrymen waved the knights into a pavilion when they finally reached the command and control center.

  Peter went first, segregating himself to the side before his comrades joined him.

  The Director, Colonel Van Den Hoak, nodded to them in relief as he leaned over a map. The man couldn’t have been older than thirty, but after his wife’s death, his face had seemed to age twenty years. Rather than the headband he had once favored, he now wore a uniform Kepi hat.

  “Director, what the spall is going on?” Tobias asked.

  “Oh, this? Nothing, just the remaining population of Jullek deciding it’s no longer safe.”

  Peter smirked at Van Den Hoak’s sarcasm. After getting a chance to grieve his lost wife, he had come back to himself—the type of man who mocked death as the axe fell.

  “Right. Why?” Tobias asked, folding his arms.

  “Because Magistrate Rovers is dead,” Van Den Hoek said.

  The knights exchanged startled glances.

  “What happened?” Peter asked.

  “Assassin. Cleared the cabinet hall. Left it full of bloodless corpses.” Van den Hoak’s knuckles went white as he drove splayed fingertips into the table.

  “Vampires?” Isabella asked.

  Vincent, Jasper, and Dirk clawed their way into Peter’s mind—vampiric emissaries who prowled the streets of Stalpia. The trio had been the only thing terrifying enough to motivate mindless crops to flee.

  “Something else,” the director said. “Distant witnesses describe a man who fought with a river of blood. I don’t think that’s a metaphor.”

  “So Rahashel’s moving,” Peter said eagerly, glancing at his teammates.

  “Probably not, actually,” Van Den Hoek said. “Their wounds are congruent with the corpses of several of Rahashel’s elder liches we found fleeing the Battle of Jullek.”

  “Not Rahashel? Then who?” Peter asked, knowing that at his rank he probably should have shut up and listened.

  No one scorned him for it. In high war councils, he’d get funny looks, but not with the knights.

  “We don’t know, but I have a description.” Van Den Hoek lifted a sheet of paper and gave it a cursory glance. “He has blood red hair, white skin, and didn’t wear a shirt. Thin, average height. He’s to be considered extremely dangerous.”

  “Great,” Tobias murmured. “More unknowns and wildcards.”

  “So, this is the rest of the Julek population, right?’ Peter asked excitedly. “They’re joining Nine Fingers? This is great.”

  The director’s lips pressed into a white line. “That depends. Major Visser, how much food do you think your men will be able to gather from Tedrith?”

  Tobias sniffed before glancing out at the camp. “Tedrith had five hundred people—maybe. There have to be thousands here.” He shook his head. “Not enough. With the war, there was practically no harvest.”

  Van Den Hoek nodded. “I’ve already spoken to Commandant De Zwert. He’s taking Cinder Company to loot Jullek.” He inhaled, long and slow. “At times, I wonder if Rahashel knows how desperate we are for chow.”

  Peter nodded, suddenly worried as he ignored his stomach cramp. Iris was in Cinder Company. If that blood assassin were still in Jullek—

  “How did the operation go?”

  Tobias stepped closer to the table. “Five casualties.”

  The director looked up abruptly. “That’s it?”

  “The locals joined our attack; they took the brunt of the loss. Van Seur distracted the overseers, and Sicco cut most of the ghouls in half.”

  Peter jumped in, bracing for his reprimand. “Major, I’m sorry, I wasn’t in my position. The overseers were going to execute civilians, but I exposed myself early.”

  He held his breath, waiting.

  “Well, it worked,” Tobias said simply.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Peter waited for the follow-up. Then, he tried to beat him to it. “I’ll be better at sticking to the plan in the future; it won’t happen again.”

  Tobias cocked a brow. “Peter, plans never work, and when they don’t, we have to adapt. That’s what you did. You’re not just another soldier, you’re Final Cell, and we have to be able to trust each other. I do.”

  Peter blinked, dumbfounded. It was the most accepting thing Tobias had ever said. Behind him, Isabella and Van Dijk nodded in agreement.

  Was this it? Was he actually a Knight by virtue of more than just his status as a Court?

  “Remember, when you make a bad call, it’s your ass.” The edge crept back into Tobias’ voice.

  “Yes, sir.” His lips twitched up.

  “So, Sicco was helpful?” Van Den Hoek asked, refocusing the meeting.

  “Very,” Van Dijk said. “Ghouls are easier to hold down when they don’t have legs.

  “What is Sicco training you to do?” Van Den Hoek asked, turning to Peter.

  Peter tensed. He hated this part. The House of Nyamar and Nine Fingers were allies, but both groups asked him to report on the other. At times, the joint stewardship agreement over humanity’s only Court left him feeling wrung out, like a child being pulled between separated parents.

  “He’s running me through the footman curriculum. He’s also drilling me on history. It’s like they want me to teach a lecture on Ataggan’s fall. I don’t get it.”

  Peter knew more than he ever wanted to about the ancient empire, its rise to greatness, and subsequent fall. He just wished he could spend his time working on something more productive—training, missions, cutting crop rings from enslaved people, saving them from a slow leaching to power Rahashel’s ghoul armies—the stuff that truly mattered.

  “He’s also teaching me about gene resequencing and the Nyamarian boons.”

  “Why? Are they going to—” Van Den Hoek left the rest unsaid.

  Peter understood. Would they awaken him? Make him a valet? Grant him access to metaphysical gene expressions? Maybe the House’s power could help offset his non-functioning Court abilities.

  “They haven’t said anything about it,” Peter said. “I’ve wanted to ask, but I fear that if I show interest, Julian won’t let me. An eager Domestic is on the path to Ataggin.”

  That last portion was a quote directly from the manual.

  Colonel Van Den Hoek turned back to Tobias. “Did you encounter any Elder Liches?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  “Sir,” Van Dijk spoke up, “I think I speak for us all when I say—something's wrong.”

  Peter found himself nodding.

  “It’s just,” Van Dijk glanced at Isabella. “It’s like Court Rahashel was so absolute, a power no one could resist. Now that we’ve stolen a few time tiles, it’s like he’s disappeared. It’s like he’s allowing us to gather strength. Like—” Van Dijk considered his next words.

  “—Like he’s presenting a weak front,” Peter finished, an impending dread of the enemy they didn’t understand weighing heavily on his shoulders.

  “I agree,” Van Den Hoek said. “Stay vigilant. Rahashel is more than a warlord. He’s a manipulator, a master of puppets, and I can’t help but wonder if we’re dancing on his strings.”

  Peter’s gaze was drawn to the Map of Nosmeria on the table, his home, blighted with the Court Rahashel. His hands tightened at his sides.

  “We need to move,” Van Den Hoek said. “Too many non-combatants make an easy target. Pick the village dry. Then we march for Shay.”

  ********

  Peter marched a part of the massive column, strategically alone. The troupe stretched out ahead and behind him, but he existed as the center of a bubble in the middle. His leach field only reached out about six feet around him, but taking no chances, those in front and behind him gave him at least triple that distance.

  He trekked, staring at his feet. After trying to talk to the Julekites ahead, he had given up after they tried shouting back their replies over their shoulders.

  Stupid. He kicked a rock. A petty thing to be upset about. He was immortal, a weapon; he could fight for humanity best this way, but why did he have to do it alone?

  “Peter!”

  His eyes snapped up, finding Van Dijk and Isabella riding toward him. Horses. Another luxury he couldn’t have.

  They rode ahead of him, much closer as they understood his leech boundary better than most.

  “How’re you doing?” Van Dijk asked with a forced smile as he turned in his saddle. Peter’s smile flickered. Did they actually want to visit him, or was this some sort of assignment?

  “I’m good,” he said simply. “How about you? You looked ridiculous in a dress, Van Dijk.”

  Van Dijk barked a laugh.

  “I thought they would execute you for being annoying,” Peter continued. “I was tempted to shoot you myself.”

  Van Dijk flashed a grin. “You see their faces when I shot them?”

  “Shot at them,” Peter corrected. “Don’t recall you hitting anything.”

  His smile dropped when he saw Isabella’s expression. She marched, grim-faced, hands tight on her saddle.

  “Isabella? You okay?”

  She blinked in surprise, turning back to him. “What? Oh yeah,”

  “Man, did you see her stab that hisspipe in the eye?” Van Dijk demanded. “Cast iron.”

  “He almost killed me,” she murmured. “I had flawless technique, I did everything right, but he made it look so easy.”

  “Hey, weight classes matter,” Van Dijk said. “Luckily, you only almost died. Peter, you get killed at all?”

  “Once,” he said. “But death’s a lot less scary when it’s not a real consequence.”

  “Peter!”

  Peter glanced up the line at the new voice. Iris jogged down the line in her grey uniform, kepi hat pulled tight to her head, gas rifle bouncing over her shoulder. His childhood best friend’s limp was barely noticeable now.

  He blushed, a habit carried over from before the courts. She’d always follow him like a protective puppy. He’d be embarrassed by her, but then he felt obligated to stick with her. Her limp had been his fault. An accident involving a mad dog and a gate that he had opened. That shame had been fading as she healed.

  “Peter!” she jogged over, panting.

  He glanced away.

  She was almost eighteen, but her body had been dragged forward by years she hadn't yet lived. She carried herself in the way she thought mature women did—shoulder blades drawn back, chest thrust forward. She wore it with all of the grace of the awkward teenager she still was, stiff and gangly beneath the pose.

  It filled Peter with rage. She had achieved the effect by deliberately stepping into his leech field—treating the weapon like a joke.

  His eyes snapped back up. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Cinder Company’s going to Julek.”

  She shrugged, her true immaturity showing through the gesture. “Told them the knights needed me. What was my sergeant going to do, say no?”

  She fell into step between Van Dijk and Isabella’s horses, and she called up sweetly to them. They turned their attention to her, inadvertently quickening their pace and pulling ahead.

  Peter’s teeth clenched as he watched them laugh. Iris wasn’t a knight, but she liked to pretend she was.

  He scanned the sky for vultures, almost hoping they'd swoop down and summon pockets of ghouls in scarlet flame. Then this war would feel like a war against, rather than a spring-loaded trap, straining against a baited trigger.

  He tapped the Bedorvan as he walked, the blasted thing keeping him away from his friends.

  The circlet of Athanium clicked in response.

  He cocked a brow; it had been doing that more, calling to him with its strange tongue of clicks and hisses. He wanted to believe it was talking to him, that it carried some sort of intelligence that could communicate, but if it did, he comprehended none of it.

  “Do I complicate your life as much as you do mine?” he mumbled.

  It trilled, a rolling series of high clicks.

  Peter sighed, rubbing the glyphs. “At least we do good work together,” he said.

  The Bedorven made a low hiss that sounded a lot like agreement.

  Iris laughed flirtatiously and punched Van Dijk’s leg, and Peter’s face heated.

  “Iris!” Peter called, “We didn’t call for you, you should be with your unit. This isn’t a game, it’s war. What about accountability?”

  Iris sighed, glancing up at the others, “He’s always been like this, you know.”

  Heat flushed in his face. “I’m serious. This isn’t a school trip. Take your job seriously.”

  Tobias and Isabella turned back to Peter, startled.

  Iris’ lips drew tight, wounded. “Oh, Peter, why don’t you join us?”

  Peter’s face flushed even more.

  “Don’t get mad at him; he just feels lonely. Don’t worry, I’ll walk with you.”

  She jogged over, ignoring cries of protest from the other two, and stepped into his leach field.

  Peter stared dumbly until the time syphon snaked out of her drawing into him.

  He leaped back. “Enough!” he snarled.

  “What’s the matter, Peter? I thought you were lonely, here I come,” she said, starting forward, now in her early forties.

  Peter turned and ran.

  The other two knights cursed, reining their horses and galloping after him.

  He sprinted fast, knowing he could easily outpace her, even on an empty stomach. Memories of her decrepit and bent with age flashed through his mind. He’d tried so hard to save her from that fate, and now she treated it all like a game.

  He started up a dusty hill, breath coming ragged, and tears stinging his cheeks. Why was he so reactive? Why did he let her get him so worked up?

  He crested the spur on the hill and dropped to his knees, panting. He grabbed the Bedorvan on his arm, the face of the Overseer he’d leeched flashing through his mind. Why was the armband so heavy?

  “Peter!” Van Dijk called, reining his horse.

  Isabella slipped from her saddle, starting forward. “Peter, what’s going on between you two? I thought you were friends.”

  Friends? He’d defied Tobias and even the Lord Commandant to rescue her, but now that her leg was healed, he was starting to understand his connection to her, strange as it had been, had never been a true friendship, but an obligation born of guilt. Guilt for a wound that had healed—so what was left?

  “She’s so immature,” he groaned.

  “She’s a kid, what do you expect?” Isabella asked, striding forward.

  He looked up and froze.

  “Peter?”

  He slowly rose, counting the thousands of people crossing the dust flats. Dressed in filthy clothes, this new herd of refugees moved towards Shay.

  “Peter?”

  “We’re going to need a lot more food.”