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There wasn’t time to assemble before the B’rei Mira army in the valley noticed Burn Division Twelve approaching. Ryn drew her sword first.

Shadows lifted behind B’rei Mira. Dolem began humming her song somewhere at Ryn’s back, and keeping in time, Ryn raised her flute and blew it, signalling to the gods who was coming with a note that cut all other sounds in half.

When the sharp sound of a drawing blade lifted beside her, Ryn huffed at the sight of Bastone there, armour on, sword in hand. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching safely from a distance with a loaded bow, Soldier?” she asked him.

Bastone’s jaw flexed, his eyes trained on a B’rei Mira warrior in the lead with a scarlet headdress as the enemy army charged. “Aren’t you supposed to be focused on surviving the next thirty minutes, Commander?”

A slow smile found Ryn’s face. She pulled her mask down, and the army in red collided with Burn Division Twelve, boots thundering against the pressed dirt and foliage.

“Rebuke the fear,” Ryn said—to herself, to those around her.

Down the line, Faro drove his sword against a crimson shield and shouted in return, “Go forward!”

Bastone stayed tight at Ryn's side, his silver blade whistling through the air as they slew men and false gods only Ryn could see. The other young soldier was there too, Kiran, fighting in the sweltering heat that plastered his sweat-soaked hair to his neck.

Morning sunlight burst over the valley, illuminating the victory and giving clear sight to all the Per-Siana soldiers watching from above Sindahir Valley. Burn Division Twelve suffered no losses; only the enemy had paid the price for the evil of their gods.

A distant chant rang over the valley. Ryn thought the Per-Siana soldiers above were shouting, “Gold Maiden! Gold Maiden!” She looked down at her armour. Apart from a few gold-rimmed pieces Burn Division Twelve had acquired from slain enemies, she was the only one in gold.

Bastone pointed up the opposite slope toward the chanting men. “Those are the divisions we came all this way to assist. But we’re not going up there right away.” He stated it before the burn division could even collect themselves to walk again. “Burn Division Twelve is taking the day of rest it’s due. The divisions up there are at a stalemate anyway. If the strategists complain about this decision, they can deal with me.”

Heva’s mouth formed a devilish grin. She yanked off her helmet and tossed it at Bastone on her way by as she raced for the clear, shallow pool. A handful of prisoners tore off their armour and followed until the pool was a mess of splashing and joyous shouts.

Bastone fumbled to catch the helmet as he swiped B’rei Mira blood and battle sweat off his face and neck. Ryn sank to her knees, peeling off her face mask and dragging off her shoulder plates.

“What’s a stalemate?” she asked Bastone as the others shucked off their armour and fled for the pool.

Bastone chewed on the inside of his cheek then pulled the parchment with the original order from his pocket. “It means neither side is able to move forward against the other. Though I can’t imagine what could possibly stop two armies from fighting and declaring a victor.”

11

XERXES

One hundred and twenty-eight.

The heavens sank to a chalky canvas of greys and burnt orange behind the date palm trees. Xerxes headed to the strategy tent with the commanders on his tail, wiping moisture off his cheeks from his freshly washed hair not drying fast enough in the evening air. There was a different energy in the camp the last week. Eyes were slightly wider and brighter, voices higher, and answers to questions came quicker—everyone was stimulated by the win at the salt cliffs.

It was almost enough to make Xerxes forget that the Vafat planned to come for him. Almost enough to free him of the slowly rising anxiety with each passing day when they didn’t show. He scratched at the bright ink stain on his neck. “Let’s discuss our next mission,” he said, twisting the signet ring on his forefinger as he entered the tent.

He hadn’t even found a seat before a messenger flew through the flap behind him, tripped on the uneven floor, and dropped six scrolls onto the table in the middle. One of them unrolled the whole length of the tabletop. “Your Majesty! I have reports!” The messenger climbed to his feet and looked down at his mess, face blanched. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” He clasped his hands together and bowed.

“Ah, just tell me the reports.” Xerxes waved. “We’re about to start a meeting.” He adjusted the collar of his tunic and searched the side tables for a drink. It appeared the servers hadn’t passed through the meeting tent yet. There wasn’t even water, let alone wine.

“Yes.” The messenger bowed—again—and Xerxes stifled an eye roll. From the back of the tent, General Reza smirked. “Let me see…” The messenger fiddled with the scrolls for a moment like he couldn’t remember what he’d come to say. He lifted one, and his face lit up when he unrolled it. “Oh, yes! I have reports of victory!” He practically shouted it through the tent, and Xerxes blinked. So did everyone else.

“What?” Xerxes dropped his collar and took the scroll from the messenger, scanning the report himself. “A victory? Are you sure?”

“One of our divisions is taking down B’rei Mira armies by the border. They rescued a high-profile noble, then they claimed victory over an enemy unit that wiped out one of our divisions earlier this week. They have other wins too—they just claimed another victory in Sindahir Valley this morning!” The messenger’s cheeks flushed around his beaming smile.

“Who’s the commander?” Xerxes asked. He turned the scroll around to glance at the back, wondering why it didn’t even say. A bead of water fell from his hair, bleeding the ink on the paper.

“Our army is calling her The Gold Maiden, Your Majesty. But soldiers on the ground claim her name is Adassah.”

Xerxes’s eyes tore up from the scroll. “A woman?” He only knew two female commanders in all the one hundred and twenty-seven province divisions. Truthfully, he couldn’t remember their names, but he didn’t think either of them was Adassah. The name didn’t even sound noble. “Which division does she lead?” he asked, tossing the useless scroll away on the table and shaking the moisture from his hair so it would stop dripping everywhere.

The messenger grinned. “Burn Division Twelve.”

Every word and breath was sucked from the tent, and Xerxes’s hand froze in his dark, disorderly locks. Only the sound of the wind ruffling the tent walls remained for several seconds.