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“You may be wondering why I’m even offering.”

“Offering?”

“Oh. This is for you.” He swept a gesture. “For your freedom. Your price.”

It— It couldn’t be. Eavus hadn’t even given him the message yet. Eavus hadn’t done anything.

“I can see I’ve shocked you. I don’t mind. You’re not the first soldier I’ve seen who’s squeamish—but I do think, and this is saying something, you’re the first I’ve seen so close to buying your way out. Quite the journey you must have had. Quite the feats.”

Eavus didn’t know where this was going. Outside, he could hear screams. Flairius ran a finger over the gold.

“Do you know why the emperor allowed slaves to buy their freedom? Because this amount of money is almost impossible to procure. It’s a carrot at the end of an impossibly long stick.”

Something crashed, far away. Wood splintered.

“And even if you could, if you are resourceful enough, brave enough, ruthless enough, to earn down your time, too—why then, you have friends in the army. It’s become your home. Your family. Where else are you going to go? Why else? Because you could get a bed and a full belly the rest of your life, surrounded by admirers—and that’s more than most people have, free person or no. So why am I offering you, Ricaea Marceas, a way out?”

The prefect’s voice turned hard, and Eavus ripped his full attention back to him.

“Because we don’t want cowards in the Aleterian army. We don’t want traitors who think it’s their place to question, and who might inspire their friends to listen.”

He went charming again, that white grin in that tanned face.

“What we do want, what we need, every so often, is someone that made it. A good story to tell the others. I’ve got at least 2000 men out there with someone else’s name carved into their arms who give it their all every single day on the basis of hope; 10,000 more spread out on this island; 100,000 across the continent. Every so often, Legionary, you have to let the jackass have the carrot.”

It was true. Every slave that served, every soldier that did it for some other family’s glory— It was the thing that kept them going. That god on the horizon. Six years, an array of horrors, and half a lifetime’s worth of gold.

“You are my jackass, Ricaea Marceas. If what I think has happened is true, I’m going to need men who want to fight. Men who feel inspired. All you have to do is march to the front gates. I’ll even let them close the door behind you. Word of your accomplishments will spread from the Bay of Olives to the Speckled Sea. But if you want this delicious, beautiful carrot, if you want my ring stamped on this priceless piece of paper—” He pushed a blank sheet Eavus’ direction. “You’re going to prove to me that you truly deserve it.”

Eavus swallowed. His freedom. His paper. The money. Everything legal. Everything proper. He didn’t even have to do the thing he didn’t want to do. All he had to do was turn his back.

“For the glory of the emperor, soldier.”

For the glory of Aleteria. That was the correct response. He had it bred into his bones. He’d said it every day for years, with that hope carrying him forward.

There it was again: hope.

It had always been a prank, hadn’t it?

Because no matter how much he didn’t want to say them, no matter how much he no longer believed, after a lifetime of training, a lifetime of beatings and promises⁠—

Those were the words that rose in Eavus’ throat.

FORTY-FOUR

Revni emerged into a courtyard in chaos. She slammed herself into a wall as four soldiers charged past, then pushed by two servant girls cowering behind a large vase. Servants and soldiers ran in every direction, water splashing out of buckets as people raced towards the fire, silver and gold clinking as people dropped valuables they were either protecting or stealing, screams of terror punctuating the shouting orders.

“Little wolf!”

The Isfolj voice cut through the haze. Revni spun.

Orange braids, an ax, a crunching scream. They mixed together. She couldn’t tell which sound was which—only the Isfolj man stepped over the girl’s fresh-split body, grinning in Revni’s direction. Svei. His name was Svei.

“By the grace of Kyrianos,” he mocked. “That is not your god.” He sounded proud, like her father, pointing his ax at her in just the same way. His tone turned her heart, not towards him, not away, but like she would roll a smooth stone plucked from a river, examining it for flaws. “I see you, little wolf. You snarl, but when the gods call, you answer.” He gestured wide, to the havoc that surrounded them. “This—you keep doing this⁠—”

The realization crept over her, like the prickle of limbs waking from a sleep—sharp and electric, slow and painful all at once. The god retracting his hold.

“And we’ll find you a place. This—” he said again, and gestured again, and it wasn’t to the scene, to the panic, to the confusion. It was to her work. “This is worthy of the gods.”