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Eavus snapped to better posture along with everyone else.

“Is the man at your left your girlfriend?” The commander shouted loud enough to be heard by at least three divisions.

“No, sir.” At the squeak in Sev’s voice, Eavus inwardly flinched. The red plume on the commander’s helmet bounded towards them, and it should have been ridiculous—the dance of some fiery peacock—but even two bodies distanced from Sev, Eavus couldn’t help hold in his own tense breath.

“Is Legionary Albinus your girlfriend?!” Eavus could practically feel the commander’s spittle.

“No, sir!”

“Then stop pointing your dick at him! Eighth division!”

Eavus tightened his stance. “Yes, sir!”

“Congratulations, you’ve just been volunteered for point. Keep in line!” The commander stormed back to his prior conversation, the division in front parting like the walls of a gate to let him pass.

“If they make us spend the day burying dead natives again,” Albin growled, “I’m going to put you in with them.”

The dead bodies had been what reignited Maener’s theories, and dominated all conversation for the past day. Eavus didn’t know what to make of it either, but it wasn’t his business, was it? You either burned them or buried them, and in this thick forest, burning could have started a wildfire. And sending up that kind of smoke? Not wise. Still, the cohort had gone back and forth about it, whether dragging the bodies to a clearer area or digging graves was more work. This morning’s discoveries had shifted the talk to a new mystery.

“What do you think killed all them Caerdeneii, Marceas?” Sev had the wisdom to keep his eyes front this time.

“They weren’t Caerdeneii.” It popped out before Eavus could stop himself. He wasn’t even sure how he knew. Only with this much time on this island, you started to be able to see the differences. Even when they were all corpses.

“Fre, Caerdeneii were there.” Costae’s Mambolian accent grew thicker when he whispered, his vowels short and clipped. “Only they did the killing. Did you see the spears?”

Costae had it right. Several of the bodies had short, thin spears lodged in their backs, the type the Caerdeneii favored. Designed to be thrown.

“I’m telling you, those fresh ones were Caerdeneii,” Titeni insisted. Eavus had no idea what province Titeni was from, but he always sounded like he was sucking marbles. Even still, it was hard to resist a shudder. They’d spent all yesterday burying dead, and now this morning Titeni had suddenly stumbled across brand new bodies, as if they’d been dropped from the sky. Titeni had found them while he was “scouting their morning route”—as if they didn’t all know Titeni’d walk half a mile for a private shit—and raced back to their encampment, where the commanders had all gotten their skulls ripped off their necks so that their superior could better shout down their throats for the mistake of overlooking them.

The division that had done the digging knew better.

Those dead bodies hadn’t been overlooked. They were new.

“Tit-sucker’s not wrong.” Tadeus stood corner, and he carried the voice of authority along with his rank. “What makes less sense is where those blade wounds came from. Whatever killed them Caerdeneii wasn’t Dinaeii.”

“Ghosts,” Maener repeated.

Tadeus scoffed. “Ghosts don’t use swords. Or axes.”

“You think some tribe is that well-equipped?” Costae asked. The possibility was unnerving. Aleterians typically out-weaponed the locals three-to-one. If there was a tribe out there with advanced weaponry, who knew how to use it…

Gods, Eavus didn’t want to think about it. He’d never really taken to religion, but if he knew who his ancestors were, he knew what he would have prayed to them for:

Good weather. Soft bread. An encampment with a proper roof instead of a humid tent. An easy, uneventful summer.

Or, Eavus had the sudden, fervent thought, if there had to be some excitement, let it be something extraordinary. He tried to banish the idea as soon as it arose, but it hovered just outside his vision. The thought itself felt almost traitorous. His service was to the armed brothers at his side and to the House of Caea, for the glory of Aleteria, not the glory of one Ricaea Marceas Eavus.

But.

If he could just get one last cara propita on his record. One massive, heavy purse of gold. They were the only things besides time that stood between him and the chance at freedom, and he didn’t know where that kind of money would come from, but he could suddenly feel the weight of coin tugging from his waist as firmly as if it already existed. It wasn’t disloyal, to want to do something that Aleteria would reward, but to want out so badly, to allow the possibility to creep behind his eyelids and settle feather-like on his tongue…

“Eighth division!” the commander interrupted, sweeping Eavus’ brain clean like a strong wind. “Take the front!”

Eavus had never felt so relieved to be given an order, even if it did put them on point. Blood rushed into his legs as he moved, and he finally got the chance to stretch his fingers. The sixth stepped aside to let them pass, but the third jeered.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Albin growled, as one of the third made a rude gesture from behind his shield.

“I didn’t sign up at all,” Sev grumbled.