Riv blinked awake and sat up with a start. She felt a pressure upon her chest and saw her mam’s face staring down at her, eyes creased with worry.

‘Easy, Riv,’ her mam said. ‘Rest a while.’

As if I ever took that advice. Riv snorted, pushing her mam’s hand away. She sat up, saw that she was still in the weapons-field, her mam kneeling beside her, a crowd gathered in a half-circle around Vald and the others who had completed their warrior trial. They were standing in a line, faces glowing with exertion and pride as Israfil stood before them, commending them on their prowess.

You are weak.

Riv put a hand to her head, squeezing her eyes shut, remembered frozen moments: leaping at Israfil, blood from his nose, rising into the sky.

‘What . . . happened?’ she muttered, an ache in her back between her shoulder blades pulsing up into her head. She twisted, rolled her shoulders.

‘You attacked Israfil,’ her mam said, a horrified whisper.

The voices of her companions and friends rose up, reciting the first lines of the Oath.

‘I am defender to the Faithful,’ they all began, voices ringing out.

I should be there, beside them, she thought. They should be my sword-kin, now, except that they have passed their warrior trial, and I have failed.

‘I am the sharp blade that will slay the Fallen,’ echoed across the field.

She looked back to her mam, who was regarding her with sad, disappointed eyes.

With a choked sound in her throat, Riv pushed past her mam and ran. She saw heads from amongst the gathered crowd turn and stare at her; her sister, Aphra, her pride-filled gaze of earlier a thing of history now.

And then she crashed into someone, both of them tumbling to the ground. With a grunt, she climbed to one knee, saw the other person spring agilely to his feet. The youth was staring at her, lean and sharp-featured, with deep, almond-shaped eyes and dark, weathered skin, almost the same colour as the alder-wood hilt of her sister’s short-sword. She knew him, or at least, knew his name. Bleda, the Sirak prince who was a ward to the Ben-Elim. Riv remembered the day he had been taken, all those years ago when she had been her sister’s attendant, her shield-carrier, weapon-cleaner, water-giver and all other manner of tasks. She had loved it. But not that one, long ago, moment. The scene flashed through her mind, seeing the boy’s proud face, his curved bow falling from his hand, face stricken as his kin’s heads had been tossed into the dirt before him, tears streaking down his face as the giant Alcyon had carried him away.

Bleda looked at her now, standing over her, his face as emotionless as the Ben-Elim, eyes dark pools.