‘I know who you are, Drem. Son of Olin and Neve, nephew to Byrne, High Captain of the Order of the Bright Star. You would be a valued prize, especially if you stood at my side.’

‘That’ll never happen,’ Drem grunted.

‘All you have to do is open your eyes and see the truth.’

‘The truth?’ Drem spat.

‘Aye, that all is not as the Ben-Elim tell you. That they are the great evil, not the Kadoshim.’

‘I know the truth well enough when I see it,’ Drem snarled. ‘Only lies and murder from you, truth and friendship from my friends.’

‘Ha, you see,’ Fritha said, ‘I told you. There is something about you, Drem ben Olin. Something innocent, and loyal. Like a faithful hound. Once you give yourself, your loyalty, it would be unswerving, I think. I would like that. I am destined for great things, you know.’ She smiled again, a hint of the future in it, a promise of glory and greatness.

Drem ben Olin. That is who I am. My father’s son.

He thought of how he had stayed to find her, that day in the forest, instead of leaving with his da. His da had been alive, then, and was dead, now. Because of that decision. Because of her.

‘You are a murderer, Fritha, and I am going to kill you for it. Now, or another time.’ He shrugged. ‘Justice, for my da.’

‘A pity,’ she said.

‘And I am going to take that black sword from your dead fingers and use it to carve Asroth’s head from his shoulders.’

‘Blasphemy,’ she hissed at him, a crouched snarl, the first real emotion he’d seen from her, and with a wave of her hand the acolytes surged forwards.