And of course the Ben-Elim, death-from-above.

There were rooms enough at Drassil for the full strength of the Faithful’s army, in total over twenty thousand strong, the White-Wings alone numbering over ten thousand swords, but the bulk of the army was spread throughout the Land of the Faithful, stationed at outposts and garrisons along the far-flung borders, at the Tower of the Bay at Ripa in the south, at Gulgotha in the east, at Brikan and Jerolin and Tarba.

So many of the buildings before Riv were empty and dark. At Drassil now there were around a thousand White-Wings, and they were split into ten units, each hundred its own compact fighting force. Riv’s sister, Aphra, was captain of a hundred. Riv remembered the day Aphra had been promoted, her wings presented to her by Kol, one of Israfil’s captains. Riv had thought she would burst with pride.

Now she walked through the open doors of the hundred that she had been assigned to for as far back as her memory reached. The same hundred that her sister commanded, and the one that her mother had served in before that. Two generations, lives dedicated to the White-Wings and the Ben-Elim. It was all Riv knew. The centre of her life, around which all else revolved.

The feast-hall was empty, the fire-pit cold, as Riv expected. The whole hundred should be out on guard duty and then training in the weapons-field, so Riv was surprised when she opened the door that led to her barrack chamber and heard voices. A woman, not shouting, but voice raised, in anger or alarm. And another voice, quieter, calmer, deeper. Riv cocked her head to one side, straining to listen. She climbed a few of the stone steps leading up to the chamber she shared with her mam and sister and the other members of their hundred, ten warriors and their attendants, all sharing the same sleeping quarters, bonds forged by a lifetime of eating, sleeping, training, fighting, living and dying together.

The woman’s voice grew louder, tremored with emotion, the other lower, an edge of iron to it. Both were blurred, the words unclear.

The door behind Riv grated shut and the voices beyond the closed door at the top of the stairwell fell silent, quick as a snuffed candle.

Riv paused a moment, only the sound of her breathing, then decided to go on.

I live here, they’re my quarters, too. And besides, she was intrigued to know who the voices belonged to.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, a figure was striding down towards her. It was Fia, tall and dark-haired, her sister’s closest friend. She saw Riv and nodded a greeting, though she did not stop, just carried on past her. She was looking away, but Riv noticed that Fia’s eyes were red-rimmed.