He muttered to himself and donned his armor again, something a great deal more easily done with help than alone. But he managed. As he dressed, the weather shifted with abrupt intensity, a cold wind that came howling down out of the north. It set the canvas of his tent to popping, and when Marcus emerged from it, the wind felt as if it had come straight down the slope of a glacier.

He frowned. Unseasonal, for this late in the year, even in the chilly north. The wind even smelled of winter. It promised snow. But it was far too late in the year for such a thing to happen. Unless...

Unless Octavian had, somehow, inherited Gaius Sextus’s talents in full measure. It was impossible. The captain had not had time to train, nor a teacher to instruct him in whatever deep secrets of furycraft had allowed Gaius Sextus to readily, frequently, and casually exceed the gifts of any other High Lord by an order of magnitude.

Furycraft was all well and good—but no one man could turn spring into bloody winter. It simply was not possible.

Pellets of stinging sleet began to strike Marcus’s face. They whispered against his armor like thousands of tiny, impotent arrowheads. And the temperature of the air continued to drop. Within a few moments, frost had begun to form upon the grass and upon the steel of Marcus’s armor. It simply could not be happening—but it was.

Octavian had never been an able student where impossibilities were concerned.

But in the name of the great furies, why would he do such a thing?

As he turned onto the avenue that would lead to the Legion’s command tent, he met up with Octavian and his guards, walking briskly toward the command tent.

“First Spear,” the captain said. “Ah, good. Time to roust the men. We’re leaving for the staging area in an hour.”

“Very good, sir,” Marcus replied, saluting. “I need to bend your ear for a moment, sir, privately.”

Octavian arched an eyebrow. “Very well. I can spare a moment, but after that I want you focused on getting the First Aleran to our departure point.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus responded. “Which is where, sir?”

“I’ve marked a map for you. North.”

Marcus frowned. “Sir? North of here there’s nothing but the Shieldwall and Iceman territory.”

“More or less,” Octavian said. “But we’ve made a few changes.”

* * *

By noon the next day, the entire First Aleran, together with the Free Aleran Legion and the Canim warriors, had reached the Shieldwall, which lay ten miles to the north of the city of Antillus. Snow lay on the ground, already three inches deep, and the steady fall of white flakes had begun to thicken. If it had been the midst of winter, they would have promised a long, steady, seasonal snowfall.

But that single impossibility had evidently not been enough for the captain.