“It’s not the same!” Anger drove Melanna to her feet, then faltered. The Huntsman loomed above her no less than before. If anything, he seemed a vaster presence. She stumbled back. The Huntsman’s shadow travelled with her, his green eyes searing into her soul.

“No, it is not,” said the Huntsman. “And nor should it be. But my mistress wishes to do things differently.”

Something in his tone halted Melanna’s retreat. “But you don’t? You can change her mind.”

He laughed like the roar of an underground river. “My mistress has endured too many lies from men seeking to control her, to adore her or to exploit her. It is the thread that binds her to you. I alone have always been honest, if not always her friend, but our shared past too often deafens her to my advice.” He drew back. “But that doesn’t mean I cannot help.”

The mists between them cleared. A sword lay upon the leaves. Swirling silver patterns of a waxing and waning moon chased the black leather of its scabbard. Its hilt shone, even in the Huntsman’s shadow.

“Here is Ashana’s blessing, if you would have it,” intoned the Huntsman. “When you draw that sword, no one will doubt your purpose, or your patron.”

Melanna stared down at the blade. She’d never seen a weapon so beautiful. She longed to take it. Instinct warned her against doing so. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Because I understand war. Better it be fought by those who desire it.”

“But why me? Why now?”

“Because I had a daughter once. Like you, Hélène’s heart was full of fire, but she never lived long enough to set it loose. This is the thread that binds us, if you will let it. But the choice is yours. So is the glory, and so are the consequences.”

The Huntsman’s longing tone couldn’t hide the warning in his words. Should she walk away, abandon the sword among the leaves? Part of Melanna wanted to – it trembled with memory of the tales of those drawn into divine intrigues. But was this not what she’d wanted? What she’d begged for? How would she live with herself if she walked away?

She stooped. Her hand closed around the scabbard. Darkness fell.

“Savim?”

Melanna awoke, still kneeling, shivering with cold and covered in sweat. She gripped the sword across her chest. The buckles of the scabbard dug into her flesh.

“Savim?” Sera said again. “I heard you cry out. Are you hurt?”

“No.”

The chatter of Melanna’s teeth subsided. Holding the scabbard, she eased back the sword’s hilt until a chink of steel showed. White light filled the sanctum, driving back the darkness, and her doubts.

Sera’s gloved hand flew to her mouth. She stepped back, pressing against the tent-folds for support. Melanna slid the sword home.