Viktor told himself the situations were different. Anastacia had at least offered help. Josiri had wallowed in anger and self-pity. He deserved neither respect, nor regard for his well-being. The claim rang hollow. Josiri may have struck the first blow, but Viktor had provided all the provocation he’d ever have needed. Calenne had been correct. He should have slept. And because he’d been too proud to take her advice, only a fool’s hope remained.

Vladama Kurkas met him at eastern gate, his usual carelessness in wary abeyance.

“His grace see the wisdom of things, my lord?”

“His grace did not,” said Viktor, “so we proceed as planned. Get everyone ready to march.”

“I’ll see to it.” Kurkas made a doomed attempt to straighten his battered uniform. “Always knew this blessed province would be the death of me. But you never know . . . something might turn up.”

He struck out across the muster field, orders already booming from his lips. Viktor watched him go. A shame Josiri Trelan didn’t have a tenth of Kurkas’ courage. If only Viktor Akadra had half his wariness for lost causes.

And lost causes weighed on Viktor’s mind as he parted the flaps of his tent. He’d burned so many bridges back in Tressia to come this far – with his father, most of all. To go back without a victory to show for it was impossible. There was only the road ahead. A road that might see him, and all those who trusted him – Kurkas among them – buried in the same pit.

It spoke to Viktor’s distraction that it wasn’t until he was fully inside the tent that he realised he wasn’t alone.

“Calenne?”

She sat opposite the entrance but rose as he spoke. The dress was darker than the one she’d worn that morning, closer-fitting and recently pressed. Her black hair, then free of comb or band, was bound in tight plaits and trimmed with king’s blue ribbons. The formality of her appearance made her seem older. Yet it somehow highlighted the gulf of years that lay between them.

“I never loved Kasamor Kiradin.” She met his gaze as she spoke, a slight tremor beneath the words. “It’s important you understand that. I’m not proud of it, for I know how he thought of me.”

Viktor frowned. The words themselves were no surprise, for she’d grieved little in his company, but the timing . . . “Calenne. What is this?”

“Let me finish.” Seeing how her hands worked against one another, she hid them behind her back. “I let Kasamor see his love reflected because I wanted to be free of this place, and of my mother’s legend. If I hadn’t, he might still be alive.”

Poor Kasamor. A good soldier, but a poor judge of a woman’s heart. Perhaps it was better he’d never know. “You are not responsible for Kasamor’s actions.”