Revekah flipped the dagger’s point skyward. “I think I’m Tressian, even if those inbreds in the north have forgotten that. First of the Emperor’s Immortals sets foot over the mountains gets my steel in his heart. But plenty agree with Crovan. They’re tired, Josiri. They want a way out. They think the Hadari will give them one.”

“A year. Eighteen months. We’ll be ready.”

“You said that last year,” said Anastacia. “And the year before. And the year before that. Dawntithes come and Dawntithes go. And still you wait.”

“She’s right,” said Revekah. “There’ll never be a perfect time. You’ve worked wonders these last few years – even Crovan acknowledges that.”

“I did little more than bring you together. Kept you focused on the goal.”

“You’ve brought us hope. Leadership. If you step out of the shadows, others will follow.”

Josiri scowled, lost in memories of clandestine meetings. The fear of discovery. The elation of new alliances, and growing opportunity. The fear returning as the prospect of uprising brought with it the spectre of defeat.

“Too many still think I’m collaborating with the Council.”

“All the more reason to end this pretence. I’ll vouch for you. So will Crovan. You’ll prove the rest through actions.”

Josiri strove to ignore that familiar, gnawing frustration. “The Council will crack down harder than ever. Makrov’s already talking about another exodus.”

Revekah’s eyes flashed. “Good. It’ll remind our people of what they’ve already lost. They’ll rise up in their thousands before the first transport ship sails north.”

“My mother thought the same. And look what happened to her. We’re not ready.”

Josiri paused. Was that true? Or was he speaking out of fear? A Trelan had led hundreds to their deaths less than a generation ago. His failure would seal the Southshires’ fate. It weighed on his conscience. Never more so than in the long, dark hours before the dawn when Anastacia was snoring.

His mother had spoken of the loneliness of leadership, of holding sway over decisions no other could make. As a boy, he’d thought it nothing. As a young man struggling with Zanya’s aftermath, he’d dismissed her sentiment as arrogance. Only now did he feel the aching truth.

If only he’d someone to confide in. Dignity forbade he confess his fears to Revekah or Crovan. Anastacia wouldn’t understand. For all that she appeared mortal flesh – for all the warmth of her embrace – she never grasped concepts of uncertainty, and consequence. Maybe that was why she fascinated him so.

Perhaps he should have confessed the truth to Calenne. At least then the burden would be shared. But no. She’d made her decision. He’d have to make his. Before events made it for him.

But there was time yet. Or so he prayed.