Revekah let the dagger fall and ripped her sword free. Kurkas’ shoulder took her in the chest. He crushed her against the tent’s heavy central pole before she’d time to swing. His fingers hooked beneath her helm and dragged it away. A beady eye stared out from an unshaven face.

“Thought I recognised that voice. Captain Halvor, eh? Years ain’t been kind.”

“You’re one to talk,” spat Revekah.

“Years alone didn’t take my arm, nor my eye. Which reminds me, you still owe me for both.”

“Then you can add this to my debt!”

Revekah brought her knee up between his legs. Kurkas yelped and sank away.

“Well played,” he gasped.

Revekah lunged.

“You’re certain of this? I’ll not think less of you for changing your mind.”

Calenne sighed with exasperation. “How many times must you ask that question?”

Viktor shot her a sidelong glance as they left the quartermaster’s tent. Her travelling clothes topped with borrowed breastplate, sword and a rich king’s-blue cloak, Calenne looked every inch her mother’s daughter.

“At least once a day.”

“I’m giving you my hand, Viktor. Not my soul.”

“That’s not the part that concerns me.” The wedding, and all the complications it awakened, were a problem for another day. A day that might never come.

Her forehead wrinkled, then smoothed. “I know. I’m not a fool. I’m prepared for the risk. At least . . .” She paused, her lip twisting as if chewing on bitter fruit. “At least I’ll have done something for someone other than myself.”

Would she say that if she’d lost as many comrades as he? If she knew not only the cost, but the tally of blood and fear in which the reckoning would be levied? Viktor wasn’t sure. Then again, who was he to judge? Guilt and duty differed only in the timing. Perhaps he only embraced one to avoid the other? And in the end, what did it matter if the gathering war claimed Calenne alongside the hundreds it would surely take before it was done? To the world, almost nothing. But to Viktor himself?

Perhaps it wasn’t her commitment he questioned, but his own.

Lost on a sea of troubled thought, he let most of the distance to his tent fall away before speaking. “Your mother would be proud.”

Calenne snorted. “My whole life, I’ve been surrounded by people certain that Katya’s voice carried to them from beyond the pyre. But this time? Maybe you’re right.”

Viktor nodded. “I’m certain . . .”

A dozen paces ahead, the tent shuddered. A man’s cry of pain split the air.

Viktor covered the distance at a flat run and ripped the tent-folds aside. He took in the prone, bloody Kurkas; the white-haired woman with a naked sword. She spun towards him, face contorting with anger.