Kos Devren stirred at her father’s side. Bony fingers tugged thoughtfully at a thin beard. “And I doubt if this victory was truly yours.”

Melanna’s father shot him a warning glance. Her spirits lifted. At least he believed her. Or at least was not ready to countenance criticism. Hal Drannic, seated to her father’s left, spoke no word. His face was an impassive mask.

“Whatever the truth,” rumbled Melanna’s father, “you had no place here. You have no business wearing that armour, nor bearing that sword. You will surrender it to me.”

She gripped the hilt. Surrender the goddess-given sword? “I will do no such thing.”

A twitch of the reins, and her father trotted closer. He leaned low in the saddle. Hurt welling in his eyes, he spoke too softly for anyone else to hear.

“Essavim, if you hold any love for me in your heart, end this game.” He straightened, his voice raised to proclamation. “Give me the sword.”

Melanna let her hand fall from the hilt. “It is not mine to give. It is of the goddess. As my purpose is of the goddess.”

Devren snorted. “Are we supposed to be impressed? We’re not impressionable handmaidens.”

Melanna ripped the sword from its scabbard and held it aloft. White flame blazed free. Gasps broke out among the Immortals’ ranks. Some incredulous, most undercut with fear.

“Protect the prince!”

Drannic, curved swords already in hand, spurred between would-be emperor and wayward daughter. Immortals broke ranks to join him, their own blades scraping free.

Sera darted past Melanna’s shoulder. A silver shard-spear glinted to life in her hands. She was not alone. Lunassera formed a wall of braced spears between Melanna and her father’s escort.

“I am not deluded!” Melanna shouted. “I am not a liar! I am Ashanal. I am chosen. I fight for my father, whether he accepts it or not. And I will bring him victory in the goddess’s name!”

She sheathed the sword. Alone of his escort, her father showed no fear – and for a wonder, no disappointment.

Melanna set a hand on Sera’s shoulder and nodded. The lunassera withdrew. Melanna stood alone before the drawn swords of her father’s escort. The last of her fear had gone. Reluctance was but a memory. The path ahead was clear as moonlight on open water.

Kneeling, she unlooped her sword belt and held it extended. “If you believe yourself worthier of this sword than I, then take it, Father. But it will serve you no better.”

Moments creaked past. Melanna fought the tremor in her arms and the urge to break eye contact with her father. Only two roads led away from this point, and the route not taken would remain for ever closed. Drannic leaned back in his saddle. His lips moved silently at his master’s ear.

Melanna’s father nodded. “I will speak with my daughter. Alone.”