The list went on. Viktor took care to acknowledge each of the captains about the fire. To spare them a word and remind them of their purpose. Too soon, it was done – a reminder of how thin the lines would be come the morrow.

“If there are any more questions, now’s the time.”

“No questions, Lord Akadra,” said Calenne. “But I’d like to say something.”

He dipped his head. “Of course.”

Her eyelids flickered, but so briefly that Viktor was certain everyone else missed her hesitation. Then she stood, her armour bright orange in the firelight as the folds of her cloak fell open.

“Fifteen years ago, my mother made the legend of the Phoenix into a symbol of hope. I won’t pretend that we’re all here for the same reason.” Her voice quickened as she spoke, as it had in the marketplace the day before. “Some of us are fighting for family. Others for duty, or out of pride. And I suspect more than a few because of coin.”

Kurkas’ soft chuckle faded as Viktor’s gaze fell on him. Viktor knew, as he hoped the others did not, how desperately nervous Calenne had been of this speech. She’d fretted over every word and phrase. Viktor had offered to take the burden instead. She’d refused. The Phoenix had brought them together. It was her voice they needed to hear.

“I don’t know what comes after tomorrow,” Calenne pressed on. “Lord Akadra believes that we can put our unhappy history behind us. That northwealders and south can consider themselves kin once more. I don’t know that I agree. But it doesn’t matter, because we are kin, if only for tomorrow. If only because we share an enemy who neither of us can defeat alone. Beyond that, we’ll see. But first, we have to win.”

Halvor closed her eyes, lost in treasured memory. Calenne drew her sword. She’d chosen the blade with care, and with the benefit of Viktor’s advice. It was lighter and slenderer than most, to suit an arm untempered by battle. It shone like silver beneath the moon, and the stylised golden wings of its hilt blazed like fire.

“I have put old wounds behind me. Whether you fight for family, for duty, for pride – or even for coin – I ask you all to do the same. And when Kai Saran is dead, and his army scattered? Maybe that kinship will last.”

She reversed the sword – holding it by the blade as Viktor had tutored her – and extended the pommel above the dying fire in salute. The old salute that predated Konor Belenzo. That came even before the kings of old from whose line Malatriant had sprung. An offering of service. Of protection. A soldier’s duty, and a noble’s responsibility.