Viktor pushed his way to the centre of the front line. The wind picked up. The twin banners ripped and snapped, their emblems clear for the first time since dawn. The swan and the phoenix. Together. How things had changed.

“Weapons up!” bellowed Viktor. “And may Lumestra’s light shine for us all!”

The drums crashed in crescendo then faded. Havildars’ swords gleamed along the length of the line.

“Loose!”

Arrows hissed away. Melanna knew those that didn’t fall short would more likely find shields than flesh. But ritual was ritual. Three volleys. Tradition. Once for the goddess, once for the Emperor . . . and once for his heir.

At least, so long as that heir was a son.

The drum-roll crashed back, louder than before. Melanna walked her horse along the cataphracts’ front rank. Spears dipped to her touch, to the blessing of the Ashanal. She acceded with reluctance, and Sera’s silent urging. Was she not the goddess’s chosen? Even if the goddess almost certainly did not approve of what she’d done?

The handmaiden rode a little behind. Her steed was more moonlight and shadow than flesh and bone. Its single pale horn glinted with the same light as its rider’s shard-spear. It bore neither harness nor saddle. Melanna knew of the chandirin from a hundred tales. She’d believed them myth until the herd had arrived with the moonrise. From the eyes widening behind the Immortals’ close-fitting helms, so had many others.

The drums broke off. Arrows blackened the skies for a second time.

At last, she reached her father. Sturdy parentage and a life of battle had gifted Kai Saran with a powerful, barrel-chested physique. One Melanna was glad not to have inherited. Mantled in cloak, crested helm and emerald-studded armour, he looked nothing less than a god – a brother to cold Ashana and radiant Lumestra. The high-browed visage sculpted into the helm’s visor and cheek-pieces only accentuated the comparison.

Melanna spurred past Hal Drannic’s black-cloaked frame and Kos Devren’s unyielding scowl. Close enough to make herself heard over the clamour of the drums. Sera hung back, her chandirin flicking a restless tail.

“Father.”

He stared rigidly ahead across the wheat. “Daughter. Have you come to steal the honour of the first charge?”

“Of course not,” Melanna replied softly. “All I have ever sought is to serve you, as your firstborn should.”

“And if I command you leave the field, as a daughter should . . . Will you do so?”

Still he wouldn’t look at her. Was she such a disappointment that he could barely acknowledge her presence, let alone her desires? Now, on the eve of a battle that might separate them for ever? Melanna’s throat thickened.

“No.” She strove for a balance between respect and firmity. “Because I am your daughter. I am a Saran. If you ask me not to prove my worthiness even as you do the same . . . then I cannot obey.”