“Look alive!” Kurkas bellowed down at the courtyard. “We’ve shad-owthorns in the trees! And someone wake that dozy proctor! We’ve sport for the simarka!”

Even as Kurkas slid towards the ladder, dark trails appeared in the crops. A dozen unseen simarka converged on the tree line.

The cataphract dug back his spurs and dipped his spear. Viktor’s shadow slithered free without urging, unseen in the murk of morning. The cavalryman shrieked as it smothered the light in his eyes. He clawed uselessly at his face, the spear falling from his hand.

Then Viktor was moving. The point of his claymore thrust up through the cataphract’s exposed belly scales. Blade scraped against bone. Weight shifted. The lifeless body toppled from the saddle. Viktor ripped the claymore free. Its bloody arc split the shaft of another spear.

Cataphracts thundered past in a spray of trampled wheat and churned sod. Soil spattered Viktor’s armour. Simarka sprang from the crops, tearing riders from their saddles. Screams and the crash of shields rent the air. A kraikon swept three cataphracts from their saddles in a single swipe. A grunda ploughed headlong into its armoured bulk with a booming, clanging thud. The construct toppled. Lightning arced from its ravaged chest and crackled about armour and spear-tip.

Viktor had eyes only for the emerald-studded armour of the would-be emperor. He’d be there. No man who sought to rule the Golden Court could leave the first assault to another’s command.

A guttural shout sounded. A cataphract galloped in, spear levelled at Viktor’s belly.

The shadow took him without a sound. The man jerked backwards out of his saddle as if a hangman’s noose had closed about his neck.

The horse thundered on. Its rider spun into the path of yet another cataphract. The steed came crashing down in a flurry of limbs. The newly come cataphract rose from the ruin, sword scraping from his scabbard.

Viktor’s first whirling stroke swept the lesser blade aside. The second struck the shadowthorn’s head from his shoulders.

High on the sparsely wooded slope, Melanna saw the first charge strike home. Her father had blooded his sword. She was now free to do the same.

“The men are ready,” announced Warleader Aedrun. “They await only your command. I await only your command.”

His voice held the same reverence as it had after Charren Gorge, when he’d asked her to lead the ritual of his son’s Last Ride. His wasn’t the only familiar face among the gathered shields. Most were survivors of that unhappy skirmish.

Melanna shared a glance with Sera. The handmaiden’s chandirin was as sure-footed as a goat on the uneven slope, and the improvised altar-cloth banner sat furled in her hand. The lunassera nodded. Melanna took her thoughts as a mirror of her own. The moment was come. She, though a mere princessa, had an army of her own to command and duty to meet.