Viktor halted two hundred paces distant of the Hadari shield wall. He thrust his claymore into the ground and folded his arms. He offered no words. He’d done this enough to know none were necessary.

Sure enough, the line parted. A black-cloaked Immortal rode clear. He cantered closer, his face hidden beneath a crested helm.

Viktor’s shadow seethed in eagerness. He sucked down a deep breath and dragged the recalcitrant magic into his soul. Too many eyes were on him. It was one thing to set the shadow loose in the chaos of battle, and another entirely to do so on an open field.

He made no move to approach the oncoming rider. Every passing moment increased Calenne’s chances of bringing order to the buckled line. He didn’t dare look behind, for fear that his motive would stand revealed. Instead, he spared a glance to the south, where black uniforms fought for the shallow rampart of the farmhouse walls, and to the north where white flame burned bright among the trees. Distractions, both. This battle had begun with the Phoenix. It would end with her.

The black-cloaked Immortal dropped from his saddle. Leaving his twin swords in their scabbards, he offered a deep bow. Viktor grunted. Strange how you could meet politely with an enemy even as you planned his death. Maybe war was like politics after all.

“Lord Akadra. Hard to believe we’ve not met before.”

Like most Hadari of Viktor’s acquaintance, the man’s Tressian was oddly accented, but otherwise fluent. He’d often wondered at the curiosity of learning an enemy’s tongue, but never enough to adopt anything of the shadowthorns’ fluid speech. Screams sounded much the same in any language.

“And you are?”

“Hal Drannic. Son of Harvald Drannic, and champion to his glorious majesty Kai Saran.”

“His majesty isn’t glorious enough to fight his own challenges?”

“Only when the opponent is worthy.”

“Worthy enough to fight his majesty’s champion.”

“Someone has to sweep filth from the doorstep.”

The last was spoken without rancour. Drannic was playing a role. Much like Viktor himself. A loyal servant to the crown prince. War killed more good men than bad.

Viktor scraped his claymore clear of the soil. Under cover of the motion, he glanced over his shoulder. A row of unbroken shields stared back. Good. No reason for further delay.

He brought the claymore up in a two-handed high guard, the blade angled downward. “Sweep away.”

Drannic’s swords whispered free of their scabbards.

Viktor circled right. Drannic matched the motion and extended his right-hand blade. A tempting target. Sweep that sword aside and take the champion’s heart before the other could land. Viktor knew it for a trap. Instead, he kept moving and waited for his foe to make a mistake.