The Thrakkian turned a tear-stained face to the pyre. “Her axe. Her spirit’s gone. She doesn’t need it any longer, and I’d carry a piece of her with me while I can.”

Viktor eyed the flames without enthusiasm. “You’d have me burn alongside?”

“So the Lord Akadra does know fear?”

“The Lord Akadra fears more this night than he has for many years. Moreover, he is not fireproof.”

Armund chuckled. “Hush your whimper. I only need your eyes – my hand will do the work. Show me where I need to stand.”

Viktor set his hands on Armund’s shoulders and guided him until he stood level with Anliss’ withering corpse. “Here. The flames are still fierce.”

“A Thrakkian doesn’t fear flame. He masters it.”

So saying, Armund thrust a gloved hand into the fire. The leather steamed and smouldered. Flames flared about chain as the padded undershirt charred anew.

Armund grunted. His fingers groped for the axe’s haft, closed about it and heaved it clear. He let it fall on the trampled ground and patted urgently to smother the small fires flickering across his arm.

Viktor stared down at the axe. At the fading ember-glow in the runes of the blackened haft. His shadow twitched, uncertain. It hadn’t done so before – not in Armund’s presence. Then again, his shadow had felt different ever since the battle’s ending – or at least his perception of it had shifted. The bounty of acceptance? Or maybe there was more to the ritual than Armund had admitted?

He was about to ask when a new sound joined the distant thunder and the crackle of flames. Hoof-beats. A great many of them.

He shifted his gaze eastward, towards the rising sound. Towards the ravaged field and the remnant of the Hadari camp. Dark shadows against the dawn – riders leaning low over their steeds and drawing closer with every breath.

“What is it?” asked Armund.

“I don’t know,” Viktor replied. “But they’re headed this way. You should hide.”

Armund spat on the ground. “Clink-rot take that.”

“You can’t see, and I can’t protect you. Not against a dozen riders.”

He squatted, his hand patting the ground until it found the scorched axe. “I’m not feared of fire, and I’m certainly not feared of a few Hadari horsemen.”

Viktor let the matter drop and drew his sword. Death was one thing. To die while bickering was unseemly.

The riders were yet two-score paces distant when Viktor recognised the uniforms as Tressian. At a dozen paces, he recognised the leader’s face.

“Governor Yanda? You pick a strange hour to ride. The battle is done. It’s over.”

She blinked away her surprise. Then she sawed on her reins and wheeled the horse to a standstill. The other riders – a mix of wayfarers and knights in Prydonis colours, shuddered to a halt around her.

“Lord Akadra? I expected to find you at camp.”