Her breath comes in staccato gasps and her mouth is slathered with blood inside and out. The red spatter fills in the empty spaces between her blue runes, and the knot in the center of her forehead adds a purple hue to complete the frightening composition of Evie’s battle-torn face. She stands over the fallen taskmaster of the Savage Legion and feels the rush of elation and victory overwhelming the pain wracking her body.

Evie moves her gaze over the field. The fighting that was so fierce and heated and thick what seems like only moments ago has largely ceased. The ground between the dead Savage Legionnaires is now littered with more bodies, and most of them are wearing Skrain armor. Evie sees Sicclunans and B’ors warriors and Savages with faces both painted and unpainted tending to the wounded, either helping their injured compatriots from the field or dealing mercy to mortally wounded enemies.

She turns and peers into the distance, at what began this day as the Crachian battle line. It no longer exists. Evie sees Skrain soldiers and Savage Legionnaires fleeing the field, running for the safety of the garrison. They’re met by several scattered Skrain officers on horseback, their pages, and a few flag soldiers. Eventually all the remaining Skrain turn tail and flee.

Let them run back to the safety of the keep, Evie thinks to herself. She’s seen the inside of the garrison. She knows they hurled every soldier and Savage they had at her little rebellion. There will be virtually no one left behind to defend the keep. It will fall to them before the day is over.

Evie’s weary eyes search the battlefield, past B’ors warriors separating the few worthy fallen among their enemies for honorable burial; Yacatek is among them, leading the way, already etching in the blade of her stone story dagger. Evie’s gaze finally locates Lariat, punching a katar blade down into the chest of still-moving Skrain soldier. Not far from him, Mother Manai is pulling a dagger from between Bam’s shoulders. Evie’s self-appointed bodyguard is standing under his own power, and he barely seems to take notice of the blade leaving his back, so she has to believe he’ll live.

Evie begins to feel a creeping sensation along her battered spine. It’s not a physical malady plaguing her; it’s the cold tingle of fear. She can’t seem to spot Sirach among those still standing on the field, and she’s not a woman who is difficult to pick out of a crowd. Evie realizes she hadn’t considered an outcome in which she would live and Sirach would not. She also hadn’t considered how much that outcome might affect her.

“You know, you are quite simply a good planner.” The voice is familiar and as inappropriately delighted as always. “You do, in fact, plan good things.”