Pilos picked up his heavy war club. Swinging the weapon idly in his hand, he wandered up and down the ragged lines.

‘Warriors,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Fighters. Killers. Proud and upright and strong and fierce. No fear and no regret.’ Some Yaloh watched the club as he passed, a few watched his eyes, most watched his feet, and some watched his chest. Each meant something different – those watching the club thought it the biggest threat, those watching his eyes would likely not bend, those watching his feet were broken. Those watching his chest, though, oh, those were the ones he wanted. They were waiting for him to strike, club or foot or hand, ignoring the lies he’d tell with his face and eyes and focusing on his body to give him away. Those ones recognised that more than just the club was dangerous. Those were the warriors who would win the world for the Melody and the song.

‘You fought gloriously for your people and your way of life, and I honour each and every one of you in my heart, those who stand before me and those who fell. You fought gloriously – and for the wrong reasons.’

A few more eyes snapped up to his face then, a few fists clenched, a few shoulders tightened. Pilos wandered on, undaunted. Feathers and eagles bracketed the lines and a few stood behind him, all relaxed. Strength and confidence would win them to the cause, not brutality. At least, not unless he had no other choice.

‘For moons now you have been under the song. You have heard its ever-changing beauty, its power, its glory. It has slithered into your hearts and spirits and now will never truly let you go. But it does not need to, for the best among you will be inducted into the Melody, to fight for the song and its Empire, for glory, for the Singer and the holy Setatmeh.’

A woman, taller than Pilos and almost as broad in the shoulder, sprinted from the front line behind him. The shift in the prisoners alerted him, that and the prickle along his spine. She didn’t come screaming her war cry; she didn’t come cursing.

She was three strides from him when he spun, club swinging up on the diagonal. At her peak, before her moons of incarceration, she would have been terrifying. Even now Pilos gave her the respect she deserved. She dodged the club, slamming into his chest, the edge of her left hand chopping into his right wrist and numbing his fingers, loosening his grip on the weapon. But it didn’t matter, because the knife in his other hand had opened her from womb to liver. Blood sprayed between them, a puff of crimson almost lost in the sticky grey of the afternoon.