“Well, as much as we have to talk about, we have a ceremony, yes?” Syrus did not so much as blink as he held Alarion’s gaze. There was no apology, no ritual that could repair the damage Alarion had done to him. If he could have killed Alarion on the spot, free of consequences, his eyes said he would have done so in a heartbeat.

  The feeling was mutual.

  “I appreciate having such an esteemed steward of the Empire to oversee the process,” Alarion said, swallowing down bile and leaning heavily on [Speechcraft] to settle his nerves.

  “After, then.” Syrus smiled warmly, his eyes flicking to Lily. “Dinner. It would be my honor to host the two of you.”

  “Happily,” Lily said. “My mother speaks highly of you.”

  “She speaks highly of everyone, or so I am told,” Syrus replied, the two sharing a laugh like old friends. “Now then, stewards, escort our guests out.” He met Alarion’s eyes one last time, his mouth a thin line as attention fell away from him. “I will see you on the stage.”

  “Get Nessa inside the keep,” Alarion told Lily the moment Syrus was out of earshot.

  “What? Nessa? Why?”

  “Do it!” Alarion told her, his tone unyielding. “She will be near Kotone, somewhere in the yard. Bergman can help you find her, too. Make sure the two of you get her inside.”

  “You need to-“

  “Please!”

  Lily looked ready to argue further, but the steel and desperation in his voice was like nothing she’d ever heard from him. Instead, she nodded. “Okay.”

  Two years. It had been two years without so much as a glimpse of the elder Feln. And now he’d reached out twice in only a few months? Why? It wasn’t as though he’d somehow forgotten the man who killed his daughter until he saw his face in the news.

  Whatever his reason for being here, it wasn’t good. But without anything to go on, the best Alarion could do was play his role and minimize the damage.

  The chances that Syrus already knew about Nessa were next to nil, but the possibility that someone on his staff could see and recognize her was quite a bit higher. Even if they couldn’t, and just as importantly, he had no idea how Nessa would react to seeing Syrus. She probably wouldn’t recognize him on sight—Alarion hadn’t—but if she made the connection…

  She’d been getting better since her last big blow-up, more comfortable in her ‘skin’ and her place in the world around her. Seeing Sierra’s father could provoke a terrible backslide. But then, so could finding out he’d kept her from seeing Syrus. He’d have to find time after the ceremony.

  “Today is just full of surprises, isn’t it, Young Master?” ZEKE asked, his voice kept silent from the exiting masses by way of [Conspiratorial Whisper].

  “No, that is definitely the last one,” Alarion muttered, as if wishing would make it so.

  ---

  “I never had the strength of arms to serve the empire the way you do. With honor, integrity, and pride. Each of you volunteered for this duty, knowing the heavy weight of obligation it places upon your shoulders. And I am proud to stand before you, as a mere servant of my people, to declare the Formation of the Two-Hundred and Thirty-Eighth Auxilia Company.”

  A polite round of applause accompanied Syrus’s pronouncement; the assembled soldiers far louder than their civilian counterparts. It was understandable. They’d all volunteered for one reason or another. Disillusionment with their current units, a chance at glory or faith in Alarion, whatever their reason, they wanted to be here for something more than just a cheap photo op.

  It helped that Syrus had spent most of his thirty-minute speech playing to their egos. Whatever else might be said about the man, he knew how to speak to his audience, a true politician through and through. It would be a hard act to follow, but Alarion couldn’t have asked for a more favorable crowd.

  At least this time he didn’t have to keep them from rioting.

  He did, however, have to wait.

  The Formation Ceremony was an old Celesian tradition that had survived their empire by centuries in both Vitria and Ashad. The specifics varied from region to region, but the general air was one of pomp and circumstance. Banners were unfurled, founding documents signed and authenticated, all of it done by the Master of Ceremonies, in this case, Syrus.

  Alarion couldn’t imagine how angry Williams must be. This was his moment, his time to be quoted on the front page in Vitria and have his photo taken with anyone who mattered in the province. The Governor had been hands-on with most of the ceremony, only to have it ripped out from under him at the last moment.

  The how of it was just as curious. Syrus claimed to be delivering a message from the Imperator, and he was unlikely to have made such a blatant, easily disprovable lie in front of so many of his peers. Some new order perhaps? Or blackmail. Either way, Syrus must have known it was coming. There was simply no way he put together such a long speech off the cuff.

  Maybe he’d done one of these before? The speech had been awfully generic.

  As the last of the pomp and ceremony came to a close, Syrus retook the podium. “And now, in the absence of a proper Vitrian officer, the namesake of your company would like to say a few words to close out our ceremony.”

  That absence had always been part of the plan. By law, the unit was required to have a Vitrian officer, no matter how much Williams wished for Alarion to lead it. But the law did not specify that the officer needed to be present—only that they be assigned.

  A twisted part of Alarion admired the audacity of it. Williams offered the position to the son of a seventh seat, a youth of seventeen named Elkiar Desh. It was a prime political position, something he could boast about in his late-season application to VISIT at the end of his induction.

  Four weeks ago.

  Stationed in the northern reaches of the Principalities, Elkiar had to travel to Vitria proper for details on his new assignment. But by then, it was much too late to make the journey to Ilvan-Trai. This terrible, but unavoidable scheduling issue resulted in a letter being sent to inform the Governor.

  It took nearly a month for the whole process to play out, at which point a new officer was, of course, selected. Arabeth Lyre—second daughter of the third seat of the House of Transgression—fit the bill quite nicely, so a letter was sent. She happily volunteered and was the current officer on record for the 238th. Stationed in Imuria, it would take her a little over two weeks to make the journey to her new posting.

  Pity, then, that she only had eleven days left for her induction.

  It was a clever scheme, one buttressed by two crucial facts. It was technically legal, and no one cared.

  Sure, someone could sue; they might even win after a year or two of legal bickering. But for that to happen, someone with means would have to discover the scheme and be willing to expend a not inconsiderable time and money suing a provincial Governor for no meaningful gain. Any family that wanted the prestige of ‘leading’ the 238th could get it if they waited long enough, and no one else had any reason to care.

  The best sort of loophole.

  Syrus stepped back from the podium with the same measured grace he had shown throughout the ceremony. The applause swelled again—reaching a much more considerable peak—before tapering off into a hush as Alarion lifted his hand for silence.

  Nearly two hundred and fifty Awakened men and women filled the parade yard ahead of him, arrayed in fifteen neat columns. It was the whole of his new company, save six stragglers, Dimov among them, who had not arrived in time for the ceremony.

  Most wore the crisp wool of fresh combat fatigues, but roughly a tenth of the crowd wore formal dress uniforms. Most were their Vitrian ‘volunteers’, though some were the sons and daughters of wealthier Ashadi, soldiers like Bergman who could afford a proper uniform for such a momentous occasion.

  Still, aside from the uniforms and some ice-blue eyes staring up from the crowd, Alarion found it hard to tell one group from the other. Every back was straight, every chin lifted, every gaze fixed forward with discipline and focus. Some bore hints of magic under the scrutiny of [Unraveller’s Sense], others carried weapons or tools of their trade, as though ready to fight at a moment’s notice. That was a good sign. One of their most significant concerns had been the risk of nepotism in the selection process.

  Williams wanted a parade show, first and foremost. Alarion wanted to do some good.

  The civilians around them were a much more mixed bag. Most sat in folding chairs, chatting among themselves like guests at a wedding. Just being seen at the event was enough for most of them, so they had little care for what he had to say.

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  That was good too. Alarion wasn’t interested in speaking to them.

  “Martyrs!” Alarion shouted, a little louder than he meant to. “You have been in the heat half the morning, so I will be brief.”

  He could see the few who knew each other exchanging glances amidst the ranks, and he could certainly hear the murmur of confusion among the civilian crowd.

  Calling them ‘Martyrs’ had been Lily’s idea; her second after he’d flatly refused to call them the Orphans.

  Every good unit had a name, not just a number. For most, the name came later, the result of some great deed. The 118th had earned the name The Firespitters after their artillery section had burned down half an infested town in a glorious display. For others, it was a mark of shame, or even humor, such as the aptly named 77th Crazies.

  Few named themselves, but Alarion would be damned if he spent the rest of his time in the Auxilia under the banner of a Vitrian slur.

  “You are here because you choose to be. If you ever choose not to be, my door is open, and you will be reassigned as soon as is feasible. Some of you, I suspect, are here for glory or personal power.”

  Or to spy on me.

  “To you I say, my door is open, and it will look better to ask for a transfer than to be sent away. The rest of you, the majority, I hope, are here for the right reason. To protect the people of Ashad.”

  Alarion made a practiced gesture to the west, to Carling Hill and Ashad-Veldi.

  “Thousands are alive today because men in this fortress did their jobs. Thousands more are alive in the south because brave men and women, including some of you, held a rancid infestation at bay long enough for them to evacuate.” Alarion pounded the podium with his fist, emphasizing each of his following words with an impact. “That is what we do.”

  “I know not all of you chose this life. I did not. I am in my second year, and I have little clue what will come after. But so long as I am here, I will save lives, and I expect you to do so as well. To that end, we will be heading south at our earliest opportunity to assist with the ongoing subjugation. It will be messy, violent work. But every fiend you kill is a fiend that does not rip a child from their bed. Every revenant whose skull you crush is a walking nightmare released from undeath.”

  Alarion paused and took a breath. He was getting too heated.

  “I call us Martyrs not out of any narcissistic urge, but for the same reason Governor Williams numbered us the 238th. So that any son or daughter of Ashad who hears of us will know that help is on the way. And as a reminder of the exact level of dedication I expect from each and every one of you.”

  He let those words hang in the air. Everyone in the audience, except perhaps the newest Vitrian arrivals, knew why the Ashadi called him Martyr in the West, and what that meant for him. It was the second part of the speech that he and Lily had fought over, the core of it.

  If they were placed in the same position, he expected each and every one of them to throw themselves at the enemy to protect the lives of others. Even if it costs them their own.

  “Behind me, you will see a very, very large man. This is Sergeant Kali. My aide-de-camp. If he is speaking to you, then I am speaking to you. If you do not understand what I am telling you, I promise that he will make it very clear.”

  The ‘joke’ did its job of breaking the tension, even if none of them realized just how happy Kali would be to correct anyone who failed to follow such a simple instruction.

  Alarion turned his head, looking toward the gaggle of young menials who had been waiting for their cue to act. He nodded, and they set off at a run, each to a different row. They moved quickly down the line, pushing sealed folders into one set of hands after another as Alarion continued.

  “Your assignments are being given to you as we speak. Some of you are being given an acting promotion to Corporal to fill out our ranks. This does not come with pay or privileges, but if you receive my full recommendation after our shakedown, the former will be back paid.” Again, there was laughter. Lily was right, he really would have been lost without her. “Furthermore-“

  “Master Sergeant!?”

  The sudden interruption caught Alarion cold. He stumbled, trying to remember his place in the speech, then gave up entirely as he saw one of the folders held high in the crowd, waving for his attention.

  “Is there a problem, Specialist?” Alarion asked, adopting his best impression of Kali to badger the offending soldier.

  “There is an error. In my orders,” the man replied, as if they were having a casual conversation.

  The source of the voice finally came into view as the men around the offender broke ranks—either to permit the conversation, or to avoid being mistaken for the idiot.

  He was a handsome idiot, Alarion had to give him that. In his late teens, he was tall and fit, broad-shouldered and quick to smile. His hair was short and blonde, styled forward and spiked up with cosmetics. He looked Rakish and daring, every bit the swashbuckling hero that Nessa had been reading so much about as of late.

  Alarion humored him, already understanding the situation. “Do tell.”

  “You named my brother a Corporal, but not me.”

  No Ashadi volunteer, not even a profoundly stupid one, would have thought this was the time or venue for such a discussion. But then, this one wasn’t an idiot, and the 238th had only one set of brothers.

  “You are the elder of the Tenri Brothers, correct?”

  “You have heard of us,” the young man grinned and marched a little closer, his brother in hot pursuit. Lily had been right on that front; the crooked nose really did ruin the whole look for the younger twin. “Guy Tenri.”

  “Well, Guy, I have good news. Neither of you must worry about promotions, because neither of you is staying.”

  Mandatory or not, this level of outright disrespect was an unacceptable challenge to his authority. Which was the point. The cameras were flashing, and the journalists were taking down every word spoken between them. He had to react or risk losing his subordinates’ faith before it even formed.

  The twins were neither arrogant nor stupid, nor upset about their rank. If they’d both been promoted, they’d have complained about the pay or their team assignments. The interruption was the point.

  “You have no authority to dismiss us.” Guy’s words sounded poorly rehearsed, but they didn’t falter even as a rumble of discontent swelled within his fellow soldiers. “The Governor could. Maybe, but he is not here, is he?”

  Alarion almost felt sorry for the brothers. Their stunt had hurt him, yes. But apart from hardliners back in the empire, no one would see their actions as anything but a profound lack of discipline. Someone in their house had put them up to this, sold their reputation to ruin his ceremony. And for what?

  It wasn’t like Alarion hadn’t planned for something like this.

  “I am the ranking service member on station, handpicked by Governor Williams himself.” Alarion said. “I believe I speak with his authority on this matter. You are dismissed.”

  “You cannot-” Guy began.

  Alarion ignored him, looking to the younger brother. “Does he speak for both of you?”

  The crooked-nosed boy glanced at his brother, then nodded firmly.

  “Both of you, are dismissed.”

  The brothers exchanged a look. Clearly, this wasn’t going the way they planned. Alarion knew he was bluffing, but they didn’t, they couldn’t. Whether Alarion actually had the Governor’s authority to dismiss them could, paradoxically, depend entirely on the outcome of the dispute. Williams was the sort to back the winning horse, and it would be easy to say that Alarion was mistaken without causing his prized Ashadi to lose too much face.

  The only question that mattered, then, was whether the brothers would back down, or double down.

  “We would like to hear that from the Governor,” said Guy.

  Alarion’s jaw tightened. “Are you calling me a liar, Specialist?”

  Even at a distance, Alarion saw them swallow. They’d overplayed their hand, and they knew it.

  “Master Sergeant-”

  “Did you just imply that I was lying Specialist Tenri?”

  “I did.”

  Alarion reached down and pulled a ring from his index finger—one he’d worn for just this occasion—and threw it at the brother’s feet. “I invite a withdrawal.”

  Something, fear perhaps, flashed behind the young man’s eyes as he looked down at that ring. He’d probably been told that violence was possible, but not probable. It was looked down on for a superior to challenge their subordinate to an honor duel, even for such a grave offense. If Alarion lost, he’d look weak. If he won, he’d look like a bully.

  “I refuse,” Guy told him.

  “I demand a withdrawal,” Alarion persisted.

  “Perhaps our seconds can discuss-”

  “No need for that,” Syrus said, startling Alarion, who been too focused to notice him approaching the podium. “As an uninvolved party, I contend that this is an impassible dispute. Will you withdraw your accusation?”

  Alarion struggled to keep his eyes on the man in front of him. Was this part of some scheme? If it were, he couldn’t see the angle. If anything, it helped Alarion by speeding through an obstacle.

  And Syrus sounded almost… amused.

  “No,” Guy conceded, his face growing paler by the moment. “A two-quarters duel.”

  “Agreed,” Alarion replied without hesitation. “Now.”

  The young Vitrian straightened, his chin dipping up with defiance as he responded. “Here. The dueling circle.”

  Alarion hopped down from the stage and marched confidently toward the rapidly clearing circle. Kali came up alongside him as he walked, handing Isha to him while trying and failing to fight back a grin.

  “I really didn’t think they’d be so brazen as to do it now,” Kali said.

  “Lily is going to be sad she missed the show,” Alarion responded.

  It had been her idea to look deeper into the background of the mandatory volunteers they’d been assigned, and it had been she who’d dug up just how deeply in debt the Tenri household really was. If anyone was going to be used as a catspaw, they were the obvious choice.

  “Where is she, anyway? She came out in a huff, grabbed Bergman, and stormed off.”

  “Worry about one thing at a time,” Alarion told him, turning his attention to his problematic subordinate. “Standard Vitrian terms. Is that acceptable?”

  This time it was the younger brother—Tai, if Alarion remembered correctly—who answered. “Does he have a choice?”

  Rather than respond to the petulance, Alarion raised his voice to be heard over the whispers—and betting—already going on around him.

  “I work for a living, so in the field, in training, or any other informal setting, you may dispense with regular decorum. My friends call me Alarion; for now, most of you can call me Orphan. But when we’re discussing a formal duel? Both of you will call me sir. Is that understood?”

  The two brothers exchanged glances and said nothing.

  Alarion scooped his ring from where it had fallen in the dirt, and the older twin took it as a sign. He took his spear from his brother and marched into the dueling arena with the enthusiasm of a condemned man.

  It was hard to tell if Guy was playing up his distress or if he was really that upset at how events had played out, but there was no faking the young man’s nervous ticks as he waited for the duel to start.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  “Are we fighting or not?” Guy asked when Alarion’s casual posture and total silence got the better of him.

  “We are, yes. But standard terms require everyone in the circle to start.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Alarion looked past him, locking eyes with Tai Tenri, “You said he spoke for you. Or were you lying?”

  It took a moment for it to click, but Alarion could see when it did. Guy’s morose expression brightened, then spread into a wide grin as he looked over his shoulder. Tai was already advancing with a similar smirk, moving to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother.

  The twins were a rarity in Vitrian society. Their culture valued individual ambition as much as collective action, two opposing forces that pulled almost everyone to extremes. Some focused on their personal power and used it for the good of the state; others sought institutional strength and leveraged it to their personal advantage. When Vitrians worked together, they did it in larger groups or not at all.

  The brothers were different. Born minutes apart, they considered themselves extensions of one another, and their fighting style reflected that. One person in two bodies with twice as many skills working toward the same goals. On their own, they were terribly unbalanced. Together? They thought themselves unstoppable.

  Satisfied his opponents were ready, Alarion sent his spare ring spiraling upward with a flick of his thumb. They watched it rise, then start to fall. He watched them.

  Was it wrong that he was going to enjoy this?