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And I watched as she rebuilt herself once more. Her chin jutted out, her head lifted, and her shoulders squared.

“Rise,” she ordered.

Everyone stood.

Prisca was silent for a few moments. But she had everyone’s attention.

“There are better ways to live than wrestling with constant terror. Than being lied to and stolen from, imprisoned and murdered. And there are worse ways to die than fightingfor freedom, next to the people we love. Our people deserve a different life. A better life. Each and every one of you deserves to live in freedom. You deserve to watch your children learn how to use their magic as they grow. You deserve to live in peace.”

Pride roared through me until I almost shook with it. This woman. She was everything I could ever want. She was so much more than I deserved.

And I’d keep her safe until the day I died.

Cheers broke out. I noted those who didn’t cheer. And I knew Galon and Marth were doing the same.

I walked to her, and she held out a hand. It trembled slightly as I engulfed it in my own.

“You left Zathrian alive.”

She swallowed. “We will see if the healers can keep him that way.” Her gaze searched my face, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her brows. “It was a mistake. I know it. But I couldn’t seem to kill him. After everything he has done…I was too weak.”

“No. You were merciful. They are very different things.”

She shook her head, and I tightened my hold on her hand. “If he were to pick up a sword and lunge at my unprotected back right now, what would you do?”

That line between her brows deepened. “I’d watch you cut him down,” she said, as if I had suddenly become very stupid and she was worried about my mind.

“I’m wounded.”

Panic flared in her eyes, and I grasped her hand tighter. “In this situation,” I clarified. “I’m wounded and slow and won’t see him coming. What would you do?”

“I’d kill him.”

I nodded, lifting my other hand to run my thumb along her brow until her frown disappeared. “That is the difference between weakness and mercy, wildcat. Even after everything you have seen, and everything that has been done to you, your heart is still so big. You’re still kind. You still see the good in people, no matter how little of it there is.”

A hint of color crept into her cheeks. She opened her mouth, and then her eyes widened once more as her gaze landed on my neck. I knew what she could see. Soltor had struck particularly deep along the side of my throat. “You’re still bleeding, Lorian. You need a healer.”

She glanced around, just as Galon and Marth approached.

Galon wrapped his arm around Prisca. He wasn’t someone who hugged others often, but he squeezed her close. “Proud of you,” he murmured into her ear.

Marth slapped her on the back, cleared his throat several times, wiped at one eye, and ducked his head.

I surveyed the soldiers standing in groups around us. Many of them stared, while others spoke in low voices. We had this army, but after Zathrian’s poison, the hardest part would be keeping it.

Orivan strode toward us. When he glanced in Zathrian’s direction, his gaze lingering on the healers who fought to save his life, something that might have been sorrow slipped across his face.

Prisca might have Orivan’s loyalty now, but it had belonged to Zathrian first. I would be keeping a close eye on the hybrid general.

“I would like a tour,” Prisca said before Orivan said a word.

He glanced down at her tunic, still stained with her cousin’s blood. But he didn’t argue. “Of course.”

Next to me, Galon nodded approvingly. Prisca was young, female, and everyone knew she had been raised human, in one of Regner’s villages. She couldn’t afford to show a hint of weakness.

Already, the soldiers were dispersed back to their tasks, and as we left the arena, many of them immediately filed in to resume their training, the healers moving Zathrian away to work on him elsewhere.

The camp sprawled efficiently across a wide, flat expanse of land—the perfect spot for such a gathering, given how close we were to the Cursed City to our north and the Normathe Mountains in the southeast. The command tent was stationed a hundred footspans to the left of the arena, in the center of the camp, its canvas walls taut against steel frames. Around it, the tents for the high-ranked soldiers were meticulously aligned and equally spaced.