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Torj didn’t respond.

‘Not going to deny it?’ Wilder pressed, hoping to rile up his brother in arms just a little.

But Torj shook his head. ‘Why should I? Why shouldn’t I want what you have?’

That took Wilder aback. Despite all the wisdom Torj had dispensed over the years, he still hadn’t expected the Bear Slayer to be so open.

‘You shouldn’t deny it,’ Wilder said honestly. ‘You deserve what you want, brother.’

Torj’s expression grew distant as the flames cast shadows across his face. ‘If only wanting made it so, eh?’

Wilder thought of the piece of jade that was nestled between Thea’s breasts. He wanted for it not to matter, for their fates not to be ruled by a gods-damned stone.

‘If only.’

The next morning, the training began in earnest. Wilder left the endurance and fitness drills for the captains to oversee while he took charge of the battle tactics and formations they needed to master before they’d hold their own on the field. He found an empty paddock by the perimeter of Talemir’s shield, and there he led a cavalry unit of fifty men and women with varying riding and fighting experience.

In simple terms, he swiftly explained some of the more basic military formations they would need to understand before he moved them into position himself.

‘Not there,’ he called to one man who seemed intent on ignoring him. ‘In line with the rest. You need to form a wall.’

Not for the first time, he found himself deflated by the quality of the soldiers in their midst. He was used to training shieldbearers and Guardians of Thezmarr – those who wished to be shaped into warriors, true defenders of the midrealms. He said as much to Talemir when he joined Wilder to assess their progress. The older Warsword fixed him with a long, hard stare.

‘Being shadow-touched doesn’t make you a natural fighter. A lot of these men and women were civilians,’ Talemir told him. ‘I’ve been visiting them in their hideouts throughout Naarva over the years to oversee their basic training, to convince them to join our ranks for this war… But they didn’t sign up for this, Wilder, not truly. Fighting wasn’t a choice for them.’

‘Are you saying I should cut them some slack?’ Wilder asked as they watched his unit march their horses across the field, their lines messy and unevenly spaced.

‘No,’ Talemir replied. ‘Train them hard, harder than you would at Thezmarr. This is our survival we’re talking about.’

The mood was tense when Talemir left. Wilder could feel how on edge every single one of his soldiers was. And he understood; he truly did. It felt like the task ahead of them was impossible: to become a united and formidable unit in a matter of weeks, possibly even just days. If they wanted to survive the fight ahead, they needed a fucking miracle.

As if that wasn’t enough, Wilder could still feel their resentment rolling in waves towards him, and he found himself empathising even now. The shadow-touched, who had fought their own battles within a wraith-infested kingdom for all these years, now had to yield to his command. Wilder knew how dangerous that resentment was. Orders were for nothing if no one respected him enough to carry them out.

‘Take five minutes. Drink some water,’ he told them. ‘Then we go again.’

No one openly rejected his instruction, but he’d have wagered it was only because they were all actually parched. No one spoke to him either, so he watched them talk quietly among themselves, drinking from their canteens and mopping the perspiration from their brows with their sleeves.

Wilder let his mind wander to what Talemir had told him earlier. They had sent scouts to assess the terrain between Tver and Aveum for the strategic advantage, and to clap eyes on the forces that marched across the border. No word yet as to how many men, how many monsters graced King Leiko and King Artos’ ranks.

Wilder took a sip from his own flask, letting the cool water wash down his throat, which was hoarse from shouting. He needed to do better. He needed to make them better. When there were no heroes among them, it would come down to their formations, their lines. They had to hold their own, and break the enemy’s, if there was to be any hope of winning the battle —

‘— giving the Delmirian bitches too much say in the matter —’

The voice cut through Wilder’s thoughts, his gaze snapping to his unit as a deadly calm slid into place. All notions of empathy vanished.

‘They come from a family of traitors. Just look at their kingdom. It’s been in ruins for decades. Now they expect us to follow them? I’d sooner —’

‘Sooner what?’ Wilder bit out, closing the distance between them on horseback and towering over the spineless bastard.

‘Nothing,’ the man replied sullenly, his knuckles turning white around his reins.

Wilder stared him down. ‘By all means, tell me what you’d rather do than follow lightning-wielding warriors into battle.’

‘I meant nothing by it.’

‘Then don’t say it,’ Wilder snapped. ‘There is enough discord in our ranks as it is. And you would do well to remember that the Delmirians might be all that stand between you and those monsters out there.’

The man hung his head. ‘As you say, sir.’