Page 7 of Artemysia

“ This feast is the real reward.” - Delphine

“C aptain. Captain? Elphie. Wake up. We’re going to be late. I don’t want to miss the free food,” Throg urges. Our official promotion ceremony is today, and those who’ve moved up in rank are invited to the main castle stronghold here in Stargazer for a banquet.

Food . “I’m up…” My poor head. I don’t drink often, and the brandy from last night has stuck around in the form of a raging headache.

I squint up into the frosted light of our window.

Throg is pulling his boots on, his sapphire blue cravat tied neatly around his neck.

Blue for corporal, which will be replaced by the forest green of commander today.

“I don’t see any sign of life over there,” he says, angling his head.

I grumble an incoherent response and rub my eyes.

Throg taps his expensive pocket watch in my face and punctuates his point by ripping off my quilted covers. I kick out at him, but he backs away in time and lets loose his deep, hearty laugh.

“Also, a cadet stopped by with a message. You’re to meet with all twelve colonels in the war room after the feast.”

“All of them? Today?” I roll upright slowly, the world spinning slightly as I stand and shuffle over to my wardrobe. “You think our next assignment is that important?” It’s unusual for the colonels to gather all at once.

Perhaps our next mission will take me by the West River, where I used to live. It’s been ten years. I often wonder if the farm is still there, or if it’s been destroyed by Syf.

Throg shrugs his bulky shoulders and tosses a freshly ironed shirt in my direction.

What would I do without him?

An armoire of high-collared white shirts and brown riding pants makes it easy to get dressed, but I don’t always get to the ironing myself. I might be the brains and strategy of our team, but he keeps the details and logistics in check.

With a quick glance, I check the weather through the window overlooking the training courtyard from our second-floor dorm.

The morning mist that rolls into the valley from the sea to the east and west of our peninsula hasn’t burned off, so I choose my long coat instead of my cloak.

Both have a white moonflower with a blue center embroidered on the left breast pocket, the crest of the current High King of South Kingdom.

I twist and tie my cravat into a neat fan that cascades down my sternum and repeat the familiar colors of rank to quell my anxious thoughts.

“Violet—Cadet.

“Sapphire blue—Corporal.

“Forest green—Commander.

“Gold—Captain.

“Crimson—Colonel,” I mutter under my breath. Again . “Violet, blue, green, gold, crimson.” I’ve repeated this like a meditative mantra since my violet cadet days whenever I need to calm down and focus.

Now, I’ll have gold around my neck. One step closer to the top. Closer to crimson, where I’ll sit at the king’s table in the war room, able to make the biggest difference. For a future with less hurt and death.

My pulse rises sharply. Violet, blue, green, gold, crimson.

Throg taps the sole of his polished boot on the stone floor, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.

“Hurry up. It’ll take us twenty minutes to ride to the High King’s castle. I’ll go get our elk ready.” He’s freshly washed and smells like oranges from the oils he uses. His fair curls are waxed into place.

For someone so hedonistic and free with his love life, and really, most other activities, Throg loves schedules and being on time.

“Pain in the ass,” I mumble. “Your obsession with getting everywhere early—”

“Keeps us from missing the good meats that they only bring out once,” he retorts. “Fire-roasted boar. Twelve-hour braised hare.”

I laugh, but he folds his arms across his chest, reminding me that my lack of obsession for punctuality will make that vein on his neck throb if I don’t get going.

Speeding up, I braid a black ribbon into my long hair before pinning the strays into place.

My father used to joke that my hair lost its color when I was a child because I worried too much.

Now, I keep an undercut, leaving the top long.

I sweat less with the sides short. Other than our basic uniform, the higher-ups don’t dictate what we do with hair and accessories such as bandoliers and holsters and weapons of choice.

Whatever gets the job done when it comes to killing Syf.

After all, Syf don’t care if we all match or not.

But today, we’re meeting the High King and the colonels, so I take the time to look a little neater.

I choose my dual holster that crosses like an X behind my hips.

A scabbard hangs on each side near my pants pockets, and I sheathe my two short swords—my favorite weapons in a fight, meant to be wielded one in each hand.

By the time I meet Throg at the stables, he’s ready with our saddled elk, and alongside others receiving promotions today, we ride toward the large rectangular stone fortress made of southern mountain granite.

The High King’s castle.

The ceremony takes all morning in the grand hall. Lined with long wooden tables and chairs, the hall seats five hundred or so. Royal blue and silver banners line the high stone walls.

There’s a lot of standing and taking oaths on the main dais, where High King Galke of South Kingdom leads the ceremonies from a throne carved out of a monolithic piece of granite.

Many speeches later—names and ranks and awards announced, new silk cravats handed out—we’re finally feasting on the mouthwatering spread prepared by the High King’s chefs.

Rare meats, dozens of hearty sides, and colorful desserts. Desserts . Plural. A dream come true, in a land where sugar is hard to come by.

This feast is the real reward.

I forget about my lofty goals of saving humanity from the Syf.

I would have enlisted just to eat this food once every few years when I’m promoted.

Meat and bread and pastries pile up on my plate in a ridiculously chaotic manner.

Do I care if my duck meat in port sauce is stacked over the slice of cherry vanilla frosted cake?

No. I’m not picky about details like that.

My elbows are on the wooden table as I hunch over, shoveling food into my face.

When I glance at Throg beside me, he has nothing to say because his attention is on his third plate of meat.

He always says that bread is a waste of stomach space and goes right to his belly fat.

Gods only know how many glasses of wine he’s washed down that trunk of a throat of his.

So when an attendant approaches in his royal blue tunic that matches the blue center of the large moonflower embroidered across his chest, and politely asks us for a moment of our time, Throg ignores him while I pretend I don’t hear anything over the clinking silverware and din of hundreds of hungry, feasting soldiers.

They probably want me to sign an extra copy of my certificate of promotion or deliver a spare cravat, but food takes precedence over bureaucratic chores.

The poor attendant clears his throat again. “Please, Captain Julian, High King Galke requests your presence urgently.” The sunlight streaming in from the high windows in the stone walls around us highlights the creases in his young brow.

The king requested me? I thought it was only a meeting with the colonels, to be held after the feast. A quick glance at the dais shows the king is no longer in the hall.

What did I do wrong? My mind jumps to someone reporting that a new captain was seen kissing a messenger.

Ugh, what was I thinking? No, that can’t be it.

“Commander Throgmorton, too.” The young man’s voice cracks.

Throg is in the middle of gnawing on a duck leg when I elbow him in the ribs.

He wipes his greasy lips with a napkin and swallows.

A long-suffering sigh escapes from deep inside his throat, as if it isn’t our duty to serve king and country.

He throws a menacing glare at the attendant and slides back his wooden chair with a loud scrape against the stone floor.

“War room is this way,” the attendant says meekly.

Throg sulks. “We know where it is. We aren’t cadets.”

I throw the poor boy a smile to counter Throg’s irritation and reassure him that Throg won’t crush him with one of his humongous ogre-like hands for interrupting his meal.

After a long walk down a dim corridor, we arrive at the war room. I’ve been here before, whenever I’m called into a strategy meeting with my superiors.

Those are exciting.

But because I excelled in the Academy, I teach strategy courses to the new recruits in addition to combat training, so I regularly report back on progress and changes to curriculum. Mind-numbing bureaucratic stuff.

I’m not sure which to expect today, though.

The attendant raps on the tall wooden door with his knuckles and waits for a reply before shoving it open. He ushers us into a large, smoky hall containing a monstrous table etched with maps. All twelve colonels are there, their crimson cravats around their necks, smoking cigars and arguing loudly.

They stop abruptly when I step over the threshold.

High King Galke of South Kingdom rises from his seat at the head of the rectangular table. He’s slender, shorter than me, and wears an elegant dark blue suit paired with a sapphire-studded crown.

All eyes are on me. This is unexpected. In the past, when I’m called in front of the High King, I’m with a superior.

Someone usually speaks for the seated king, relaying orders, and then we verbally accept our assignment and leave.

Even those meetings are rare, since I suspect they’re more to remind us of the face behind the highest chain of command.

What the hell is going on?

My fists are clenched, and I’m breaking into a cold sweat as I somehow remember to bow at the waist, with Throg following suit.

“Captain Delphine Julian, Commander Orion Throgmorton. Welcome. I’ll keep this short.

” The High King’s commanding voice is a low baritone, his mouth framed by a salt-and-pepper beard.

He’s ruled for almost two decades, having inherited the throne at the cusp of when the Syf started to come out of the woods.

The stress shows in the white overtaking his beard and the graying of his short, upswept hair.

There are rumors that he’s cracking, willing to assign riskier missions and suffer more casualties in his desperation to fight back against the invading Syf.

“The fate of Stargazer could very well lie in your hands,” he adds, looking down his long nose at me, his hawk-like eyes unblinking in his bronze complexion.

My throat tightens, and the massive amount of food I scarfed down feels like it’s going to make its way back up. Not because I’m being called on for my capabilities to serve whatever purpose the king has in mind. I’ve been doing that for a decade. Dangerous assignments don’t faze me anymore.

I’m not shaken because of that.

But because sitting next to High King Galke of South Kingdom—while everyone else rises to their feet because the king stands—is a dark-haired, fresh-faced man in a fine three-piece suit that fits impeccably over his muscled arms. He glares at me with unjustified scorn in his glacial eyes, the left one cut by the claw of a Syf.

Riev.