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ELO WOKE IN ARREN ’ S ARMS AS THE WAR HORNS BLEW. The pressure in the air was intense, heavy. His king had a leg draped over Elo’s calf, his belly to his back, and his left arm wrapped tightly around his chest.

But Elo’s spine was starting to burn.

Wake up.

Elo jumped upright at Hestra’s voice, and Arren’s eyes shot open, disorientated for a moment as he looked at his knight, a sleepy smile forming on his lips.

Then a horn sounded.

‘Shit,’ said Arren.

They both looked at the ceiling, but the light coming through was grey. It wasn’t an emergency. It was just the dawn summons.

The end of their war.

‘My king,’ came voices at Arren’s tent door. ‘We’re here to make you ready.’

‘Fuck,’ hissed Elo, looking around. His shirt and trousers were scattered from wall to floor, and he was stark naked.

Both of them were. Elo had thought returning the evening before that Arren would be angry with him, jealous perhaps of the time he had spent with Kissen, Inara and Skedi.

But he had only wanted them to hold each other for one more night.

I haven’t earned the right of jealousy.

It hurt when he said things like that. Made Elo think Arren had learned something. But was he so calm because Elo always came to him, in the end, and because he thought he always would?

Still, Elo had intended to leave by morning.

‘Commander general, we are here for you too.’

He and Arren looked at each other, and Arren chuckled.

‘It’s not funny,’ Elo hissed.

‘It’s not like they don’t know,’ the king said. ‘I am not the first monarch to love a knight.’

‘It’s …’

‘Come in!’ said Arren, as Elo whisked up the bedsheets to cover himself. There was no time for squabbling, and when the armourers came in, they already had his gear with them, from padding to mail, to cap and helm.

‘Sunbringer, we have what you requested,’ said a broad man, who, with another, was carrying in golden armour. Elo recognised the showy plates that Arren had worn for the march on Lesscia, its helm covered with antlers and rays. Heavy and unyielding.

‘It’s not practical,’ said Elo, while Arren stood shining and naked, hands on his hips, the flames in his chest bright and strong.

When they were together, Hestra was there too, warmth and fire, blood and lust. She had entwined herself with Arren’s will, becoming more a part of him than ever.

Elo had managed not to let it unnerve him. ‘And it makes you a target.’

‘Exactly,’ said Arren, and nodded for the armourers to come forward before leaning down to grab his cotton braies and pull them on.

Elo’s stomach was turning already. He dropped his sheet and pulled on his hose, then went to the washstand to splash his face with cold water. It had ripples in the surface; a thousand fighters, animals, cooks, blacksmiths, were shaking the earth with their movement.

The tent door opened again, and Methsme entered with Knight Commander Peta, looking proud and haughty in her white dress, though this time she wore a breastplate over it. Peta herself was in full armour, her gleaming briddite longsword at her waist. Both entirely ignored Elo’s presence.

‘What is this, knight commander?’ said Arren. ‘If you are trying to convince me to stay back from the field, I—’

‘Cleric Methsme requests,’ said Peta, ‘that she may join you.’

Arren looked at her, frowning as his leggings were pulled on, and his gambeson tugged over his shirt. ‘A field is no place for weaponless clerics.’

‘I wish to see you face the fire god,’ said Methsme, with a bow, her eyes on Arren’s flaming chest. ‘This is the day of your ascension. What kind of cleric am I, if I do not stand at your side?’

Arren looked at Peta questioningly. ‘And what do you think?’

It was idiotic, Elo thought, though he would not particularly mind if the fool-cleric got herself on the wrong end of an arrow. He yanked on his shirt, and his own armourers came forward with his padding.

‘Fireheart,’ said Peta, ‘I must admit, I have known cleric Methsme for some time. Before you showed us the flame in your chest, the god that you are, she and her clerics were already singing for you.’

Elo frowned. He knew it was strange that those women had known how to overwhelm the knights on the Silverswift and hide their knives.

But what could he do? They had worked so hard on creating unity, consistency, trust. He could not cry foul now and send a knight commander into the stocks on the edge of battle.

Nor could he throw accusations at popular clerics.

He wanted Arren to deny Metshme, stuff her back in a tent and keep her away, if only because Elo did not trust her.

‘Why did you not tell me this before?’ said Arren to Peta gently. The commander cleared her throat.

‘I feared you would think the songs of commoners and soldiers … beneath you,’ she said.

Elo gave Arren a sceptical look. Don’t do it, he tried to say with his expression. Don’t let them coddle your pride, don’t let them near you.

Arren shook his head slightly, as if to say too late for that.

‘Methsme,’ he said, ‘despite our differences, you have done great work for me. If you wish to join us on the battlefield, you may be fitted with armour and a knife.’

The cleric dropped to her knees, pressing her face to the floor. ‘Thank you, Fireheart,’ she whispered.

‘Knight Commander Peta.’ The older knight bowed low and deep. ‘Tomorrow we will discuss honesty in our council, agreed?’

She breathed out in relief. ‘Yes, Sunbringer.’

‘Then go, I’ll be out in the field shortly.’

Once they were gone, Elo sighed. ‘That was a mistake,’ he said, as the armourers fitted his chain mail. ‘What if she trips on her stupid ribbons. Or her antlers fall down?’

Arren laughed. ‘What harm can one cleric do? She can lift a knife, but not a sword.’ He shrugged. ‘I could see the colours around them, the emotions they have. Those two are so bright it’s blinding.’

It’s faith, said Hestra, and Elo flinched at her voice in his head, though it sounded softer than it had before. It consumes them.

They were out and onto the fields before the final waking horns had been blown.

The reports said that the Talicians were moving as expected, and that Estefin had proved useful after all.

They likely knew by their own scouting that Middren had set the pitch for battle, and they had committed to it nonetheless.

They were as confident as the krka had said, with their tactics of brute force and a powerful god.

A horse was brought to Elo, saddled. A grey, thank the gods, not another brown with a flash on their nose. Elo mounted swiftly and followed Arren as they rode out into the field.

The armies were moving, obeying the calls of their commanders.

The colours of each House appeared more sporadically now: either the surcoats had become dirtied, or the fighters had lost their interest in representing their House over their king.

Most of the spaces they passed reeked of sour beer and strong spirits, and he saw many worse for wear, their eyes red, their skin sallow.

At least they had not run.

Arren nodded at those he passed, the grid of his face open, showing that this time he was fully present. This time, he would be fighting alongside them.

Elo kept behind him, looking around, checking that the formations were moving as they had been ordered.

He saw the gleam of russet hair in the sun, a green cloak.

Kissen commanding a contingent of veiga, despite her deep distaste of any kind of group activity.

She saw him, and he caught the flash of gold tooth as she threw him a cocky smile.

Her idea was mad, desperate, but it gave them a chance.

An opportunity to break their enemy’s faith completely.

Arren looked across at Elogast. It was time for them to part.

‘Ride well,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you on the field, commander. Elogast.’

He smiled. If there was worry in his blue gaze, he hid it well.

All this waiting, all the fear, all the pain, it would soon be over.

Elo relaxed his shoulders, his seat on his horse, and nodded.

No last kiss, no soft words, no final dismissal.

All that had needed to be said between them had been said, most that they had desired and buried had been dragged into the light.

And, though he was afraid of each hour that pulled itself over the eastern horizon towards them, Elo would no longer run from the future. Or himself.

He knew exactly who he was.