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For a moment he was a stripling again, fighting his first battle, with no time to be scared. He parried the blow and feinted. She blocked a blow that never came, leaving her side exposed. Rufe thrust his sword into her side. The woman screamed and went down, taking Rufe’s sword with her.

A man shouted something incomprehensible and charged. Rufe flung his dagger, catching the man in the throat. The Craician went to his knees, one hand on the dagger hilt. Rufe retrieved his sword and dagger and finished the job.

He plunged back into battle. Vihaan and Draylon fought back-to-back, holding off three men.

Rufe charged in, evening the number. Blood smeared Draylon’s cheek. His own? Or someone else’s? Then, all thoughts fled but the man determined to hack Rufe to bits.

Unnamed Goddess, God of War, lend strength to my arm.

He clanged his sword with his adversary’s again and again.

This fighter matched Rufe’s skill. The man brought his sword down.

Rufe blocked, but a moment too late. Fire burned up his arm from a blow struck between gauntlet and armor.

No time to assess the damage now—damage he likely wouldn’t feel the full extent of until later.

Blood trickled into his glove, yet still he fought, driving his opponent back. He caught the man’s sinister grin in the firelight and spun, catching another behind him in the chest with his blade .

The first man hurtled forward, sword high overhead. Rufe kicked the man’s foot from under him with all his might.

The man skidded, eyes going wide, mouth an “O” of surprise. He slid backward, arms windmilling as he fell backward into the sinkhole.

Rufe leaned against a tree, breathing hard, assessing the situation. Two Craician soldiers ran past him in plate armor—so likely wealthy or high-ranking—intent on attacking Draylon. Rufe swung at the back of the first man’s knee, sending him crashing to the ground.

The other man turned, though not quickly enough. Rufe dropped to his knees, ramming his sword into a weak spot in the man’s armor. He fell beside his comrade.

One after another came at him. Was there no end to the Craician forces?

The snow fell in earnest now, beginning to cover the fallen bodies. Rufe sought out Draylon and Vihaan, following them farther into the woods. Dead eyes stared at Rufe from a Craician's face, the man’s snarl intact even in death.

Bodies lay everywhere, some Herixian and Glendoran, but mostly Craician.

“To me!” Cass shouted from somewhere to their left.

Rufe sprinted in that direction.

The empire’s forces had a group of Craicians in their center. Some of the enemy continued to fight, others huddled together, defeated .

A man with what might have been a captain’s insignia suddenly whirled, slashing his own soldier across the throat. Don’t let them take you alive. Rufe had heard the Craicians would rather die than surrender, but had doubted the tales until now.

The Craicians turned on each other. Hacking, stabbing, and dying too fast for anyone to intervene. When only the captain remained, he spat blood on the ground, staring at Cass, and drew his own blade across his throat.

Cass didn’t stop the carnage.

“What about questioning them?” Rufe asked.

“We’ve already taken plenty of prisoners.

This is their way. They fought hard and deserved to die in the manner they chose.

” Cass saluted the fallen captain. “We have soldiers combing the forest for stragglers, but with heavy snow falling, any who escape capture likely won’t survive long.

Delletinian winters show no mercy. Come. ”

The triumphant defenders trudged back to the city over the road, not through caves, Herixian soldiers chanting a spirited tune, the words of which Rufe couldn’t make out. “What of the dead and injured?” he asked.

Cass swept a hand out toward a group of soldiers wending their way through the trees. “We have a unit trained to triage the wounded and another to gather our dead.”

He fell into step beside Rufe, Draylon, and Vihaan. Rufe didn’t want to think about the dead they’d left behind.

Rufe sat on a cot in the barracks infirmary, holding his arm out for a grizzled old man with bushy gray brows. “It’s but a scratch,” Rufe complained, his tone one step away from a whine. Given his previous injuries, a sword graze hardly deserved notice.

The man applying ointment sneered. “That’s what they all say before the wound turns vile, and I have to hack the arm off.”

Rufe stopped complaining. He’d known too many soldiers who lost hands, arms, and legs. How many were lost, not to injury, but to infection?

Draylon approached sans armor, blood smeared on his face and hair. One look reminded Rufe of why the people of other kingdoms called Cormirans barbarians.

“If Yarif saw you now, he’d blame me,” Rufe said. Yarif tried so hard to make a civilized man of his husband. A lost cause, but Rufe had to give the guy credit for the effort.

“I’d blame you too.” Draylon gave a tired smile. “You’re so easy to blame.”

Rufe summoned the energy for a laugh. “Just because in the past I was responsible for about seventy-five percent of the messes we got into doesn’t mean I’m always the cause.” Speaking to Draylon diverted Rufe’s mind from other worries, like how Niam fared at the castle.

“Eighty- five, at least.”

Rufe tipped his head, side-eyeing the ceiling in a parody of thought. Draylon had a point. “All right, eighty-five.”

“At least,” Draylon reiterated.

True enough. “We lived to tell the tale. And now one more battle we emerged from, triumphant.”

Draylon plopped down on the cot beside Rufe. “All battles are the same, aren’t they?”

“Only the ones we win. I’ve never fought alongside sinkholes, snow, and avalanches as fellow warriors before, and I hope never to again.

” Though, as king consort and a man of battle, could this be just the beginning, or would Cormira keep the kingdom safe?

Rufe searched the crowded room filled with moaning soldiers and scolding healers.

“Not that I expected him here, but have you heard anything of Niam?”

“No. Nothing from the castle, though I have found none capable of speaking more than Delletinian to ask properly. My language skills aren’t quite up to the task.”

Rufe nodded toward a bandage on Draylon’s arm. “Were you hurt?”

Draylon shrugged his massive shoulders, failing to hide a wince. “Like yours, simply a scratch.”

The healer finished cleaning Rufe’s wound and stepped back, uttering a curse.

“What?” Rufe demanded. Was he hurt worse than he thought? He stared at the gash bisecting his tattoo. Was the tattoo what set the man off ?

Cass approached, stripped down to his stained tunic and breeches. Blood covered his boots. He placed a hand on the healer’s shoulder and murmured in a soothing tone. The healer nodded and began wrapping Rufe’s wound.

“What’s his problem?” Draylon asked, a challenge in his voice.

So like Draylon, always coming to Rufe’s defense.

“I’ll tell you later.” Cass stood by while the healer finished binding Rufe’s wound. “Come. I’ll take you to the hot springs. Vihaan is already there.”

Rufe trudged after Cass. Yes, a warm bath sounded wonderful, but so did a bed. Or a bedroll. Or a mound of hay in the corner of the barn. Even a chair would do. As long as Niam was safely nearby. Rufe watched his feet, following Cass's torchlight.

Cass stopped, and Rufe looked up. “Hey, this is the temple.”

“I thought you might want to thank the goddess for our victory. And I want to show you something you need to see.” Cass pushed the door open, ushering Rufe inside.

Draylon remained silent, trailing Cass and Rufe into the warm temple.

Rufe no longer cared who saw or what they thought of his worship; he kneeled before the statue of the Unnamed Goddess.

Thank you, Goddess, for delivering us and bringing me to this place and Niam. Keep him and hi… our family safe.

Cass and Draylon remained quiet until Rufe rose. If he kept his eyes closed any longer, he might fall asleep.

“Come see.” Cass led Rufe to the statue .

The statue depicted the goddess with one arm outstretched, a crack in the granite marking her right wrist with a unique zig-zag—a crack matching Rufe’s wound.

“That’s why the healer reacted as he did.” Cass ran a finger along the crack. “The goddess has marked you, giving you her blessing.”

“It’s just a cut! I got careless,” Rufe protested. Really? Were these people so superstitious of a goddess few still worshipped? He recalled his battlefield prayer: Unnamed Goddess, God of War, lend strength to my arm.

The very arm she’d marked.

Cass placed a finger on Rufe’s lips, silencing him. “Though people don't openly worship the Unnamed Goddess, many revere her and respect her claims. Though foreign-born, those who might otherwise reject you must accept you; otherwise, they risk incurring her wrath.”

It’s just a cut!

“Now.” Cass placed a hand on Rufe’s back. “We’ve lingered long enough. Come. This work is far from over.”

“What now?” They’d won the battle. Wasn’t that enough?

“We must round up and investigate those who might be involved in the plot to overthrow King Niam. But first, we bathe.”

Thoughts of returning to Niam vanished. But helping to end the rebellion helped Niam. Rufe would do whatever was needed.

He stared at the statue of the goddess he’d secretly worshipped most of his life.

Had she really marked him as her own? He stared at his wrist, the mark and hated tattoo hidden beneath bandages.

Next, he trailed a finger over the crack on the statue’s wrist. The stone felt warm, possibly because of the hot springs below the temple.

Or could there be other reasons? Chills swept along Rufe’s spine.

He hurried to catch up to Cass and Draylon.