Trina was dreaming. Of that she was certain. The last thing she remembered was healing Marcus. He had pushed himself to the front with a bayonet on his rifle and torn through half a dozen Burndans but he’d taken a spear to the kidney in the process. She must’ve passed out while she healed him. She needed to wake up. There were more people that would need healing. She may not have healed Marcus enough that he’d survive. He was too valuable, too strong. They’d lost too many already.

  She tried to force herself to awaken, to regain consciousness and she found herself suddenly bathed in golden light. She blinked, thinking the light was the sun and she was waking up, but as it faded she realized that it wasn’t. As the golden light faded, she saw a rift. A massive, ugly tear in the fabric of reality. In front of it she could see two silhouettes. One was of a man wearing a long cloak and a large pointed hat, and another was a heavily armored man holding a shield in one hand and a mace in the other. One seemed to glow with arcane blue light, and the other was encircled by divine gold. They both moved toward the rift, but a pulse of red light smashed into them and knocked them back. They tried again, and the pulse came again, pushing them back and bringing them to their knees.

  There was another flash of light, and standing a few feet in front of Trina was a woman wearing full plate with a beautifully intricate braid down her back and a tower shield held firmly in one hand. She looked to Trina, and she recognized her immediately.

  Trina went to bow, or kneel, but was stopped by some force. She looked up to see Seras holding a hand out to her.

  She reached out, and when she grabbed her hand they began walking toward the rift. Toward the two silhouettes that were facing it.

  …

  Tain hung somewhere between life and death. He’d been shot, three or four chunks of metal had been dug from his chest and they had given him a thick syrupy draught for the pain. His mind was a slurry of incoherent and out of place thoughts. His father taking him hunting with Rein. Fighting in the Festival of Blades at the Academy. Hunting the titled beast. Holding his brother’s hand, the last thing that had been left of him after he’d been struck by the fireball. The taker telling him to move, to run, his eyes filling with sadness for him…and pity. Pity for a man that had activated his brand and thought him less than human. He remembered writing the letter to his father and mother. Telling them how Rein had died bravely. It was all pointless though. Tusinya, Stent, Takers, Soldiers, it was all bullshit. He’d seen men killed in an instant, he’d killed scores of mercenaries and soldiers. He’d spat in under-general Bucal’s face and been beaten for it. Been put on the front lines. At least there were brief moments there where things made sense. Where it was as simple as swinging a sword or dying. He let the haze take him for a moment, losing all sense. What was the point? He should just let himself slip away.

  ~FIGHT~

  Tain groaned as an awful clarity briefly broke through the haze, the mist of oblivion. What was that voice? Was there someone yelling in the infirmary? His eyelids were heavy and when he forced them open he saw only the canvas ceiling of the tent and heard only the groans of the other injured. He let his eyelids droop and his mind go dark again.

  ~FIGHT!~

  The voice was stronger this time, and for a moment the pain across his body came into crystal clear focus. What was the point of fighting? Just so his father could brag about his son having another medal? So that Stent could stave off losing a little longer?

  ~There’s always a fight worth fighting. You just have to find it.~

  He inhaled sharply as his muscles tensed. A kind of fire in his center started to burn. Simmering coals started to put up small flames. Was there a fight worth fighting? A reason to stay alive?

  ~Always~

  He saw an image then. A great tear burning a savage red. He felt the sensation of a sword in his hand as the vision enveloped him. For just a moment, he felt righteous. It had been a long time since he’d felt that way. He heard a name then, and muttered it, in the twilight between life and death.

  “Durand…”

  …

  Pyotr was practicing moving his magicka between his channels, trying to improve how quickly he could do so. He was blindfolded after his last escape attempt when they’d realized he was as magically capable as he was. He was in a cool space, sitting on a chair. He was surprised. Aside from the beating he’d received when he’d attempted escape, he’d been treated relatively well. He’d been fed two meals a day, and otherwise been left alone. This was the first time he’d been taken out of the holding cell he’d first been put in. He was fairly certain he was in a tent. That was good. It meant he was likely still near the front.

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  There were a number of footsteps and the tentflap opened.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting for so long,” said a mild voice. He recognized it as belonging to the man who had beaten him. The king himself he’d surmised. He was still baffled that such a man had been on the front himself.

  There was a buildup of magicka from him for a moment, followed by a snap of fingers. Suddenly Pyotr felt pressure in his ears, as if they were in a plane that had just been pressurised. He heard the sound of Castor dragging a chair closer to him.

  “I had to take a more personal hand in things than I expected. You should be proud of your allies.”

  Pyotr remained silent.

  “Not feeling talkative? That’s fine. I don’t mind hearing the sound of my own voice.” Even blindfolded Pyotr could tell the man was smiling. “I told my men that I wanted to speak to you about Gemini and Catalanian movements, but what I’m really curious about is Stent. Any chance you’re willing to tell me about that? If you’re this far away from them you almost certainly need to be a deserter. I can’t imagine you owe them much loyalty.”

  Pyotr stayed silent.

  “Something I like to tell my children is that no matter how bad things seem they can be better. You can make a bad day a good one if you just make the decision to change it. How about if I remove your blindfold? It can’t be pleasant to be blinded for so long.”

  Pyotr hesitated, but nodded.

  The King stepped behind him and gently pulled the blindfold from his face. Pyotr blinked a few times, readjusting to the light. He’d been right, he was in a tent. The King moved in front of him and Pyotr got a better look at him. He was a tall man, and lean with a thick head of black hair held back with a simple crown of iron. He was wearing a dark red gambeson as if he was prepared to be rearmored at a moment's notice and his eyes were an incredibly pale green.

  He smiled at Pyotr.

  “That’s better, isn’t it. Now, you just answer my questions and I’ll ensure you have a cot and a third meal from here on.”

  Pyotr nodded. He would never betray his friends, but speaking of Stent? They could rot.

  “I have heard rumors that Stent recruits their Takers and turns them into soldiers. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do they do that? Do they raise them all the way from babes? Is it truly worth doing so?”

  Pyotr shook his head. “They have a cursed well that can age people. They use it to make them fighting age, training them the whole time.” It was an odd question. Was the King considering raising a Taker army of his own?

  “A cursed well?” he laughed. “Now wouldn’t that make things easier. I have also heard that they are controlled with brands on their necks. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t suppose you know if anyone’s ever circumvented them?” He asked the question casually, but Pyotr could swear he heard just a hint of desperation in his voice. Did he know that Pyotr was a Taker? That he himself had gotten around the brand? Why else would he be asking these questions? Burndan left Taker babes in the woods to die, but what would they do if they found out he was one?

  As he hesitated, Castor leaned back in the chair that faced him.

  “You know, I don’t believe in torture. It doesn’t really get you any answers as the person you’re torturing usually just tells you what you want to hear in order to make the pain stop.”

  Pyotr listened silently.

  “That said, many of my commanders are not as enlightened as I am. I would hate to turn you over to them. Their questions won’t be about Stent either. They’ll be about Gemini, about troop movements, about valuable targets.”

  “Why would you want to know? Are you going to brand a bunch of Takers? Or me? Or anyone you want to force to work for you?”

  Castor’s affable smile dropped. “I earn the loyalty of my men.”

  Pyotr matched the man’s intense gaze unblinking. He’d spoken to powerful men before.

  “I’ll ask again. Do you know of anyone who circumvented the brand?”

  Pyotr stayed silent.

  “The men told me your name was Pyotr. That’s a unique name, isn’t it?”

  Pyotr stayed quiet.

  “I cast a silence enchantment when I entered, but eventually one of the spies will become curious and break their way through it or simply walk into the tent. I need answers, and I need them now.”

  “Why?” asked Pyotr.

  “Why do you think?” responded Castor in English.

  Pyotr’s eyes widened.

  “You understand English. Good, I didn’t learn any Russian before I died. You are a Taker too, and you were wearing Stent armor. You already told me information that indicates to me you didn’t just steal it. That means that you somehow circumvented your brand. How?”

  Pyotr continued to hesitate.

  “I swear I will march back onto that battlefield and have my men target every last member of Gemini. I will have every member we’ve captured’s throat slit in front of you. I will personally kill every single one of them if I have to. Or, you tell me what I need to know and I’ll let you go. Carrot or stick, you choose.”

  “My friend Michael. Another Taker. He’s a healer without measure. He’s blessed by the gods here. He healed mine, his own, and all of the others that deserted with us.”

  “Is he with Gemini now? What price would I need to pay for him to heal someone else that’s branded?”

  “No. He left to fight the rifts in Old Hume. It’s his divine mission. As for price,” Pyotr chuckled. “He would help you just to do it… unless you killed me.”

  Castor clenched his teeth as a man pushed his way into the tent. He turned around casually, his relaxed air returning easily.

  “What is it?”

  “A message from the dowager Queen, sir. Urgent.”

  “Of course." He gestured to Pyotr. Get this one back to his cell. "Get him a cot and add an additional meal for him."

  “Yes sir.”

  With that Castor walked out, leaving Pyotr wondering how a Taker had become a king.