The name of the Crimson Lord was not earned in peacetime.

  The soldiers saw why. Before their eyes, their general, the youngest in Arcadia’s history, unleashed the fury that had made him legend.

  Ragnar unsheathed his sword as his horse galloped forward, the crimson-ember in the hilt faintly shimmered.

  Ragnar leapt from his horse, his blade driving through the throat of the nearest assassin. Before the next could even react, fire blossomed in Ragnar’s palm, searing the man’s face to bone. Another assassin tried to melt into the terrain, activating his camouflage, but it failed.

  Ragnar had already cast the Law of Regression. All illusions must break.

  He moved like a storm, striking one foe with his sword, another with a blast of raw magic. Within a minute, all six assassins lay dead in the mud. They had no chance to run. No place to hide.

  The soldiers roared as one.

  “Long live General Ragnar!”

  Shayara looked at Ragnar, her face brightening. She had heard the tales, but this was the first time she had seen him spring into action. She opened her mouth to thank him, but Elof spoke first.

  “Thank you, General. You saved our lives. But the threat of assassins is now eliminated.”

  “How did assassins reach this deep? We should have had mages tracing them,” Ragnar asked.

  “These techniques are highly sophisticated,” Elof explained. “In my time, I’ve encountered many such spells, yet even I couldn’t perceive them properly. But thanks to Shayara, we’re still alive. Her perception is… remarkable.”

  Shayara blushed at the praise, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you.”

  One of the soldiers laughed. “Little lady, once you graduate, you should join the Third Wing.”

  Ragnar’s gaze softened. “You have done well,” he said gently. Then his voice carried to the whole group. “This is still a battlefield. Do not linger. Where is your healer?”

  Their faces fell. Shayara spoke up. “She was killed before we could do anything. I am sorry.”

  Ragnar’s expression turned solemn. “This is war. Death is inevitable. This is not your burden to carry. Retreat. Heal. Then rejoin the fight.”

  All the soldiers nodded.

  “General,” Elof said, “there are a few more groups ahead.”

  Ragnar gave a curt nod, mounted his horse, and rode forward.

  Ragnar scanned the field, cutting down a few more assassins with practiced ease. Yet even as his blade moved, his thoughts wandered. These techniques were too refined for mere followers of an exiled god. Was someone else pulling the strings? He knew the power of faith, and these assassins’ methods were too sharp, too disciplined, to be born of desperation alone.

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  Overhead, a crow circled once, then dove sharply toward him. It landed on the muddy ground at his feet.

  A small note was tied to its leg. Ragnar unfastened it, recognizing the handwriting immediately.

  Hurry back to camp. —M

  Without delay, Ragnar rode hard back to camp. He trusted Marius’s judgment, if his commander sent for him mid-battle, it meant something bigger than the fight at hand. The war against Moloch was only one front; a larger game was being played.

  Marius was already in Ragnar’s tent when he arrived. “Heard the fledgling did good,” he said casually. “Did you know she’s from the Mirin tribe of the Iscor Plains?”

  “Speak quickly. Why did you call me back?” Ragnar asked.

  “Yes, yes.” Marius flipped open a worn journal. “Soundproof first.”

  Ragnar touched the Redwing-and-Golden-Sword totem. A faint glow filled the tent. “Go ahead.”

  “My contacts in the castle say the king’s been acting strangely,” Marius began. “He’s barely eating, constantly looking over his shoulder, and has tightened castle security.”

  “This is wartime,” Ragnar said. “Maybe he’s just being cautious.”

  “He never cared before, why now? I think he’s figured out what’s going on with the Prophet. And he knows that whatever got the Prophet is coming for him, too. Speaking of the Prophet, he returned yesterday.”

  “We’ll have to wait until the war is over,” Ragnar said. “If the king really is against the Prophet, maybe we can get his support.”

  Marius leaned back. “Hmm… yes. But do you think he’ll survive that long?”

  “Don’t know,” Ragnar admitted. “And I can’t do anything until Moloch is destroyed.”

  “Speaking of Moloch, that bastard, how does he communicate with Shraak?” Marius asked.

  “Why would he need to communicate?” Ragnar said, then paused. The thought struck him like a blade. “For the blessing…”

  His mind flashed to Arabus, once taken to the Divine Tower of Radiance for a true blessing. That was how Arabus had gained the power to cast the Law of Regression.

  “There is another tower,” Ragnar breathed.

  Marius was unusually silent after the revelation. After a long moment, he muttered, “South. It should be somewhere in the south.”

  Silence settled again.

  When he spoke next, his voice was quieter. “Ragnar… you know I’m not much for faith, but still… why did the gods abandon us?”

  The question hit Ragnar like a thunderclap. He had been asking himself the same thing.

  “It’s unlike you to sound so defeated,” Ragnar said, steadying his tone. “What happened?”

  Marius’s gaze didn’t leave the tent floor. “Do you remember why I was so obsessed with learning magic, even though I wasn’t good at it, wasn’t blessed?”

  Ragnar remembered. Marius had told him years ago: his father beaten in front of him as a child for protesting a templar’s corruption. The only reason Marius hadn’t been executed alongside him was because the town guard captain had known the family and begged the templar for mercy.

  “Since then,” Marius went on, “I knew we were at the mercy of the gods and their chosen. They guide us. They dictate to us. And now… they’ve abandoned us.”

  Ragnar rose from his chair. “It doesn’t matter. Have faith, if not in them, then in yourself.” He stepped closer. “Maybe one day, we’ll stand atop the Tower of Radiance and demand answers from the heavens. Until then, we march forward.”