We all turn toward the sound and draw our blades in unison. Guns appear in our hands. I look to the horizon, where a red glow sits low and angry, the telltale sign of fire on the plains. It’s where our neighboring compound is supposed to be.
Before I can think anything else, screams go up from the front of our encampment.
The cease-fire is over. The Federation has crossed the warfront.
9
My first thought is that it’s impossible.
Ghosts have never wandered this far into Maran territory—it would have to mean that two of our main defense compounds at the warfront have been overtaken.
And if those compounds have already fallen…
But there’s no time to let this terrible thought sit in my mind. I’m already on my feet, blade in one hand and gun in the other, shifting into an attack formation before I can register exactly what has happened.
Red moves quickly into a crouch. Beside us, Jeran and Adena draw their weapons at the same time. Even from here, I can feel the inferno at the front of the compound. Soldiers rush by with blankets and buckets of water, while screams of agony fill the air. Outside the gates comes the gnashing of teeth and the shrieks of Ghosts.
I look sharply beside me to see Red’s face drained of blood, his expression suddenly vulnerable.
I hurry with Jeran and Adena toward the side gate. Red keeps pace with me, his shackles clacking against his chains.
We rush out into a nightmare. The horizon is ablaze with fire, unmistakably coming from the two defense compounds at the edge of thewarfront. Federation soldiers, clad in bold scarlet, have now doused our front gate in black oil. The flames roar a hundred feet into the air.
What makes me freeze, though, is the sight of a line of Ghosts at the crest of the nearest hill, their pale, hulking figures orange in the light. The sound of their grinding teeth, wet with the cuts on their mouths, fills the air. Heavy chains hang from their neck cuffs. They hold back, trembling, as their handlers sit on horses beside them.
“What are they waiting for?” Adena shouts.
My hands grip my blades so hard that my knuckles have turned bright white. I realize that my stance has turned instinctively, protectively, toward Red. His gaze is locked not on the Ghosts, but on one of the Federation soldiers on a horse.
Unlike the others, this soldier is draped in a long crimson robe, his arms and shoulders protected behind armor of black steel. At his side, two of the Ghosts lurch forward. Their neck chains clank, swinging, from where they are hooked onto the saddle of his steed. The fire outlines the young man’s cheeks and sharp angles, exaggerating the bone thinness of him and the dark circles underneath his eyes. A bold slash of paint runs long and black down the right half of his face. All it takes is a single glance to know that he’s sick, maybe seriously so. His skin is unhealthily pale, his head bald and brows scarce. Even so, there is an authority in his silent presence and regal chin, and most of all, a ferocious intensity in his stare. It is the expression of a conqueror.
I’ve never seen this man before, but I remember his profile adorning Karensan flags. This is Constantine Tyrus, the young Premier, son of the Federation’s late Premier and leader of his regime. He is the one who brings armies into new nations and conquers them in his father’s name. He was the one responsible for the destruction of my homeland and my flight into Mara, had rode into Basea’s capital when he was only nineteen years old.
Beside me, Red’s profile is lit from behind by the harsh yellow of the fires. His expression has transformed into one of stone. What has brought the Premier himself into our land?
Now he lifts his voice to address us as we face his troops. “Where is your Firstblade?” he calls out. I blink, startled by his near-perfect Maran accent in his rasping voice. “I’d like a word with him.”
From the center of the line steps Aramin. He strides forward with a fearless gait, his long coat streaming behind him, and if I’m not mistaken, the ferocity on his face looks almost delighted by the prospect of the fight ahead.
The silence that hangs over us now is punctuated only by the crackle of flames from the gates behind us. The Firstblade looks at the Premier. “You are in Maran territory,” he shouts. The growl in his throat rumbles low and angry. “And in violation of the Speaker’s cease-fire agreement. Turn back with your troops.”
Constantine doesn’t smile, nor does he move. Beside him, his general raises his voice indignantly, speaking in Karenese as if to defend his Premier—but cuts off as Constantine waves his hand once. His voice is cool and bored as he calls out to the Firstblade.
“I’m only here for a bit of property you’ve stolen from us,” the Premier says.
“What property is that?”
“You have something that belongs to me,” he goes on. “An experiment. He crossed the warfront line between us, which has forced me here to look for him.”
I know better than to glance at Red now, but I can feel his presence stiffen beside me as he moves deeper into the shadows behind our line.
Constantine scans the scene, then turns that calm, deadly gaze back to the Firstblade. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen him, would you?” he asks.
I wait for the Firstblade to look in my direction. He has no reason to protect Red—he never even wanted him here. Returning him to the Federation in order to avoid this siege would be the wisest choice.
My hands rest on the hilts of my swords. Aramin will tell Red to step forward. What will I do, then? Why should I keep protecting someone who has been nothing but a punishment for me? I could step aside and expose Red, allow him to be taken back to the Federation. And good riddance. He has no desire to live, anyway, has shown nothing but scorn for me for saving him.
The Firstblade is quiet for only a moment. When he speaks again, though, he doesn’t look our way. “Your deserters are your business,” he says. “Get your soldiers off our land and back over the warfront. This is your last warning.”
