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gagging but lacked the strength for it. He was entirely powerless, entirely at her mercy. His hatred for her deepened.
    What are you waiting for?
    To his surprise, no killing blow came. He couldn’t imagine why she would hesitate. As awful as he felt, he was sure he wasn’t dying, yet no answer was forthcoming. Rather—eventually—her breaths became labored, and her arms began shaking. A moment later, they dropped to her sides.
    The spell receded from Mevon, and strength returned at once. He jumped up. Crossed the distance between them in half a beat. Lashed out a fist.
    A single word she had spoken echoed in his mind.
    “ Truth. ”
    The blow was aimed to crush her face in. He diverted it at the last moment, glancing against her temple instead. She flew several paces and sprawled on the ground, unmoving.
    The battle at large ended quickly. The discipline, coordination, and raw brutality of his Elite proved the victor over numbers. Decisively. His mind barely registered the last vestiges of resistance being cut down without mercy.
    He stood, looking down at the girl.
    And shook.
    G ILSHAMED STOOD ON the fortlet’s battlements, studying the stones held in the cradle of his hands.
    A breeze whipped his golden hair across his face, carrying the mingled scents of ash, sweat, and charred flesh. Men milled below him, excited banter drifting up from the victors. Those in chains sat numbly in silence. Casters—those with the strength left to stand—bustled about, administering healing to the wounded and dousing the last of the flames blazing through the barracks. Behind him lay a rolling landscape nestled between two soaring segments of the Godsreach Mountains. Gnarled trees like ancient hands poked up, bending over to grab with short, sharp leaves any who dared pass too close.
    But it was the stones in his hands that consumed his attention.
    One was warm, smooth, and glowed at its center. Solid and strong. Life. The other was cold and brittle and dark. Were he to clench his hand into a fist, it would crumble to flakes and be carried off on the wind. Death.
    The first filled him with elation. Jasside had made it; alive, and now in Mevon’s care. Well, not in his care as such, but at least in his presence . And, for Gilshamed’s purposes, that was enough.
    The second filled him with sorrow. Or, rather, it should have. The hope held in the first, however, pushed out all thoughts of despair. What time did he have to mourn the dead? Death came to all, eventually. Most men could do far worse than to make their death meaningful, to die for a cause greater than oneself.
    And what greater cause could there be than that of freedom?
    Gilshamed snorted. O, great pondering. The favorite pastime of we who linger on, staggering through so many human lifetimes as if they were naught but a candle’s flame—faint illumination, all too quickly snuffed out.
    He sighed, dismissing his pointless cogitations. He had work to do.
    Gilshamed placed the stones back into the pockets of his white robe and gazed at the yard below. A familiar figure strode towards him.
    “Hey! Golden boy!” called the man. “Care to lend a hand? Or are they too busy there beneath your robes?”
    Several of the shepherds barked laughter at this, darting glances back and forth between Gilshamed and the source of the jest. Though they carried naught but a quarterstaff, these men and women—some actual shepherds in truth—had conducted themselves superbly in their first engagement with Imperial forces.
    Gilshamed waved. “Ho, Yandumar. I would not worry overmuch about my hands whilst yours are as filthy as a beggar’s.”
    Yandumar sauntered towards Gilshamed’s perch, the corner of his lips reaching for his ears. Tangled grey locks swung down past the man’s blocky shoulders, and mischief shone in his emerald eyes. A bushy grey beard hung down to the center of his chest. He stood head and neck taller than most men, only two fingers short of Gilshamed’s own