I arrived at the military encampment on the outskirts of Rega later that afternoon, my meager belongings slung over my shoulder in a weathered pack. The camp was a sprawling maze of tents and makeshift structures, bustling with activity as soldiers hurried to and fro.

  I went to the command tent at the center of the encampment, where I was to report for duty. As I approached, I caught sight of a tall, stout man with a thick beard and a fierce scowl etched onto his face, barking commands among junior officers—no doubt a colonel of some kind, and fresh-faced to boot.

  “You there!” the man barked as I drew near. “State your business.”

  I drew myself up to my full height and met his gaze steadily.

  “Captain Ardent Kaelitz, reporting for duty with the battalion of riflemen.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he looked me over, taking in my scarred face and missing eye.

  “Ah, the infamous… Major Kaelitz, I believe is what it is now,” he sneered. “I’ve heard of you. They say you’re a troublemaker, a rabble-rouser who can’t follow orders. And so, they promoted you to Major. How excellent.”

  The man stepped closer, his face mere inches from mine.

  “Let me make one thing clear, Major,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “I am Colonel von Olenstross, and I run a tight ship here. I won’t tolerate any insubordination or disrespect from the likes of you.”

  I stood my ground, refusing to be intimidated by the colonel’s bluster. I looked Colonel von Olenstross up and down, taking in his crisp, freshly pressed uniform with nary a wrinkle or smudge of dirt. His boots gleamed with a mirror-like shine, clearly having never seen a day of hard marching or trudging through muddy battlefields. The man’s hands were soft and uncalloused, his skin pale and unblemished—a far cry from a seasoned military commander’s weathered, battle-hardened hands.

  I couldn’t help but smirk as I addressed the colonel, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Forgive me, sir, but it seems your commission hasn’t even had time to dry before you started issuing orders.”

  My tone was laced with disdain.

  Colonel Olenstross’s face turned an alarming shade of purple, and he jabbed a finger into my chest.

  “You listen here, Kaelitz,” he snarled. “You’re nothing but an insult to nobility. I ought to have you flogged—or worse.”

  He grinned.

  I met Colonel von Olenstross’s fiery gaze with an icy glare of my own. Slowly and deliberately, I raised my scarred hand, the twisted flesh stark between us.

  “So let me make one thing clear,” I continued, my words dripping with contempt. “I don’t give a damn about your threats or your posturing. I’ve fought and bled for this army, and continue to do so—with or without your approval. Now tell me where my damned regiment is.”

  Colonel von Olenstross’s face twisted into a sneer of pure loathing. His eyes glinted with malice as he jabbed a finger toward the far side of the encampment.

  “Your rabble is camped over there, Kaelitz. Try not to get them all killed with your reckless insubordination.”

  I gave a mocking salute.

  “I’ll do my best, sir. Wouldn’t want to sully your spotless record now, would we?”

  Without waiting for a response, I turned on my heel and strode off in the direction the colonel had indicated.

  As I made my way through the maze of tents, I could feel the eyes of the soldiers on me. Some regarded me with awe or respect, having heard tales of my exploits on the battlefield. Others looked at me with suspicion or outright hostility.

  I paid them no mind, and finally reached the cluster of tents.

  My boots sank into the soft mud as I approached the ragged assembly of tents that housed the 22nd Horthian Grenziers. The scene before me was one of utter chaos. Men milled about aimlessly, their uniforms in varying states of disarray. Some lounged by cookfires, lazily stirring pots of what passed for stew, while others smoked pipes and lay about.

  I scanned the disorderly camp, my eyes searching for any semblance of authority amidst the sea of unwashed bodies and slovenly attire. Finally, my gaze settled upon a figure who seemed to be barking orders in a guttural tongue I recognized as Horthian. I strode purposefully toward the man, my bearing radiating the confidence and command befitting my rank.

  As I drew closer, I could make out more details of the Horthian captain. He was a stout, barrel-chested man with a thick beard completely against regulations, obscuring most of his weathered face. Small, piercing eyes darted about as he shouted at the men, his words punctuated by wild gesticulations of his meaty hands.

  I cleared my throat, drawing the captain’s attention. He whirled to face me, his expression a mixture of annoyance and surprise as he took in my rank insignia.

  “Captain Márton, I presume?” I asked in Valtorean.

  The Horthian captain squinted at me suspiciously, his eyes lingering on my scars and eyepatch.

  “Aye, that’s me,” he grunted in heavily accented Valtorean. “And who might you be?”

  “Kaelitz,” I supplied, extending my hand in greeting. “Major Ardent Kaelitz, your new commanding officer.”

  Captain Márton’s bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. He ignored my proffered hand, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

  “Is that so? I wasn’t informed of any change in command.”

  I met his challenging gaze unflinchingly.

  “I assure you, Captain, the orders come directly from the Emperor. I’ve been assigned to whip this sorry excuse for a regiment into shape.”

  Márton’s eyes narrowed.

  “The 22nd Grenziers are some of the finest soldiers in the Empire,” he growled. “We don’t need some prissy Valtorean nobleman telling us how to fight.”

  I took a step closer, my voice low and dangerous.

  “Prissy?” I hissed. “Do these scars look stuffy to you, Major? I’ve spilled more blood for the Empire than you’ve had hot meals. And as for being a nobleman…”

  I glanced around at the squalid camp with disdain.

  “It seems nobility is in short supply here.”

  Márton let out a harsh bark of laughter, his eyes glinting with a newfound respect.

  “You’ve got guts, Kaelitz, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice gruff but not entirely unkind. “Maybe you’re not just another pompous ass after all.”

  I allowed myself a small, wry smile.

  “Glad to exceed your expectations, Captain. Let’s see about getting this regiment into fighting shape, shall we?”

  Márton nodded, then turned to bellow at the lounging soldiers in Horthian. The men scrambled to their feet, hastily straightening their uniforms and falling into haphazard ranks. I surveyed the motley assortment of soldiers, my critical eye taking in their shabby appearance and lack of discipline.

  “Any of these lads speak Valtorean?”

  “A few, sir,” Márton said. “But they’re the worst lot. Learned to kill prissy Valtorean nobles. Like yerself.”

  He grinned.

  I fixed Márton with a steely glare, my voice low and dangerous.

  “Is that so, Captain? Let’s hope their skills at killing Valtorean nobles extend to killing Eclaireans.”

  Then I smirked.

  Márton’s grin continued.

  “Aye, sir. I’ll make sure they understand that.”

  I turned to face the assembled soldiers, my posture straight and commanding.

  “Now, you lot—listen up.”

  In a clear, authoritative voice, I addressed them in Valtorean:

  “Men of the 22nd Grenziers, I am Major Ardent Kaelitz, your new commanding officer. I have been sent here by direct order of the Emperor to instill discipline, hone your skills, and forge you into an elite fighting force that will strike fear into the hearts of our Eclairean foes. If you have any questions, I recommend asking them now.”

  As I concluded my speech, I was met with confused and skeptical faces. The men glanced at one another, murmuring in Horthian as they tried to make sense of my words. Captain Márton, standing off to the side, stifled a chuckle.

  “I was expecting something longer, Major,” he mumbled, still grinning.

  With that, I strode into the ranks of disheveled soldiers, my boots crunching on the frosty ground. I stopped before a particularly scruffy-looking private, his uniform more patches than fabric, a sneer plastered on his unshaven face.

  “You there,” I barked. “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Székely,” he grumbled. “Sir.”

  I slowly surveyed the ragtag group of soldiers again, taking in every tattered sleeve, every scuffed boot, and every missing button. The uniforms were a patchwork of faded colors and fraying edges, barely held together by a few stubborn threads. It was as if these men had been dragged through the mud and left to dry in the sun. Székely’s uniform, like many others, hung off his frame in tatters, the sleeves threadbare and the hem ragged.

  I turned to face Captain Márton, my eyes narrowed and my voice low.

  “Captain, what in the Savior’s name is the meaning of this? These uniforms are a disgrace to the regiment and to the Empire itself. I demand an explanation for why your men are parading around in such a sorry state.”

  Márton shifted uncomfortably, avoiding my gaze.

  “We’re light infantry, sir,” he stated. “But the rifles are clean.”

  I fixed Captain Márton with a piercing stare.

  “Light infantry or not, there’s no excuse for this level of slovenliness. Clean rifles are all good, but discipline starts with attention to detail.”

  I turned back to Private Székely, who stood rigidly at attention, his eyes fixed straight ahead. I circled him slowly, taking in every frayed edge and missing button of his uniform.

  “Private Székely,” I said, my tone deceptively calm. “Do you take pride in serving in the Emperor’s army?”

  Székely swallowed hard, glancing around at his fellows. A chuckle went through the regiment.

  “Of course, sir,” he mumbled, barely audible. “It’s an honor to serve.”

  I stepped back, surveying the ranks of disheveled men once more. Their uniforms may have been tattered, but I could see the glimmer of potential in their eyes. These were soldiers of the Empire, and by Valtorean steel, I would make them look and act the part.

  “Listen well, all of you,” I said, my voice carrying across the frosty parade ground. “I care little for the mud and dirt on your uniforms. We are light infantry, and a little grime comes with the territory. But there is no excuse for poor personal hygiene and unkempt appearances.”

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  I paced along the front rank, meeting each man’s gaze.

  “From this day forward, every soldier will be clean-shaven before morning muster. Hair will be kept short and tidy. I expect half-decency in your grooming and bearing. Is that clear?”

  A ragged chorus of “Yes, sir!” rang out.

  I nodded, satisfied for the moment.

  “Good. Captain Márton, see to it that each man has a razor and soap later this afternoon.”

  Márton saluted crisply.

  “Yes, Major Kaelitz. It will be done.”

  I clasped my hands behind my back, ignoring the dull ache from my maimed fingers.

  “Now—to the heart of it. Let’s see how well these boys can shoot.”

  I led the regiment to the shooting range on the outskirts of Rega. The weather was overcast and dreary, and a drizzle dampened our greatcoats as we marched. Mud squelched under our boots.

  When we arrived, I had the men form up in a long firing line facing the distant targets—simple wooden cutouts of men at one hundred and fifty paces. I walked behind them, studying each soldier as they loaded their rifles and took aim.

  To my surprise, their movements were smooth and practiced, not the clumsy fumbling I’d expect from such a ragged-looking regiment. There was no wasted motion as they bit open paper cartridges, poured the powder, rammed the ball, and primed the pan.

  “Ready!” I called out.

  The men brought their rifles to their shoulders in unison. Again, their form looked excellent.

  “Aim!”

  Sixty rifle barrels leveled at the targets, unwavering.

  “Fire!”

  The volley crashed out, a rippling blast of smoke and flame. I peered downrange through my spyglass, studying the targets.

  To my amazement, at least fifty of the sixty targets were hit, many with multiple holes punched clean through the center of mass. It was uncannily accurate shooting for a single volley at this range—better than I’d seen from my first commission with the 1st Arkhevost Battalion.

  As the smoke cleared, I watched the men hurriedly reload their rifles for another volley. The process was laborious and time-consuming compared to the smoothbore muskets I was accustomed to. Each soldier had to carefully pour the powder, ram the ball, and prime the pan individually. Even with their practiced efficiency, it took well over a minute before they were ready again.

  At the time, I contemplated the benefits and drawbacks of these rifles. Their accuracy was astounding, no doubt. But the slow loading time could be a liability in the heat of battle, when every second counted. A well-drilled infantry line with muskets could likely get off three or even four volleys in the time it took for a single rifle volley.

  As if reading my thoughts, Sergeant Kósa, a grizzled veteran with a scar running down his weathered cheek, spoke up.

  “Begging your pardon, Major Kaelitz, sir.”

  I turned to face him.

  “Yes, Sergeant? Speak your mind.”

  The old sergeant scratched his stubbled chin thoughtfully.

  “If I may ask, sir—what manner of soldiering did you do before this posting?”

  I smiled wryly. The question was forward, but not disrespectful. Kósa was a sharp man, trying to take my measure as a commander.

  “I began my service as a demi-lancer. Dangerous work, that.”

  Kósa nodded, a glint of respect in his eye.

  “Aye, sir. Demi-lancers, they’re a breed apart. Riding hell-for-leather into the thick of it, drawing fire so the heavy horse can smash the line. It’s an honorable trade, of sorts.”

  “Just so,” I agreed. “After that, I held a commission leading the first Arkhevost Battalion, though that hardly lasted more than a month. And I trust you’re familiar with the recent deployment of the Forlorn?”

  “Aye, that I am,” Kósa nodded. “We were second on that list to be sent to that damned marsh.”

  I nodded grimly at Kósa’s words.

  “Then you understand well the kind of butchery you avoided.”

  Kósa spat on the muddy ground.

  “Aye. Probably hacked to pieces in the swamps before they could get off a shot.”

  “Either by beast or man, as it would seem,” I stated. “I hope we’re sent westward rather than pursuing this Kholodian campaign.”

  Kósa nodded.

  “This campaign will be over either once Valtor is dead—or when Kholodia is dead.”

  “On that cheerful note,” I said wryly, “let’s see another volley, men. Reload!”

  I pondered the sergeant’s words as the soldiers hurried to reload their rifles.

  Perhaps he was right.

  Regardless, my mind drifted back to the days I spent with Grand Prince Michaelovich in Kholodia and all those campaigns on his maps. I missed the soaring onion domes plated in gold leaf, the palatial halls adorned with vibrant frescoes depicting Kholodia’s mythic history, and the exotic smells of incense and perfume.

  The long hours away from the front had instead been poured into a private study, debating strategies and alliances. The fate of both our nations had hung in the balance. It took me back.

  “Valtorea seeks to expand its borders, to consume its neighbors like a ravenous beast,” Michaelovich growled, his long claws tapping the map. “Naturally, I must stop their advance here, at the Lyvov River, past Freydrich’s Pass and the mountains. If they cross it, all of Kholodia will be vulnerable.”

  As I studied the map, a plan began to form in my mind. I traced my finger along the winding path of the Lyvov River, flanked on both sides by steep, forested ridges. The terrain was treacherous, but therein lay opportunity.

  “Why not bypass it entirely—and head southward, through the Zaroska Gorge?”

  Michaelovich leaned forward, his amber eyes flashing with interest.

  “Ah. But that would open up the entire Valtorean army to an encirclement. Cut off from supplies, and too far to defend Baltiva proper.”

  “Precisely,” I said, tapping the narrow defile of the Zaroska Gorge on the map. “A small force could move through and strike deep inside Kholodia without much resistance. I doubt the garrison troops are splendid. Garrison troops rarely are.”

  Michaelovich rumbled deep in his chest, a contemplative sound.

  “And from there, they could push forward and cut off the Kholodian army. Catch them between the Valtorean center over the river and skirmishers in the rear. It would be audacious—daring. I doubt very many would be capable of such an act.”

  I leaned back in my chair, a slight smile playing across my lips.

  “Audacious, yes. But that is precisely why it could work. You would never expect such a bold move.”

  Michaelovich regarded me thoughtfully, his massive paw-like hands steepled before him—a glimmer of respect in his eyes.

  And then a sudden realization struck me like a bolt of lightning. The pieces began to fall into place in my mind, forming a picture I had not seen before.

  “Perhaps,” I murmured to myself, “we’ll be in Kholodia before we know it.”

  As the men finished reloading their rifles and stood ready once more, I was jolted out of my reverie by the sound of hoofbeats rapidly approaching. I saw a courier galloping toward us, his horse lathered with sweat. He reined in sharply and dismounted, snapping a hasty salute.

  “Urgent dispatch for Major Kaelitz, sir!” the courier said breathlessly, holding out a sealed envelope.

  I took the dispatch with a nod of thanks, breaking the seal and scanning the contents. As I read, I sighed.

  An audience—with His Imperial Highness.

  “Ready the troops, Sergeant,” I said to Kósa. “I believe we’ll be marching out soon enough.”

  Passing through the old castle gates, I dismounted my steed and handed the reins to a waiting stablehand. The courtyard was abuzz with activity—nobles in resplendent finery, guards in polished armor, and servants hurrying to and fro. I couldn’t help but feel out of place in my battle-worn uniform, still stained with the dust and blood of recent skirmishes.

  A pair of guards escorted me through the castle’s grand halls, their footsteps echoing off the marble floors and vaulted ceilings. Tapestries depicting historic battles and the likenesses of past emperors adorned the walls, their colors muted by time but no less striking. I couldn’t help but find this such a charming display by the Baltzers—like they were feigning friendship at long last.

  Finally, we arrived at the throne room. The massive oak doors swung open, revealing a hollow chamber bathed in the soft glow of countless candles. A handful of figures were gathered there—and I recognized him.

  The Emperor.

  We met eyes. He was still a young man. I had only seen him perhaps a year ago, and I had become something much more than a youth since then. His pale blond hair was neatly coiffed, and his blue eyes were sharp and calculating.

  “Major Kaelitz,” the Emperor said, his voice ringing in the hushed chamber. “I have heard much about your exploits. Both the good—and the bad.”

  He glanced at the others.

  “The rest of you—leave us.”

  I bowed deeply as the others filed out of the throne room, leaving me alone with Emperor Wolfgang. The silence stretched between us for a long moment before he spoke again.

  “Walk with me, Major.”

  He descended from the dais and gestured for me to follow. We exited the throne room through a side door, emerging into an overgrown garden courtyard.

  As we strolled along the winding paths, the Emperor clasped his hands behind his back and glanced at me sidelong.

  “I have heard the official reports of what transpired with Lord Duclaire. But I would hear the truth from you directly.”

  I hesitated, choosing my words carefully.

  “It was a difficult situation, Your Highness. Lord Duclaire had been compromised, working against the interests of the Empire. In the end, he left me no choice.”

  The Emperor nodded slowly.

  “And his final moments? How did he meet his end?”

  I swallowed hard. The memory was still vivid and painful.

  “He was defiant to the last. Even as I ran him through with my sword, he spat curses at me and the Empire. But in his eyes…” I paused. “I saw a flicker of something else. Regret, perhaps. Or acceptance of his fate.”

  We stopped beside a burbling fountain, the Emperor gazing into the clear waters as if searching for answers in their depths.

  “My uncle, the Arch-Duke, was always headstrong and ambitious,” Emperor Wolfgang said, his voice tinged with sadness. “I fear his desires outgrew his loyalty to the Empire. It is a pity it had to end this way.”

  He turned to face me fully, his blue eyes boring into mine.

  “And as for von L?we—that was quite regrettable. He was a good man at heart, but I suppose that’s what defines man in the Savior’s eyes.”

  He sighed.

  “I’m still shocked I wasn’t executed, to be frank,” I said.

  The Emperor grinned.

  “I’m shocked that the gentry didn’t call for your head. Truly, we live in enlightened times.”

  His words hung between us, a mix of irony and genuine surprise. I couldn’t help but let out a short, humorless laugh.

  “Enlightened times indeed, Your Highness.”

  Emperor Wolfgang raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “And I trust you met my peer. Grand Prince Michaelovich. A different side of the coin—like a von L?we for the Kholodians.”

  I nodded, recalling my encounter with the Grand Prince.

  “Yes, Your Highness. He is an impressive man—sharp and strategic. We had many discussions about military tactics.”

  The Emperor’s smile widened slightly.

  “Ah, so you glimpsed the keen mind behind that exterior. Michaelovich is a formidable ally—and a terrible enemy.”

  We resumed our stroll through the gardens, the gravel path crunching beneath our boots. The Emperor seemed to be carefully weighing his next words.

  “What do you think about the Kholodians, Major?”

  I considered the question for a moment.

  “What I think is that there’s a load of shite told about them, and they’re not going to be easy to kill.”

  The Emperor stopped, almost breaking down in laughter.

  “Precisely—precisely! That is what I keep telling the Reichskammergeicht, but they’re steadfast on this brutal campaign. Undoubtedly, it’s because of the Black Order and the secret societies providing a hefty contribution to their treasuries.”

  He shook his head.

  “You have a refreshingly frank perspective, Major Kaelitz. It’s a rare quality in the circles of nobility and power.”

  He paused, choosing his next words carefully.

  “I fear that many in the Empire are blinded by greed and old hatreds when it comes to the Kholodians. They think of them as the savage tribes that existed there perhaps two hundred, maybe three hundred years ago.”

  He sighed.

  “But the situation has changed, as I trust you’ve inferred. The Eclairean Revolution—ah, excuse me. They’re calling it the Grand Revolution.”

  He smirked.

  “Now of course, any monarch worth his salt would know republicanism is a disease to be stamped out—but Michaelovich, just over the border… He’s a bastard. A right bastard.”

  “Mh?” I said.

  “He knows very well that he can outwait us. There’s no heart in this war—there hasn’t been for some time now. Indeed, Michaelovich is a patient man. He knows that time is on his side.”

  Wolfgang gazed over the immaculately manicured gardens, the vibrant blooms swaying gently in the breeze.

  “The situation in Eclairea grows more dire by the day. The revolutionaries gain ground, their fervor spreading like wildfire among the populace. It is only a matter of time before we must divert significant forces to quell the uprising.”

  He turned to me, his eyes sharp and calculating.

  “And therein lies the crux of Michaelovich’s strategy. As we exhaust ourselves stamping out the flames of rebellion in Eclairea, the Kholodians will seize the opportunity to strike. They will pour over our borders, annexing the frontier territories while our armies are occupied elsewhere.”

  Wolfgang’s hand clenched into a fist at his side.

  “Baltiva, Horthia, Polvania—all of our hard-won gains in the East will be lost. This Holy Empire would likely never recover. There cannot be a Holy Empire with the existence of a Greater Kholodia, a Greater Eclaria, a greater Arkanthia, or even a Greater Arlenia.”

  The Emperor’s words hung heavy in the air, the gravity of the situation settling upon me like a leaden weight. I could see the lines of worry etched into his face, the burden of an empire teetering on the brink of collapse resting squarely on his shoulders.

  “And yet we cannot slay our foes. No one—lest we upset the Great Game,” he sighed. “Statecraft is treasonous business. It’s being punished for the father’s sins. If we had left the Polvanian-Lithurian Commonwealth intact, we could have avoided this whole debacle.”

  He looked at me.

  “I’m sure you’re aware of Zaroska Gorge—and I’m sure Michaelovich is aware of it.”

  The Emperor’s mention of Zaroska Gorge sent a chill down my spine. I knew the place all too well—a narrow, treacherous pass through the jagged mountains that separated Kholodia from the frontier. It was the only other viable route for a large army to cross the border, and whoever controlled the gorge held the key to the entire region.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” I replied, my voice grim. “Zaroska Gorge is a strategic chokepoint… straight into the heartland of Kholodia, if I’m not wrong.”

  “You aren’t. Freydrich Pass is no longer viable—we’ve lost too many men, and the pass is simply unassailable without greater commitment from the Empire.”

  He exhaled.

  “Perhaps the most we can do is send a skirmishing force through it. Harass and threaten their supply lines. However, the problem lies in that such a unit would be prone to destruction if it got bogged down.”

  I nodded solemnly. The Empire was stretched thin, fighting on multiple fronts while our enemies waited, ready to strike at our most vulnerable moment.

  “Your Highness,” I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil within, “I presume you mean to send me—and the 22nd Horthian Grenziers—into the pass?”

  The Emperor regarded me with a piercing gaze, as if measuring the depth of my resolve. After a long moment, he spoke.

  “Absolutely. We must make it untenable for them to stay where they are—although you’ll likely run into one of their skirmishing forces. The Kholodians are also probing, hoping to find a knock-out blow. But the hard fact is that our supplies come from the sea, not from overland.”

  The Emperor’s lips curled into a knowing smile.

  “I understand, Your Highness,” I said, respectfully inclining my head. “I’ll get them into shape. Get them ready.”

  The Emperor nodded, a flicker of approval in his eyes.

  “I trust you will. So far, your commanders have written nothing but good remarks—despite the fact you’ve killed both of them.”

  He grinned.

  A wry smile tugged at my lips despite the gravity of the situation.

  “Well, Your Highness, all I can say is I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”

  The Emperor chuckled, a rare moment of levity amidst the heavy concerns weighing upon us both.

  “See that you don’t, Major Kaelitz. The Empire needs men like you—loyal, capable, and unafraid to jump into the muck.”

  I felt a swell of pride at his words, tempered by the knowledge of the immense responsibility ahead.

  “I won’t let you down, Your Highness. The 22nd Horthian Grenziers will go through the Zaroska Gorge, come what may.”

  “I do not doubt that,” the Emperor replied, his gaze drifting back to the gardens below. “Perhaps we can bring this war to an end, once and for all. Though who knows what the future will hold for us.”

  The Emperor turned to face me fully, his eyes alight with fierce intensity.

  “Now—get going.”

  I bowed deeply, the weight of his words settling into my very bones.

  “By your command, Your Highness.”

  As I strode from the imperial presence, my mind raced with plans and strategies.

  I could not fail again.

  Not with the Emperor’s attention firm on my shoulders.