Reynard hated mornings.

  No amount of drink dulled it. No long night in a tavern, no seasoned familiarity with excess spared him the punishment waiting at dawn. The nausea sat heavy and patient, a debt that always came due. Reynard groaned as he forced himself from the bed in his private quarters.

  Private quarters. The reward for command. He stared at the stone walls and thought of how many men had slept their last in the dirt so he could wake here instead.

  Godfrey among them.

  Reynard wondered, not for the first time, what he made of him now, if the dead were allowed to watch, if heaven permitted disappointment.

  Reynard made the sign of the cross out of habit more than faith. He did not expect forgiveness. Habit, at least, was reliable.

  Gandry would be waiting at the roundtable. Gandry, with his unyielding eyes and unspoken accusation. Reynard did not hate him for it. If anything, Gandry was right.

  Godfrey should still be captain. Reynard knew it, Gandry knew it. Eight years had done nothing to dull that truth. Of all the things he regretted from that day, the worst was not that Godfrey died.

  It was that Reynard lived to take his place.

  He threw his armour on half-heartedly; everything he did was half-hearted, except drink, he did that with a bit more effort. On top of his Silver Sword armour, he added onto it a red cloak, signalling the impending meeting between the twelve companies, with the Marshal as the supervisor….

  …

  The meeting hall was vast; he had never seen it before. Last time he was in Tyre, he was about as fresh as Thomas, well, maybe not that fresh. The pillars were decorated with beautiful black, white and blue colours, the black and white evidence of the Knight Hospitallers* being here only six months prior. His eyes quickly darted around the room for his seat, which should be the third clockwise away from Louis. The Marshal, ever imposing, sat with one hand propping his face up, tilted sideways, as if the twelve captains were merely an inconvenience to him.

  His eyes continued to dart; he had found his seat, but what about Gandry?

  Then he saw him, Reynard let out a quiet sigh, he'd prayed for once these roundtable meetings would be easier. The First Company captain gave him a sarcastic sneer, met with an exaggerated look up and down. Another sigh came out of his mouth; he could really go for an ale.

  The thought died as quickly as it came as his ever-reliable deputy walked through the door, accompanied by Gwendolyn, the First Company’s Deputy Captain. Reynard gave them an inquisitive look. Ava’s presence was expected—guaranteed, even—but Gwen’s caused his brow to furrow.

  The last time Reynard checked, Gwen and Gandry were not exactly close.

  Then again, he wasn’t privy to Gandry’s life anymore like he once was.

  The two deputies were completely different in appearance and personality. Gwen had long black hair and tanned features that might have passed for Levantine, while Ava was pale and blonde, her hair cropped short. Aside from their devotion to the Order, the only thing they shared was that both were women.

  Louis stifled a yawn, his sudden sound snapped Reynard back from his thoughts.

  “I suspect the Eleventh Company Captain is dead in a ditch somewhere,” he said mildly, “or lost. Inform his deputy later. Or don’t. Let us begin.”

  He rose, and Ava flinched — just slightly, but enough.

  Reynard had never understood that. Her courage never wavered in battle; he had watched her carve through men without hesitation. Yet in Louis’s presence, something in her drew inward. Reynard did not know why, and he did not press the thought.

  It didn’t matter. The meeting had begun, whether he liked it or not. In the Order, politics wasn’t an option; you either played the game or the game played you.

  …

  “As you all know,” Louis’ voice carried easily through the hall, “Christendom has been besieging Acre for nearly two years. It remains a pivotal stronghold, its ports linking Cyprus to Sidon, and everything between.”

  Louis paused, scanning the room, his eyes settled on Reynard, and it took Reynard all his will not to roll his eyes.

  Louis was just so stern.

  “Your company raided Fiana, correct? How organized were the Saracens?”

  “Lord Marshal,” Reynard began carefully, “we cannot say with certainty.” He paused — just long enough to notice the tightening of Louis’s jaw. “We attacked during the Saracens’ maghrib*.”

  Ava shot a warning look. He cleared his throat.

  “They were caught by surprise.”

  Louis studied him for a moment, then nodded once, not approval, merely acceptance.

  “At any rate,” he said, rising from his seat, “the full might of the Order of the Silver Sword will march on Acre at first opportunity. We have been contacted by Lord Garnier de Napious* to support King Richard and King Philip in ensuring the negotiations proceed… smoothly.”

  Louis slammed both hands onto the table.

  “Dismissed. Prepare your companies. Do not loiter.”

  …

  The boom of his voice would never stop unsettling her.

  Ava withdrew from the hall as swiftly as propriety permitted.

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  First Company Captain Gandry approached with his Deputy, Gwen, closing the distance between himself, Reynard, and Ava. Ava had always sensed bad blood between the two captains, and it seemed to bleed downward.

  She had wanted, once, to befriend one of the few women in the Order. Gwen had never shared the sentiment. They were roughly the same age, and had trained together at the Temple of the Silver Sword, despite this, Ava always felt Gwen's underlying approval.

  Ava held back the look of disappointment that begun to creep onto her face, she wanted desperately to find common ground with another woman in the Order.

  Before Gwen could make a remark about Ava’s unceremonious uniform, she was missing her Silver Sword armour, after all, Louis beat her to it.

  “Third Company Deputy Aveline. A word. My chambers. Now.”

  Reynard shot her a pitying look. Ava was still angry, she called the Muslims Saracens, but right now, she had bigger issues on her plate.

  “Lord, give me strength,” she muttered.

  …

  Louis closed the door quietly.

  That was strange. That was terrifying. Quiet was not Louis’ way — unless you were truly in trouble. Best case, she would lose her rank as Deputy. Worst case… she would share Philip’s fate.

  Ava shook her head. No. She still had cards to play.

  She was a valuable asset to the Order — a figure who inspired men in at least two of the twelve companies. After Fiana, surely the Fourth would vouch for her leadership.

  Right?

  “Aveline.”

  Ava shuddered.

  “Where is your armour?” Louis asked quietly. “What happened at Fiana.”

  Her legs trembled as he approached. Surely even he wouldn’t dare harm her in temporary barracks.

  “Sir— Marshal— I—”

  “Spit it out.”

  His eyes burned. Ava swallowed.

  “I gave it to a new recruit,” she said. “He misplaced his near the shore, it was washed away. I offered mine as a replacement.”

  She let her face soften, grief practiced and precise.

  “He did not survive Fiana.”

  Louis’ expression softened, just for a moment, before freezing again.

  “You’re still too kind,” he said quietly. “I thought I’d beaten that out of you during our private lessons five years ago.”

  He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her.

  “Or do you need a reminder?”

  Ava’s eyes widened. Her teeth chattered, unbidden. The room rang in her ears as her knees threatened to give way. She could not faint. Not in front of him.

  God only knew what that would invite.

  Louis stepped away from her and turned his back.

  “I told you once,” he said, almost casually. “I’ll tell you again. When people are desperate, they become predictable.”

  His hand settled on his hip.

  “Did you truly think I wouldn’t notice you reaching for the knife?”

  Ava froze.

  For a heartbeat, she wondered if the man had eyes in the back of his head.

  Her fingers were clenched tight around the hilt — not to strike, but to remind herself she could still resist. If he lunged, she would not go quietly.

  “I’ll let you keep your rank,” Louis said. His gaze swept over her, lingering where it had no right to. “And whatever's left of your dignity.”

  A thin smile tugged at his mouth.

  “Give Philip my regards.”

  He exhaled a short, humorless laugh, once, then again, before straightening.

  “You are dismissed, Aveline.”

  He waved a hand as though she was already gone.

  “See the quartermaster. Tell him I sent you. Consider the new armour… a courtesy.”

  …

  Grainne.

  She needed Grainne. She always did, after him.

  Power had rotted Louis from the inside out. What was meant to command and protect, he wielded like a blade — pressing it to the throats of the innocent, daring them to flinch. She could see it clearly. She could do nothing about it.

  Ava sat curled against the stone at the port of Tyre, Grainne pressed warm and solid at her side. Tears slipped free despite her efforts to stop them.

  Why?

  Why did he take such pleasure in it? In testing her limits. In watching how much she could endure before something finally gave?

  “Give Philip my regards.”

  She knew Louis had been involved, she had always known, but proof was another matter. And even if she found it, there was no one in the Order with greater authority than Louis, save Grandmaster Hughes, half a world away. He would not cross oceans for one knight’s quiet torment.

  Footsteps scraped against stone.

  Ava drew steel without thinking. She grit her teeth, God help however was behind her, because her patience was at its end.

  Thomas yelped, stumbling back, almost dropping the loaf of bread he had with him.

  “Deputy, it’s just me!”

  Ava fixed him with her customary deadpan stare, this time streaked with tears she had not wiped away. She willed herself to dam the flood, but the residue remained.

  And Thomas saw it.

  “Captain Reynard sent me, he wanted to check in on you himself, but Captain Gandry has his hands full discussing marching logistics…” Thomas looked down at the floor, “He said you might be shaken up, how did your meeting with the Marshal go?”

  Ava stayed quiet, looking out at the sea.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you and the Marshal, and I’m not sure it’s my place to intervene,” Thomas straightened and ruffled his brown hair, he always tried to maintain it best he could.

  Thomas proceeded to sit next to Ava, cutting off his piece of bread, “I know it’s not cheese, but I figured you’d want something to eat after seeing the Marshal,”

  Ava hesitantly ate, hair covering her face as she ate, quiet as a mouse.

  Finally, she spoke.

  “Thomas… why did you become a crusader?” Ava asked quietly. “You aren’t suited for this life. You should go home. You’re a good man.”

  The sea wind howled. Grainne neighed beside her, mane whipping as waves battered the port, salt seeping into the old wood. The sun sank slowly toward the horizon.

  For a moment, Ava worried she had been too harsh.

  “I made a promise to my sister, Isabeau,” Thomas said at last. “I… I wanted to honour her spirit, but—” He swallowed. “She wouldn’t have wanted this life for me.”

  He kept his eyes on the sea.

  “Deputy, may I ask you something?”

  Ava nodded, still curled in on herself.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you ever question the shape of the world?” he asked. “The prophet Isaiah spoke of its corners, he was never wrong, not in his time.”

  Ava lifted her head. She hadn’t expected that.

  “My sister was brilliant,” Thomas continued. “She spoke of lights dancing in the night sky. Of fireballs like Greek fire falling from the heavens. She believed the world spun, that it moved.”

  He laughed softly, a sound on the edge of breaking.

  “She used to say the world couldn’t be flat. That if it were, we’d see the Holy Land from Bayeux.”

  Tears gathered in his eyes.

  “She was… different. Kind. And when the Church heard whispers of ‘witchcraft,’ they decided to silence her.”

  His voice dropped.

  “When I returned from the Order’s training hall, I found her body. Upside down. A knife through her heart.”

  Thomas tilted his face toward the sky, just enough to let the wind touch him.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I doubt you ca—”

  “I do care.”

  Ava rose slowly, her legs stiff from sitting so long, but she pressed on.

  “I do care,” she said. “And I understand you.”

  She gestured toward the sea. “Five years ago, I lost someone special too. I don’t know where he is, or what he’s doing, but I know he’s alive, and I can’t reach him."

  Ava held both of her hands tight to her chest, so close she could feel the rhythmic beating of her heart.

  "And it hurts, it hurts so much.”

  She extended her hand out to Thomas, now this time he was the one sat down, looking up, “Let’s both keep going, for Isabeau, and Philip.”

  Thomas’ eyes widened, “Yes Deputy!”

  …

  March logistics were never kind to the mind.

  Especially after last night, the last thing Reynard wanted to do was count men and organize equipment.

  To make matters worse, a strangely well-dressed merchant hovered nearby, insisting he pass a message to “the pushy female knight” that she would care for “the crippled boy” — provided he received fifteen Dirhams each month.

  That seemed expensive. Clearly, she took the whole holy crusader business very seriously. She would have liked Godfrey.

  To top it off, Acre promised more politics and administration. The place swarmed with idealists eager to make names for themselves. All Reynard wanted was another night with a bottle.

  Maybe a whore too.

  The twelve companies of the Order of the Silver Sword aligned at Tyre’s gates, a rare sight. Gandry occasionally rammed his mount into Reynard’s, but he couldn’t care less. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, drifting only slightly.

  There it was again. His deputy just couldn’t help herself.

  “There you go… oh right, you don’t understand me do you?” Ava whispered.

  Ava handed an elderly refugee woman roughly half of her supplies. Reynard sighed, eyes to the sky. What could make someone so consistently altruistic, yet capable of slitting a throat with the same steadiness?

  “All men, we ride to Acre immediately!” Louis bellowed through the ranks. “We are about a week away if we go full speed. Keep up or be left behind. I have no use for weaklings in my Order!”

  The Knights Hospitallers are a real historical order of Crusaders, led by the commander at the time Lord Garnier de Naplous.