In the barracks gather men of all ages, the young bearing eager smiles and quickened loins, while the aged lovingly hone their blades, greeting each other with heavy slaps on the back. The smell of leather and perspiration permeates. Men fill up the inner chambers of the building, spilling out the doors and onto the sandy lawns. There is talk of war and talk of magic.

  As they wait for the Grand Master to arrive, Tygoh joins them. His horse, black as coal, thunders to a halt near the edge of the throng. Sand sprays from under the animal’s hooves, showering those nearby with the yellow grains. Behind him come droves of riders. Their armor clinks and shifts atop their cantering steeds as they approach, bringing the stench of horse with them. The militiamen turn to watch the approach as Tygoh dismounts, his crimson half cape following.

  “Where is the Grand Master?” he demands, the sun shining in his black hair. The men nearby shake their heads, looking up from their conversations.

  “Not here, m’lord. We haven’t seen ‘im yet.” A haggard middle-aged man with a sizable beard grumbles from the crowd. The others begin to fidget.

  “For cunt’s sake...” Tygoh shakes his head, throwing the reins over the saddle horn. “Lieutenant Brant,” he calls behind him.

  His second in command is a slight man with a balding head and friendly bright eyes, sitting atop a towering gray mare. “I will find General Stoles. Find the Grand Master. He’s late.”

  The lieutenant nods, pulling the mare’s reins toward the castle and breaking through the crowd.

  Tygoh leaves his horse and the other cavalrymen behind, stalking toward the gaping mouth of the barracks. Shoving through the heavy bodies of armored men, he finds Nathis in the armory, pairing a young boy with a sword. The boy gazes blankly, fingering the edge of the blade as Nathis rummages about for spare armor. Over the din of the army behind him, Tygoh spits in his equal’s direction.

  “Nathis! Why is the Grand Master not present?”

  His elder looks up in surprise. He is wearing full armor, his helmet sitting abandoned near the door of the armory. His closely shaven head is shiny with sweat. He smiles amiably.

  “Good morning, General Dacre. The Grand Master is not here. He is in council with the king. Argos means to bring him to the front lines.” Tygoh watches as Nathis plucks a small set of mail from a chest, holding it up in the light. The links are beginning to rust. “This will do, my boy,” he says, handing the armor to the blonde-haired boy holding the sword. “You would do nice with a pair of gloves as well, if you can borrow some.” He pats the young man on the shoulder before facing Tygoh. After a pause, he nods, “He should be about soon enough, General.”

  Tygoh grits his teeth, expelling air from his nostrils. “Where is Anarah? Is she with the king?”

  “Yes. If the king chooses to join us, she will be near him. Is the cavalry prepared?”

  Tygoh winces. “Of course. My men are not children.” He glares in the direction of the boy, who is shoving his new sword into the leather scabbard at his waist with some difficulty. “And Viet? We will need all men at arms.”

  Nathis nods, retrieving his helmet from its resting spot. “She has developed a spectacular handle on her powers. She will be with me.”

  Tygoh nods, glowering at the gray blue eyes of his future father-in-law. In the candlelight, he recalls the unfortunate color of his skin and turns away to stamp back through the crowd of men, his hands balled in fists. From behind him comes Nathis’s voice.

  “It might be wise to tell our girl that you do indeed care for her. You may never see her again.”

  Tygoh ignores his call and slips out the doorway of the barracks. Outside, the crowd has parted to welcome the Grand Master astride his blood bay stallion, wearing full armor emblazoned with the Crown sigil. The soldiers go silent. The commander arrives shouting from his perch, tugging at the reins of his horse as he slides to a halt. His squire reins up beside him, a teenaged boy with a square jaw, sporting a dark curly nest of hair atop his head. He looks winded and eager, grinning impishly with a straight set of teeth the color of ivory. The Grand Master bellows, wrestling the reins of his stallion as the beast kicks fitfully at the cavalry behind him.

  “Gents! You’ve spent too long hiding in your homes, letting your blades rust in the cupboards! I hope you’ve oiled them well.”

  When Argos catches a glimpse of Tygoh, he comes barreling off his mount, spraying sand under his massive boots. “Dacre!” he shouts, trudging in his direction.

  The brawny commander slaps a hand upon his shoulder, pressing the buckle at Tygoh’s breastbone into his skin. He grits his teeth, managing a nod.

  “Grand Master,” he growls.

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  “You look slack today, Dacre. We’re going to need your skills in the field. You know, it's almost a shame your lovely fiancee couldn’t join us. You fight with such vigor when she’s around.” He shows his teeth in what seems like a shoddy grin, shifting his eyes to Nathis, who has appeared behind them.

  “Nathis, my friend,” the Grand Master calls. “Gather these boys of yours and let’s get a move on. They all have swords, I take it?” He removes his rough hand from Tygoh’s shoulder and moves around him. From behind Tygoh’s back comes the grizzled voice of the sickly general.

  “Argos. Good to see you in full armor for once. Still haven’t shaved that beard of yours, though.”

  “My beard is an extension of my armor. These fresh-chinned children could learn a bit from growing one. Though I half expect them unable to.”

  Tygoh runs an absent hand over his own smooth face, cursing his bastard blood. He blurts out a reply to the Grand Master, who is walking Nathis back to his horse.

  “Will the king be joining us?” He feels the heat creep up his neck. The Grand Master turns abruptly to face him, and Tygoh is painfully aware of his lower status.

  “He will,” Argos nods.

  Tygoh watches as Argos mounts his horse again, reining out to the edge of the crowd. Bodies shuffle to face the commander. Silence spreads throughout the men as the sun rises higher, setting their skin alight, their cheeks red. Tygoh feels little discomfort from the heat, remembering only too late that his desert-skinned mother was to thank for that. A flush of shame overtakes his face, and he pulls himself into the saddle, finding comfort in the height.

  Above, the Grand Master calls out in a deep, grainy voice.

  “Men! I’m not ‘ere to puff up your collars. You’re quite good at that yourselves.” He grins darkly. “But you need to understand why we’re here and what this is about!” His stallion prances about, fighting the bit in its mouth, saddle creaking under the commander’s weight. “For the past few moons, our nobles have watched Denand-branded scouts make their way past our western border. It was not until a few weeks ago that we apprehended a young boy from the Pfeist Mountains, working under the orders of Silon of Denand. We interrogated him, finding only that their ruler came looking for a rumor of old magic. Old magic that originated in the desert country of Xelinac; the Lynac.”

  The word brings about a feverish stir throughout the crowd. A few of the older men begin to rattle their shields. The younger men in the group fall silent.

  “A week later, we were gifted the presence of a gruesome creature seen roaming the streets of Erah. We captured it within the week, and our king was able to confirm Silon’s intentions through its questioning.” The Grand Master grimaces as he speaks of the dead boy, leading his horse farther down the throng. “The Lynac is indeed within our borders!”

  The metallic clang of steel rises. When the Grand Master begins to speak again, his voice is muted over the sound.

  Tygoh scowls down at the men below his horse. “Silence!” he shouts into the eager crowd, shuttering the mouths of those around him. The Grand Master continues, shooting a stormy glance in his direction.

  “But this is not our main threat. We have seen coordination between Tauris and Denand. These Xelinites are being sold as weapons to the desert county; an alliance between our neighbors. Not only has Silon posed a threat in the form of invading our country with ill intent, but she has colluded in acts of war with a country we know little about. We hold the advantage, having caught their actions before inciting war, and we will crush their impending volley before they can land on our soil!”

  The men in the crowd below cheer, raising their swords. Nathis arrives beside the Grand Master, riding his pale gelding. He speaks to the footsoldiers below, his voice husky and dry.

  “Men, please check your armor for weak spots, holes, and damage. If your sword is not sharp, the castle blacksmith is available as we wait for our king to join us. Watch your feet and watch your fellow man’s back. It could mean the difference between taking the enemy’s life and losing your own.”

  Tygoh scowls, reining his dark charger in a circle to face his riders. Hundreds of eyes, wrinkled, shining, dark and eager stare expectantly in his direction. Heat rises up the back of his neck where the Crown Mark resides. His skin, honey in the sun, looks darker than ever in a sea of ruddy faces. He swallows.

  “Each one of you is part of the greatest army known to this region,” he exclaims. A few shouts of agreement arise. “Remember your training, keep your horse alive, and never let the enemy remove your sword.”

  He hesitates, breathing slowly. Some of the men before him are his father’s vassals, clothed in the Dacre family sigil of the wyvern. The pride he felt in his family roots fades, knowing the tainted blood that flows through his veins. He catches the eyes of his men, looking into each of them, and imagines their distrust at the truth of his origin. His pride escapes him, and he pulls away, kicking his heels into his horse. His men pull their horses aside to let him through.

  He breaks through the lines and rides hard toward the castle walls. He hears the heated shouting of the Grand Master over the shush of sand below him. He persists, thundering through the gates and dismounting at the portcullis, feeling the shock through his ankles as he lands. His horse, agitated, prances away. Tygoh paces through the castle courtyard, the garden passing around him. He makes his way up the stairs near the throne room entrance, tramping down the hallway and bursting into the quarters he shares with his fiancée.

  It all seems fitting now, Anarah’s commoner blood paired with the Dacre name. His father’s approval of her came not as an affirmation of nobility, but from his own shame. He knew that noble blood brought with it an arranged marriage devoid of love, shrouded in the ruse of responsibility. His father’s adultery taught many lessons.

  Tygoh spots the remnants of the desert lupine he gave Anarah when he proposed. It is shriveled and colorless, lying atop the dresser on her side of the bed. Jerking his eyes away, he begins removing his armor, struggling with the leather straps. When he finally pulls the tethers free, he rips his breastplate from his chest, cursing the wyvern on its front as it crashes to the floor. He unfastens the padded leather skirt from around his waist and tosses it on the bed, leaving only his gauntlets and mail in place.

  Then, snatching a waterskin from his dresser and belting it about his waist, Tygoh slips out the way he came, through the gatehouse, whistling to his horse. He throws himself into the saddle and gallops east toward Denand, feeling the eyes of his men on his back.