“I have never killed a man,” the merchant protested. “You should not accuse me of such.”

The Speaker laughed and spoke to the crowd. “Of course you have killed,” she said. “We all have. Each moment we kill uncounted thousands of men who might have been, men who wear our faces and act in ways contrary to our decisions. We kill them with each choice not made, and each step not taken.”

The merchant scowled, and denounced the accusation as sophistry, to which the Speaker laughed again.

“I would not speak against you had you killed evil men alone,” she said. “For you have killed all manner of evil men that would have stepped forth from your path. You should be lauded for this. But likewise have you killed all manner of great men, fearful of where such ambition might lead. You have consigned yourself to mediocrity, pitiful creature.”

The Speaker stepped forward, then, and raised her hand against the merchant. The man cowered and begged for mercy, but received only scorn in return.

“The need for mercy is your crime,” she said. “There was a man who deserved it, and another who would not need it, but you murdered them most thoroughly in every day of your wretched life. Do not look to them now for salvation.”

- The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Blood. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

Back at the boulder, they took stock of their loot. The rations were all they really needed; the cheese and meat were a bonus, as were the winter apples. Michael ate one of them, slowly, with his eye on the town.

The old man had apparently reported the theft. The guard at the edge of town had doubled, and its streets seethed like a kicked anthill. There was little increase in activity outside the town, though, and Sobriquet reported no serious attempts to detect their hideout.

“Chasing a Fade into the field is not an intelligent use of resources,” she had explained smugly. “Something they already knew before they met me, although I did my best to reinforce the lesson in Daressa. Most souls don’t have the range or discernment to usefully pick out blind spots, and the Fade can move much more nimbly than your search teams. They’ll reinforce the perimeter, keep an extra watch for a few days - or until the Ardans attack, whichever comes first.”

Michael took another bite of the apple and watched as the Safid did precisely that. The patrols had increased to four men apiece, usually accompanied by one man who went about unveiled - an ensouled escort, Michael figured, though he could not tell what sort of soul they had. They circled around tirelessly as he crunched through the apple, then as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

He had expected the introduction of ensouled to result in a farce of bows and scurrying, given the reaction the people had to mere soldiers before, but the villagers proved more adaptable than he expected: they kept to the inside of town, only approaching the patrolled outskirts when their destination lay close by. When the odd patrol chanced to go through the town, people were elsewhere. The genuflection dwindled to almost nothing, because the two groups crossed paths only when there was no other option.

It seemed almost elegant in a way, like a dance, but Michael knew that it was anything but carefree. The echo of the old man’s fear resonated in him still. He was well aware of how a fear could be all you thought about, dominating so much of your mind that you scarcely had room for anything else. The minutiae of daily life squeezed themselves into the remaining space, though, and you gradually forgot about it - got used to a small, cramped existence, huddled into the center of town for fear of what some streets held.

The stars came out, and the village slept. So did Michael’s men, but Michael had no need to sleep. He found himself another apple and ate it in the dark, watching the quiet cluster of buildings in the distance.

There had been no commotion from the mountain pass that he could see. Light still burned from the troops encamped there, with none of the disorganization or chaos he would expect if the Ardans made their attack. Quiet held through the morning, when the others roused themselves.

“Morning,” Sobriquet yawned, stretching. “I assume we didn’t miss anything interesting.”

Michael nodded, giving her a wry smile. “The guards have gone around their loop 61 times since night fell,” he said. “Two shift changes. I expect this current patrol is due to come off duty soon, now that it’s light out.”

“We need to find you better hobbies,” Sobriquet muttered, grabbing one of the dry sausages and biting a chunk off, not bothering with a knife. “Mmph. And we could use some more water. Salty.”

“That can be today’s project.” Michael turned away from the village; after so long studying it he felt momentarily disoriented turning back to the boulders. “I think I saw a stream slightly north of here. We can fill the canteens we lifted from the temple.” At the mention of the temple, he found his eyes drawn back to the squat white building. He wondered if the old man was still in there, sweeping the floor, or if their intrusion had driven him away.

Sobriquet noticed his disquiet. “You know,” she said, “I figured you were watching the town out of boredom at first, since the boulders are thin on recreation.” She walked around until she was between him and the town. “But it’s not just that, is it? You’re troubled about something.”

Michael looked down at her. “I wouldn’t say troubled,” he muttered. “Or perhaps that is right. It was one thing seeing soldiers bowing to us - not comfortable, but you’re used to soldiers saluting and marching around, all sorts of odd military things. That man, though - he felt fear.”

“Of course he did,” Sobriquet snorted. “He was being robbed by invisible brigands, it’s a fearful situation.”

“It wasn’t that sort of fear.” Michael rubbed at his jaw, trying to sort through words. “I’ve felt a lot of fear, since I let myself listen to Spark. Everyone has it. There’s fear of death, fear of the unknown, fear of self, fear for others. There’s the fear people feel when they meet me, and the greater fear after they learn who I am. What I am.” He looked at Sobriquet. “There’s your fear of me.”

She gave him an indignant look. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

“You choose not to listen to it; that doesn’t mean the fear goes away.” He raised his hands placatingly. “I’ve learned not to dwell on it. Everyone carries some fear. I prefer to focus on your other feelings, as do you.” He flushed, then looked back towards the town. “But that man’s fear wasn’t like that. It was like mine.”

Sobriquet narrowed her eyes, but did not speak.

“Do you know, when I went to Sofia’s house for dinner, when they told me that they wanted to take me from my father - I shouted at them. I was angry that they’d presume to criticize my father, to pass judgment on his treatment of me.” He laughed darkly. “This despite Sofia’s perspective, and Isolde’s glimpse of exactly what he had done to me. Ghar’s blood, he had killed me that very week and only spoke of it to say he was sorry he hadn’t done it sooner. Yet I defended him - I was angry. I was ready to storm out of there and never speak to them again.”

“Because you were afraid of him?” Sobriquet asked.

Michael shook his head. “That’s the trick. I should have been afraid of him, and on some level I was - still am. But in that moment, when I had a path clear of him, I was afraid of everything else. When it’s all you know-” He paused. “That man didn’t fear that we’d harm him. He feared his own ability to act. For one moment in his life, he glimpsed something strange, something outside of the cage he knows, and all that occupied his mind was the fear that he might misstep and come to deserve punishment.”

“That’s twisted,” Sobriquet observed, making a sour face. She stared out over the town, following his gaze, then looked back to Michael. “But you did leave, in the end.”

“Because Sofia gave me a new perspective.” Michael shrugged. “She showed me that it was never about me. I never earned my misery, because my father never cared about anyone but himself. It’s why I’m still grateful to her, despite everything. Without that, I would have crawled back and been abducted by Spark without ever meeting Jeorg. I’d have been his creature entirely.” He nodded towards the village. “In a way, they’re worse off than I ever was. The cage that holds them is stronger and better-crafted than the one my father made for me.” He frowned. “It’s even arguable that they’re better-off inside it, save that it’s still a cage. It’s comfortable, and the world outside is decidedly not.”

She nodded towards the distant pass. “The cage won’t save them when Luc leads his men through,” she said. “They’re missing the same truth that you needed to see: that nobody cares if they live or die.”

“We’ll see,” Michael said. “Despite everything, the Safid can be pragmatic when the situation calls for it - and their soldiers are still men.” He followed her gaze. “Not like the ones that are coming.”

That day, too, passed in relative quiet. They made their expedition to top off their water stores, but otherwise held to their quiet patch of highlands around the boulders. The Safid, to their credit, did not slacken their patrols of the village. If anything, their failure to encounter any thieves made them even more suspicious. A second patrol had joined the first, marching around the perimeter vigilantly.

Michael reflected that the stress of the impending Ardan advance might be gnawing at their nerves, as it had certainly begun to affect his own. More and more he glanced to the south and saw nothing amiss, which only increased the niggling feeling that he was missing something important. But he could do nothing right now, so he sighed and leaned against the rock, waiting for something to happen.

When the sun was dipping down to the west horizon and the first stars peeked through the sky’s veil overhead, something finally did. Sobriquet was the one who first spotted the streamer of smoke rising up from the pass, a small plume that could have been innocuous - until it was joined by another, and another.

Those down on the Safid lines noticed it too. They turned to the south and watched in tense knots of men, pulsing off a fear that began to sour the air even at Michael’s removed vantage. That lasted until night truly fell, cloaking the land in darkness. Lamps blazed bright across the camp to ward away the murk - except in the distance where the first line had been, where the land lay dark and quiet.

Hours passed with glacial languor. The fear from the soldiers near them was palpable, a fetid taint to the cold mountain air. Even Michael’s men were subdued, eating their purloined rations silently and retiring to bed without their usual banter. For once, Michael’s sleeplessness felt entirely natural as he stared out at the wash of light that marked the second line.

They had lit watchfires along the leading edge, regular dots of light that marked where a large brazier burned. Michael caught his eyes roving back and forth across their length, then back and forth again - until one fire near the middle of the line dimmed suddenly, supplanted by a burst of pure white light.

Michael blinked, straightening up and stretching his sight as close as it would go. It was a lucigens, he reasoned, likely drawing heat from the brazier for a burst of more controllable light. White radiance washed across the hills, and at the limit of his vision Michael could make out motion amid the scrub and brush. More braziers dimmed, and more lucigentes cast their harsh glow across the landscape. There was a roar of gunfire, muted by the distance; it blurred together in Michael’s ears. Rifles fired in a constant barrage, again and again, punctuated by the thump of artillery.

The larger guns flared brightly in the night - then brighter still as Ardan artillery answered with punishing accuracy. Sofia’s influence, Michael figured. Secondary explosions rippled through the Safid rear line, and their guns fell silent.

One of the lights at the perimeter winked out, its lucigens dead or exhausted. Michael could see nothing in the darkness that reclaimed the space. Once or twice, he saw the suggestion of motion, but could not say if it was real or the work of his mind on the eigengrau. Another lucigens fell, and another. The line grew ragged, moth-eaten. Lamps fell, morphing into dull blotches of red fire where tents or brush came alight.

In the flickering, red light, Michael’s sight finally caught a glimpse of real motion; a surging, dark mass of bodies pressed forward into the Safid lines where they had fractured. They brought darkness with them, trampling and extinguishing until the night reclaimed its space. Only rare motes of light lingered, smoldering - or, horrifyingly, danced along with the flow as some distant, faceless man caught fire and shambled along uncaring.

The motion dwindled and died. The roar of gunfire stuttered, slowed - and then fell quiet, echoes of a few last shots reverberating in the night. What remained of the Safid second line disappeared, and there was only dark past the third line. Watchfires had already begun to spring up along its length; Michael watched as soldiers ran to light the ones on the near end of the line, marking the leading border of the village. This close, he could see that each had a small block of iron in the center, soaking up the heat from the fire.

The village residents were not abed, either. Men and women ran about with grim purpose, carrying cords of wood to the front or barricading the gaps between houses.

As before, Michael’s eyes strayed back to the temple. There were figures in the clear space outside its walls, small figures - the town’s children, herded together by a token force of white-robed women and elderly. They had formed into a rough circle outside the temple’s doors, their little bodies moving in time - singing, Michael realized. Eight banners ringed the circle, their faded cloth almost at the limit of Michael’s vision.

Two of them, nearest to the temple, had large crowds clustered by them. A dozen children each shouted up at scraps of cloth bearing a flame and a shield, dancing around the poles in the dim light. The rest received only token attention; Michael supposed it would be odd for the children to sing praises for Sever or Stellar, given the circumstances.

He peered back out at the darkness, frowning. There had been no blaze of light from the Ardan side to herald Luc’s presence, nor did he see any indication that Friedrich was in play. From his limited view, it seemed as though they were prosecuting the assault solely with their corps of obruor-led men.

“Sera,” he murmured. “I don’t think the Ardans are using any ensouled in their attack.”

“Odd, but they have the manpower,” Sobriquet replied, her voice coming softly from the empty space beside Michael. “They’re probably saving their strength for the main assault. That, and what Lars pointed out - that they’re going to have trouble with attrition among those troops once they’re over the border, so it makes sense to use them to their fullest now. Better that they should die in battle than to illness and neglect. Wasteful, but it makes sense if you don’t care about their lives.”

“Killing Ardans is as much the point as killing Safid,” Michael said quietly. “As long as men die, Luc gets what he wants - and all without exposing himself to our attention.” He shook his head irritably. “Maybe we should have tried to intercept him south of the border after all. He’s going to drag this out if we let him dictate the pace.”

“They seem to be moving pretty fast to me,” Sobriquet said. “I have a sense of them now. The obruor-touched men are - quiet. Very quiet.” She paused. “They’ll be here before long. If Luc isn’t going to show himself, we may want to consider repositioning. The movement of the artillery suggests that Sibyl is paying attention, and our hiding spot won’t stand up to her scrutiny if she gets closer.”

“Have Zabala and Lars get the men ready,” Michael said, “but hold here. They won’t give this line up as easily, not with the people behind them. I want to see what the Ardans do if they’re turned back.”

She said nothing in reply, and Michael continued to watch as braziers came alight down the line. Men emerged from the night in ones and twos, running towards the safety of the firelight. Some limped, or were helped along by comrades; dark blood glistened on uniforms. The villagers ran forward to intercept the wounded, meeting them with bandages and stretchers, carrying them back from the line.

But few men came from the second line, less than a hundred that Michael could see. Their numbers dwindled until there was only one man limping his way across the field, his ankle twisted horribly; men ran forward to help him back to their lines.

As the stragglers came in, the Safid artillery made themselves known - but fell silent after a handful of shots, fearful of Sibyl’s retaliation. Explosions pocked the field here and there, the flare of their burst giving horrid glimpses of a great horde of men pressing forward.

When the guns stopped it fell dark again, and quiet. The wind gusted, making the fires dance in their braziers. The iron blocks in each were beginning to glow a dull red at the corners. Safid soldiers who had been shifting restlessly or talking in low tones now stood quiet, watchful, their eyes pinned to the featureless dark that hung just beyond the firelight.

Michael called on Stanza and saw the world wrought in gold. It was difficult to see far this way; true to Jeorg’s maxim that it was difficult to use the soul in a place you weren’t present, the lattice faded to a vague and jumbled glow as Mike looked farther afield. But - it was enough to see the slow advance of bodies through the dark. Sobriquet had been right to call them “quiet” before. People made a distinct impression upon Stanza’s sight, glowing a bit brighter, the webwork that formed them standing out in sharp and lively detail to his eyes.

The men walking across the field, though, did not appear the same way. They were muted, stripped away, little different than the rocks they walked over. It was as if the land itself had risen up to heave itself towards them. Even the men he had fought in Daressa and Ardalt had displayed some glimmer of distinction to them, something to remind the world that they were still men. These, though-

A voice called out from the Safid lines. As one, lucigentes stepped close to the braziers and tapped into the heat stored there. Light flared to illuminate the advancing lines of Ardans, revealing them for what they were - ragged, emaciated men, black sores showing through rips in their clothing. Michael had seen corpses that looked better. A chorus of dismay came from the Safid lines, accompanied by a spike of fear and dread that turned Michael’s stomach.

In the next moment they had recovered, and began firing into the ranks of the advancing Ardans. Gunsmoke billowed from the defensive lines, and Michael spotted a few scalptors working at intervals. Farther down, a single lucigens sent rays of light scything across the troops.

The first few ranks of Ardans crumbled under the assault, but behind them were more men - men in better condition, though still listless and dull. They crouched behind the corpses of their former comrades and began firing on the Safid. Bullets tore into the line, wedging themselves into barricades and masonry. Their aim was horrible, but there were far, far more Ardans than Safid.

Clusters of men formed around fortimentes, but where too many men drew together the Ardans sent shells their way. Sibyl’s eye was dimmer when it was not fixed on Michael, but he could see the minute shift and twist of the lattice as she picked her targets; reluctantly, the Safid scattered their formations.

Men began to die in earnest. Michael felt the familiar ache of his soul pulling at him, and for a moment his heart beat fast, waiting for the soul to come - but none did. It was merely the weight of the slaughter pressing down on him, blood flowing faster than he had seen since the liberation of Daressa.

For a time, the lines remained static, the exchange of violence pinning the Ardans in place and suppressing the Safid defenders. Soldiers fell on both sides. Men rotated in from the Safid reserves, and fresh Ardans stumbled in from the darkness, each body adding to their cover. The Safid were hard-pressed, though; despite their advantage in souls and position, the sheer mass of the Ardan advance was difficult to deny. More men fell.

Michael saw that some of the reinforcements on the Safid side were no longer soldiers, but men of the village, grabbing rifles dropped by the wounded and joining others on the line. Women joined too, and more than a few of the older children.

Back at the temple, the young and elderly were still singing, chanting to the banners of the Flame and the Shield. They, too, clearly felt the terror of the battle; Michael could feel it radiating from them even at a distance. But they stayed, and sang, and did not run.

“They’re insane,” he muttered. “None of them are leaving.”

“They’re participating in the struggle,” Sobriquet said acidly, her tone hiding none of her opinion. “They’re on the path, for all the good it will do them.”

Michael shook his head and looked back at the front. The Ardans had pressed forward another handful of paces, and the Safid lines were already showing gaps. “This isn’t going to last long,” he said.

“Agreed. We should make our way back towards the real fortifications in the fourth line,” Sobriquet said. “I don’t particularly want to stay and watch what’s about to happen.”

Michael pressed his lips together. The Ardans had advanced most of the way across the field, now a macabre trenchwork of bodies and blood. It was likely a thousand men had died to take this village, but he had seen tens of thousands at the beachhead; these were the men who were injured and diseased already, made to stagger forward even so. The soldiers who used their bodies as cover were healthier, stronger. They moved with speed, and sighted accurately.

Even if they tried to retreat now, Michael doubted that most of the Safid would be able to. The weakening gunfire was the only thing keeping the Ardans from crashing over the village like a wave. The scalptor nearest him dropped, blood dribbling from a head wound. A boy no older than fifteen stepped into his place, clutching an overlarge rifle; he was shot in the chest before he had fired twice.

And still the children at the temple sang to the Flame and the Shield. There were some on the periphery who were caught in confusion, picking up on the nervous energy from the adults, the noise of screaming and gunfire from a few streets away. They strayed from the song, running into the temple or grasping the robe of an elder in mute incomprehension.

One young boy wandered towards a banner on the far side of the circle and tilted his face up to look at the faded tree painted there. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth and began to sing.

The sight was like a knife in Michael’s gut.

“Sera,” he rasped. “Lead the men back towards the fourth line.”

There was a pause before she responded. “Michael,” she said warningly, “the way you phrased that makes it sound like you’re not coming with us.”

“I’m going to stall the Ardan advance,” he said.

“You are not going to stall the Ardan advance!” Sobriquet shot back. “We’re supposed to be avoiding notice, remember? What you’re proposing sounds pretty fucking noticeable.”

“We’ll figure it out. The Safid can be reasoned with,” Michael said, rising to his feet.

“Not easily!” Sobriquet’s voice came from his other side; Michael looked over to see her standing there, breathing hard. “There is no fucking reason to go down there and intervene on behalf of people who clearly don’t care if they live or die.”

Michael managed a bitter smile. “Only an informed choice is a choice. I didn’t want to die, and neither do they. They just can’t see another path forward. They’re calling back to the people who put them here and asking to be saved; it’s not their fault that Saleh and Amira aren’t listening.”

Sobriquet gave him an exasperated look. “They’re not asking you.”

“That one is.” He pointed to the lone child staring up at the tree banner. “Asking for the Caller. The one who always tries, who always stands first.” He turned back to Sobriquet. “I am listening. And I’m going to give them what they need.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “None of this means a thing if we lose our chance at Luc,” she said.

“It wasn’t like our first plan was that incredible,” Michael said, bending down to kiss her. While their lips touched he was awash in her feeling, the frustration and fear twisting around brighter things in a coruscating mess. He pulled back with a grin. “I love you too. Keep the rest out of trouble.”

He turned and ran down the gentle slope towards the town, moving as fast as his legs would take him. At the start of the fortifications he leapt in a great arc, sailing up into the darkness and landing closer to the center of the village’s battle line. The shock of his impact sent up a cloud of dust that glimmered in the wan light cast by a remaining lucigens.

Some eyes turned towards him on both sides, and gunfire found him. He straightened up amid a few ineffectual shots, looking down the line. The far end was crumbling, the few surviving soldiers running back towards the dubious safety of the village.

Those still on the Safid line watched him with growing alarm, calling for the remaining ensouled to focus their attention on him. Michael frowned; he had not intended to launch himself into the fray to fight both sides. It had been some time since he read the Book of Eight Verses, but he dredged through those memories, searching for the words to address both of his problems at once.

He cleared his throat.

“Ardan soldiers!” he shouted, calling Stanza to his voice until it reverberated across the line; half the Safid soldiers ducked behind their barricades in reflex, the rest simply stared. Michael did his best to ignore them, instead reaching beneath him to grasp the heat bound within the rocky soil. “Puppets, stay your strings. Let my light be all that draws your eye.”

He had never put his lucigens soul through its paces, before, but now he drew upon it in earnest - on whatever amalgam of soul he had made of it. Light burst from his skin, casting sharp shadows in the field. The Ardans stared, their eyes fixed on him. The noise of guns stopped, save for a few opportunistic Safid farther down that continued to lay into the transfixed mob.

Michael grit his teeth and reached for Spark, grabbing the line of attention he had drawn and fixing it, reinforcing it until they could look nowhere else. Blinded, openmouthed, they began to stream towards him. He forced himself to take an even breath, and shaped it to words that would resonate in Safid ears and Ardan bodies.

“I am He Who Speaks The Names Of Things.

It is my will that you shall burn and die.”

He ignored the shocked outcry from behind him, letting his low souls flare bright. His world was aglow with Stanza, with Spark, with the flow of warmth that coursed inward, leaving the grass sheathed in ice and sending misty streamers cascading down through the air-

The light went out. Shuddering heat rippled out along the lines his mind had drawn, the air glowing briefly red-white in raw, broken fractals before bursting with hot wind. There was a horrid squeal of steam as several hundred men boiled from the inside. A vile, turbulent fog cloaked the field.

Then there was a soft, low chorus of bodies collapsing to the grass, of rifles clattering and worn leather creaking in protest.

Then quiet.

Michael let his hands drop to his sides, breathing hard despite the offensive taste of the air, and turned to face the Safid. They stared at him, caught in indecision; whatever preparations they had laid held no contingency for something like this. Their emotions wavered between fear and awe, violence and joy. He waited for one of the Safid to protest, to cry that this was the Heart-Eater, or that it was some Ardan ploy - but only for a moment. There was another eye watching from behind him, after all.

“You have a short window before they bring their artillery to bear,” Michael said, stepping into the space he had made. “Evacuate the village. Take everyone back to the next line. Any ensouled, form a rear guard on me.” His eyes found one man with a badge of rank, and no veil on his cap.

Michael locked eyes with him. “You - with me. I need to talk with whoever is in charge back there.”

The officer swallowed hard, his mind clearly racing at dangerous speeds; in the end, habit won out. He lifted a trembling hand to his lips, then his brow, lowering his eyes; the men around him quickly followed suit, clutching at veils or raising a hand to obscure their faces - then jumping to carry out his orders.

“As you command, Great Caller,” the officer rasped. “I will take you to the Shield.”