For powerful men, the dilemma of leadership presents itself thus: without a strong hand, events proceed in undesirable directions; with too strong a hand, delegation becomes impossible. The usual resolution is to pick one’s battles - to take personal charge of the most crucial tasks while letting subordinates handle less important matters.

This is a false solution to the problem, however. By creating a distinction of importance, a leader tells his men that there are scenarios which they are not qualified to address. Protective subordination is, in itself, a limiting action. It is often done with the best of intentions, so that men may grow at a measured pace with limited exposure to risk.

However, men do not grow as they must when they know a higher authority is sheltering them from ultimate consequence. A leader’s role is not to think for his men, nor act for them, nor take blows in their stead. Attachment tells us that we must protect a man from harm - but in doing so, you have killed the best version of him already.

- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

The shells came again not long after dark, ripping the darkness apart with their radiant thunder. Michael’s loss of sleep had been grating on him. Usually he hated the period of lonely solitude enforced upon him each night, to remind him that he wasn’t who he used to be. Today, though, he was alert, awake, and grateful for it. Some of the others were already showing signs of stress; most hadn’t had Sobriquet’s foresight to sleep mid-day.

Rested or not, everyone was awake now. The concussions fell around them, concentrating in a few areas that Michael had deemed safe. In typical Safid style, nobody had bothered to coordinate with him about the redirected shellbursts, or even to confirm that he was responsible for their uncommon good fortune. They simply noted the areas where shells fell and avoided them, shifting sandbags for better cover.

Men had come too, though only a few of them. The worst-off of the Ardan troops came in small squads, the ones already-wounded or reeling from disease. None of them made it far before being shot, but there was a measured, probing quality to their deployment that told Michael that none of them were meant to. The robust defenses in this line were being assessed and cataloged, prodded to see how they would react.

“Sera,” he murmured. “How much of the line can you veil? Not to hide it, but to confuse anyone trying to watch their responses.”

“You say ‘anyone’ as if you’re not talking about one person in particular,” she muttered. “Against Sibyl it would be - challenging to do anything meaningful on such a large scale.”

Michael nodded. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much. She can learn all she wants about the Safid, but they’re hardly going to be dislodged by a few well-placed artillery shots and half-dead men. If she wants to advance, this fortification demands a commitment of resources. Amira alone could hold the line against everything we’ve seen thus far.”

“If she were here.” Sobriquet scowled, looking out at the lines. “I certainly haven’t seen her around. Does she mean to test you by leaving you alone against the advance?”

Michael shrugged, his eyes coming up at the sound of shells. Directing the occasional round aside was nearly automatic at this point, as practiced as bending a path through a forest. “For all we know, she’s the reason we’re not being seriously pressed. She could have spent all morning running through the opposing camp, kicking soldiers south across the mountains.”

“That does sound like her. I never thought of myself as a woman with military sensibilities, but the idea of a commander being absent from the battlefield while their men fight seems wrong.” She shook her head. “Safid.”

“Safid,” Michael agreed. “I assume she’ll show up when the Ardans decide to move in earnest.”

Sobriquet muttered her assent. Outside, the shelling had stopped once more, but the crack of rifle fire continued unabated. He sent his sight upward and found a larger group of Ardans clustered behind a nearby ridge, firing from the protected position. The Safid moved to respond, shifting troops left and right in the forward trenches to get a better angle on their attackers. Lucigentes tapped their heat sinks, and a swathe of the battleground burst into vibrant light.

A second group opened fire from another spot further down, then a third. Michael frowned, peering closer. Sofia’s gaze was harder to spot if it was not focused directly on him, but he thought he sensed the faintest hint of it - trained squarely on the Safid trenches. The artillery resumed a moment later, forcing him to pull his attention away.

“You’re making a face,” Sobriquet noted.

Michael nodded, watching the shells come in. “It’s the same pattern, but larger,” he muttered. “Probing, testing. She’s seen the Safid react to attacks, and now she’s applying them precisely, at specific spots.” He paused; another volley demanded a sliver of his attention. The volume of incoming fire shifted, and the Safid moved to respond-

“Shit, she’s herding them,” Michael realized. “She’s seen how the Safid work, how they respond to threats, and she’s shifting them where she wants them.” He turned to Sobriquet, pulling his sight back. “Can you-”

He broke off; the artillery had intensified once more. The shells came closer together, in larger groups. Their trajectories varied; some had been fired on high arcs, others on lower paths. All arrived at the same time. Michael had to tear his focus from the battle to ensure he guided them all where they were meant to go, a task that was becoming increasingly complex with each passing moment-

“She’s giving them good firing positions so they cluster together, which makes them vulnerable to artillery; she’s using the artillery to keep you busy,” Sobriquet said, sounding unimpressed. “Which seems to be working. One moment.”

Her eyes closed; Michael saw a flurry of motion near one of the Ardan positions. The twenty or so men that had been attacking from there fell silent. A moment later the same happened behind the large ridge.

“There,” she said, sounding satisfied. “Let’s see how our hateful little dilettante likes that. Now she can’t - oops.”

“Oops?” Michael asked. Outside, the noise of rifle fire intensified. He looked outside once more to see the field to their south suddenly swarming with men.

“Now she can’t pick us apart,” Sobriquet said ruefully. “I neglected to think about what her next choice would be if I ruined her ever-so-masterful strategy.” She closed her eyes, grimacing. “There’s a lot of men out there. A lot. She’s moved back to throwing bodies at us until something breaks.”

The rhythmic crack of a machine gun started from one of the pillboxes, bullets scything across the advancing force. They were heavy, unwieldy contraptions compared to the Mendiko equivalent, but they did their job all the same. Men fell in droves, and the few stragglers that leaked through were addressed by scalptors.

Lars was at work among them, fighting from a nearby pillbox. His face was grim and drawn, dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. It lent him a fearsome aspect, with no trace of his foppish charm left amid the quick, purposeful twitches of his fingers. His eyes flitted between doomed men as they entered the light, working quickly.

But those men streamed forward still. Some paused behind the fresh corpse bulwarks to fire at the trenches. Safid soldiers fell. One of the machine guns jammed, its barrel glowing bright red; a Safid officer popped up beside it to pass his hand over the weapon. Steel groaned, the glow faded, and a narrow lance of light shot out from the officer’s hand to cut through the front ranks of the Ardans. Corpses sizzled and burned. A small fire caught among the bloodied uniforms, spreading quickly to those that had fallen near.

The Ardans advanced through the smoke, staring ahead with the wide, panicked eyes Michael knew all too well. Some of these men were fresher recruits, not the old fodder that had been dragged around by obruors since the end of the Daressan campaign. They still peered out from within their fleshy prisons, uncomprehending, their feet moving forward by rote, tearful eyes sighting down their rifles.

These men did not deserve to die. Some of them might yet be saved. But any intricate winnowing of the survivors would take time, and their numbers were swelling in the darkness and corpse-smoke. The cost for delay would be in Safid lives. Michael felt a moment approaching in the confusing weave of paths. It was a moment for choice, to decide who lived and died.

That decision was rapidly falling to the whim of chance as the two sides chewed at each other in the darkness. Michael only contemplated standing aside for a moment; watching bullets tear through a group of young men in the nearby pillbox spurred him to action.

He stood up. “I’m going out,” he said.

Sobriquet nodded. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

No more words were necessary. Michael strode outside, smelling the sharp tang of gunsmoke in winter air. Shots echoed from the buildings around him, sharp and clear; everything was vibrant to his eyes. Details hung written in flame and blood and muzzle flash.

He took a breath of the acrid air and looked at the world with different eyes, seeing past the fracas to the golden glow of possibility. There was a weave and flow to the fighting, and he let it pass through him quietly for the space of a few breaths.

Then he grasped it lightly with his will and began to speak.

“Ardan soldiers,” he murmured. The lattice jumped at his invocation, shining brightly where the soldiers pushed forward. “You shall fight no more. None of you may pass by where I stand.”

Michael watched the light flood outward from him, tracing along the filigree of the world until every wirework soldier shone against the darkness. Forms of men, more men than he had ever faced before - and he could not pretend that they were all beyond hope. He tried not to view them as a faceless mass; each was a person, or fragments of what used to be a person. Those people would end with him.

Do not hide behind euphemism, Jeorg’s voice chided in his mind. Speak honestly. If you can’t bear to say what you’ve done-

He grit his teeth, correcting himself, deciding with firm, deliberate intent. Not from necessity, nor from panic, nor any of the hundred other rationalizations that had let him flinch away from the truth in past battles. He would impose his will on the world, and so these men would die.

At the acknowledgment of what he sought to do, the scale of the task pressed in on him from all sides. It was a crushing pressure, adamant and scornful against one man’s whim. Except - he was not one man alone. Low souls flared within him, wreathed in a flame that burnt away impossibilities. Clair, Charles, Voss, Leire-

Could you do it? Leire’s voice came next, haughty and disdainful. Even Jeorg shied away from Stanza’s true potential in war. With your soul pressed against their dying flesh, listening to their hearts falter-

Michael did not push back against the words. He was about to inflict fresh horror on a night that had already seen more than its share. The enormity of so many deaths shuddered through him, a terrible force that he could not deny - so he did not. He relaxed, and let that fell purpose resonate through him until there was only the pure note of his will, ringing out to encompass every Ardan soldier in the line.

He raised his head and spoke.

“A mortal prison binds you to this war.

It shall burn away at my command.”

His voice shattered the night, blasting the smoke and dust aside; every brazier along the line died. The kilns fell cold, their glowing steel contents screaming in protest as condensation froze to the metal. For a bare instant Michael’s world flared bright, unthinkable energy coursing through him - and out, away. The field flared bright with the pyres of a thousand dead men.

Michael felt each one of them. They screamed silently with fear, with panic - with relief, in part, but he could not pretend that was more than a sliver of the whole. He dropped to his knees and let the tide wash over him. Motes of light flared amid the dark as one low soul found him, then another. The sudden warmth surprised him, and for a moment he felt the tempest keenly-

He forced himself to relax, to accept what it meant. Regret would mean little enough, now, and whatever he had been to those men was beyond his ability to change. This was the echo of his actions, reverberating back from the boundaries of his imprint on the world; Michael would have to learn to live with it.

The warmth faded, the glow died. Slowly, the storm stilled. When Michael had regained enough awareness to see past what Stanza showed, he saw himself kneeling in the frozen mud, marked with sweat-streaked ash. His hair was singed, his clothes smoldering in patches; smoke rose from the leather of his boots. Blood shone on his face, dribbling from his nose and in small, crimson rivulets from his eyes.

The wind had stilled. The noise of the battle had gone. For an eternal moment the only noise was the gentle hiss and crack of a thousand fires feeding on their macabre fuel.

A gunshot rang out from down the line, and the moment ended. Michael turned his sight to look and saw some of the Ardans still moving. Potentes, or clusters of men protected by a fortimens. Some of them were burnt or wounded, others appeared to be unscathed; all were retreating as fast as they could run before the Safid lines found something more persuasive than rifle fire to drive them away.

“Michael,” Sobriquet’s voice came, quiet and insistent. “Michael, are you okay?”

He turned back to see himself, still kneeling; Sobriquet floated in the air beside him. His attempt to reply that he was fine was unintelligibly slurred; so too was his reluctantly-amended statement that he may not actually be fine. Michael tried to rise to his feet.

On the third try he made it halfway up; he would have fallen but for Zabala running in to haul him upright. The other man’s face was ashen and hard. Michael could feel the heartbeat hammering through him.

“Eromena,” Zabala murmured, dragging Michael bodily back towards the pillbox. “What did you do?”

Michael managed a wordless croak in response; Zabala shook his head. “Reckless,” he muttered. “What if Amira comes back? Finds you like this? She’d kill you - or worse, take it upon herself to nurse you back to health.”

That thought was enough to send a shiver through him; Michael felt his weakness keenly right now. But he would not take it back. Already, he felt the tone of the camp change around him, the fear loosening its grip. What had replaced it, he couldn’t say - it was diaphanous, subtle; whatever the case, he preferred it to the relentless scraping terror of battle.

He said as much to Zabala, or at least he gave a raspy groan and let his head loll to the side. Zabala muttered some choice profanity and dragged Michael into the pillbox where Lars and the others were, down to the cramped lower compartment where he heaved Michael’s body atop ammunition crates.

Lars leaned close, a question on his lips; Zabala gave a weary shrug. Michael found his attention wandering from their conversation, though. He couldn’t hear them very well over the muted noise from the battle, and he was suddenly quite tired-

He woke just before sunrise, finding himself sore and aching; it was an oddly nostalgic experience. Michael sat up slowly. His head was pounding, and the sporadic gunfire from outside was not helping matters. Scarcely a moment after he was upright, Sobriquet materialized near him.

“Nice of you to join us,” she said.

Michael nodded, regretting the motion immediately. “Ow. It seemed courteous. What did I miss?”

Her apparition gestured dismissively with one dizzying arm. “Not much. I don’t think they had reserves ready to go right away, so you bought us a span of respite. Sibyl figured out that you were indisposed, though. The artillery has been merciless. Not too many deaths, compared to what we were facing, but you’re the only one that got any sleep tonight.”

“That’s a reversal,” Michael muttered, stretching his sight out; the guns were silent for the moment, but he could see that the camp had been harshly-treated since the last time he looked. Craters and churned soil were everywhere, though the fortifications seemed mostly intact. Few dared to walk outside.

He drew upon Stanza and felt his head clear, the feeling so welcome that he held on to the power for longer than was strictly necessary. Michael breathed deeply, banishing the aches from his body - and noting the warmth there, more than prior.

There were more than a few new lights, to his surprise. Seven low souls shone where there had been none before, mute in their radiance.

Michael sank back onto the bed. It was always strange to look within and find more than there had been before, but usually it was something that had been inflicted upon him. This was his own doing, the first souls he had taken by force since he had killed Spark - killed him for threatening Michael with the very thing he had just done voluntarily.

What had been abhorrent now felt - normal. Not the comfortable normal, as he had been accustomed to before his ensoulment, but a sort of well-worn unpleasantness that he knew he could withstand. Here was Michael Baumgart, irrevocably greater than he had been the day before.

He let out a long sigh, then swung his feet from the bed to stand.

“You seem glum for a man who just saved a few thousand lives,” Sobriquet noted, fading to a voice in his ear as he entered the narrow stairwell leading up from the bunker.

Michael grimaced. “Those aren’t the lives I was thinking of.”

“Yet the Safid are focused on them rather keenly,” Sobriquet countered. “Things were taking a turn before you stepped in. Your presence was a curiosity before last night, but they’ve talked of little else since.”

He rounded a cramped landing and continued to ascend. “I gained seven low souls,” he said. “I don’t even remember half of them coming to me.”

There was a long pause before Sobriquet spoke again. “Some of them may have come while you were out,” she said eventually. “There were a few times, during the shellings - you seized and moved about, but didn’t wake. As I said, there were some deaths.”

Michael blinked, surprised, and paused on the stairs to focus inward. It had not occurred to him that some of the souls might be Safid in origin. He had no way to verify it, at least not easily, and he did remember at least two souls coming from the Ardan soldiers-

But the thought that most of those new souls might be men he had worked to save rather than men he had killed was welcome, and buoyed him up the remainder of the stairs. Sobriquet directed him towards the mess, where she was currently eating with the men. He wove his way through the quiet lanes of the camp.

The mess was a relatively secure place in the shelling; as a result, it was packed near to bursting with soldiers when he entered. The bright lights and roar of conversation were jarring after his stroll through the quiet night.

The latter of the two died away when he entered, though. Faces, veiled and bare, turned to him as he entered. The Safid soldiers lowered their eyes, touching their fingers to their lips, then their forehead. Michael found it intensely uncomfortable; there was no response to the action that seemed correct.

So he ignored it. Instead, Michael walked briskly to where Sobriquet sat. He squeezed into a seat between her and Stenger, pointedly not looking at the staring crowd.

“Hey, boss,” Richter said, sliding over a plate of food. “Done napping?”

Michael snorted. “Hopefully.” He took an experimental bite of whatever spiced rice dish was being served today and found that he was famished; as he ate, the noise of conversation gradually filled in around them once more.

“There, that’s more comfortable,” Lars said. “Honestly, you’d think they’d never seen a man singlehandedly clear a battlefield before.”

Sobriquet gave him a reproachful look, but the Ardan captain shrugged, unrepentant. “It was bloody brilliant, and saved a bunch of lads with their heads still working from a bunch of those without. Honestly, I had no notion you could work your soul on that many men at once.” He peered at Michael. “Been holding out on us, mate?”

Michael shook his head, hastily swallowing his mouthful of food. “I don’t think so,” he said. He took a swig of water, then frowned, considering. “Maybe. It’s not a talent I’ve sought out, but it’s one that’s become increasingly necessary.”

“Of all people, you shouldn’t be complaining,” Zabala said dryly. “His restraint is the only reason you’re here at all.”

Lars flushed, but laughed with the rest, waving his hand. “No, no,” he said. “Not complaining, only wondering what’s left for a poor sod like me when one man can-”

He broke off as a shell burst some distance away. The concussion thumped low, sending motes of dust drifting down from the ceiling and flickering the dim candleflames that lit the mess. Some of the Safid came to their feet, heads up and alert.

Michael kept eating. “It’s fine,” he said, mouth half-full. “I saw them coming.”

Lars gave a sharp laugh and sat back down, running a hand through his hair. “Back to designated shelling areas, I see,” he said. “Ghar’s blood, it does make the business of war that much more civilized.”

“If it were civilized, we wouldn’t be here at all,” Zabala pointed out. “And that only covers the shells. They’ll send men before too much longer.”

Sobriquet’s eyes narrowed. “They’re sending men now.”

Michael paused mid-bite, looking up. “Are they?”

“Seems that way.” Sobriquet got up from her seat. “They’re still far off, but they started moving with the latest round of shelling. And if I can sense them this far away-”

“Ensouled,” Michael muttered, looking disconsolately down at his plate. “Well, shit.”

The sky had lost its inky blackness, shading into the rosy glow of dawn. Michael watched light flood over the highlands, adding color and contour to the terrain. No sign of the Ardans had appeared, though Sobriquet swore that they were close.

“All sorts,” she said. “And from what I’m seeing, more than a few fortimentes. It’ll be hard to lean on tricks of the soul to drive these ones off.”

Zabala made a disgusted noise. “Idiotic doctrine,” he scoffed. “Fortimentes make good troops of anyone; they should have been in the lines from the first assault.”

“You’re not thinking like an Ardan.” Sobriquet gave him a reproachful look. “Presume that the lives of your common soldiery are worth less than cow shit to you - in Luc’s case, he’s actively trying to kill them off.”

“He’s trying to kill the Safid too; you’d think he’d spend his resources more wisely.” Zabala shook his head. “It’s offensive.”

“It’s a war, there tends to be some offense,” she remarked, turning back to the empty field in front of them. “Now that things have risen beyond the abilities of their fodder, or perhaps they’re finally running low on those - we’ll see what their real tactics look like. Everything up until now was simply a horrid little girl tormenting an anthill, and throwing a tantrum when the ants dared to resist.”

Michael squinted. “You dropped your veil when you said that.”

“Because I intended the statement to be heard.” Sobriquet made a rude gesture towards nothing in particular. “Obviously. It’s one of the only bright spots of having an all-knowing adversary.”

The veil went back up, and Michael chuckled. “How much longer do you think before they make contact?”

Sobriquet shook her head. “Hard to say, they’re beginning to hide themselves as they draw closer. Not long now. Depends on how many men they want to mass up before they attack.”

A span of tense silence passed as the sky continued to brighten. The Safid soldiers were much less sanguine about the coming fight than Michael’s men, their eyes fixed on the line - but when they looked elsewhere, Michael found that more than a few looked his way.

He kept his eyes forward and tried not to stare back overmuch. A few times he thought he saw distortion from a Fade’s veil, but the morning light and adrenaline had joined forces to play tricks on his eyes.

As the first touches of real sunlight began to play over the mountains, Sobriquet sat upright. “They’re here,” she said. “Three groups, mostly east of us.” She closed her eyes, and Michael saw small distortions flicker in the air near the Safid trenches, her voice echoing out from a dozen pockets of air to point men towards where the danger lay. Soldiers genuflected to the disembodied voice, then turned to face the places she had indicated - right as the air burst with noise and color.

Thin beams of light slashed across the Safid lines; Michael’s heart raced when he saw the first one, but he realized quickly that they stemmed from mundane lucigentes rather than Luc himself. The Safid took cover and fired back, but their bullets were mostly ineffective against the cadre of fortimentes spread across the line, and the potentes charging out ahead.

Darkness blossomed here and there, followed by quick bursts of flame that raced out over the low grasses. Less showy, but far more deadly, were the whisper-quiet blades that sprang out between the columns of charging potentes. In the few spots where the Ardan line was clearly visible, Michael saw a plenitude of black uniforms - Swordsmen.

The Safid line of fire faltered, surprised and dismayed against the fury the Ardans had arrayed against them. Machine guns began their work, but encountered fortimentes, or slow, shining slabs of metal being artificed forward to form redoubts. There were souls on the Safid side too, mostly scalptors, but the smaller Ardan force had them outnumbered in that respect by far.

“Zer arraio,” Zabala spat, stretching his soul to encompass their group. “I thought I was prepared for anything, but I hadn’t expected competence.” A few bullets whirred by overhead; a blast from a lucigens scorched across the pillbox beside them. “This may actually be a problem.”

“One we’ll have to contend with,” Michael said, moving to walk forward. “Let’s go.”

“Why?” Amira asked.

Zabala cursed and jolted aside, surprised; she had walked up whisper-quiet behind them. Judging by Sobriquet’s equally-startled reaction, she had also done so very quickly. Michael managed to make his startlement slightly more dignified, pivoting smoothly to face the slight, smiling woman behind them.

“Amira,” he said, inclining his head. “I thought that’s what we were here for? To fight the Ardans?”

She blinked once, slowly, her smile growing. “We are tested,” she said. “And must contend with those tests.”

“Right.” Michael pursed his lips. “And doesn’t that mean fighting the Ardans?”

Amira nodded, walking slowly amid their group; Zabala shied away as if watching some venomous snake; Richter only managed to stare, dumbfounded. “Certainly it means that the Ardans should be fought,” she said. “But this is not a test for you, nor I. Intervening as you did last night deprives the men of their test, for no benefit to us.”

“So you were here, after all,” Michael said, his voice carrying a bit more accusation than he had intended.

“Of course.” Amira spun lazily and began to walk back the other direction, weaving her steps. “I was waiting for my own test, though it did not come. At least I wasn’t alone in my deprivation.” She smiled toothily at Michael. “You saw to that.”

“I saw to the lives of your men,” Michael retorted. “So that they weren’t deprived of those while they waited for their damned test.”

“And few did die, to your credit, but perhaps more were meant to. Those that survived would have been better prepared to face today.” Amira gestured to the front, which had only intensified in its fury while they spoke; fires raged in the space between, and the cries of men echoed from the trenches. The fear was palpable in the air, a sharp distraction hovering just out of Michael’s sight.

He glowered at her, finding that her manner was a poor match for his current mood. “None of those men were meant to die,” Michael said. “That any did, on either side, only serves Luc’s aims. Depriving him of his tools and blunting their attack into Saf is all we should be focused on. We don’t have time for your games.”

Amira’s smile never faded from her face, but her eyes settled on Michael’s with uncommon focus. “Games?” she said, enunciating the word with slow, precise care. “I’m charged with the care of my people. That means guiding them down their path, whatever form it may take.”

Michael forced himself to meet her eyes. “And I am charged with preventing a madman from tearing apart the world to assuage his fear,” he said. “That means working to subvert his goals, whatever form they may take.”

The two held eye contact for a long, lingering moment, in which Michael’s heart pounded; he felt Sobriquet slink away to his side, and the other men took their cue to gain distance from Amira. For her part, she took one step closer to Michael - and then another.

“That was real conviction,” she murmured, her smile fading into something more coy. “Is that the Caller that I hear?”

“It’s the man who’s going to go out there regardless,” Michael retorted. “Against Luc, I will be who I must be.” He glared at her for a moment more, then turned and stalked away towards the fighting.

He had scarcely made it a handful of steps before Amira clapped her hands together behind him, the report of their impact as loud as any shellburst. The noise echoed sharply from the concrete around them, rebounding in staggered chorus from the ridges and hills.

Where it passed, Michael felt an iron solidity stretch out. The air stilled. The tormented stalks of grass remaining on the field stopped swaying, the wisps of smoke drifting across the field freezing into slow curls that hung motionless.

Through the tableau, Amira walked slowly forward.

“I am the Shield. I am She who Stands,” she said. Each step she took shivered the soil; her words struck the air like a drumhead. “My soul is like yours, in that respect. Caller, do you see your path in this battle?”

The question hung in the air between them. Her eyes bored into him, all trace of playfulness gone; her bearing was electric with deadly intent.

Michael nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said.

“I hear your words.” She gave a feral grin, and Michael felt the pulse of her soul lash out, grasping the nearest lines of men in adamant. Bullets skipped away from flesh; Ardan potentes left no mark with their blows.

A surge of eager emotion came from the Safid trenches as they realized what was happening. Men stood and began to fire openly at the Ardans, abandoning their cover and pushing forward.

Michael looked back at Amira, impressed, but her eyes were fixed on the battle, wide, excited. “This is right,” she breathed. “Oh, this is right. This is holy. I must - must-” She shivered delightedly and dashed forward, spraying rock and soil in her wake; the wind rushed fitfully with the force of her sudden departure.

Zabala walked up behind Michael, watching her small, blurred form streak towards the Ardan lines. “I had no idea you were such a persuasive speaker,” he said.

Michael licked his lips; his mouth felt suddenly dry. “Neither did I.”