With vapid interest she watched one mount a black steed that had a white strip running down its face, like lightning. The woman was situated to the right of the crown prince, and Serien watched as the prince glanced at the woman before trotting toward his place in line.

“They could have at least tried to hide it,” one of the soldiers around her remarked.

“Not very hard to tell which one is the Windwalker,” another agreed.

“As if the Fire Lord would let his dark darling out of his sight.”

Serien didn’t join in their speculations as to the real relationship between the crown prince and the Windwalker Vhalla Yarl, but her ears heard. Most seemed to be in agreement that there was something between the two, but their theories were wide-reaching. Two men and a woman joined the younger prince as he fell into line with the hooded Windwalker.

“That’s enough, shape up!” an Easterner commanded.

Serien stared up at him as his horse found its way near her. The man with the golden bracer glanced down, meeting her stare. His eyes squinted slightly, and he opened his mouth to say something.

“Daniel, what is it?” a Southerner to his left asked.

Serien quickly returned her attention forward. She shouldn’t have picked the center of the column. Serien tried to bring her hands together to fidget but it was difficult in the heavier gauntlets. She bit her lip instead.

“Nothing,” the Easterner replied. “Sorry, it’s nothing.”

Keeping up with the horses was difficult as they marched double-time in full regalia, leaving the Crossroads. Serien’s calf screamed in pain, and sweat poured off her from the exertion of smothering her cries. Even when the call to slow was made, it wasn’t any easier. She was certain she had ripped her stitches.

Serien kept her eyes forward the whole day. The Great Imperial Way was going to stop soon. They would reach the last outpost before the North, and then it would be dangerous territory. Her somber mood didn’t match any of the other soldiers’, and she remained in her trance until the call to stop.

That was the first moment Serien felt lost. All the others knew what to do, where to go. They had their tents and their assignments. There wasn’t any hesitation as they dissolved into normal life for swordsmen.

She moved slowly, trying to overhear a bit of conversation that would confirm if she could just go up to the tent cart and ask for one or not.

“Soldier,” a man called from behind her.

Serien turned and her chest ached at the familiar eyes.

“You’re a new recruit, aren’t you?” Daniel stopped before her, a hand on his hip.

“I am,” Serien mumbled.

“Your name?” The question was clearly forced.

“Serien Leral,” she replied, hoping he’d take note.

“Let me see you use that thing.” He pointed to her sword.

She looked back at the Easterner. What was he thinking? He was going to ruin her cover less than one day in. One or two others glanced at the Golden Guard addressing her, but it seemed normal enough that they didn’t give it much heed.

Serien drew her sword, determined. It was too heavy, and she was instantly off-balance. She gripped it with two hands, trying to steady herself. Daniel drew his sword and in one fluid motion he sent her weapon flying from her hands and into the sand.

“That wasn’t fair!” she protested.

“Do you think our enemy will be fair?” Daniel took a step closer. “How long have you practiced?”

Serien averted her eyes. She shouldn’t have said anything. “Not long.” It sounded a lot better than “never.”

“The West is really letting their standards drop.” He sheathed his blade, crossing his arms over his chest. Serien regarded him cautiously. “You are from the West, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Thought so.” He sighed dramatically with a roll of his eyes. “Fine, I’ll teach you.”

“What?”

“I’m not letting a soldier under my command go into war helpless.” A familiar tone echoed under his words. “Let’s get out of the tents.”

She followed him into the desert on the outside of the host. They didn’t go far, just far enough that there was room to move in a wide circle and not fear for swinging their blades.

“You don’t hold it like that. Look at how I hold mine.” He demonstrated on his own blade and ended up moving her hand placement anyways. “There, like that.”

“It’s heavy,” she whispered.

“It’s forged steel.” Daniel chuckled. “Now, to swing.”

If Serien had been exhausted, in pain, and sweat drenched from the march, it was nothing compared to working with Daniel until sunset. Every limb ached, her shoulders screamed in protest, and she could barely grip the blade to sheathe it.

“That’s enough for today.” Daniel made note of her condition.

Serien nodded in thanks. “Daniel,” she said softly as they started back for camp.

“Yes?” His tone had changed to something she knew.

“Can I just get any tent?”

“You didn’t already get one?” He seemed startled.

“No, I didn’t. They didn’t tell me anything.” She bit her lip.

“There aren’t going to be any left.” Daniel ran a gauntleted hand through his hair. “Would you like to stay with me?” His question was so soft he clearly doubted it.

“I can’t.”

“Why?” Daniel asked sincerely. “Why can’t you?”

“Because I ...”

“I won’t let you sleep in the sand, alone.” It hardly sounded appealing to her either. “Are you travelling with someone, Serien?”

Daniel stole her eyes, and Serien struggled with finding an answer. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Serien pushed ahead of him and didn’t look back.

It was just as he had said. She slept out in the open with her pack as her pillow. Even though the South would be in the throes of winter, it was hot in the Waste and that heat lingered through the evening. It wasn’t until the moon was half in the sky that she began to shiver.

When Serien woke, a blanket covered her shoulders. There was no name stitched upon it, but it was finer than standard issue. Serien looked around, as if she could find the phantom who had placed it upon her in the night. But no one came forward.

She used it the next night, and the night after that. Once, Serien thought briefly about the other woman’s powers, about reaching out her mind from her body in the cover of darkness to a certain prince. But the idea was quickly squelched. That prince did not belong to her, he and Serien were nothing. She drifted to sleep that night debating with herself. If Serien and Prince Aldrik were nothing, then why was she sleeping alone in the cold?

By the third night the other soldiers had begun to notice that she was aloof and different.

“You practice with Lord Taffl a lot,” remarked one of the soldiers who marched next to her.

“It is an honor,” Serien said dryly.

“You someone special to the lord?” they asked.

She didn’t say anything.

“Hey, I asked you a question.” The soldier waved his hand in front of her face.