Ava awoke, the same dream tugging at her mind as every night: a bright golden light reaching for her during her academy days.

  Stay there, Aveline! Wait for me, okay! Just please, I'm going to save you!

  She burrowed her face in her palm, wiping the few tears that had come from her eyes during her sleep. It was constant, the dream was, the sound of his voice, the certainty of it.

  Ava did wait; she'd been waiting for five years.

  She rose from her camp, head throbbing. The last time she'd slept without fear, without longing, was in Bayeux. But those days were over.

  She rubbed her eyes, mulled over the details of her scouting hours prior; she'd ridden Grainne to Fiana and back at night, and managed to squeeze what she thought was a few hours' rest. That would have to be enough.

  "Rise and shine, men!" Reynard bellowed to the knights, some still sleeping soundly, as he grinned towards her.

  "We've got a job to do," Reynard continued. "About one league northeast lies Fiana village."

  Reynard pointed ahead, past the shores where the Order had made camp, and the other companies began to shuffle and march further south towards Tyre.

  "Marshal Louis de Bergliez has tasked us to liberate it and bring back the Christian settlers. We must not let any Saracens—"

  "Muslims," Ava muttered.

  "Muslims—" Reynard shot her a tired glare. "—escape, if they spot our reinforcements, they'll scatter, and rendezvous with local Ayyubid forces. They roughly outnumber us two to one, but we're better fed, with better weaponry."

  Thomas fumbled to put on his sword and shield, polished his Silver Sword Bible, and asked.

  "Captain, have we already scouted the area? Do the enemy know we are coming?"

  Whilst the Fourth Company was still waking, Ava walked up to join Reynard's side, and his previous glare of annoyance turned into a smug look of pride.

  "That's Deputy Aveline?" One knight from the Fourth Company stared in awe. Another couldn't stop rubbing his eyes in disbelief.

  Their comments started as murmurs, and as more knights gathered near Ava and Reynard, they only grew in volume. The Order took only a few women as knights; it was even rarer to see one promoted to the rank of Deputy, in four years no less.

  One of the men's voices perked her interest sharply; mentions of her sparring sessions with Louis sent a painful memory through her body.

  "Men," Ava said boldly, clearing her throat to silence the whispers of the Fourth Company.

  "I scouted the area just before sunrise; the enemy numbers roughly forty-five."

  Ava's deadpan face stared into the souls of the few Fourth Company knights. They knew better than to talk about her in secret now.

  “During my scouting report, I noticed a grove near Fiana, which would be an ideal place to place our archers."

  Ava raised her eyebrow barely, glancing at Reynard.

  "Continue, Deputy." Reynard seemed to conjure wine out of nowhere; his lips kissed the bottle.

  "I spotted about seventy houses. They had demolished the church at the centre of Fiana, and if I had to guess, they would hide the Christians there." Ava continued to talk, her hands behind her back.

  "The Muslims, whilst they may be our enemy, are not devoid of morality; they will allow them to stay where they are most comfortable."

  Her inner voice trailed.

  At least, that's what he told me.

  Ava drew her longsword; it glimmered in the bright Mediterranean sun. "If we leave now, we can stage an ambush at sunset, set our archers on top of the grove, and deliver a crushing cavalry charge. At any luck, the Muslims will be in their fourth prayer of the day. That should minimise our casualties, and give us the greatest chance of victory…"

  Ava stepped back into the ranks.

  "Any questions, men?" Reynard said as he threw away his bottle of ale.

  They grunted, shuffled in place, and the occasional yawn, yet nothing.

  "Then prepare for the march immediately!"

  …

  The bouncing up and down on horseback did nothing good for Thomas' stomach. He had never liked horse riding. At the academy, he'd barely passed — not for lack of skill, but because the motion left him violently ill. Worse than his sister's cooking, even.

  "Isabeau. I hope one day I'll see you again, in Heaven…"

  Malcolm's black-armored steed materialised beside him, nudging Thomas' horse with a quiet thud. Thomas jumped.

  "Thinking of a loved one?" Malcolm said, his voice low and amused. "Don't answer. We all do before the first battle."

  Thomas noticed Malcolm's neat, polished longsword had been replaced by a jagged, battle-worn axe.

  "Oh, this?" Malcolm spun it casually, the edge catching the sun. "Most of us keep tidy gear for Louis' inspection… then the weapons we actually send at those Saracens."

  He glanced over his shoulder, leaned forward, then relaxed. "Don't tell the Little Miss I said that."

  Thomas raised an eyebrow.

  "She's the Little Miss," he pointed to Ava, riding ahead. "Just a little inside joke, helps me put up with her holier-than-thou attitude. Lord knows how I would've stayed sane without it."

  Malcolm brandished his axe in a lazy arc. Thomas flinched.

  "And this," Malcolm said, eyes glinting. "Is for occasions like today. Hope you visited the privy, boy. Wouldn't want you to make a mess of yourself."

  "I have a job to do," Thomas shook his head, gripping his sword. "Being a crusader isn't just a title; I have to live it."

  "You said that my motivation was the wrong one for being here… well, it's not just fame, I have someone I want to make proud."

  Malcolm scoffed, pulling a bottle of ale from his pack. Thomas gave him a hesitant look.

  "What is it, boy? A swig always kills pre-battle nerves; it's not just the Captain who drinks. No matter the rank, the experience, no matter how many battles you've survived — everyone faces it."

  He offered it to Thomas, who recoiled from the sour, whorish smell.

  "Even Little Miss Righteous gets scared," Malcolm continued, draining half the bottle himself. "More enemies than expected, a weapon breaks, something goes wrong. Fear doesn't disappear. It drives you forward. Bravery isn't the absence of fear, it's pushing forward despite it."

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  He spurred his horse and rode on, the axes at his side glinting as he joined Reynard and Ava ahead. Thomas watched him go, his stomach twisting with nausea and awe, then steeled himself and followed.

  …

  "Ava, how are you holding up?" Reynard shifted his weight, nudging his horse closer to Grainne.

  "Fine," Ava said, adjusting her gauntlets as they tightly grasped Grainne's reins. "We should reach Fiana any second. If we time it for their prayer, we can encircle the church ruins, send the Fourth Company in to extract the prisoners, and rout the Muslims from the outside in."

  Her hands felt too small in the oversized gauntlets. She ignored the distraction.

  "That's not what I asked." Reynard reached for his pack, and Ava reflexively swatted at it, but Reynard teased her, his arms evading her swipes at the last second, until he revealed the contents of the pack.

  "Cheese! Captain! Where did you find such a delicacy?" Both horses neighing, Ava pounced. Grainne knew she wouldn't forget her share.

  "There's a reason you're the Deputy, Ava. I have many contacts among the finest cheesemongers in Christendom."

  She sank her teeth into the rich, creamy flavour, and for a moment Canterbury returned to her — the abbey, the quiet days of peace, the evenings spent singing in the choir. When the memory faded, she fed the rest to Grainne.

  "Now," Reynard said, voice quieter this time, "how are you holding up?"

  Ava's head dropped slightly, her blonde hair covering her eyes. "I — This will be Thomas's first skirmish. The first is never easy on anyone, watching that hopeful light leave their eyes…"

  Reynard went silent; he went to console her, place his hand on her shoulder, but drew back at the last second.

  "How many young, idealistic knights have we ridden to their deaths in Cyprus, Reynard? Jacob, Jean… Conrad, poor sweet Conrad didn't deserve to die the way he did…"

  Ava steeled herself. Yes, her enemies were Muslim, and yes, they were wrong about God. But they were human. And all human life is sacred.

  Her voice faltered. "I pray we do not lose Thomas today. I was half a mind to leave him guarding supplies."

  She raised her Bible to her head, kissing the worn leather bindings.

  "But our Order is just, I know it, and if justice calls me to fight, then I will fight."

  Ava crossed herself, kissed the Bible, and urged Grainne into a faster stride.

  Reynard finally reached into his pack and drew out his ale. He watched her ride ahead for a long moment.

  "That woman," he murmured, then took a drink. "Her convictions still weigh her down, don't they…"

  He stared at the sky, taking another sip.

  "God help the world if it ever loses people like her."

  …

  The grove lay on top of a cliff overlooking Fiana. Below, the village spread out in pale stone and tiled roofs — Christian arches colliding with Muslim courtyards, the scars of two centuries of conquest pressed into its walls.

  "Archers, assemble here," Reynard barked. "Into the brush. We don't have men to spare for a rear guard; keep your eyes open for an ambush."

  Ava nudged Reynard with her elbow.

  "Silver Sword tradition," she murmured.

  "Ah, yeah," Reynard scratched his head. "Recruit stays at the rear. Thomas — you're up."

  Thomas staggered forward, green around the gills, one hand clamped over his mouth. "Reporting for duty, Sir! But… would it not be wiser for me to escort the captives out?"

  Ava winced. She had hoped his nerves would paralyse him before this choice had to be made. "Brother Thomas, retrieval requires veterans. Please listen to the Captain."

  Malcolm snorted, his voice carrying from afar. "You trying to hide him, Ava? This is the Holy Land — blood finds everyone eventually. You want to weaken our odds for sentiment over a boy who just graduated to knighthood?"

  Her hand tightened at her side.

  "Thomas," Ava said at last, voice flat. "Ride with us or guard the rear. Either way, no one will hold your hand."

  She swung onto Grainne and started down the slope without waiting for his answer.

  "Deputy Ava!" Thomas exclaimed, but she had already gone.

  The texture of the stone at the bottom of the church… it feels too smooth, too new. Freshly replaced. Why?

  Thomas kept the thought to himself. What did he know of warfare?

  …

  The sun set low across the horizon, and Ava heard the faint hums of prayer coming from Fiana Village. Gracefully, she stroked Grainne's mane — her ritual before a skirmish. With Grainne, Ava knew she was safe.

  She fastened her belt and sat behind Captain Reynard. Both companies were mounted, helmets on, cavalry spears in hand.

  "Men, our goal is the restoration of Fiana!" Reynard yelled, steering his steed to face the Third and Fourth Company. "And the rescue of any Christian hostages. If they speak our language, assume they are Christian — slaughter the rest. We cannot afford for a stray Ayyubid soldier to inform a military leader, especially Saladin, of our Order's arrival."

  Ava winced at the phrase "slaughter the rest."

  Ava raised her sword high as Grainne reared. Thomas thought he saw the first Silver Sword paladin in the flesh.

  "Third Company, with me, and half of the Fourth! We will storm the village — Charge!"

  The constant galloping of hooves on the dirt sounded like a miniature earthquake heading for Fiana. Scores of Muslims trickled from their houses, men rushing straight to the armory to fashion anything they could — scimitars, bows, daggers.

  The skirmish had begun.

  …

  Malcolm cut them down with brutal precision — old men, barely grown men, anyone who got in his way. Limbs and bodies were shredded, pooling in blood at his feet. He hiccupped violently, the smell of his own stomach rising, mixing with the metallic tang of death.

  Thomas charged after him, heart hammering, an attempt to imitate him. An older Ayyubid soldier cried out as Thomas' sword bit into his arm. The recruit instinctively moved to help, but the man lashed out in panic.

  His horse's jittery movements saved him. In a blazing panic, Thomas steered his warhorse toward the church. He knew Ava would be there, and he had to warn her of the newly built structure.

  …

  Ava was not one to wear her emotions on her face. In moments like this, the emotion was the absence of it.

  She carved a crescent shape through another body. The resistance gave way too easily — steel through flesh, bone parting with a wet crack. Arteries burst. Blood sprayed across her shield, the blue-tinged Silver Sword cross drowning in a violent red. Her blade dripped, heavy with it.

  "Four," she muttered. "At least ten more before extraction is even remotely safe."

  Blood crept into her vision. She wiped it away with whatever cloth she could tear free from the dead. The rest she let dry on her armor.

  A sound echoed through the ruined church. Not a shout. Not a charge. A soft, uneven footstep.

  Ava turned at once.

  The Ayyubid soldier stood half-hidden by a fallen pillar, scimitar raised but trembling. He screamed — raw, desperate Arabic she couldn't understand — but fear needed no translation.

  She closed the distance in two strides. Steel rang as she knocked his blade aside with her hilt and drove her elbow into his face. Cartilage collapsed. He hit the floor hard, scrambling backwards, dragging himself through blood that wasn't all his own.

  "Stay down," she said, though she knew he couldn't understand.

  He didn't listen.

  With shaking hands, the man fumbled inside his tunic and pulled free a scrap of parchment, folded until the creases were white. A crude drawing — ink smeared, lines uneven. A bearded man. A small girl beside him, her head too large, her hand clumsily drawn but carefully shaded.

  "Daughter!" he said in Arabic. The word cracked as he pressed the paper to his forehead, then held it out to her with both hands.

  Ava froze. Her sword wavered.

  The parchment was stained — old blood at the edges, dark and brown. Folded again and again. Carried through fire and flight. Protected the way she protected her Bible.

  The man spoke faster now, panic rising, eyes flicking between her blade and the drawing. He crawled backwards, sobbing, still holding it out as if it were a shield.

  Ava stepped forward. Her grip tightened. And for the briefest moment, she did not know which life she was meant to save.

  Her blade swung through, steel meeting flesh.

  The man's head rolled from his shoulders.

  All life was precious. She told herself that time and again…

  She swallowed.

  "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…" she muttered.

  A single tear formed at the corner of her eye. It did not fall. It never reached her cheek, and instead was devoured by the blood already caked across her face.

  …

  Thomas burst through the doorway. "Deputy Ava! There's the possibility of a hidden path in this building—"

  "That makes eight," Ava muttered.

  She wrenched the rim of her shield free from the Ayyubid soldier's eye. He screamed — a wet, bubbling sound — before she drove the shield down again and again until his skull caved beneath it.

  He had been skilled. Too skilled. He knew crusader forms, knew how to bait a strike, how to turn a blade. So she had adapted. Sword discarded. Shield raised. Brutality over elegance.

  The body went still.

  "Deputy, what the—" Thomas dropped to his knees.

  Everything he'd eaten that day emptied onto the blood-soaked stone. The smell hit him next — iron, bile, filth, death layered on death. He gagged, eyes burning, and forced himself to look up.

  Ava stood before him. She was unrecognisable.

  Blood coated her from helm to boots, drying in streaks and clots. Her hair, once blonde, had darkened into a rusted, almost ginger hue, matted to her face. Her shield dripped. Her blade hung loose at her side.

  She didn't look like a knight. She looked like a machine that had learned how to pray.

  "Brother Thomas," Ava said, approaching him. "What's the status outside?"

  Thomas jerked back and raised his sword on instinct. "AH — stay away!"

  Ava stopped. Her face hardened — not with anger, but with something colder, something practised.

  "Thomas," she said evenly. "State your report. What did you come to tell me?"

  She stepped once closer. "That is an order."

  Thomas forced himself upright, vision swimming.

  "Deputy… I have reason to believe there's a hidden exit. The Ayyubid soldiers may be using it to evacuate prisoners."

  Something in Ava's expression shifted — not anger, not shock. Calculation.

  "Inform Malcolm and Reynard immediately," she said. "Do you know where it leads?"

  Thomas shook his head. "If I had to guess — underground. An overground passage would be too visible—"

  "Alright," Ava cut in. She turned toward the far end of the church, already moving. "Tell Malcolm first. If he can follow, he will." She glanced back once. "I'll leave markers. He'll understand."

  Thomas stared. "Markers…?"

  Ava removed her gauntlets one by one. Leather rasped. Metal clinked softly against stone. Her hands were pale beneath the grime, the skin roughened and split from years of steel and reins.

  She pressed her thumb to the rim of her shield and drew it slowly across the slick surface. Red welled. Her face turned slowly to face Thomas as she raised her thumb.

  "In blood."