The violent crunch of the knight’s arm dragged Ava back into consciousness whenever she dared drift off to sleep.

  Her eyes lay wide and alert, scanning her room. Thomas still lay on the ground, determined to let her sleep on the bed. For once, she could not press the claim; being inside a bed right now was about the only comfort she had.

  Ava grasped at her shoulders harshly, her nails digging into them, as more and more memories flooded in. She had failed to stop Thomas from killing one of the knights, and she had failed to understand why Malcolm had come to Tyre to capture her. And she had failed to stop Khalid from killing his first man.

  She reeled; it was all she could do to keep her stomach contents inside her long enough to eject them outside the window of their room. Ava covered her mouth, tears stinging her eyes, the smell of her vomit only making it worse. Dejectedly, she took a swig of water from her provisions pack. It was lukewarm and flavourless.

  Flickers of the girl’s red hair came to her mind, how it reminded her so dearly of her first friend, Constance, how she just wanted to embrace the girl so tightly, to pray that once she did, this would all be a bad dream, joining the Order, the Cyprus Campaigns, Fiana.

  She wanted nothing more than to pray it was all a dream, that one day, she’d wake up to Lady Grainne washing her mouth with soap once more.

  Ava would’ve gladly paid the girl her fee, three dirhams or even ten, anything to ease her suffering, yet still, for three dirhams, blood was spilled that day. Even worse, there was no one really to blame.

  Her face contorted in sorrow as she saw Thomas asleep on the cold ground, his tufts of brown hair rising and falling peacefully. They were the same shade as Beatrice’s, how Ava loathed her then, seven years ago, how they would thrash and argue, but now? She smiled and laughed at those memories.

  To her right, the wicker basket full of apples and cheese sat on the wooden table. She’d meant to give it to Grainne after, but even her most adored companion could not ease her pains.

  The feeling of nausea began to subside, slowly, but gradually. Ava glanced at her nails, caked in blood from her shoulders.

  She did it again. Ava was sure she was getting better at controlling it, her sickness of the soul. But in cases like this, it still flared, not as dire as in Cyprus, but still.

  With a heavy heart, she poured a tiny bit of water into her palm and wiped her shoulders clean of blood, the slight sting being comfort to her as she lay back into bed.

  …

  Thomas’ fingers felt different from yesterday, colder, more focused, less hesitant.

  He’d killed before, he’d killed Christians before, but seeing the bolt of his crossbow lodge its way into the armor of the knights attacking Ava. It changed something in the way he saw his weapon.

  He awoke with a stir. Ava still lay asleep. Thomas had learned a great deal of quirks about his Deputy during their travels, but the most charming, even more than her love of all things dairy, or the fact that her treatment of Grainne was as if the horse was royalty, was her complete inability to wake up before him.

  How did she ever manage to wake up on time for the Order’s training?

  He caught himself, the thought like poison to his mind, he knew—he knew how she rose in the morning, and unlike now, where she tossed and stirred with grief he knew how she calmed herself at night, under the protection of another, the name he dared not even to think about, lest he lose his cool like in their last sparring match.

  Thomas wondered what he could look like, what sort of charming knight Philip could have been?

  Murmurs broke out from across the room; it had finally happened. Ava had woken up, given the state she was in yesterday, seeing two of her own knights dead, Thomas knew she would not be too happy.

  Even less so since yesterday told them both the last thing they wanted to hear, that they could no longer stay in Tyre, that they’d have to leave and go elsewhere, where that place was, Thomas could only guess.

  “Good morning, Deputy Ava.” Thomas said, trying to appear cheerful, “How are you?”

  Ava rubbed her eyes, her hair in a mess, it always was. Thomas had noticed a few little quirks as she awoke. For a brief period of time, she wasn’t so guarded and stern; she was less like a superior and more like a friend.

  But that moment was fleeting; even now, Thomas could see it slowly shelling up.

  “Good morning, Thomas.” Ava stated, her eyes already once again adopted that stare, so full of responsibility, “How—I mean…”

  Her voice trailed, her hands played around with themselves, and Thomas saw slight scrapes on her shoulders. Of course, no matter how skilled one was, she faced multiple elite knights at once; of course, they’d hurt her.

  “What I meant to say is, Thomas,” Ava continued, “Did you… Sleep well?”

  Thomas nodded, of course, that was a lie; every night he slept on the floor, his back ached, yet he’d do it again in a heartbeat, for what knight would let a woman sleep on the floor? If Isabeau found out he’d let both his superior officer and a young lady sleep rough, she’d never let him hear the end of it in Heaven.

  “Deputy…” Thomas began, “About yesterday…”

  The sight of Khalid pointing his dagger, bloodied with the blood of a knight of the Silver Sword, flashed.

  “Ava, I don’t think giving the boy a weapon was a good idea… that look in his eyes yesterday, the way he tried to hurt you in sparring—”

  “He didn’t mean it, Thomas!” Ava yelled. She was still lying down, her hand in her right eye, her left eye trembling profusely.

  “He, he’s just a boy, he shouldn’t have had to do that, I should’ve been able to best those knights outside the city faster, I could’ve stopped the knight that rode to meet those children faster, it is my fault, not Khalid’s.”

  Silence hung in the morning air, and a singular ray of sun rose through.

  “It is my fault, Thomas. I can help him; I can steer him towards a better path. That hatred in his eyes, I know it, I lived in it for years, I can help him; he just needs time. Please, I know it.”

  Thomas watched as Ava continued to tremble, only slightly, but he could see it, the way her shoulders moved, her eyes twitched, the distance between the two was so small.

  Yet it felt like the gap was so wide that nothing he could say would lessen the burden on her heart.

  “Deputy…” Thomas whispered, “I—I’ve been meaning to ask you something…”

  Ava merely nodded; no words escaped her lips.

  “What was it like, your first kill?” Thomas said, “In Fiana, Brother Daniel told me you’ve been a fully-fledged knight for four years, so you’ve seen your share of war.”

  He misspoke; he could see Ava’s brow furrow at that last sentence.

  “Not that war is anything to be proud of.” He quickly recovered, “But, what was it like… maybe, maybe telling Khalid about it could make him understand you, just a little.”

  Thomas watched as Ava rose from lying to sitting upright.

  “Alright…” she began, her eyes already heavy, “I was roughly your age, how many summers have you seen, Thomas?”

  He scratched his head, thinking deeply; time blended from the moment they entered the Holy Land.

  “We’ve spent about a month here,” Thomas said, “If it’s about late August now, I should be turning 19 soon…”

  Ava nodded quietly, “We’ll be sure to celebrate it. How does 3 blocks of cheese sound?”

  Thomas snickered at the joke, and Ava looked him dead in the face.

  “I’m not joking, Thomas.” She finished.

  Finally, Ava let out a smile, a brief, heavy one, but still, she smiled, then continued.

  “I was even younger than you are now. I had just graduated from the Temple’s training regimen for young squires, top of my class in swordsmanship…”

  Her face darkened.

  “That must have been… around four years ago? At that time, Emperor Komnenos had usurped the Isle of Cyprus. We of the Silver Sword exist to defend Christendom from all of its enemies, not just the Muslims.”

  Ava took one more deep breath in, her eyes closed, then opened.

  “I was the newest recruit of the Fourth Company, crusaders do not typically last long, death is commonplace within the first year, yet Captain Reynard still inspired and helped his men, he dragged them along Cyprus, his men in one hand, a bottle of ale in the other…”

  “When I joined the Third Company, I was wounded; it was not a physical wound, it was a spiritual one. I did my duty, I defended coastal towns with the other knights, whilst some tried to intimidate me due to my gender, Reynard and I quickly silenced them…”

  “But, one day, when I was scouting an enemy mercenary camp, their hounds found me. I ran as fast as I could, but they bit my legs through my armor, and I fell through a hole of some kind. When I awoke, a young man with light brown eyes nursed me back to health, but he told me of how he, his brother, and his father were working for the mercenaries up ahead…”

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  Thomas immediately sensed it; Ava’s empathy clashed with her duty.

  “Deputy, please, if it’s too hard.”

  “No, it’s fine, Thomas.”

  Ava brushed her hair with her fingers, her eyes staring at the floor.

  “When he told me of the mercenary camp, I knew I had to leave, one day, when he went out to get food, I ran to the Captain, I told him everything he told me, of the guard rotations, of their provisions… and when we raided the mercenary camp, as I drew my sword and parried and slashed others away, he looked at me as tears streamed his face… when it came his turn to die, he did not even resist me, he dropped his weapon as I plunged my sword into his heart…”

  For once, no tears even streamed down Ava’s face. Thomas could only guess how many times the image crossed her mind.

  “When we routed the mercenaries, the Marshal patted me on the back, he told me ‘good work, Aveline’ and ‘glad all those fencing lessons got used for something’”

  “Deputy, then what—”

  “Then, Thomas.” Ava cut in, “It was that cycle for four years, carnage and bloodshed, just like the Holy Land, I was still learning the ways of war, there were many men I could not save by my strength alone…”

  “Then, during the spring of this year, the Order received a new set of recruits, in preparation for sailing to the Holy Land, the Grandmaster, Hughes Duvall, had arranged for us to land near Fiana Village, then to go to Tyre…”

  Thomas’ eyes widened. Ava did not even need to finish the sentence.

  “You were one of those recruits; you were lucky to escape the Cyprus Campaigns.”

  He nodded. Ava’s face was always so solemn, so steeped in guilt and regret.

  “I’ll be checking in on Khalid and Ari,” she finally broke the silence, “Then, I have business to attend to with Malcolm.”

  Thomas watched as Ava slowly began to prepare for the day. She would take off her shirt in front of him; they’d seen so much together, so much death and pain, that between Ava and Thomas, the idea of him seeing her chest wrappings was irrelevant.

  At least, that’s how Thomas thought Ava saw it. She changed into her orange tunic, and when she began to put on her trousers, her brow furrowed.

  “Thomas,” she said, “Would you excuse me?”

  …

  Khalid could not stop trembling, not from fear, not from hatred either.

  From the thrill.

  He’d killed a man last night; he’d shoved a blade through a Nasara knight. It felt so intense. The world went colorful and bright, and it was as if he’d seen the world in a different light.

  Now Khalid knew why soldiers went to war, why his Father was never home, he’d lied, it wasn’t about wanting to protect him and Jaleel, it was about wanting to experience that thrill again.

  And now, Khalid could not blame him.

  The door creaked open, and both he and Ari were still in bed. The young girl he stayed with kept whispering deliriously at night, words like…

  Layla, Layla, I miss you…

  Khalid didn’t bother waking her, or even asking; they were both slaves at one point. There were only so many people Layla could be: an older sister, a friend, a teacher. It didn’t matter to him.

  That same blonde knight walked in, how her face angered him, how she spoke in her Frankish language, how she was so concerned with helping him, even in sparring, he could tell, she wasn’t even trying, not on him, or the other Nasara.

  What angered him the most, what contorted and twisted his rage to new heights, was not her pleas and cries when she embraced Khalid and Ari.

  It was the fact that he owed his freedom to her. And that was unacceptable.

  She was not in her usual attire; she wore a standard orange shirt and grey trousers. Khalid looked over at Ari, yet she was already gone from her bed and already near Ava, tugging at her leg, likely for more food.

  Khalid, if you don’t want to starve, start asking her for some food!

  He sighed. Regardless of the lack of shame, Ari had a point. He needed to eat, and with no money to his name in a Nasara city, she was his best chance. When he rose to approach her, her face flickered with a smile, whilst he’d been picking up Frankish slowly, he was by no means an expert.

  “Ah, Khalid!” Ava said, “I—would you also like—”

  Whilst the dialect escaped him, he got the general idea. She handed him a loaf of bread, a giant, hot, steaming loaf.

  “Fresh!” she said, “Straight from the city square!”

  Today, she was extra emotive and wore a huge grin on her face, which flickered occasionally, and whilst Ari might fall for it, Khalid had seen Samira do the same expression plenty of times.

  The same face women made when they tried to act as if everything was okay.

  “Khalid…” Ava crouched to stare at him, “It was not your fault, okay? I’m sorry, I should’ve helped you. I will be back, and we can talk more, okay?”

  She rose and left as quickly as she entered, her shoes making a brief tapping sound on the wood.

  …

  “You’re late, Deputy.”

  Ava winced as that tone, familiar yet hardened by the flames of war, pierced through the chaos that was the inside of the tavern.

  She pulled her chair, sitting meekly as Malcolm stared at her from across the table, a cup of alcohol already in his hand, yet she saw from the moisture in his lips that he had not tasted it yet. By his side, Ava noticed a long item wrapped in cloth, its sparkle occasionally meeting her eyes.

  From the upper floor, she looked down over a sea of shouting drunks, tankards slamming against tables as laughter and slurred songs rolled through the room below. The smell of ale hung thick in the air, sour and heavy, mixed with sweat and smoke. Even the wood seemed soaked with it; the tables were dark with old stains, rings of dried drink pressed deep into the grain.

  “Want a drink, Deputy?” he grunted, “Last chance to do so, I’m warning you, what I’m about to tell you is gonna be tough, you might want to loosen up a little.”

  Ava ignored him, still fascinated by the commotion on the lower floors, her mouth slightly agape.

  “Forgive me, Malcolm, I’ve never been inside a tavern before, where I was raised; these sorts of places were strictly forbidden…”

  Her voice trailed, getting lost in the sea of shouts.

  “Taverns are all the same…” Malcolm began, “Gambling, deadbeats who get lost in their own drink, and start fighting anything in their path, and there’s whores too, women who will sell their bodies for a dirham and a place to stay for the night…”

  He clenched his hand, the cup of ale he was holding vibrated from the force, and Ava could see his gaze trailing behind her.

  She twirled her hair. Malcolm was never one to compliment her hair, but it seemed like he was looking at it.

  Then, reality struck her.

  “And of course—”

  He gulped all of the ale in one go, finishing the drink, then he threw the cup with all his might, right next to her face. Ava heard the brutal sound of wood meeting cartilage.

  “There’s drunks, looking to prey on na?ve women…”

  The man who was behind Ava slumped on her side of the table, his nose oozing blood. As Ava went to help him, Malcolm cut her off.

  “You fool!” he yelled, “Touch him, and he’ll take it as an invitation to rip your clothes off!”

  Malcolm immediately stood and kicked the man in the face, aiming squarely for the part of his nose that was already broken.

  “Leave!” he barked, “So help me God if I ever see your face again—”

  He exhaled, then turned to Ava once more.

  “Deputy, we have much to discuss.”

  …

  “So…” Malcolm let out a sigh, the sound heavy in his chest. “Where to start, Deputy… so much has happened since Ayyadieh, hasn’t it?”

  Ava shook her head. Across the small table, she watched him lift his cup of ale to his lips. The rim touched his mouth, but he barely took a sip before lowering it again.

  “Yeah…” her voice trailed. “I—um, I think I can piece together parts, the Order found the Silver Sword Bible I dropped in Iss, didn’t they?”

  Malcolm nodded. He raised his left arm to gesture for her to continue. The sleeve hung loose where his forearm should have been, ending just past the elbow. All Ava saw was the slow rise and fall of his remaining bicep as he made the motion.

  “I couldn’t stay idly by, Malcolm. They had a port full of slaves in Iss. Thomas and I tried to save them, but only two came with us. I planned to tell the Captain—”

  She saw his face tighten at the mention of Reynard. The wince was brief, but it was there.

  Before she could continue, he cut in.

  “Ava,” he said, “The Third Company is in ruins, you’d been charged with treason, and the Marshal has ordered your arrest. We both know you would not get a fair trial. If they capture you, you’re as good as dead.”

  The wooden chair beneath Malcolm creaked as he shifted his weight.

  “But Malcolm, where is Reynard? Surely if the Order wanted to take disciplinary action against me, they would send my superior to find me, right?”

  Malcolm grunted, his brow twitching.

  Ava’s heart sank.

  Not this.

  “Malcolm…” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath, “What happened to Captain Reynard—”

  “He told me to give you this,” Malcolm said.

  He bent down beside his chair and picked up a wrapped bundle resting against the floor.

  Ava reached out to accept it. Her hands moved carefully as she began to unravel the cloth, each layer falling away slowly.

  The final wrapping slipped loose.

  Underneath was a sword like no other. The blade gleamed faintly in the lantern light of the tavern, its surface catching every flicker of flame. The hilt was pristinely maintained, polished as though it had never seen battle. The tip of the blade glimmered whenever it caught the light.

  Throughout her entire time in the Order, this weapon had existed only in stories.

  “Malcolm!” she exclaimed, “This is, this can’t be—”

  “It is.” He stated plainly. “The legendary sword Silveredge, the sword our Order was built upon, the sword of Lady Seraphine, the Grandmaster.”

  Malcolm paused before continuing.

  “The sword of Captain Reynard’s teacher, that he entrusted to him upon his death, and now, Reynard repeats the cycle with you…”

  Ava could bear it no longer. Her mouth twisted in pain as a single tear slipped down her cheek.

  “Malcolm, no, please don’t tell me—”

  “Captain Reynard is dead, Ava.”

  The world came crashing down around her.

  Though she had not drunk a drop of ale, the room spun as if she had emptied the entire tavern. The laughter and shouting from below blurred into a distant buzz in her ears. Ava pressed a hand against her forehead, struggling to steady herself.

  “He defended you to the end, Ava,” Malcolm continued, giving her no time to gather herself. “He left us both with legacies. For me, I am now the Third Company Captain. For you, he entrusted Silveredge to you, the foundation of the Order.”

  It took Ava several moments to recompose herself.

  “I—” tears still streamed down her face, the room still wavering around her, “Why? Does Louis hate me so? I thought that he would leave it between just us, yet even now, years later, he remains determined to take everyone I care about away from me…”

  Her despair twisted into wrath.

  “Damn him!”

  Ava screamed, the sound tearing from her throat. She shot to her feet so abruptly that the chair behind her scraped violently across the wooden floor before toppling over.

  Malcolm barely reacted. He simply glanced down toward the lower floor of the tavern where the drunken crowd continued their shouting and laughter, oblivious to the storm unfolding above them.

  “You don’t have the right to be angry, Ava.”

  Malcolm kept his gaze on the chaos below.

  “Thomas followed you, Reynard died for you, the other men in the Third Company, Lucian, Daniel, they lost their captain to this; they have to put up with a crippled man like me for a leader now.”

  His eyes briefly flicked toward the shortened sleeve of his left arm before returning to the room.

  “Reynard was the first to figure it out, that there was something deeper between you and the Marshal. I don’t know exactly what happened, and honestly, I don’t care. I have men to lead now, Ava, and you owe Reynard for his loyalty.”

  Malcolm rose to his feet.

  He stepped forward, and reached for his pocket, ruffling until he finally found it. A small wooden figurine, the one Ava had bought him as an apology for Fiana.

  Malcolm’s arm trembled as he held the piece in front of her face, Ava could see it, his internal struggle to maintain control over his composure.

  Malcolm’s hand trembled as he held the small wooden figurine in front of her. The carved edges dug into his fingers, his knuckles paling as he forced himself to keep his grip steady.

  “Do you remember, Ava? You told me my punishment for Fiana was that I was forbidden to call myself a monster? Well…”

  His voice faltered. For a moment he couldn’t look at her. His jaw tightened, and Ava saw the fight in his eyes, the struggle to keep the grief from breaking through the anger.

  “What is my punishment for fighting for one?”

  The words hung between them like a blade.

  Ava stepped forward without thinking, yet Malcolm recoiled instantly, wrenching himself away from her grasp with sudden force.

  “The next time you try to play hero, the next time you think you can save both sides, remember there are those who fight for you.”

  He paused and pointed at his left arm as he said his next sentence.

  “There are those that bleed for you, there are people who help you when you can’t help yourself.”

  He pulled back, straightening his clothes. His expression remained dark, heavy with something between anger and grief.

  “Farewell, Ava. The next time we meet on the battlefield, it will be as enemies. I pray that day never happens.”

  His cloak, no—Reynard’s cloak dragged along the wooden tavern floor as Malcolm walked off.

  Ava cupped her face in her hands, if she had not wept so much the past few days.

  The entire tavern would run with her tears over her dearly departed Captain.