of Lux Lucis, we will not conquer Pawelon. Soon, we will know what the gods wish for.” She
looked at Caio, and he understood her meaning: Lord Danato’s vision, Caio’s abilities, and the
favor of the gods would be put to the test on this day.
“You, Haizzem,” the boy said, “you have such power. You should follow your own truth.”
Maybe you’re right.
The boy had named the outcome Caio wanted most: a retreat with no further casualties. The
young Pawelon could be the last to die in the war, even though he now lived. The miracle of life
given back to him could be such a worthy, symbolic act if his resurrection were to be the final
turning point in the war. How many lives could be saved?
But it’s impossible.
The entire nation of Rezzia, as well as its army, expected the fighting to crescendo now that
he was Dux Spiritus. History, tradition, and even scripture gave him a mission to fulfill, made
necessary by his father’s sacrifice. He was the son of King Vieri, the Dux Spiritus of Rezzia, the
Haizzem of their faith, and no one in his proud nation would be willing to see him lose. He had
only one option, an already decided fate—and I despise that with my whole heart and soul.
“Go!” Caio pointed north at the sun. The star blazed wine-red in the early morning haze.
“Go north to the shore. Our armies are approaching. Run as fast as you can. Live for tomorrow.
Live out your life!”
The boy walked away, then turned around again, out of words. His gape showed his sadness
and rage. He glanced at the warpriests before racing toward the sun.
“If you insist on going forward,” Lucia said, “we should pray for a great rain to conceal our
advance. Now.”
Mya …
The Rezzian army could barely be heard marching in from the east. A gust of dry heat blew
across the land as pregnant clouds formed and distant thunder rumbled.