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itched to do it herself.
    “We can’t wait days. Last night my son stopped breathing. We were sure he had died. He’s still with us, but for how long? His episodes come at all times. Please!”
    “Our only son,” the mother said with a whimper.
    “I can pray for you,” Lucia said, “but you may still need to wait. Our Haizzem is leaving Remaes this morning. He should arrive in no more than six days.” She took a few steps toward them.
    The nearest soldier partially blocked her path. “It is not safe, Your Grace. Please stay where you are.”
    The boy, no older than four, fell forward onto his stomach. He choked, fighting to suck in air, but his lungs wouldn’t expand. His arms flailed as his parents dropped to their knees and put their hands on his body.
    Lucia ran to the boy and lifted him into her arms. His tiny face flushed with pain and begged her to save him.
    Ysa, this child is innocent. Whatever the reason for this plague, it had nothing to do with him. Grant him your grace .
    The boy went limp, his little head hanging off her elbow.
    Lucia’s blood pulsed with indignation as she heard Lord Danato’s voice again.
    “They are dying, Lucia. Children, parents, grandparents, and soldiers. Sadly, this boy will die soon, too. But there is a reason for all things.”
    Lucia turned and thought she saw a blur of black skin. No one was there. No one else seemed to hear the voice. She relaxed and shook her head, realizing she was experiencing yet another nightmare from Lord Danato.
    The girl grabbed Lucia’s leg. The parents began to wrestle the boy from her, almost fighting over the corpse.
    “Gian, it’s your father. Wake up, boy. Breathe for me!”
    The mother wailed. She yanked her son away and pressed his body to her breast. The boy’s arms and legs dangled like a doll’s.
    Lucia knew she would never forget Gian’s dying eyes. Her muscles shuddered with rage, knowing the boy would eventually die from this plague.
    “Arrows, arrows, arrows. So many burning arrows, Lucia. Thousands of your soldiers dying with each battle, as if the gods of Lux Lucis have forgotten Rezzia. Yet your men feel they honor us. You will watch them fall for a decade more.”
    Lord Danato had been telling her this every night since she arrived at the canyon. It still made no sense. The long record of history was clear: once a Haizzem commands Rezzia’s armies, historic victories come swiftly.
    Pawelon’s ancient citadel would have to fall soon. Even though Caio wasn’t mentally ready to assume the role of Dux Spiritus and kill the Pawelon pigs, her father’s strategy was still sound.
    Once Caio enters the valley, the gods-damned war should be won within a year, if not a moon. Not ten.
    Lucia awoke in a panic, finding her sheets drenched in blood.
    She squirmed and tossed the sticky linens to the floor. She stood on the opposite side of the bed, threw her robe down, and examined her body.
    I haven’t bled. This isn’t my blood.
    Her fingers feverishly scratched down her arms and legs, trying to erase the foul stains. Failing, she grabbed a pair of long black gloves off the table beside her bed and stretched them from her hands up to her muscled upper arms. From her great-grandmother’s antique chest, she removed a brown cloak. She quickly tied it around herself, then ran to the double doors and pushed them open.
    Outside, ten soldiers stood tall and disciplined. The brisk air felt cruel against her face. In a few hours the desert would feel like a dry sauna again.
    “Have any of you been here the entire night?”
    “Yes, Your Grace.”
    “Did anyone enter my yurt?”
    “No, Your Grace, is something troubling you?”
    Lucia stepped inside and slammed the doors. Disgust stirred in her belly. She looked across the room at the bloody sheets and felt her face twitching. Her mind raced, wondering if The Black One had spilled the blood himself.
    A warpriest’s voice rang out over the camp, calling the men to morning