In the wake of Phaeliope's death, I made the Heacharids suffer. Naeri's Revenge prowled the waves. Any Heacharid ship sailing without an escort would find its reward at the bottom of the Turquoise Sea. I fed my grief Heacharid lives. It was never sated. It never would be.

During these battled on the water, I realized I had been fighting this war for a full year. I had left so certain that it would be resolved quickly, that I would find glory and save a civilization from being ground to dust. I would return to Zhahllaia and Sarakiel a hero. A year later, and there was no glory. Only seas of blood.

The Heacharids were not idle in the wake of their victory. After the fall of Thessandreia, the Heacharid Empire turned its foul eye upon Paiari. They soon found that the long and narrow bay that leads into Elekidora was an avenue of death. While it was the most reliable place to land upon the island, the terrain forced arriving ships into single file to be chewed apart by catapults upon the shore.

That did not stop the Heacharids from trying. They hurled ships at the port with abandon, losing more ships than any power should be able to absorb. Eventually even the Heacharids decided that the prize could be more easily taken.

Their invasion fleet began to mass off the eastern end of the island. The beaches there were far from an ideal landing, but absent Elekidora, it was the best option. Even without our spies, we knew it. Unfortunately, the fleet was far too big to be preyed upon by the likes of us. I was summoned to take part in the defense of Paiari.

Captain Kucyone docked Naeri's Revenge at Elekidora. I went inland with my hetairoi, Einoë and Kallea, as well as the few stormwights that remained from my campaign upon the waves. We were far from the only ones. Lines of troops from other islands, wagons and pack animals laden with supplies, and even disassembled catapults, went east, while noncombatants walked into Elekidora, where they would be safest.

"After so long at sea, fighting on land will be a welcome change," Einoë remarked as we marched through the late afternoon sun. Sweat glistened off her shoulders. Not for the first time was I grateful for the miraculous robes Tara had given me. The elven garment kept me cool even in direct sun.

"We had that battle at Menes Ridge," Kallea pointed out.

"And then back to salt wind and heaving decks."

"You were born on an island," I said. "I thought you were a race of mariners."

"Some more than others, tent brother."

Kallea chuckled. "She is right. Letting the Heacharids break like waves upon our shores...this feels like a proper battle."

"We'll fill the ocean with their dead," I vowed.

Phaeliope's face was in my mind. I found that I already had trouble conjuring her scent or her taste. I was losing her inch by inch. A creature who had existed for untold centuries, and the Heacharids had slaughtered her like an animal. I found my hands twitching, ready to fling lightning. Diotenah's power purred at the back of my mind, begging to be unleashed.

We arrived at the main camp at nightfall. The sentries on the road asked our identities and took us swiftly to General Ysmache, commander of the forces upon Paiari. She was an iron-haired amazon, scarred and powerful, unbowed by age.

"Your reputation is sterling, Belromanazar the Tempest," she said. I'd heard the epithet a few times, far more since my rageful campaign after Phaeliope's murder.

"I am here to break the invasion, General."

"I am pleased to hear it."

We spoke of my capabilities. She bade me summon a storm when the Heacharid invasion started, and build my force of stormwights. She asked not for complex tactics, merely to turn as many of the invaders into ours. I was a feature of the defense, instrumental in crafting a butcher's bill so monstrous even the Heacharids would blanch.

This section of the island bordered pastureland, the grasses grown high as most of the goats who had grazed there had been slaughtered for food. The Quartermaster gave us one of the tents in the endless rows that occupied the pasture.

I lay with my hetairoi, the three of us reasserting our bond before battle. We had been together long enough that I had begun to understand the subtle differences between them. Einoë liked me rough, while Kallea was sweeter and even tender at times. Einoë's sex had the slightest metallic flavor. Kallea had the softest moan when I entered her. It was never precisely romantic with my tent sisters. I loved them as comrades and there were perhaps none I trusted more with my life. These were the source of my passion as the three of us joined. And it is something I will miss.

Three days later, the Heacharids attacked before dawn.

They thought to catch a few Daughters of Axichis asleep in their tents. They must have known a quick victory was impossible, but pride in their skill at warfare demanded they stab for it. The truth was that every Heacharid victory was won the same way: upon a pile of the dead. No hour would be early enough to circumvent that simple fact.

The Axichan horns bellowed their summons after my tent sisters and I had risen and were in the process of donning our armor. We raced to the defenses erected at the edge of the beach.

The defenses were in layers. Amazons had dug a trench past the waterline, forcing a hard barrier for those who had made it up to the sand to take a final push into battle. Above that, the short rise to where the dirt was harder packed and covered in vegetation, they'd built ramparts with sharpened logs pointing out to sea. What they'd accomplished in such a short time was impressive, especially as Paiari was not known for its trees. I would learn later they had been forced to destroy the bulk of the island's olive groves, but it would prove worth it.

We arrived as the first of the Heacharids were reaching the ramparts. Already the sea churned with their bodies, riddled with arrows and bleeding from sling stones. Boats ferried landing parties from the ships anchored well out of arrow range. Sharks slipped through the reddening water, feasting on the dead and wounded.

"What do you say, tent brother?" Einoë asked, her face unreadable through the thin openings in her helm.

"I say this will be the final day they ever feel the warmth of their goddess." I reached with the limbs of magic, calling to my power in a booming voice. A rumble of thunder shook the air and lightning crawled over clouds suddenly pregnant with rain. If the Heacharids owned the waves, I would show them who commanded the skies.

A cheer went up from the amazons. The Heacharids glanced into the sky with superstitious dread. I speared one of their landing boats with a bolt from the gray sky. The battle was joined.

The day was spent in carnage. My storm blocked the sun over the beach, creating a strange twilight about us. The sun shone down on every side, but it was distant, too far to touch. Heacharids landed boat after boat, disgorging numberless hordes of fanatics. The sea turned crimson. By afternoon, the bodies were so thick that a person have walked upon the dead from shore to the Heacharid ships without ever touching water.

They pushed us back from our initial stand to the second line. Another ditch, more ramparts, and soon, more falling bodies. We threw the Heacharids back. That was the way of it, back and forth, fighting over land that was increasingly little more than a slaughterhouse floor. My rain fell, always punishing the Heacharids more than the Axichans, lightning stalking through their ranks. Stormwights rose behind their ranks to fall upon their former comrades.

I saw the witchthrall in the late afternoon. I was already exhausted. My magic was thready, but Diotenah's power was hungry in my ears. I will never truly know how much of Diotenah's consciousness lives on in the ring, but whatever was left delighted in the butchery of that day. Her whispers never formed words, but I knew her desires.

The witchthrall was clad as the first, in red-enameled plate on her arms and legs, the gauntlets tipped in wicked claws. She wore only a small red loincloth, another red cloth over her breasts. Her skin was stark white, her hair white with a touch of silver. Her maddened eyes were red. She was beautiful in the way that slaughter can sometimes be.

Those who know of me will recognize her as Lysethe the Heaven's Fire. I did not learn her name until later, but she would be something of an archenemy for much the war. I could never have predicted what she would become. For now, she was merely a foe to be slain.

Later I would reflect that her late arrival implied the Heacharids had held her in reserve, waiting for me to tire. It was a wise gambit. When she came among us, hurling her shafts of razored sunlight, I was easy prey.

Her assignment was obvious. She was fixed on me. She came up the beach, floating a few scant feet over the sand. I took my Shattered Mirror in hand, grabbing a bit of the light spilling from her pale form. Images of me wobbled into existence across the battlefield. She bared her teeth--I would never call what she did a smile, and cast a shaft of sunlight, spearing the shard of glass in my hand. It burned bright, exploding into a million tiny pieces, the magic gone. My palm was shredded, a scorching pain worming up my arm.

At that moment, Heacharids sprang upon me. The first knocked Spire from my blood-soaked hands, leaving me to scrabble for Ellisyr's sword, belted at my waist. Bloodlust in their eyes, they advanced. My hetairoi descended upon them. I gathered power to slay both men and turn them as stormwights upon the witchthrall.

Then I knew only unimaginable agony.

A light, brighter than any I had ever experienced, sliced into my side. I could not feel where it entered, but all around, it was bright pain, radiating all through my body. I followed the shaft to its source, the same as though it had been a spear of steel and wood. The author was Lysethe, her red eyes alight as she impaled me with her fell power.

The pain fixed me in place, rendering me unable even to cry out. Then, a line of amazons fell on Lysethe. I would never know their names, and I would be surprised if they survived the day or even the immediate aftermath of their rescue. The beam that had been in me was gone. What had been bright sank into a heavy burn. As though it were the only thing holding me up, I collapsed into the mud.

My flank was open, my life pulsing out in great gouts into the puddles of filthy rainwater. I looked up into the faces of Heacharid warriors, advancing to kill me. I hope I spat defiance at them, but I could do nothing more than writhe in futile agony.

I do not remember the rest. Only isolated images come through the pain. Einoë bashing a Heacharid with her shield. Kallea impaling a fallen one with a spear, then hurling her net at a charging group. Bodies falling into the mud.

"Iasos!" Einoë bellowed. Her voice was loud in my ears. Rain tapped my face. My robes were soaked.

Strong hands dragged me back from the fighting. In my path, Kallea dispatched a pursuing Heacharid with shocking brutality. Einoë called again. Iasos. Healer.

The black swallowed me up again. A jumble of faces loomed from the burning dark. Fire gnawed at my wound. I heard Einoë's voice, smelled Kallea's sweat. I fell away again. This time I stayed in the dark for a time, the agony far away.

I existed in a restless dream, the only constant the tearing agony in my side. I was lost in the darkness, crying out where none could hear. I thought I heard the voices of those I loved, but they were always far off, and I could never quite tell who the voice belonged to.

The first truly coherent memory I had was a ceiling. White and vaulted, shadows clinging to it like cobwebs. The world was dark, but after my time under, the light was blinding. An Axichan breeze washed over me, carrying distant notes of blood and fire. Closer was a scent of olives.

"You're awake," said a voice. A soft, round buttery voice. She spoke Rhandic with a thick Axichan accent, with a soft, comforting cadence. The voice warmed me, chasing away my dreams of shadow.

"Where am I?" I croaked, trying to summon the strength to sit up and look about. My voice was rickety. My throat hurt and my mouth was dry.

"Don't try to rise. You are at the hospital in Elekidora with the rest of the wounded from the defense of the island."

"Were we--"

"You were successful, yes. The Heacharids have been beaten back for now."

"What happened?"

"I arrived from Elepetra only a week ago, so I was not present for your wounding. I was told that a witchthrall nearly killed you. Your hetairoi dragged you from the field where an iasos kept the God of Death at bay. Command had already dispatched a shipload of iasoi from the hospital on Elepetra to prepare for the battle, but we were still at sea when it was joined. Still, we arrived soon enough to save lives. When I arrived with the rest of the iasoi from Elepetra, your hetairoi demanded General Ysmache grant only best iasos for you. They threatened to...I believe the phrase was 'gut her like a fish' unless she consented to their demands. The general's hetairoi took exception to their harsh words. I volunteered, both to prevent bloodshed and because I was curious that one such as you would inspire such loyalty."

"It is their vows," I managed. Each word hurt, though compared to the hideous burning at my side, it hardly mattered.

I heard the pouring of water, and then a gentle hand cupping the back of my head, raising me just enough to drink. I had never tasted anything so sweet. It flowed over my tongue, bringing some semblance of life to my mouth.

"Not too much. I will give you more in time." She gave me time for a few sips and set me back down. Finally, I was able to see her. She had a pleasing, round face, with smooth olive skin. Her hair was black, falling in curly waves over her shoulders. Her breasts were heavy, her hips and flanks fat and round. She watched me with deep blue eyes, shining with kindness.

"Velena Grimm?" I asked.

"Your companion? Yes, I know her. She remains on Elepetra. Wounded are always coming in from Khedes and Melisis, and she was chosen to stay. I want you to sleep, areteos. Will you do this?"

"How long have I been asleep?"

"The battle is two weeks past."

"They will be massing for another."

"They will, but they will not soon forget what was done to them that red day."

"Who are you?"

"I am Dromesia. I will mend you. Now sleep." I felt her hand stroking my head and soon I dropped back into the depths of slumber. This time, there was no black labyrinth, no distant voices. Though I still burned with the agony of my wound, I rested.

I next awoke to the late afternoon. This time I was able to turn my head. I lay on a soft couch, wrapped in a single light blanket. I stirred, finding that I was nude beneath. The wound gnawed at my side, and something clung to it, heavy and sticky. I saw that the room, open to the air on three sides, was lined with more couches and every one was filled with a wounded amazon. Outside, past the columns, I could see the streets of Elekidora. We appeared to be on the upper edges, where city turned to farmland.

"Belromanazar!" It was Kallea, kneeling beside my couch and clutching my hand. It was like she simply appeared, but I was so addled a dragon could have sneaked up on me. "You're back!"

"Perhaps not all the way."

"He fights even death like an amazon." Einoë stood behind her tent sister, her smirk warmly amused.

Kallea pressed my hand to her mouth, kissing the cold finger encircled by Diotenah's ring. "An amazon's heart is not a comfortable home for fear."

"Do not do this again," clarified Einoë.

"I do not intend to." I tried to rise for water, but the wound gripped me, red and white flashing behind my eyes.

"Do not move, areteos." Dromesia's voice nearby. Then her voice became stern and I realized she was talking to my hetairoi. "I allowed you close only if your presence would not harm him."

"Water," I croaked.

Dromesia busied herself, feeding me from the cup. "Are you hungry, Belromanazar?" she asked when I had taken several sips.

"I...I am not certain."

"When you are, you will be."

"We were concerned," Einoë said, "that your value might not be seen. That they would give you an iasos who had not the skill for your wound."

Kallea's eyes flicked over me, where I felt Dromesia's comforting presence. "We worry no longer."

"What next?" I managed. "I am the only true battle-wizard we have left. I must return to the front."

"You will," Einoë said.

"He will rest," Dromesia said. "Now you two go train."

"Do you mean to insult us?" asked Kallea.

"She means for us to find something to do that is not troubling our tent brother," Einoë explained.

"We will not stray far," Kallea assured both Dromesia and me.

"I've known my share of hetairoi. I know you will not stray outside of the range of his voice," the iasos said. "Now go. He needs sleep in plenty."

I was going to protest, but even this short visit had exhausted me and I slipped once again into slumber.

The next time I awoke I was aware in a way I hadn't been. Sleep slipped off me like water, and my stomach uttered a mournful groan. I wanted one of the meat skewers they sold on Castellandrian streetcorners. No, I wanted the beef from the Saltmaiden. No, I wanted a fresh-baked loaf of Bridda's bread.

Experimentally, I tried to push myself up. The wound at my side warned me this was not my wisest course of action, but it did not warn me as vociferously as before. I kept my senses, and when I settled back, the throb was scarcely more than a heartbeat.

"You're awake." Dromesia was suddenly beside me, moving without sound. Her scent, like the breeze through olive groves, washed over me.

"I am hungry."

A smile stretched over her round features. "Wonderful. I will see what I can find." She returned with a heel of bread, a few scraps of cheese, and a dollop of honey. I reached for it, and she pulled it away. "Eat slowly. It has been weeks since you've truly eaten."

"Weeks?"

"The wound was grievous. If not for the skills of Axichan iasoi, you would be dead." She tore some bread from the heel, added the cheese and honey, and fed me. "Slowly, please."

Though every instinct demanded I devour, I contented myself with a nibble. The flavor was a physical force. Not only the blinding sweetness of the honey, but the delicate savor of the cheese, and the individual grains of the bread. Everything was so complex it was easy to be lost in it. "I have never tasted food like this."

"It is merely that you have become unused to food. Your palate needs time to adjust." She fed me the entirety of the plate. My stomach still groaned. "When we see how that sits, I will give you more."

I lay back. "Very well."

"Stay still please. I must tend to the wound. Perhaps even change the bandage."

She moved aside the blanket. The right side of my abdomen from the base of my ribcage to the top of my hips was coated with a grayish clay. The surface was slightly cracked, but beneath, I could feel a wetness. Dromesia knelt by me, carefully removing the poultice, piece by piece, placing into a clay bowl. At the bottom of each handful, a layer of reddish-black slime showed what evil had been pulled from my body.

The flesh around the wound was livid, still marked with raw patches, leaking more of the viscous muck. Tiny beetles marched over the worst places, their legs tickling the mortified skin. I stared at it in horror. Even in this mostly-healed state, I could see how grievous the wound had been. The witchthrall had nearly cut me in half. The scar persists, like a white sunburst. Though it has faded over the years, all who see it still know I suffered a terrible wound.

"How did you do this?" I asked. "This wound should have killed me."

"The methods of the amazons," she said.

"Magic?"

"It is a form of soft magic."

"I've never heard that term."

"You force the world to conform to your wishes. This is hard magic. Soft magic merely encourages what the world already desires. Your body desires to heal, and soft magic aids the process."

"Soft magic," I said, reflecting on the words. Since that time, it has become a hobby of mine. It will not surprise any to know that Sarakiel took to soft magic quite adeptly, but that is a story for another time.

Dromesia reached into a bowl next to her, and when she removed her hand, it was alive with more of the beetles I had seen marching over me. Their carapaces looked like shards of pottery, the designs in the turquoise of Axichan tattoos. She placed her hand next to the wound and the beetles scuttled onto me, never venturing past the borders of my hurt.

"The krilueria beetles eat infection," she said.

Then, from another bowl, she began to apply another layer of clay. It was cool, soothing against skin that still felt the ghost of the witchthrall's burn. The beetles did not seem to mind the clay, burrowing through it as easily as they had walked across me.

When she was finished, she rinsed the last of the clay from her fingers. "Let it dry in the air until it forms a crust. Can you sleep?"

"I don't think so."

"Yes, your vigor is somewhat returned. This is good."

"You can sleep," I offered.

She gave me a weary smile. "Oh, no. You are my concern." She sat at the foot of the couch. The soft flesh of her buttocks gently brushed my foot. "I have heard you were an adventurer."

"It's true. One of my companions, Xeiliope, is the reason I am here at all."

"Axichis owes her thanks. I have never left these islands, but I find myself curious. Would you tell me one of your stories?"

"A story about what?"

"You're an adventurer. You must have many stories. Choose your favorite and help us pass the night."

"How about my first adventure?"

"Yes, I think that is the right one."

"It began when three young women arrived at my doorstep," I began.

Dromesia changed the clay every day, and every day I saw improvement. Soon I could sit up without difficulty. Then I was walking, leaning heavily on Spire. Heath returned far more swiftly thanks to her ministrations. Soon, she no longer needed the clay and the wound turned to a sullen ache.

She returned my clothing to me, expressing wonder at the elven robes. "Not even a hole in them," she observed.

"There had been," I assured her. "They have a way of repairing themselves."

I watched the war from this place, eager to return. I could not escape the sensation of letting Axichis herself down. Every moment I was not slaying Heacharids was a moment closer to the islands' ultimate fall. News reached me that the Heacharids had yet to attempt another ground attack on Paiari, though whether this was a permanent shift in their plans or merely a momentary respite. They seemed to be as interested in Elepetra and Khedes, but I couldn't be certain if what I heard was accurate.

I watched the smoke climb the horizon as the two navies engaged. I needed to be out there, sinking ships. The wound itched as I thought of battle, as though reminding me that I needed to slay its author. I would begin my hunt for that witchthrall. If she had done this to me, there was no telling how many amazons she would kill. Only I had any chance against her, and so the task fell to me.

I told Dromesia many stories of my time with the Mythseekers. She, in turn, told me hers. It was one evening, as we ate our modest meals, that she told me the most important one. "I lived in Eolene all my life."

I did not know what to say. Eolene had been the first city to fall to the Heacharids. This was their foothold on the Axichan archipelago. What started with Eolene had ended in Megannis and the loss of the island of Thessandreia to them. And the death of Phaeliope.

"I am sorry," I said. I could not think of anything else to say. There were no words big enough."

"I was trained as an iasos, a healer, by my aunt. She too was an iasos, one of the best in all of Axichis. It is partly thanks to her that you still live."

"She has my thanks."

"I will tell you about her. I...want to tell you of my Timun. He was a trader. I met him when his vessel came to Eolene filled with silks from Obai. He was so sweet with me. I caught him looking immediately, but he believed the tales that we amazons have eyes only for one another. I loved him immediately."

I settled into her story. She told me of her efforts to get Timun to understand her interest in him. Then she told me of their courtship, of his willingness to give up his life as a trader and live as the husband to an iasos in Eolene. They had been happy, living a simple life. Eventually, they'd had a daughter.

She never spoke her daughter's name. She came up in stories, but Dromesia never elaborated. The mention that she was there, and then a pause, laden with pain, and then the story would continue.

Then the Heacharids came. Eolene fell swiftly. The amazons had not been ready for an attack and the superior numbers of the invaders had washed over the Axichans in an evil tide. Timun and their daughter had been killed. I never knew the specifics. I could not ask her to relive such a terrible memory.

"Do you ever want vengeance?" I asked. Her voice had turned hard at the end of her tale, and her eyes, once so soft, had hardened.

"I am getting it. Every life I save on our side, every warrior I return to battle, is a blade at the throat of the Heacharids. After today, every one of them you destroy will be my vengeance."

"Then I will have to make certain that I kill many."

"There are times I worry that this is poisoning our souls. But I think that such worries are the luxury of a people not facing extinction." She looked at me, pain in her eyes. "You fight for one you lost, do you not?"

"Phaeliope," I said. "She was an areteos."

"You loved her?" She was hopeful. In the stories I was supposed to love her.

"No. Yes. It was...bigger than love. She was magnificent. An immortal. She had experienced ages. Only time could create so sublime a creature. And the Heacharids killed her and treated her body as garbage. They stole beauty from this world, extinguished a unique flame. It fills me with a rage I can't truly express."

She put her hand on my leg. "Then you understand."

"I understand enough."

That night she embraced me. I rested in her soft arms, the olive scent of her hair lingering in my senses. Then she released me. When I slept that night, I dreamed of Phaeliope, just out of reach.

To rebuild my stamina, we took many walks in the few olive groves that remained around the hospital. It was hard not to notice how the trees had been denuded of their crop, and many had been pulled from the earth to build ramparts. There was no place in Axichis that would be free of the war. We could not even pretend.

Our conversation wandered as we did. She spoke of Timun and the daughter she would never name. I told her of Phaeliope. I could only take our pain and visit it upon the Heacharids.

One afternoon, three months after I had been struck down, we were walking through the olive groves. What had nearly killed me was only the ghost of an ache. Out on the horizon in the direction of Elepetra, a thick column of smoke stained the sky. I needed to be there.

"You are moving well," Dromesia observed.

"I am grateful to you."

She was silent, her gaze turning to the column of smoke. "I sail for Elepetra in the morning," she said finally.

My heart seized. She had been my constant companion during my recovery, bringing me back from the precipice. "I hope to be there soon myself," I said.

"You understand then. Since I learned I was leaving, I had this conversation with you many times in my mind. I thought to convince you that had to depart."

"I would be a fool to gainsay you," I said. "I understand your need to be there, because I need to be there as well. That is where the fighting is. You are an iasos. I am..."

"A storm," she finished.

Her hand brushed mine. Her fingers stroked the one cold digit, wrapped in Diotenah's ring. The part of me that fueled the thing the Heacharids most feared. I tangled her fingers in mine, and she gripped them. We held onto each other with a desperate strength, as though the tides of history would tear us apart then and there. I believe she was reaching across the gulf and holding the hand of her Timun. I believe this because I was holding the hand of Phaeliope.

We continued to walk and neither of us looked at each other, passing through the shade of the few remaining trees. I was lost in the fantasy of being with the areteos, reaching through time to touch what the Heacharids had taken.

"I will miss you," I said.

She pulled me to face her with sudden need. "Don't speak. Please."

She leaned up into me and our lips met. It felt like the ramparts between us had crumbled. The feelings that had been massing, not only for each other, but for those long past who we would never see again. Her eyes were shut and I knew she was imagining her husband kissing her. I wanted to give her that, one more moment with the man she loved. We would never truly be able to bridge the gap of time. Dromesia didn't smell like Phaeliope, or taste like Phaeliope, or kiss like Phaeliope. And I could not truly be her husband. We would pretend. The fiction was fragile, and that would have to be enough.

Our clothes fell from our bodies, our restless hands unable to wait. The late afternoon sun was hot on our shoulders, the dappled shade giving us only the barest respite. I was burning from the inside, my months of infirmity demanding release. She matched my ardor. I cannot say why. I can only hope I gave her what she wanted.

We were nude, still holding one another, our mouths frantically searching for something that we would never find. She turned about, pressing her soft buttocks to me, pinning my staff between us. I kissed her neck, my hands on her heavy breasts. I teased her fat nipples, and they were hard, her body moving more insistently against mine. I stirred myself against her pillowy hindquarters, stoking the heat inside me.

My left hand disappeared into the thick black curls between her legs. She was soft within and without. She uttered a muffled squeal as the cold digit entered her, but then she was thrusting against it, as though she couldn't get enough of it inside her. Perhaps it was because that finger, rendered frigid by Diotenah's ring, acknowledged what this was. An encounter with ghosts. We were not laying with one another. Not truly. For all the stories we'd shared, for all we were one another's closest companion for these past months, we were never truly intended to be lovers. This was solace, and we would take what was freely given. This moment of comfort was too precious not to treasure.

Her juices covered my fingers, her sex opening for me. She rocked her body back, the soft flesh of her flanks teasing my staff. My stroke ran down the length of her, from her pearl, now hard with arousal, then inside her, where she was hot and close. She moaned whenever I penetrated her, pushing against the intrusion with increased need.

She rocked forward, and for a moment I held her, but she was falling onto all fours. She never once looked back at me as I guided myself to her. She was open, red and wet. I placed myself at her flower, and with a push, I was inside her.

Her groan was guttural, pulled out of a throat unused to such a sound. Her back was shiny with sweat, her wide hips pushed back to me. I gripped the cushioned flesh of her buttocks as I impaled her fully. Her folds were warm and sweet.

I began to move, matching her rhythm with mine. We did not need anything particularly creative. The two of us craved contact, the closeness that came with a simple act of pleasure. Each thrust against into her softness pulled another grunt from her. Soon she was down, the side of her face pressed into the dirt, as I impaled her again and again.

Our pleasure swelled between us, each stroke building it. Soon it was too big to hold, pressing against the wound that she had healed. I felt the bliss reaching for her. Our breath was faster, our bodies sheathed in sweat. I pushed deeper each time, and when I could contain myself no longer, I pushed to the hilt. She convulsed with a great cry, her sex clenching over mine. That was enough. The pleasure joined hers, connecting us. Though my side twinged, my body tensed, and I filled her with warmth.

I sighed, falling forward. Her skin was wet, and I brushed the back of her neck with gentle kisses. I lay atop her, catching my breath. Beneath me, her breath was heavy. She stirred first, and I left her. I felt no sense of loss as I often did. This was the end of our time together, as right as our joining has been.

She turned over, sitting demurely on one of her hips, contrasting with the dirt stuck to the sweat of her shoulders, palms, and the side of her face. A few dead olive leaves were tangled in her thick black hair. Her smile was unsure, her round cheeks red with exertion. I did not see shame in her eyes. It was something unreadable.

"I was not sure I was going to do that with you," she said.

"I am glad you did."

"As am I."

"I owe you everything, Dromesia. You saved me."

Her eyes darkened, and the happy mood of our lovemaking vanished in the olive-scented breeze. The grove had been warm, and now a chill wound through the trees. "You will repay me in Heacharid dead," she said.

"I will stack them high in your name."

This was what we had become. She a healer, and me an explorer, and we could only find comfort in the idea of killing. What I realized then was that the Heacharids had slain more than her husband and daughter in the conquest of Eolene. They had taken what she was. They had taken from me as well, and it would be years before I could truly leave the war behind.

Vows made and witnessed, the two of us donned our clothing and returned to the hospital. She was gone the next day, and I returned to my hetairoi. "It is past time we returned to the fighting," I said.

"Captain Kucyone will be pleased to hear it," Einoë said.

"Let us go tell her," Kallea said.

I would never see Dromesia again. I know not if she survived the war, or even the eventual fall of Elepetra. I kept my vow to her. I slew many Heacharids.

Was it my vow that spurred me? Was I truly killing for her? Or was it vengeance for Phaeliope? Defending Axichis from a cruel empire? All of them or none? I cannot say. I know only that I became a butcher. It never mattered to the Heacharids I killed why I was their doom. I seek no absolution for my role in the war. It merely stands as fact.