Vhalla turned to Larel for some sense.
“You didn’t think I’d let my first apprentice run off to war without me, did you?” Larel scolded gently without any mention of the prince showing up in her stead earlier. “What kind of mentor do you think I am?” She crossed her arms on her chest. “You-you can’t.” Vhalla’s heart began to race. She put her hands on Fritz’s shoulders and saw a different set of Southern blue eyes staring back at her. The eyes of a man whom she’d grown up with, who had been a dear friend; they were eyes that now belonged to a dead man. “I can’t have any more people die on my account.” Vhalla focused all her effort on keeping her voice from breaking.
“Don’t treat us like we’re children.” Larel rolled her eyes.
Fritz grabbed Vhalla’s hands. “It’s not your job to protect us. We know what we’re doing.” He squeezed her fingers gently.
Vhalla felt a hopelessness rising in her. “You’re idiots,” Vhalla breathed.
Fritz laughed. “I’ve been called worse.” He grinned, “Larel?”
“Much worse,” the Westerner replied with a smirk.
“You look fantastic, by the way, Vhal!” Fritz held out her arms between them to inspect Vhalla’s armor. “It’s no wonder; you are our Windwalker.”
Vhalla allowed Fritz to fuss and Larel to hum and smile. These had been the only people over the past few days who had made her feel close to human, and while she was in numb shock at the sight of them wearing armor, there was a little selfish streak that secretly rejoiced. Vhalla looked at Larel from the corners of her eyes, halfheartedly responding to Fritz.
The overexcited Southerner was silenced as a hush fell over the room. Major Reale strode in, also clad in black with an obsidian cape streaming down her back. A silver Broken Moon was emblazoned upon it. Vhalla saluted with the rest of the room, bringing her fists to her chest, knuckles together. She turned one hand down, the other pointing up, still connected at the wrist to mimic the imagery.
The moon was the point in which the day and night met, light in the darkness where it did not belong. Within it, the Father was said to have entrapped a creature of pure chaos. The Broken Moon of the Tower represented strength, that those who bore the mark would possess magic strong enough to pierce the heavens and put an end to what the Gods had started eons ago.
Vhalla had been too tired since joining the Tower to give the imagery much thought beyond learning its meaning. But the longer she’d considered the symbol, the more it seemed to fit her. There was something severed and rough about her, something tainted and, yet, at the same time those jagged pieces were the makings of something fearsome. She’d wanted to become someone the Senate would fear. Why not shatter the sky?
“Well, isn’t this a sorry lot I have the esteemed honor of leading to war?” The major took in the room. “Who here marches for glory?”
The room rose in an instant cry of affirmation.
“Get out of my sight,” the woman growled, instantly silencing the previously joyous soldiers. She cut down their resolve with a scan of her good eye. “I have no room for heroes under my command. Most of you will march to a thankless death. Your comrades in silver will fear you, they’ll hate you, and they’ll ignore your accomplishments and claim your victories.”
Vhalla’s mind drifted to the Senate, hearing a very different “they” in the woman’s words.
“But, for those of you who aren’t completely daft,” Major Reale taunted with a wild grin crossing her lips. “For those of you who can meet our enemy with as much cruelty, as much cunning, and as much skill, maybe you’ll see the end of this war. So stand with me, stand with your brothers and sisters in black. We ride toward the horizon of victory, and whoever cannot see the path there should leave now.”
The major strode out of the Tower and didn’t look back to see if anyone was following her.
Everyone was.
As the sunlight hit Vhalla’s face, she looked behind her and up at the Tower, which cast a dark shadow until it became one with the mountainside castle.
Home. This magnificent palace had been her home since she was eleven. She’d came to it as a farmer’s daughter, and now she’d leave it as a soldier. Vhalla shrugged the pack on her shoulder, gripping the leather straps tightly. She tried to ball up the nerves, fears, and insecurity and suppress it into some dark hole deep within her.
They walked through an inner path down to the stables. No one said a word. The sounds of the palace waking, and the Black Legion’s armor clanking, soon joined the symphony of horses and men below.