Growing up, Paul always admired the sword that lay at the bottom of the chest.

  How could he not? It was the only shiny thing in his otherwise plain home.

  He would measure his height by its length and his strength by how long he could hold it up. Whenever it rained or snowed, and his parents forbade him from going out to play in the mud, he would instead spend hours staring at it, imagining himself cutting through hordes of wild beasts and cunning Hollows to save the princess they held captive. Often, this princess was Lotti, the daughter of the family that lived two houses down. What a life it would be—to take the sword out, polish it, and run away from this small hamlet to become an imperial soldier and adventure all over the world with Lotti in his arms.

  His father, on the other hand, never shared his vision. And Paul could never understand why.

  Especially since his father was a soldier too. A brave one at that, judging by the fact that he'd defeated some Karlamangian noble whose sword rested in the chest. And yet for some reason, he rarely spoke of his time in the war. Paul had to learn the story about how his family got the sword from Lotti's father and Grandpa August.

  Then there was also that time his father returned from the mines early and caught him wildly swinging the sword behind the house. Instead of being proud and training him, he'd ripped the sword from Paul's hands and beat him with a wooden pickaxe. Paul struggled to lie down comfortably for days after.

  But despite his father disapproval, Paul's hopes never waned. No matter how much his father grumbled at him or hit him over the head, he couldn't starve out the daydreams in Paul's heart.

  Instead, it would be the famine that did that.

  One day, Paul watched as his father took out the sword from the chest. He polished and cleaned it as best he could, then dragged it behind him—too weak to pick it up—as he made a visit to the bailiff.

  In the end, the price of this priceless treasure turned out to be a bag of grain lighter than the sword itself.

  Paul remembered his father returning with that pathetic sack, the way he'd set it down in the corner without a word. His mother had cried quietly into her apron. His sister had asked where the pretty sword went. And his father had just sat by the cold hearth, staring at nothing.

  But even that wasn't enough. Once the meagre grain ran out, Paul watched as his father withered away, skipping more and more meals in favour of the rest of the family. Eventually, he could take it no more and simply didn't wake up one morning. Paul's sister followed soon after, her body too weak to fight some disease she'd picked up.

  As he watched their bodies burn in the ceremonial fire, most of Paul's dreams and ambitions were snuffed out along with the flames. The smoke had risen into the grey winter sky, carrying away everything he'd once hoped for. He had bigger things to worry about now: coming up with the goods to pay the heriot, preparing for the next harvest, taking care of his mother... Even Lotti was pushed out of his mind. What was the point of love if she could be the next one to be reunited with the Suns? What was the point of anything beyond surviving to the next day?

  At seventeen, Paul felt older than his father was and resigned to his fate.

  But then everything changed.

  Two dozen or so days ago, Jost told everyone that some big, important noble was coming to the village and that Ugo demanded extra taxes to prepare a welcoming feast. It was another hardship for Paul to get through, but there was also a bright side too. Tradition dictated the lord hand out leftovers to the peasants, so hopefully he and his mother would get to taste something better than bland porridge and rough bread for a day.

  What Paul hadn't expected was for that noble to turn everything upside down.

  When Prince Karl ousted the bailiff and abolished serfdom, Paul's first thought wasn't freedom or revolution—it was food. Proper food. One-tenth tax instead of one-third meant they wouldn't go hungry next winter. His mother could eat more than once a day. They might even have enough to trade for things they needed. A new set of clothes before the deep cold came. Maybe even a few chickens so they could have fresh eggs like they did before the famine.

  But then the prince kept talking. About dreams. About freedom. About building a new world.

  And despite himself, despite the famine having killed his childish fantasies along with his father and sister, Paul felt something stir in his chest. Something he thought had died when his father dragged out that sword.

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  Hope.

  It felt dangerous to hope again. Like touching a hot coal to see if it would burn you twice. But the prince's words had reached something deep inside him, some part that remembered what it felt like to want more than just survival.

  The prince promised training, weapons, and pay. He promised they'd become real soldiers—not some levy dragged from fields to die in a noble's war, but an actual army. The kind Paul had dreamed about as a boy. And when the prince asked who would fight, Paul's hand shot up before his mind could catch up with it.

  His mother hadn't been happy. She'd cried, begged him not to go, reminded him of what soldiering had done to his father. "The field and the mines took your father's strength," she'd said, gripping his hands with her thin fingers. "But the war took his soul. Don't let them take yours, too."

  But Paul was firm. They needed the money. They needed the food. And if the Count came to drag them back into serfdom, back to watching people waste away while Ugo grew fat... well, someone had to fight.

  Though if Paul was being honest with himself, aside from the prince's speech and the promise of good food and pay, there was one more reason he'd joined the prince's new army. Probably the biggest one. Lotti.

  He'd barely spoken to her since his father died. Grief had made him cruel—he'd shrugged her off when she'd tried to offer condolences, told her to leave him alone. The hurt in her eyes had haunted him for months. But surely if he joined the army and won great victories and proved himself, she would get over how he treated her after his father died and fall in love with him all over again.

  He would get to live out his childhood dreams—a shining sword in one hand and Lotti in the other.

  This was the soldier life he imagined as he pranced through the village like he hadn't in a long time, greeting the first of the two Suns as it rose above the wide open field where the training was to be held.

  ***

  "At aaattention!"

  "On liiine!"

  "Right faceee!"

  "Forward, march!"

  Not even half a dozen days had passed, and Paul was already second-guessing his resolve as he trudged through the thick snow.

  Army life was nothing like he had imagined.

  Instead of learning to swing swords or shoot bows, they were made to do all kinds of useless stuff. They hiked through snow to the beat of a drum. They carried around giant logs, each one needing four men to move, until their arms became numb. They ran laps around the village until Paul's lungs burned and his legs felt like they might fall off. They stood in the freezing cold and formed up in various ways, depending on which strange words Kurt and Ralf shouted.

  "Line!"

  "Column!"

  "Square!"

  "Wedge!"

  "Echelon!"

  Paul didn't even know what half those words meant, just what place he needed to take. They sounded important, but when you were standing in the snow with your teeth chattering, trying to figure out if you were supposed to be in front of Erich or behind Helmuth, they just felt like nonsense.

  How would any of this help them fight the Count? What army ever defeated their enemy by simply marching?

  They weren't even given any weapons to train with! Just endless walking and lifting and standing in formations that seemed to change every time Paul thought he'd figured them out.

  Was the prince just making fun of them, making them run around like chickens? It was what Henrik and the guys were saying each time they passed them on the way home, shaking their heads and muttering about wasted time.

  He tried asking the ex-soldiers like Grandpa August if they knew anything, but none of them had any idea what they were doing either. Their advice was just to follow what the prince said and not think about it too much.

  But Paul did think a lot about it.

  If this were useless, he would be better off at home helping his mother with spinning wool or collecting more firewood for winter. Especially since Lord Karl commissioned several huge sheets of linen to be made, probably to redecorate the manor or something, so there was a lot of work for Paul’s mother. Given how much the Lord is paying for it—enough to buy a cow—Paul often considered quitting the army to spend the whole day helping finish it faster. At least that would accomplish something he could see.

  He knew many others thought so too, but none wanted to be the first one to leave.

  By this point, Paul only stayed in the army because the prince really did make good on his promise of food. Every day after morning exercises, the forty men and women would line up in front of a giant cauldron to receive a ration of thick, hot porridge handed to them directly by the prince.

  There was even a slice of meat in it!

  When Paul saw the piece of meat in his bowl on the first day, he thought it must have been left in the pot by mistake and quickly pushed it under the porridge in case someone noticed it. His heart had hammered as he carried his bowl away, certain someone would call him back, accuse him of stealing. Once finished with the meal, he then carefully stashed it in his pouch to bring home to his mother. She'd wept when he gave it to her that evening, actually wept over a piece of meat a bit bigger than his thumb.

  However, to his surprise, he found another slice of meat the next day! The day after, too! Talking with the others, he learned everyone else had gotten a piece of meat as well. Some of the older folks said they couldn't remember the last time they'd had meat two days in a row, let alone every single day. Not even when the four poachers were on their best of luck, did they see so much meat so often.

  And as long as there was some meat in it for him and his mother, Paul didn't mind dancing to the prince's tune, however ridiculous it was.

  After all, there were many worse things one could be forced to do for food.