It was a cold morning, frost clinging to the grass and trees, and Milo rubbed his eyes. Sneaking out was hard. Michael was a light sleeper and woke to use the bathroom twice. He almost didn’t make it out of the house and hid behind the kitchen counter for ten minutes while his little brother sleepily gulped down an extra large glass of water. No wonder he was always using the bathroom.

  Stretching his arms and rolling his neck, Milo tried to refocus on what was important. He made it to training with three minutes to spare, and Makler brought the toughest drill sergeants on the books. Winnie Hart was a woman with puckered lips and a stone-cold stare. He’d heard rumors she scowled when she laughed and disemboweled anyone stupid enough to jump-scare her. Keeping his head on his shoulders and pushing himself while she barked down his throat would be no easy task, and by the looks of Makler jogging in place to warm himself up, he knew it, too.

  “Remember, he’s not one of yours. He’s a kid. He has a lot of promise, Hart. We’re just seeing how far that promise runs and if it’s worth the time and effort. Understood, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.” She snapped, clean and crisp.

  “At ease, Hart. This is informal, and we’re keeping this quiet until we know what we’re working with. Right, Stillwater?” Makler jutted his chin toward the boy.

  “Yes, sir.” He bobbed his head.

  Winnie looked him over, the corner of her upper lip tugging up in subtle disgust. She hated the idea of working with a child and pandering to Makler’s latest fancy. After the failure with the last four, she suspected he was growing desperate to find his future replacement. Why he couldn’t settle for one of the higher ranks close to him was beyond her, and she knew better than to question his judgment. He’d made wild calls before and led them to victories they never thought they’d achieve. If it hadn’t been for his leadership, the city out east wouldn’t have the walls it had, and the protection of the outposts scattered around it.

  Makler was brilliant. He’d helped establish sanctuaries in smaller cities like Holzberg and Westland. Even in this town, Bethany, he’d helped them fortify and modernize their walls and weapons to perfection. The gods themselves would have to descend on the town if they wanted it. Not that there was much to want. Bethany had few resources and too many kids. It wasn’t worth their time or effort. As much as Winnie didn’t like children, she knew it was better for the town to be booming with them. They’d all live longer. Those gods had a weird concept of morals and avoided exposing children to the horrors of combat if they could help it.

  Milo was barely a child, though. His shoulders were already squaring and if Makler hadn’t said he was only fourteen, she would have thought he was older. Baby-faced, but sixteen at least for his height. She pressed her lips into a thin line as she watched the boy tighten his laces and kick his feet to check the knots. Training him wouldn’t be easy. He was sloppy and lanky, and kids were emotional. The last thing she wanted was to listen to him cry when he scraped his knee. A real soldier under her command wouldn’t dare shed a single tear and would be up faster than a cricket on coals.

  “Are you ready, sport?” Makler set his hands on his hips, casual and kind despite his reputation.

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  “Yes, sir,” Milo chirped, his voice cracking.

  Winnie shut her eyes and breathed out an aggravated sigh. “We’ll start with a three-mile run. Try to keep up, kiddo.”

  “Three miles? That’s it?” He looked between the Commander-in-Chief and the drill sergeant.

  Winnie’s eyebrows lifted, and her jaw tensed, and Makler turned his gaze to the ground. The sergeant puffed her chest and looked down her nose at Milo despite being the same height. “Six miles.”

  “What?” His eyes popped wide.

  “Twelve.”

  Milo straightened, a shiver racing down his spine. He nodded and looked at Makler, finding not a drop of sympathy. Twelve miles was a long run, and twice as long as he’d ever run before. She couldn’t be serious. He turned back to meet her frozen stare. No, she was serious. Deathly serious. Milo’s mouth went dry, words barely croaking out. “Yes, ma’am, sorry, ma’am.”

  “Move!” she barked.

  “Follow me. I’ll take you on the first lap and then you’re on your own.” Makler nodded toward the trail stretching over the field and into the dense trees.

  Winnie didn’t wait for them, and she didn’t slow her usual pace, either. Makler, though, kept at a steady jog to ensure Milo stayed at his side. For the first mile, they didn’t say a word. It was partway through the second mile when Makler mentioned the circuit was a full three-mile lap. Milo’s nose wrinkled, and he shook his head as he picked up speed. The sooner he finished four laps, the sooner he could move on to real training.

  “So, what’s the deal with you, Milo? Why do you want to go looking for trouble?” Makler asked as he quickened to keep up with the boy. “Dave always said you were a good kid. Great with your brother.”

  “I’m not looking for trouble.” Milo huffed. “I just want to make a difference.”

  “And you think joining the local militia will do that?” Makler glanced over at him.

  Milo stared ahead, not daring to dignify the question with an answer. He knew the local militia wouldn’t get him far, but it was a stepping stone. And by a chance miracle, he’d stepped all the way over that stone and was in the prime place for where he wanted to be, with the Resistance.

  “You’re a smart kid, Milo.” Makler offered. “What is it you think you can accomplish by fighting the Razen?”

  “I don’t want to fight the Razen,” he said with more confidence than he’d earned. “I want to stop them and give people a second chance to live.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “Everyone who has a strength has a weakness, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, there’s one Horseman with a pretty obvious weakness. Famine. He has to have something to starve. He chokes the life out of plants and livestock, but if we could contain him where there weren’t any plants or animals for him to kill, they’d be short a god. They’d be weaker. And it’d be a matter of time before we found the weaknesses of the other three. I don’t think we can stop them by force. It’s never worked. I think we have to outsmart them.”

  “Interesting.” A smile tugged on Makler’s lips. Of all the kids he’d taken under his wing, Milo was the first to think outside the box. Years ago he’d realized the Resistance didn’t have the physical prowess necessary to stop the Razen, to keep the world from ending, never mind bring an end to the reign of the gods who led the charge. He put time and money and heartache into finding new, creative ways to fight with fewer casualties. Mastering communication and miscommunication had gone a long way, but there was room for improvement, and what he saw in Milo was the promise of greater ideas, ones with the potential to change their fate. It was a miracle he’d found the boy, and he was so eager to get started.

  “I think,” Milo squeaked, short of breath, “they’re so focused on fighting, they forgot we’re people. There’s more to us, more to life, than killing each other.”

  “It’s an easy thing to forget, necessary even, when you’re faced with the brutality of real combat. War is terrifying, Milo, and not what you think.” Makler sighed. “Constant fear does things to a person and breaks them in ways that don’t fix.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “You will be, Milo. We all are, in the end.”