I’d say it’s impossible, but the Commandant trained the word out of me.

Exhaustion is temporary. Pain is temporary. But Helene dying because I didn't find a way to get her back on time—that's permanent.

You—you were like me. You were a child. A normal child. And that was taken from you.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Well, it certainly makes you harder to hate.

When did you star here?” I ask her.

“Three days ago. Sir. Aspirant. Um—” She wrings her hands.

“Veturius is fine.”

She walks carefully, gingerly—the Commandant must have whipped her recently. And yet she doesn't hunch or shuffle like the others slaves. The straight-backed grace with which she moves tells her story better than words. She'd been a freewoman before this—I'd bet my scims on it. And she has no idea how pretty she is—or what kind of problems her beauty will cause for her at a place like Blackcliff. The wind pulls at her hair again, and I catch her scent—like fruit and sugar.

“Can I give you some advice?”

Her head flies up like a scared animal's. At least she's wary. “Right now you...” Will grab the attention of every male in a square mile. “Stand out,” I finish. “It's hot, but you should wear a hood or a cloak—something to help you blend in.”

She nods, but her eyes are suspicious. She wraps her arms around herself and drops back a little. I don't speak to her again.

Mercy is weakness. Offer it to your enemies and you might as well fall upon your own sword.

Seeing the enemy as human. A general's ultimate nightmare.