A LEGACY OF LIGHT

TILLA

TILLA

She stood in the courtyard, clad in steel, on the most frightening day of her life.

Today I will watch the prince wed, she thought. Today I will receive my rank. Today I will become a soldier, ready for war.

The tower rose above her, a shard of obsidian scratching the sky. Its great black-and-red clock chimed noon, and Tilla sucked in her breath, raised her chin, and struggled to calm her thrashing heart.

Her fellow recruits stood across the walls and courtyards, three thousand in all. Many were from Cadport, youths she had grown up with; the rest were from towns and villages across the south. They stood in their phalanxes, a hundred each. Tilla clutched the standard of her own phalanx, a black rose within an iron ring.

Nairi Blackrose herself, her commander and soon her princess, stood before her. She wore her finest armor this day, polished black plates engraved with roses. Her insignia--the single red spiral of a lanse--shone upon her shoulders.

Tilla herself wore metal for the first time. The prince had equipped all his recruits with real steel for this day. The armorer had forged Tilla's breastplate only days ago. It fit snugly, polished black and engraved with a red spiral upon the chest. Soon she would receive armbands, and each one would display a single red star.

I will be a periva, she thought. A low rank, yes. But I will be a true warrior of the Legions, no longer merely a recruit.

Her fingers tingled to think of it. After all this time--three moons of pain and dirt and sweat and blood--she would become a true soldier.

I made it, she thought. I survived Castra Luna.

Wings thudded, and Tilla looked up to see the emperor, the princess, and the prince--three dragons in armor--descend into the courtyard. Once they landed, they shifted into human forms.

Frey Cadigus stood in the center, the tallest among them. His dark, thinning hair was slicked back. His eyes, shards of stone, stared upon the troops that stood before him. His thin lips twisted, deepening the grooves around his mouth. His face was almost cadaverous, Tilla thought, but his armor shone, and his shoulders were wide and strong.

Frey raised his fist.

"Hail the red spiral!" he shouted, then pounded that fist against his breastplate.

Across the courtyard, the soldiers repeated the cry.

"Hail the red spiral!"

Fists rose, then pounded against chests. Tilla sucked in her breath, and her body tingled.

This is power, she thought. Thousands of warriors shouting together, united under one banner--this was glory.

She was no longer afraid, she realized. It was the first time in moons, maybe in years, that she felt no fear. She had come to Castra Luna a timid, terrified girl. Now she stood as a warrior, clad in steel, a sword at her side, shouting for the glory of her kingdom.

"Today you become soldiers!" Frey Cadigus cried to them. "You have trained for long moons. You have grown strong. You learned to fight with swords, to fly as dragons, to kill our enemies. But more importantly, you learned our moral code." He clenched his fist. "You learned of strength. You learned of honor. You learned that pity, compassion, and cowardice lead to decline and death. Requiem is strong! Requiem is a great blade and a pillar of flame. Requiem will never more fall. Hail the red spiral!"