[i]War begins in the heart and emanates outwards by degrees. First master your heart; then master your thought; then master your sinew. This triumvirate, united, overcomes all. The challenge of war, then, is of inducing disunity. And what of the great weapons, you may ask— what of the fire that descends, what of the titan who stalks the battlefield, what of the gods themselves? Simplicity: standing before them is a fault in one member of the triumvirate. Where the world comes unwoven, [b]stand not there.[/b][/i][1] The hilt of the sword in Redana’s hand is the most real thing in the universe. Her long gloves fit neatly against it, their material conforming to her need: to not have the hilt slip, to hold it firm, to use it as the fulcrum point of the world. The sword itself was a close-quarters cutlass when it found its way into her hands. It was easy enough to remake it, to make the metal fit another mold: long, double-edged, wickedly sharp. It might as well be the sister of the dueling swords she learned to fight with back at home, down to the elaborate, rose-patterned guard at the hilt. The body remembers this kind of sword. She could fight with it if she were walking through a dream; she could move through a battalion of Kaeri like a gale whipping through willows, disarming, undoing, dis[i]arm[/i]ing, never killing, always removing from play. Match point goes to the Princess. Reset; take your positions. The thunder rolls. She adjusts the scarf again, burrows her face deeper into it. Roses, pink as roses, light and shimmering, yet opaque and clinging. It felt better than wearing a full-face mask. Leaves her full field of vision open, too. That’s important. It’s a flimsy way to hide her identity, but it makes her happy in a way she would struggle to articulate out loud. In some ways, Redana is simple: it makes her happy, so she doesn’t question it. She simply indulges without asking herself further questions. After all, the aesthetic is the principal consideration in choosing armor, for Redana Claudius is human. Humans do not wear armor because they are afraid of death; humans wear armor because Athena wears armor. Would armor have saved Jas’o? Not so. Would armor stop the Master of Assassins from stopping Redana’s heart? Not so. Do the Kaeri have any hope of killing Redana, a genetic juggernaut, by force of arms? Not so. The breastplate is cherry-pink, inlaid with silver, a cuirass hung with tassels and Athenian talismans and bells, silver bells, small and sweet. The half-cloak falls to the small of her back. The skirt sighs as she moves, many-segmented, studded down the length of each strip. The greaves and vambraces gleam over her long gloves, her long stockings. Beneath them all, the black bodysuit holds her tight, a second skin from throat to ankles, patterned in subtle arabesque, as if her very skin is mailed. Her hair, too, is pink: vivid at the roots, fading to pale tips at the end of her ponytail. Aesthetic is everything. Commit in total, and feel your heart swell to meet the challenge. Instead of a ribbon, however, or a simple tie, her hair is bound by an Alcedi charm: bright-feathered, golden, a promise of victory. It is not much of a disguise, but it is an assertion nonetheless. Who could this figure be, among the kingfishers, who fights like an Imperial duelist? Who could she be, this human, small and compact and dangerous? There is no disguise that could stop her from being recognized by her enemies, but she is not disguised as this mysterious heroine for [i]their[/i] sake. Rather, so that Alexa can say: everyone knows Redana Claudius is blonde, that she wears black and sometimes gold, that she patterns her clothing after that of sailors. Clearly, then, I cannot tell you who she is, this mysterious heroine. Thunder rolls, closer now. Redana’s fingers tighten about the hilt. About her, Lacedo sees to her honor guard, hand-picked for the duty of keeping pace. Redana will cut through the enemy like the slug of a Hermetic railgun to get to their champions and undo them, and she needs fleet-footed companions on either side. She isn’t ready. If all was fair and kind in the world, she’d have had more time to rest. More time to let her body mend from what she did to it on Salib. Determination will have to serve for all, then. Because she’s not going to let anything stand between her and this second chance to prove to herself, most of all, that the Nemean was wrong. That she can be there for her Bella. This time. [i]This[/i] time. It will all be fixed [i]this[/i] time. And nothing will stop her. Not even that hulking brute in garishly ugly armor standing at the side of the Master of Assassins. She’ll carve through them. Her palm is sweaty, but her grip doesn’t slip even a hair’s breath. Even that monster, dredged up from some Assassin-temple. It will fall. Any other thought would lead her back to that black despair on the bridge of the [i]Plousios.[/i] Therefore, she has no other thought. Just the grip on her white sword, the crunch of sand beneath her boot as she adjusts her stance, and the sensations of her body as the sinew remembers how she has used it so often before. *** [1]: [i]The Tactics of the Parynesshian, Vol. 1.[/i]