Each time Ava asked Reynard whether they were near the shore, he offered no answer. His silence was steady, as unyielding as the rolling waves, and it gnawed at her patience.

  The deck pitched beneath her feet, her stomach rose and fell with each swell. Saltwater stung her eyes; wind tore at her hair, whipping it across her face. She gritted her teeth, counting each wave; the sea had never suited her, and she'd seen countless times what happened to weary sailors upon reaching the shores of Cyprus. She was not keen to follow their example.

  Her hands ran along the worn wood of the deck, scarred by countless storms. The English Channel, France, Cyprus, and now the coastal village of Fiana, perched between Sidon and Tyre, lay ahead, waiting.

  At the front of the ship, Ava clung to the railings, her heart hammering in her chest. A horizontal scar below her left eye glinted wetly. She leaned into the wind, letting it tug at her, every gust a reminder of the life she had chosen and survived.

  One of the new recruits trembled and chattered his teeth; Ava wracked her memory to try and remember his name.

  Thomas. Whilst he'd been sick overboard for hours, in between some of the spells of sickness, Ava recalled faintly that being his name.

  The storm battered the ship, rain plastering strands of blonde hair across Ava's face. She brushed them away impatiently. Crusading had taught her many things, but enduring the sea was not one of them.

  She tested the edge of her longsword with a practised twist, feeling the groove worn smooth by countless strikes, each mark a story of survival, each nick a memory. Her hands — calloused, scarred and precise — told a much longer story.

  "Marshal Louis!" Reynard shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos of the storm, "We're approaching the village. What are your orders?"

  "Very well," Louis sat relaxed on the ship's rear deck, "Captains, ready your men. New recruits, gather the horses from the ship's stable!"

  The Marshal rose from his resting spot at the far end of the deck, his presence immediately commanding attention. Rain plastered hair to brows, and waves crashed against the hull.

  No one moved without his express permission.

  He strode down the line, inspecting each Crusader's equipment with meticulous care. His eyes were sharp for the slightest wear or the smallest hint of decay. Every strap, joint, and blade told a story.

  Ava knew the story he was looking for, a story of discipline, and most importantly. Absolute obedience.

  He drew Thomas' sword from its sheath and held it aloft. The rain ran down the blade, glinting on the steel, and the droplets seemed to pause as if waiting for his judgment.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Louis gazed sharply towards the recruit.

  "The meaning of what?" Thomas stammered, arms rigid, water streaming from his brow. Ava saw that same reaction in him that she had herself towards the Marshal, fear hijacking reason.

  Louis' eyes narrowed on the two tiny nicks along the blade's edge. "These are not mere scratches," he said, voice low and deadly. "A soldier dies once for every imperfection in his steel. One slip could mean the difference between victory or death."

  With a swift, controlled motion, the sword left Louis' hands and sailed overboard, disappearing into the dark sea. "Not good enough. Replace it at the armory, your own coin, or take one from the enemy. If you fail, none in the Order will save you from me."

  Thomas lowered his head in shame.

  But Louis enjoyed it all the same. The authority. The way hope drained from a recruit's face when their ideals met the reality of war. Ava had seen it happen again and again in Cyprus. How he had tried to do the same to her.

  Louis moved on, his inspection unyielding. When his gaze fell on Malcolm, he lingered, measuring perfection. Every piece of equipment gleamed under the storm's light. Not a single flaw escaped him.

  "Thomas," Louis said, pointing toward Malcolm, voice cutting through the rain, "look at him, take in every inch of his weaponry. That is how a Crusader presents himself. Learn from him, or you'll spend the rest of your time in the Holy Land polishing the armor of a real crusader."

  Louis took a look at the rest of the knights' equipment and saved Ava for last.

  "Ah, not you," the Marshal's voice crept behind Ava, gentle and unalarming, but Ava knew.

  There was nothing gentle about him.

  "We're due for a catch-up, aren't we, Aveline?" She froze. No. Not Aveline. Anything but that name.

  "Maybe one of those lessons we enjoyed…" Louis' voice hung just a second longer than she would've liked.

  His arm firmly grasped her pauldron, despite being covered in elaborate armour, the Order's custom-made crusader armour, she could still somehow feel his touch. She kept her eyes firmly on the little speck of land coming into view.

  Fiana Village.

  "Not now," Ava said, doing her best to muster a smile. "War will not wait for us."

  That act of friendliness was the best she could muster in the cold storm of the Levantine Sea, compounded by the Marshal's even colder touch. She did not dare turn around until she heard Reynard's voice yet again.

  "Ava? What happened to the bravado? We're arriving at Fiana any minute now."

  Ava drew her sword and began polishing. Looking presentable was always a good thing to focus on, inspire hope in your men, and strike terror into the Muslims. Ava bristled at the word Saracen.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Flashes of Philip's teachings came back to her — how that word, however innocently used, carried tales of pain and torment; how it reduced her enemies to less than human. She held the memory a moment before letting it go.

  They were her enemies, yes, but she knew better than to deny them any less than her complete respect.

  "I'm ready," she stated.

  "Thomas. Prepare Grainne! Give her plenty of water!"

  …

  Ava felt the rain begin to ease. When she breathed in, the cold no longer pierced her chest as sharply.

  The sun was sinking toward the horizon, its rays breaking through the lingering storm clouds that had battered them at sea.

  The Order had landed along the wide Levantine shore. Sand crept into the joints of their armour as the men dragged equipment onto the beach.

  "Deputy Ava!" Thomas' voice croaked through the chattering of his teeth.

  "I thought the temple was cold at night, but if I didn't know better, I'd think I was about to see Isabeau again…"

  His face softened at the name. His brows furrowed and his eyes loosened.

  "You'll be fine, Thomas," Ava said, allowing herself a faint smile. "Sea travel is difficult, even for disciplined soldiers. A first voyage weighs heavily. Take comfort — this is merely one of God's many tests."

  Ava's gaze settled on Captain Reynard as he spoke with the other company captains further down the shore. Then she turned back to Thomas, whose teeth still rattled in the evening wind.

  She couldn't help but smile.

  "Stay there, Thomas. I'll ask Reynard if we can start a fire tonight."

  …

  The Third Company settled in for the night across the shores of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, a meagre bonfire illuminating them.

  She shot a look at her comrades camping beside her — Thomas, Malcolm, and the Captain. As Thomas leaned forwards near the campfire, his eyes gleaming, her heart sank.

  Ava had seen so many idealistic knights just like him.

  "Captain! What can we expect tomorrow? We're gonna drive those dirty Sara—"

  "Muslims," Ava corrected.

  "Muslims, out of the Levant right? First Fiana, then through to Acre, maybe even Jerusalem, God willing… right?" Thomas said.

  "I plan to make a name for myself…" He continued, his hair rustling in the cold winds of the sandy beach, the occasional ember falling on his clothes.

  "To be a proper Crusader, to prove myself in battle, when I go back to Normandy, I might even get myself a beautiful wife." The glow of the campfire did nothing to hide his encroaching blush.

  "Wrong reason to risk your neck." Malcolm cut through, his back hunched and his gaze firmly set on the embers in front of him.

  "You should listen to what I'm about to say, boy," he grunted as he shook his hair, "Even a fool who keeps quiet is wise, you'd do well to follow suit of that verse."

  He pulled out a copy of a Bible, the Order's standard issue Silver Sword bible, an old, ancient book with the sigil of their First Grandmaster. He flicked through and pointed at a verse. Proverbs 17:28.

  Reynard sat idly, staring at the sky, pouring himself a cup of ale with perfect balance. The other members of the Third Company watched in awe. He lifted it just to graze his lips before Ava slapped it from his hand.

  "I disagree." Ava continued to polish her steel sword.

  Disappointed in her Captain as he began to mourn the heavenly beverage, she continued.

  "Silence is to ignore His calling," she began, "Silence leads to inaction, and it is our job to act. To protect and to defend."

  Ava turned to face Thomas.

  "That is what it means to be a Crusader, not wealth, not fame, but to uphold justice."

  Ava did not need to open her Bible; it was resting next to her, firmly shut, yet when Thomas scrambled to find the verse, he found that she had quoted Proverbs 31:9 perfectly.

  Malcolm's gaze was deep and dark, but not hostile. Ava returned it, her hope tempered by the knowledge of the world's cruelty, yet still burning.

  "Captain Reynard, what are your thoughts?" Malcolm finally said — the three of them had been together for years; she knew he would not listen to her, but Reynard possibly.

  Reynard leaned back, still distraught from the desecration of his late-night vice, and stared into the starry sky.

  "I'm not a saint, not by a long shot—"

  "That's an understatement," Ava whispered under her breath, kicking more sand over the puddle of ale.

  "But I've seen enough to make an assessment." He glared at Ava's interruption.

  He leaned forward again, studying his open palm. The lines crossed and twisted across his skin, old scars cutting through them like broken roads.

  "There's a season for everything…" his voice trembling as his gaze lingered on the soaked puddle of sand, "Only God knows when the time is right."

  Thomas flicked through his Bible, mouth dropping as Reynard quoted Ecclesiastes 3:1.

  "Captain, what do you mean?"

  Reynard clenched his palm into a fist before relaxing it and lying back down, shrugging his shoulders as he sank.

  "I don't know," he admitted, lying back to stargaze. "I think there's a time and place for both. The hard part about being a Crusader is knowing when to sheathe your sword. And our enemies — who are they?"

  Ava stood up immediately.

  "We're knights, Reynard," Ava began, "Our enemies are all those who oppose Christendom, it is a shame the Muslims fight us, but it is our duty to fight for Him."

  She paused, her mind heralding back to Canterbury.

  "Nothing will stop me from doing so."

  Reynard shot a weak smile to Thomas, who sat afar, mouth open as he listened to the three of them.

  "That's our Deputy for you." Reynard snorted, "She's been like this as long as I can remember."

  His laugh started faint, then, as steady as the roar of the fire beside them, his laugh grew into a bellow, deep and sincere.

  "Honestly Ava, you're far better suited to being a sister in an abbey than being a knight!"

  Reynard shot another look at Malcolm, who begrudgingly let out a smile.

  "Seriously, Malcolm, she's the only knight I know in the Order who doesn't drink!"

  Everyone, except Ava, let out a hearty laugh, just like those that would echo down the halls of the Silver Sword after a gruelling training session.

  "By the way…" Thomas' fingers kept looping around themselves as he mustered the courage to ask the question.

  "Deputy, what is Louis really like? I heard from some of the knights, they say he trained you? What was it like? To be trained by him?"

  The mention of the Marshal sent a shiver down her spine, as if someone had poured freezing water down her tunic.

  "That sword he threw overboard was a gift from my late sister." Thomas looked to the sky as he ruffled his hair.

  Ava winced at the memory of his hand. Fingers tightened around her hilt. She forced herself to meet Thomas' gaze, voice steady.

  "Marshal Louis… is power incarnate. That is all."

  She looked away, then started to stretch her body, raising her sword and shield with her.

  With the flat of her sword, she repeatedly banged on her shield, rousing the other knights of the Third and Fourth Company.

  "Fiana Village awaits us tomorrow, men, be ready at the crack of dawn. It will only be the Third and Fourth! So be on high alert!"

  Brazenly, she walked into the darkness toward the stable house, but her mind wouldn't let go of Louis. The memory of his ruthless power lingered.

  …

  Ava entered the stable, the warmth and scent of hay a sharp contrast to the biting wind outside. Grainne lifted her head, a white mare gleaming in the dim lantern light. Her blue-and-black armour shone like polished steel.

  "Easy, Grainne," Ava murmured, running her hands along the mare's sleek mane.

  She filled the trough with water. Measured the grain. Adjusted the saddle and checked the armour.

  Grainne of Canterbury… a woman Ava had admired for her unwavering faith. She saw that same steadfastness here, in the mare's patient gaze. Grainne was no ordinary steed; she had the ferocious and heroic nature only Ava could tame, and it suited her perfectly.

  Grainne nuzzled her shoulder in response. One life she could tend to without compromise.

  In the quiet of the stable, her mind wandered to Louis, to the power he wielded, to the orders that waited at dawn. Yet for this moment, she let the calm settle around her.

  Tomorrow, the storm would come again — and she would be ready.