The delay of a single day seemed to make little difference, but in times of revolution and war, even hours carried the weight of entire destinies. When Caelus and Bia crossed the gates of Pisum, the dust of the road still clung to their faces, and weariness weighed more than the weapons at their belts. They came with bad news, and they knew that Isabela Pisodorato and Edouard Lefevre awaited them impatiently – eyes anxious for a change of fortune, but hearts prepared for the worst humanity had to show.
The Viscount Afonso de Valmorada, a man of lands, ships, markets, and influence, had denied support for the cause. It was not yet the right moment for him. Not now. First, it would be necessary for the war to be almost over before he chose a side. The refusal sounded like a sheathed blade: silent, yet threatening. Pisum needed influential names to raise the banner of revolution, but Valmorada had chosen caution, perhaps cowardice, perhaps merely the instinct for survival of one who feels the wind shifting and does not wish to throw himself into the storm too soon.
And there was more. Unfortunately, much more. A shadow was being born in Calentia, woven in hidden halls and the foul alleys of the port cities. How long had they been planning this? Probably not even Solarius would know, for darkness was its ally. Bia and Caelus knew that a conspiracy of such magnitude would not remain confined to the kingdom's borders, but would spread like fire on dry straw, consuming the other realms of the continent. The serpent was growing, and with each passing day, the mission of cutting off its head became harder.
But not every voice carried despair. Bia, with a tongue as sharp as the dagger hidden in her boot, had managed to wrest hope from Porto Calido. Five hundred souls had sworn to follow her and join the cause, and to these, another five hundred were added along the way – peasants and fishermen, artisans and deserters, men and women who had nothing left to lose. Their march, though disorderly, had the roar of distant thunder, a herald of a storm.
Upon entering Pisum, Caelus and Bia soon realised that they were not the only ones carrying heavy burdens. The entire city breathed with a new, feverish fervour, as if war had already knocked at its gates and all rushed to prepare for the inevitable siege.
On the training ground, the cries of command cut the air like lashes. Isabela Pisodorato, with a cold gaze and erect posture, was shaping a thousand recruits in her image, with her commanders at her side. The men staggered beneath the weight of muskets, the women clenched their teeth as they lifted swords that trembled in their hands. They were not soldiers yet, only flesh moulded by iron and discipline, but they already formed ranks that rose from the dust. The number was impressive: added to those who had already sworn loyalty, Isabela's force now rose to five thousand. An army in gestation, hastily made, but an army nonetheless.
Meanwhile, Lefevre, always with the calculated smile of one who knows the value of every word, was showing Pisum to a visitor of weight: Lord Diego Torrealta, Marquis of Torre del Calor. The noble walked among walls and squares, flanked by men of trust, as if inspecting not only the city, but the cause itself. At Pisum's gates, his camp rose with fluttering banners and crackling fires – eight hundred well-armed soldiers, disciplined, displaying a level of professionalism that Isabela's new recruits could, for now, only dream of reaching.
The couple led the volunteers to the dusty field where the shouts of training echoed. The ground was scored with footprints, the air steeped in sweat and iron. Before them, Isabela's recruits advanced and retreated in cadence, bayonets raised, shoulders pressed to the comrades beside them, united in training and cause, striving to mould themselves to the discipline war demanded.
With a gesture, Caelus ordered the men and women they had brought to form ranks. They were not soldiers yet, but they obeyed as if the moment demanded all their dignity and willpower. Their faces were burnt by the sun, their eyes hardened by hunger and rage. Now, aligned before Pisum's other recruits, they seemed part of something greater than themselves.
Once they had wavered into formation, Bia presented them, her voice firm, cutting through the murmurs of the field:
– Here are those who chose to walk with us. Here are those who come to fight. Here are those who will help us free the realm from tyranny.
The murmurs spread like wind across a field, until someone at the end of the line realised who the woman was that watched with arms crossed, her hair tied beneath the scorching sun. Isabela Pisodorato. The whispered name ran through the ranks and turned into clamour.
Suddenly, a chorus of voices rose: hesitant at first, then thunderous, a cry that was no longer of peasants nor fishermen, but of men and women acclaiming a commander. The cries of the recruits echoed through Pisum's walls, the love and reverence they bore for the Liberator of Pisum plain to see.
The clamour of Caelus and Bia's volunteers still echoed when a harsh voice cut it in half, like a blade rending silence.
– Silence this racket! – bellowed a man, striding forth from among Isabela's officers.
He was of medium stature, but walked as one who measures the ground with a right of possession. His short brown hair, combed with military precision, gleamed in the sunlight; his square chin, rigorously shaven, gave him an air of calculated coldness. The uniform he wore was immaculate, dyed in the green and red of the revolution, not a fold out of place, as if the fabric were as disciplined as the body that bore it.
– In the presence of an officer or a commander, one does not shout as at a cattle fair – he thundered, his voice clear and firm. – One salutes!
The volunteers sank into a moment of embarrassment. They looked at one another, hesitant hands, awkward bodies, like peasants forced to don the skin of soldiers. Some raised their hands to their brows, others bowed clumsily; the salute came out uneven, almost comical, yet, still, they obeyed.
Isabela, who had been watching in silence, let slip a brief sigh. She turned to Caelus and Bia, who followed the scene with furrowed brows.
– Horace Kingsley – she said, the name dragging from her lips with weight and conviction. – Captain of my forces. The only one I trust to pull order from this chaos.
Kingsley did not even cast them a glance. His attention was fixed on the new recruits, his voice hammering orders that fell upon them like blows of a hammer on glowing iron.
– He is the one who drills the soldiers – Isabela added, her tone cold, yet laden with a hard truth. – Without him, all this would be no more than a rabble of armed peasants. With him, even the weakest in the realm has the chance of becoming a soldier capable of returning home at the end of this conflict.
Horace Kingsley silenced the field with a single look. The recruits, still clumsy, lined up as best they could, sweat streaming down their skin, striving to look like soldiers before the captain's severity. The silence had become a weight, and he, in a grave voice, broke it with the coldness of an executioner pronouncing sentence.
– Who among you has already served on a battlefield? – he asked, letting the question fall upon the volunteers like a stone thrown into a well.
The ranks remained still. Eyes averted to the dust, feet moving nervously, mouths closed with fear or shame. No voice answered. The silence stretched until it became unbearable, as if exposing even more the fragility of those people wielding muskets for the first time.
Kingsley clenched his jaw, the muscles rigid with restrained fury. He was already preparing to unleash another reprimand when Isabela's voice rose, sharp as unsheathed steel.
– None of them – her hand lifted slightly, indicating Caelus. – But he, yes.
All eyes turned to the young man. Caelus felt them settle upon him, as if they weighed more than the very cuirass he no longer wore.
– Caelus will command this group – declared Isabela, leaving no room for doubt. – He has military experience. That will be more than enough to give them the discipline they lack.
A murmur ran through the ranks. Some of the volunteers lifted their heads, assessing him for the first time, not as a fellow traveller, but as a commander. Kingsley remained motionless, though the slight furrowing of his brows betrayed shock or, perhaps, reluctance.
Caelus stood suspended in the moment, as if the very air had been stolen from his lungs. Isabela's proclamation had fallen upon him like a hammer blow on cold iron. Command. Him. He had not expected to hear the weight of those words, not there, in that field of recruits still smelling of sweat and fear.
He opened his mouth to respond, but did not have time to do so.
– NO! – Bia's voice rose like an uncontrolled flame. She stepped forward, her face flushed with fury, and turned to Isabela with the boldness of one who does not fear the disdain of the powerful. – Enough! Caelus has faced more danger in one life than anyone here. He has been kidnapped, shot at, left in a mass grave and presumed dead. I will not let him be thrown to the front line against King Rafael Calentiflor and his troops!
The king's name lingered in the air like poison. Some of the volunteers shuddered, as if the mere mention carried the weight of an omen.
Isabela, however, did not flinch. Her gaze remained fixed, hard as granite, and Caelus felt as though he were about to witness two forces collide – Bia's ferocity, blazing like the colour of her hair, made of flesh and heart, against the calculated coldness of the commander who had survived the political games played by the kingdom's nobles.
Kingsley remained motionless, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a slight smirk, perhaps of contempt, perhaps of amusement.
Bia still panted from her own words when Isabela, against all expectations, softened her hardened expression, if only for a moment, like a stone revealing a hidden crack.
– You are right – said Isabela, her voice firm but without the usual coldness. – I do not want Caelus to suffer more than he already has. No one should bear the weight of so many confrontations in a single life.
A murmur ran through the volunteers, surprised by the agreement. Even Horace Kingsley seemed to hesitate, frowning as if that concession did not fit the iron image he had of his commander.
But Isabela quickly resumed the weight of her posture. She straightened herself, let her gaze sweep the field, and raised her voice for all to hear:
– However, this is the time for a final effort. We will all have to give more than we thought possible. Each day, more men and women abandon fear and join our cause. And now, with the support of Lord Diego Torrealta and the forces he has brought with him, we are in a better position than ever, improving our chances of victory with each passing day.
The ranks of volunteers exchanged glances, some with hope, others with suspicion. Isabela let the silence stretch, feeding the tension until the entire field breathed to the rhythm of her voice.
– The revolution grows – she concluded, her eyes glinting like embers about to ignite. – And only with a final effort from all of us will it survive the fire that is to come.
The training field was suspended in a heavy silence, as if every gaze awaited the next spark to ignite the moment. Bia, however, did not hesitate. She stepped forward, her face still flushed with anger, but her eyes firm, shining with determination.
– Then I will stay too – she declared, her voice clear, cutting the air like a bare blade. – I will not separate from Caelus. If he commands this group, I will train with them. I will fight alongside him.
Some of the volunteers let out murmurs of astonishment, as if the boldness of this woman had broken all the rules they knew. Kingsley raised his eyebrows, but held back any words – surprise was evident, though discipline kept his mouth shut.
Isabela, on the contrary, showed no displeasure. Contrary to what many expected, her lips curved into a slow, calculated smile, yet not without a certain respect.
– With you at Caelus's side – she said, letting the words echo across the field – nothing bad can happen to him. You are his lucky charm.
The phrase fell suddenly, and Bia felt the rows of eyes upon her with renewed intensity. The commander, without losing her smile, tilted her head slightly, her voice now resonating like an irrevocable decree.
– I know you will protect him in every situation, just as he will protect you, and that you would give your lives for each other. But now you will all be one. You and your thousand. The thousand you will help Caelus command… Sergeant Beatrice Montferrat.
The title, unexpected, rang out among all present. The volunteers raised their muskets and the name was repeated in murmurs and muffled voices, showing their pleasure at having her fight alongside them.