Calix heard them before he saw them. The clash of swords rang brilliant through the thin air, followed closely by hoarse shouts, swearing and the occasional laugh. Tarquin caught his eye and grinned, likely thinking of all the time they had spent doing the exact same thing. When they finally rounded the last line of tents and saw what was waiting for them, Calix's breath caught a little.

His eyes were overwhelmed by the organized chaos around him. He blinked and turned his head, scanning between the men sparring in groups and pairs in an attempt to find Martialis. It was soon given up as a bad job and he gestured for the other two men to follow him. 

The red cloak he wore parted the crowd easily enough. Both Tarquin and Tullus got steadily closer to him the deeper they went into the melee. Calix was too busy observing the fighting to care.

So far, he was mightily impressed with his centurions. The men they had picked looked strong, fit, agile. Many of them fought sloppily, but with great energy and focus. Calix could work with that.

A hand on his arm stopped him. He looked curiously at Tarquin, who just pointed to their right. Calix raised an eyebrow, but turned in the direction indicated. At first, he didn't realize what he was supposed to be looking at, his attention once more trying to divide itself between several things at once.

"That's an auxiliary," Tullus suddenly said, also pointing. "What's he doing here?"

Finally, Calix understood what had caught Tarquin's eye. 

A lean young man stood facing what Calix might have mistaken for a bear if it weren't for the fact that he was wearing clothes. They stood in a small pocket of calm, a few of the other sparring pairs having broken off their matches to watch what seemed about to unfold. The lookers-on were shouting and catcalling, most of their energies seemingly directed at the auxiliary.

"I didn't know you'd made this an open invitation," Tarquin said, speaking into his ear as they watched the men circle.

"I didn't." Calix frowned. He thought he had been specific about the fact that men should only be selected from his legion. So what was an auxiliary soldier doing here? 

He was obviously full-blooded Sorveti, leaner than Tarquin and paler, with his black hair worn half-up, the loose strands falling past his shoulders. The sword he held was slightly curved with a single edge, a little over two feet long with a double-handed hilt. Though the metal bore a beautiful, undulating pattern, the weapon was plain an un-ornamented. A practical weapon.

As Calix watched, the bear charged, sword held aloft. The Sorveti didn't bother parrying, likely knowing that he was no match for the other's power. Instead, he waited until his opponent had committed to a long, downward stroke. Then he moved like water, flowing around and past the other man, ducking under the man's beefy arm until the Sorveti was behind him, then lashing out a lightning-fast foot that drove into the back of the bear's knee. He rapped the flat of his blade lightly across the nape of the man's neck.

"Kill," he said triumphantly, the word drawn out by a heavy Sorvetian accent.

The surrounding crowd muttered and booed, several of them gripping their weapons and stepping forward, making Calix frown. The bigger man lumbered to his feet, scowling and exchanging glances with a couple of bruisers at the very edge of the crowd who looked like brothers.

Sensing trouble, Calix started toward them, but Tarquin stopped him. A smirk played on his brother's mouth. "Just watch."

Calix bit at the inside of his cheek, but didn't interfere. There was a brief moment of hesitation before one of the bruisers drew his sword and leapt forward. There was a flurry of clashes before the Sorveti disengaged, skipping back a step or two. The other bruiser began to circle around to the Sorveti's left side.

The fighters stood in a ring of bodies as more and more men realized this had turned into something more than a friendly match.

The Sorveti man stood quietly as the other three circled around him, his head slightly cocked, sword held at his side. Calix realized he was holding his breath and inhaled. The three Metians charged in that instant, light flashing off blades. Tullus swore in surprise as the Sorveti dropped to the ground in a perfect split, ducking a swiping blow, sword held aloft to intercept the other two swords. Steel rang and the Sorveti flung himself backwards, his legs swirling around once before he launched to his feet.

He batted aside another sword thrust and snapped his leg out in a side-kick, catching one of the bruisers square in the chest. The man stumbled back, his mouth a surprised 'o' as the breath rushed from him.

Tarquin laughed as the Sorveti man ducked and slithered between the three men, not only striking out with his sword, but with his free fist and both feet. He held his own against the other three men, his expression perfectly calm as he fought.

By the time the Sorvetian had disarmed one man and bloodied the nose of another, Calix had seen enough. He folded his arms, a small grin playing at the edge of his mouth. "Stop them," he muttered to Tarquin, who was watching the match with such avid attention Calix had to grab his arm and repeat the order before he noticed.

Tarquin nodded and stalked forward, forcing his way between the watching soldiers. 

"Should we go with him?" Tullus asked, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his sword as many of the men began to throw sideways glances at Tarquin. "They don't know he's to be their centurion. They might—"

"They might," Calix agreed. "And they'll learn an important lesson."

Tullus frowned but stayed where he was. They watched as Tarquin managed to force his way into the circle. Calix looked on in amusement as he caught the arm of one of the bruisers, stopping a wild swing before he promptly swept the man's feet out from under him.

The Sorveti gave him a bewildered look before diving away from a sudden rush by the bearlike man. He rolled across the ground and popped up in front of Tarquin. 

"Stop," Tarquin said, loud enough to cut across the babble of the surrounding crowd. The authority that rang in his voice seemed to confuse a number of the men, because they all quieted, the three attackers growing still as they judged this new threat.

The Sorveti lowered his sword to his side and bowed his head. The man spoke in his own tongue, the words lilting up into a question. Tarquin answered in kind before switching to Metian to address the crowd at large. "Show's over," he growled. "Back to it, boys."

Most of the soldiers gaped at him in disbelief. Calix let out a heavy sigh. He had known this was going to be hard as soon as Tarquin had mentioned serving as centurion. Tullus was shifting nervously, his gaze darting between Calix, Tarquin and the legionaries. 

Tarquin's face hardened, his voice rising to a bark. "That's a godsdamned order, you maggots! Back to work now, or you'll find yourself digging new latrines for every bloody cohort in the army."

There was a sudden rumble of discontent from the men, though Calix was pleased to see that a number of them took a few steps back. Tarquin continued to bark orders, using the flat of his blade to move along the more stubborn individuals.

Calix forced himself not to interfere or help. If Tarquin was going to be their centurion, he needed to be able to control them by himself. Calix wouldn't always be around to make sure they obeyed the orders handed down by a man who was obviously only part Metian.

"Who in Torvan's bloody hell are you?" The belligerent voice rose above the mutterings, making heads turn. Calix let out a long breath when he saw who had spoken.

Tarquin was looking up at the bear who had previously been fighting the auxiliary soldier. The man's face was still crusted with blood from his nose and his sword was held ready. Tullus rustled nervously next to Calix, who again lifted a hand. Tarquin's expression was hard as steel—completely unforgiving. At this moment, he would not appreciate any interference from anyone.

"Your bloody fucking centurion," Tarquin retorted, sliding his sword back into its sheath with an ominous snick.

Silence echoed around them, men again trading perplexed glances. The bear opened and closed his mouth several times, bewildered. He looked around at the others, like he was sure one of them would reveal the joke. Then he began to laugh.

Tarquin grabbed the man's arm, turned sharply on his heel and heaved the man over his shoulder. The bear landed with a crash and gasped for the air that had been knocked from him. Silence once more fell as Tarquin landed a quick, brutal punch on the man's face, giving him a split lip to match his already bloody nose.

The two bruisers who had helped him earlier started forward, but stopped when the Sorvetian auxiliary and another man stepped in front of them. Calix lifted a brow, eyeing the newcomer.

This man was a few years younger than Calix, with wavy, toffee-brown hair and an athletic build. He shook his head at the bruisers. "Ya heard the centurion. Move on." 

His accent revealed that he was from the southern part of the empire. The auxiliary gave him a sideways look, but didn't say anything, instead lifting his sword a little higher to demonstrate his point.

The young legionary began shooing the men away, pushing and jostling where he had to in order to get people moving. The auxiliary shadowed along beside him until a majority of the men had more or less followed Tarquin's order. Calix walked forward as the two brothers from the fight helped the bear to his feet, all three of them casting nasty glares at Tarquin, the auxiliary and the southerner. When they caught sight of Calix, they turned and melted into the crowd.

Already, Calix knew they would need to go.

Calix stopped beside Tarquin, making a fresh wave of mutters break out as the soldiers realized who was in their midst. Many stopped and saluted. Calix nodded at those who did, but waved them back toward their practice.

"You. Stop right there!" Tarquin barked.

Calix glanced over his shoulder to see who Tarquin was speaking to. The auxiliary returned his sword to its sheath, turning lightly on his heel so that he was facing Tarquin. He again bowed, and Tarquin gestured him over before looking at Calix, a meaningful glint in his eyes.

The auxiliary hesitated, dark eyes darted back and forth between Tarquin and Calix. The young legionary put a hand on his shoulder, making the auxiliary whirl, his hand going to his sword. The legionary put his hands up in surrender and said something in a voice too low for Calix to hear. The auxiliary stared at him for a long moment, then gave a short nod.

"You too," Calix called, making the legionary look up in surprise. "Come here." 

Both men exchanged an uncertain glance before they made their way toward the officers. The Sorveti's steps were light and fluid, the legionary's brisk and purposeful. They stopped in unison a few feet away from where Calix stood. The Sorveti bowed again, bending at the waist this time, his hands by his sides. The legionary thumped his fist to his heart, saluting. 

Calix crossed his arms, settling his weight on his left foot as he studied the pair. "Your names?"

Again, the two men looked at each other. The legionary nodded subtly toward the Sorveti, indicating he should go first. Calix kept his surprise to himself, turning his attention to the auxiliary.

"Min Jae-jin."

Tarquin made a small sound of interest, but didn't say anything. Calix shifted his gaze to the legionary.

"Vellus Littera, sir." The southerner saluted again. 

"What cohort are you from?" he asked, making a point to stare at the Sorveti.

The silence stretched as Jin met Calix's eyes steadily, but didn't answer. Tarquin crossed his arms and said something in Sorvetian.

"I understand his question," Jin said, voice turning sharp. "Just not why he asks it of me." He turned his dark eyes on Calix and bowed his head again. "We both know I do not belong to this legion."

"Or any legion," Tullus muttered.

Calix lifted a hand to quiet the guard, waiting for Jin's answer. The Sorveti lifted his head, shooting a haughty look at Tullus. "I do not belong to this legion but I should belong to this century."

"And why is that?" Calix asked, fighting against a smile trying to pluck at the corner of his mouth. Beyond the skill the Sorveti had shown with a sword, Calix couldn't help but admire his confidence.

Jin lifted a single dark brow. He tapped the hilt of the sword at his hip. "I overheard your second-in-command say the general of this legion was looking for the best men. I did not think you would mind if one of those men came from a place other than your legion."

Calix and Tarquin exchanged a glance, and he could see his own amusement reflected in Tarquin's eyes. 

"What do you think, mindra?" Tarquin asked, turning back to Jin, who couldn't quite hide his surprise at the use of such a term. "Should we put such bold words to the test?"

His only answer was a short nod.

Jin's composure cracked for the first time at that. Scowling, he jabbed a finger toward the other legionaries, many of whom were still casting sideways glances at the general and his companions. "Three men. Alone. Have I not proved anything?"

"Children with sharp sticks," Tarquin replied, unsheathing his blade and swinging it expertly through the air. "Besting a man—or men—with less skill than yourself proves nothing."

Jin blinked once before drawing his own blade. He settled into a fighting stance with his sword held near his back shoulder and most of his weight resting in his back leg. His chest rose with a slow breath, his long, dark hair fluttering in the cold wind.

When both men signaled their readiness, Calix lifted his hand.

Jin sprang forward, whipping his blade toward Tarquin with startling speed. Their blades met, parted and met again. Calix watched, impressed, as they circled and ducked. Jin jumped clear over a low sweep of the blade aimed at his knees and landed so lightly Calix couldn't hear anything. They parried and countered, attacked and defended until both were breathing heavily.

Beside him, both Tullus and Littera watched, mouths agape at the strange, almost artistic style of martial skill Jin showed. At how Tarquin modified his own style to meet it. Then Tarquin changed the game, stabbing his blade forward while sweeping a kick at the inside of Jin's knee. The auxiliary leapt back and Calix called, "Enough!"

Tarquin stopped and threw a scowl at Calix before sheathing his blade. 

"Why stop?" Jin asked between panting breaths. He returned his sword to its sheath and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Calix allowed a half smile. "The centurion beat you." The Sorveti immediately bristled, opening his mouth to argue but Calix cut him off. "He had you off balance with that last kick. Your boot caught on the ground as you retreated."

"Actually, sir, the centurion had him beat nearly three moves ago."

Everyone turned in surprise. Littera blushed, licking his lips nervously at the sudden attention. Calix raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Well, by my reckoning, sir, I counted three times previous the centurion could have disarmed Jin." He threw an apologetic glance at the man. "But he didn't. My guess is he wanted to see Jin's true ability."

Calix turned back to Tarquin, who just shrugged. "Does he pass your test, mindra?" 

"Does he pass yours?" Calix cocked his head. "This is your century, Tarquin. It's your decision."

Silence ensued as Tarquin looked first at Jin, then at Littera. Both men stood at attention, an eager fire burning in their eyes. That fire flickered when Tarquin shook his head. "No."

Shock jolted through Calix. After watching his brother cross blades with Jin, he had been sure Tarquin was impressed, which was no easy feat. So then why...

"By my count, mindra," Tarquin said, a smile playing on his lips, "you're still short a few guards."

Both Jin and Littera looked at each other, then back at Tarquin, confusion painted across their faces. Tullus let out a low chuckle, resting his hands on his hips as he nodded. Calix shot a dark look at the both of them before relenting. If he was being honest, he had considered it himself after seeing the skill Jin had exhibited and the stiff spine Littera had shown.

Tarquin leaned over and whispered in his ear, "These are your witch hunters, Calix. These are the ones who will travel with you through the darkness."

"That's supposed to be all of them," Calix murmured. "A century, Tarquin."

But his brother simply shook his head and stepped back, returning his attention to the younger men. "Littera, Min, follow Tullus. He'll get you set."

They both opened their mouths, then shut them. Amused by their synchronicity, Calix waved his hand at Tullus, indicating his approval. The guard eyed the pair before nodding to himself, a relieved expression passing across his features. Calix felt a brief pang of guilt before his mind dredged up the memories of the death maiden he had seen first-hand.

If he hadn't gone out, they wouldn't know about the threat stalking in the snow so close by.

As they watched the three men weave through the fighting pairs, Tarquin said, "His surname is Min. Tell the others." He turned on his heel to again lead the way through the legionaries. "Addressing him as Littera did—as simply Jin—is disrespectful." 

Calix frowned, turning the name over in his mind. He could have sworn Jin was the last name the Sorveti had said. 

"They give their family name first," Tarquin said, like he could read Calix's mind. "Sorvetians."

"But you don't..." Calix trailed off, frowning.

I'm not as foreign as I look. Those had been some of the first words Tarquin had ever spoken to him.

"I'll let them know," he said instead.

Tarquin nodded and neither said anything more as they continued to judge the quality of the men the legates of the Seventh had gathered. Again and again, Calix found himself fairly impressed. Many of the men he saw seemed focused, some seemed relentless. Others battled intelligently, even if they didn't battle skillfully.

"They're good," Tarquin said. "They have promise."

Calix snorted. "But?" He could practically hear the words his brother had held in check.

A sigh heaved at Tarquin's shoulders as he wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself. "I don't think this is the best approach."

Calix stayed quiet for a moment, wrestling briefly with his temper. If Tarquin was disagreeing with him, it was for a reason, not as a criticism against him. When he was sure he could actually listen to what Tarquin was going to say, he nodded. "Then what would you suggest?"

"I think you should train the entire legion like you plan to train these men. After that, you should use them." Tarquin dodged around a man who had been flung inti his path. "I know you fear the damage they could do...but, mindra, war cannot be waged without such a price."

"It wouldn't be damage, it would be disaster," Calix said through clenched teeth.

"Perhaps. But that is simply the way of these things. You cannot stop that. You will destroy yourself trying."

Tarquin had always been the more practical one—almost to the point of being cold.

Wholesale slaughter might be necessary to conquer a people, but how long do they stay conquered? The princess' voice mused in his head, a long-ago conversation haunting him again. Cruelty breeds misery which mutates into resentment. Resentment is what destroys empires.

"Perhaps," Calix finally said. Tarquin continued to watch him with an expectant gaze until Calix sighed. "I am not averse to the idea of training the rest—"

"Once you know how to train them."

"Yes," Calix said, annoyed by the reminder. "But, frankly, I'm not sure all of them will be worth the time spent to do so." As soon as the words left his mouth, he stopped dead, appalled.

Wasn't that exactly how his father had viewed him. As not even worth the time?

"You won't know that until you try, mindra," Tarquin said quietly. When Calix didn't speak, he continued, "No, not all of them will be worth the time we put into train them. You and I both know that not all of these men will work hard. Not all of them will be brave. Not all of them will be dedicated. But we will only know the wheat from the chaff after the threshing is done."

Calix took a moment to really mull that over, feeling the truth of what his brother was saying. There was a certain practicality to it that was appealing. But it still warred with the gut feeling that had driven him to create the century currently training around them.

"These are our witch hunters," Calix repeated what Tarquin had said. He gestured at the men surrounding them. "These are the men who are more likely to be wheat than chaff. We focus on their training first." He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the repetitive sound of clashing metal calm his mind. "We use them to understand how to hunt these death maidens."

Tarquin's eyes lit up. 

"We use them to develop the techniques we'll need to defeat them," Calix continued, suddenly warming to the idea. He stopped and turned. He had seen all he needed to see. "Come on," he called over his shoulder, breaking into a run with Tarquin on his heels.

"Where are we going?" Tarquin asked.

Calix grimaced. "To get the reports from Grana and from the battle with the Wolfclaws. It'll be a long night."