Calix was surprised by the sudden splash of red on the parchment. He stared down at it, confused, until it was joined by another drop and a third. Blood. Calix put a hand to his nose and stood. He glanced around the cramped tent, searching for a cloth or anything to stem the flow.

Warmth pooled in his cupped palm and began to leach through his fingers. Startled, Calix moved his hand away. Blood gushed over his mouth and down the front of his shirt. Pressing his lips together, Calix continued his search. When it proved fruitless, he untucked his shirt, lifting the hem up to his nose. It was already ruined.

"Here, mindra, I managed to weasel some of the jerky Petran's wife sends..." Tarquin's voice trailed off as Calix turned toward him. He dropped the small bundle he was holding and stepped to Calix's side, upsetting a pile of scrolls in his haste.

Tarquin's hands fluttered around Calix's face for a moment before he settled on guiding him to a chair wedged beside a brazier.

Blood continued to flow, reddening the fabric of his shirt and dripping to the ground at a pace that he found rather alarming. There was nothing for it but to wait until it stopped, so Calix sat and tried to breathe without getting blood in his mouth. 

By the time it slowed to a trickle and finally stopped, Calix was lightheaded. His stomach turned from the blood that had managed to slide down the back of his throat, and his shirt was drenched.

He sat, staring down at the swathe of crimson staining his shirt. Thoughts unwound themselves until they began leading to the steps he should now take. Shaking off his stupor, Calix got to his feet.

Or, tried to.

As soon as he pushed off from the edge of the chair, he stumbled forward and would have crashed into the wall of the tent if Tarquin hadn't caught him. He leaned against his brother for a moment, resting his forehead on his shoulder as he tried to rally his coordination.

"Sit down," Tarquin said, trying to steer him back to the chair. When Calix resisted, his brain stubbornly stuck on finding a new shirt, Tarquin let him go. "Fine, fall down."

Much to Calix's chagrin, he did just that. His legs wobbled as he fought the pull of the earth, then he simply folded, his knees slamming to to the ground. Calix breathed hard, the copper scent of his own blood gagging him. Tarquin crouched beside him, craning his neck to look into Calix's face.

His dark eyes were grim as he studied Calix's blood-covered face. He slid an arm beneath Calix's shoulder and heaved him to his feet. This time, he steered him toward the canvas cot tucked away at the very back of the tent. Calix didn't protest as Tarquin dumped him on top of the blankets and animal skins piled on the cot.

Tarquin helped him pull the ruined shirt over his head, tossing it in the brazier as he left the tent. Before Calix's bloodless, foggy mind could begin to wonder where his brother had gone, Tarquin was back with a bucketful of snow. He set it in the coals flickering in the brazier, flames from his still-burning shirt licking at the iron-bound bottom.

As they waited for the snow to melt, Tarquin snagged Calix's plain cloak from where it lay along the top of the cot. He threw it around Calix's shoulders, pulling it tight as he began to shiver. Calix mumbled a thanks, leaning drowsily against his brother.

"Are you all right?" Tarquin asked.

Calix opened his eyes, looking down at his blood-coated hand. "Yes."

A chuckle shook Tarquin's shoulder. "You didn't give yourself a bloodied nose to get out of river-watch, did you?"

He shook his head, smiling faintly. "It's the air. It's too cold. Too dry up here."

Here was the ridge overlooking the Narrow Valley, forming its northern wall. Calix, along with his guard and a small regiment of twenty men—the men who had proved most adept with Min's jiu-jie-bian—had been camped there for the past fortnight, waiting. A brutally cold place whipped with frozen wind and bombarded with snow, it was one of the most miserable places Calix had ever been.

Tarquin huffed and stood, going over to check the bucket. The snow had melted down to fill less than a third of it and he muttered an oath. "Even the things that should be wet are dry here."

Using the tail of his shirt to protect his hand, Tarquin lifted the bucket by its handle and walked back to where Calix waited. No rag was readily available, so Tarquin dipped the corner of Calix's brown cloak into the water and began to clean the blood from his face.

"You really should have someone at the tent's entrance," Tarquin said as he worked his way over Calix's mouth and down his neck. "If one of the men had come in..."

Catching his hand, Calix took the cloth from Tarquin and dipped it in the water again. As he cleaned the blood from his chest and hands, he glanced toward the tent flap. "It's too cold," he said. "We don't know how long we'll need to wait here, and I'd like them to come back with all their fingers and toes."

Despite being well into the tree-line, a fire was too dangerous. Most nights, not even Calix risked so much as a candle in the effort to keep as unnoticeable as possible. As there hadn't been so much as a whiff of the death-maidens since they'd arrived, it seemed their efforts were in vain.  

They'd hiked for miles around the ridge before they'd found a place to ascend it. Everyone—including Calix—had forgone horses, knowing they'd be harder to conceal than men. The journey up had been hard, with plenty of twisted ankles and scraped hands and knees. Their stay at the top hadn't been any kinder.

Tarquin gave a disapproving snort but didn't argue, knowing it was pointless. Calix finished cleaning his hands, then ran his fingers through the short beard that had sprouted without the regular application of a razor.

When he was confident no blood had been left behind, he got to his feet. He wobbled, but didn't feel as lightheaded. Moving with care, he riffled through the rucksack tucked in at the end of the cot, yanking a clean shirt free. As he donned it, he asked, "Who's out there right now?"

"Tullus and Min."

Calix huffed a laugh, pulling his wolfskin coat on. "Who arranged that?"

"You," Tarquin reminded him. He picked up Calix's sword from where it rested in its sheath, leaned against the edge of the cot. "You'd best hurry before one gets the bright idea that a tumble off the edge of the ravine would hardly be suspicious in this weather."

Calix took the sword, raising an eyebrow in acknowledgment. He hesitated a moment, trying to make his mind up to the cold beyond the warm confines of his tent. Before he could work himself up to step out into the bitter cold, a voice gave out a low call. "General?"

"Come in, Valerius," Calix said just as quietly.

"There's..." Now Valerius' voice held a note of uncertainty and distrust. "Someone's here for you, sir. Says he knows you."

Calix glanced over his shoulder to where Tarquin still sat on the cot. He only shrugged an answer, hand drifting to the knife at his belt. "One of the old man's, perhaps?"

While it was plausible that Arcturus might have sent a man up in search of a report, Calix found this unlikely. Arcturus wouldn't risk compromising them. 

With a frown, Calix moved around the table that served as his desk to the center of the tent. Extending his arm, he used the end of the sword in its sheath to twitch the tent flap to the side. "Bring him in," he said, catching a glimpse of a man heavily hooded and cloaked standing next to Valerius.

Valerius leaned over and whispered something in the man's ear. A hoarse laugh came in response.

"Don't you worry, boy." The voice that issued from beneath the hood was tired, surly and utterly familiar. "I'm not here to harm him." A gloved hand reached up to tug his hood down, revealing keen grey eyes and brown hair grown much longer than Calix remembered. "I'm here to keep a promise to him."

Shock was quickly followed by a rush of warmth and delight. Calix took a long step forward and embraced the man, who let out a huff of surprise. Then he laughed and slapped Calix on the back.

"I thought you'd forgotten all about us, Calion," Calix said, stepping back and eyeing the older soldier. 

Calion's mouth twitched, his eyes narrowed with gladness. He pulled his cloak tight, shivering against the bitter wind that kicked up. "I hadn't. But now I'm wishing I had."

The only response that earned him was a laugh from both Tarquin and Calix. 

"Not that I'm complaining—"

"Yes you are," Tarquin cut in, grinning with as much delight as Calix felt.

Calion conceded with a bob of his head. "It was a bloody cold walk up that blasted ridge. Do you think we could move this happy reunion somewhere with a little warmth?"

"I think that can be arranged." Calix turned, fingers grazing the edge of the tent flap. His smile faded. Cocking his head, he met Tarquin's eyes. "Can you find Calion something warm to eat? He can stay in my tent for now, until we get something else arranged. I need to get out to the ridge."

Tarquin grimaced. "Send someone else tonight, mindra." He moved closer, his words falling below a whisper. "That nosebleed of yours was one of the worst I've seen. You're still pale and its colder out on the ridge. And we both know you want to talk to Calion."

That was all true. But... "It's coming on to midnight, Tarq."

Calion's gaze bounced back and forth between them, mouth flattening into a thin line.

His answer earned him a fish-eyed stare from Tarquin. "You and I both know it's no more likely one of those whores will show tonight than any other night. That's why we post a watch, General."

A ripple of prickly irritation washed through Calix at that tone. Tarquin had taken to using it along with his title when he thought Calix was doing something stupid or useless. Well, two could play at that game. 

"Yes, Centurion, but there's a reason you or I take this particular watch." 

While they had yet to see the death-maidens venture to the stream since they'd arrived, there was always something...off about the midnight to three watch. The cold grew deeper, the silence of the forest stiller. Even the wretched wind would die and snow would stop mid-storm.

That, plus the fact that it was a full moon tonight made Calix reluctant to abandon his watch.

They stared at each other, neither willing to back down. Then, Tarquin sighed and looked to the south and the ridge. "I'll go."

"No, you bloody well won't," Calix snapped, well prepared for an offer he'd been expecting. "You took it last night, plus I know you were out there earlier this afternoon as well." Tarquin opened his mouth to argue, but Calix shook his head. "I said no, Centurion."

Before his brother could find another opening, Calix turned to face Calion. He waved a hand at the tent behind him. "Rest in here for now. Warm up, eat something. The centurion here can arrange more permanent lodging." He put a hand on Calion's shoulder, mustering a smile. "We'll speak in the morning. You look like you could use some rest."

"So do you, General," Calion remarked. His gaze once more flicked between Tarquin and Calix before settling on the centurion. His mouth quirked. "He seems to have found his footing."

Tarquin didn't so much as crack a smile, his face hard and unforgiving as marble. His dark eyes promised a furthering of this argument when they didn't have an audience. He gestured to Valerius, who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else than where he was. "Go find whoever's turn it was for dinner tonight. Tell them to get something warm and bring it to my tent." He turned to Calion as Valerius vanished into the dark. "We won't be able to offer you a cot, but—"

"I've slept on the ground enough in my life that a bed offers poor rest." Calion lifted the hood of his cloak. "But if you think you're getting rid of me that easy, General, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

Calix opened, then closed his mouth, brows furrowing.

"I can hardly get any colder." Calion tugged at his gloves. "And if you think I'll sleep after that, you're more foolish than I remember. If you can spare a moment until I get something hot in my belly, I'll join you on this watch of yours."

Calix shook his head. "No. Stay here. Tarquin can—"

"I don't want to hear it from Tarquin, I want to hear it from you." Calion's keen eyes shimmered in the moonlight. "There were an awful lot of rumors down in camp, sir." He tilted his head. "General Malcinius was rather tight-lipped about it. Told me you were more suited to the job when he found out I was sniffing around for you."

The mention of Arcturus stopped Calix and Tarquin dead. They traded glances, then Tarquin asked, "You know Ar—General Malcinius?"

Calion gave them a half-smile. "The old man and I go back. He was my captain when I first joined the legions. And he was an old man back then, too."

A laugh came from both Calix and Tarquin, argument forgotten in light of this revelation. Intrigued by this connection between them, Calix nodded at Calion. "If you'd really rather freeze your ass off for a story, I wouldn't mind your company. You've kept me waiting, Calion."

"Yes, sir," he said with a brief flash of teeth.

The food Valerius had gone to fetch was intercepted on its way to Tarquin's tent, and Calion ate while Calix gathered a few extra blankets. Then, they followed the icy path that had been worn into the snow up to the very top of the ridge.

As they approached the lookout, Calix put his hands to his mouth. The soft hoot of a barn owl seemed to echo unnaturally loud between the thin, twisted trees, as did the answering call. Then, dark shapes rose from their place within a clump of gorse clinging persistently to the edge of the ridge.

Min slithered between the trees, silent as a snake. He glanced curiously at the newcomer, but didn't ask. "Nothing to report, sir," he said, voice hoarse with cold and disuse. When Calix nodded, he gave a salute and began to trudge back down the hill.

Calion watched him go down the hill, but didn't comment as Tullus came forward.

The guard opened his mouth, then shut it as his eyes fell on Calion. His brows pulled together beneath his woolen cap. "Who is he?" he asked, with all the blunt tact Calix had come to appreciate.

"A friend," Calix said. "He'll be joining us."

Tullus' mouth puckered in a frown. "Joining us?" he asked carefully.

"Well," Calix sent Calion a sideways glance. "I imagine we'll know that here shortly. You're here free of orders, right?"

"Mm." Calion nodded, already stamping his feet on the frozen ground. 

Tullus' frown deepened. "Sir, are you sure—"

"Go on, Tullus," Calix cut him off, too impatient for any more questions regarding his decisions tonight. "Get something to warm you up."

The young legionary looked like he wanted to argue, but propriety held his tongue. He snapped off a salute, casting a suspicious glance over Calion before he disappeared down the ridge, following Min back to camp. 

Calix led the other man forward, stepping into the nest of dead leaves and mulch. He didn't rustle so much as a branch, intimately familiar with every twig and leaf in their little hide-away after so many hours spent within it. He spread the blankets on the ground, knowing they'd be paltry protection against the cold.

They sat, leaning against the wall of gorse surrounding them. Calix pulled a small spyglass from his coat pocket and peered down into the Narrow Valley. He traced the path of the stream flowing down its middle, lingering on the collection of pools where the water slowed and eddied around an ancient tumble of rocks. When those proved empty, he followed the stream down to the end of the valley where the Cairn glowed faintly in the bright moonlight. 

Their hiding spot was situated about halfway between the pools and the Cairn.

Not so much as a shadow flickered.

His breath smoked out as he sighed, lowering the spyglass. Leaning back against the thicket of gorse, he said, "Do you know anything of what we're doing here?"

"A little," Calion replied in a whisper. "I've guessed at more."

Calix gave a brief nod, keeping his eyes on the Cairn. The moonlight on the surrounding ice would make it impossible for anything coming to or from the landmark to hide. He flipped up the collar of his jacket, burrowing into the warm wolf fur.

"Keep your voice low," he warned. "Sound carries, especially when the wind dies down."

Calion sent him a dry look.

"How long have you been on the island?"

"Just a few weeks," Calion said. "It took me a while to find a ship, even with that letter of passage you gave me. After that, locating your legion proved more difficult than it should."

"What?" Calix tore his eyes from the valley and furrowed his brows.

Calion just gave a brief shake of his head. "People down at the port said the Seventh had moved from Thurius, but didn't know where. North or west, they said, but they didn't really know as you hadn't been sending in reports."

He turned his head sharply, but Calion raised his hand in appeasement. "It didn't make any sense to me, either. And when I got to Thurius and found Malcinius, it proved untrue. Make of that what you will, General. Those kinds of plans and tricks are above my pay grade."

Calix huddled down into his cloak, crossing his arms and staring blindly across the valley. If the reports weren't getting to the port, that meant they weren't being shipped to Metus. And that was...concerning. Problematic.

Who would stop them?

Or perhaps the better question was why?

He couldn't do anything about it up here at any rate. After using the spyglass to scan the valley again, Calix settled as comfortably as possible into their little nest. "What have you heard of death-maidens, Calion?"

Calion blew into his cupped hands. "Stories travel," he began slowly. His grey eyes glinted as he gave Calix a sideways glance. "But it's always hard to decide what's true and what's not."

"You should consider politics, Calion," Calix said dryly. Already the cold was beginning to numb the exposed skin of his face and make his knuckles ache. "What's true and what's not..." He cocked his head, drumming his fingers on his knee. "That's hard for even me to say. All we've had to work off is reports. None of us have seen these creatures firsthand. Not even Tarquin, and he was here for the aftermath of Grana when these things first began to appear."

"Things. Maidens." Calion sniffed. "Which are they?"

Calix licked his lips, regretting it when the wind just chapped them further. That cold, nameless dread that churned his stomach whenever he considered just what the death-maidens might be appeared. The chill in his bones settled in deeper, igniting pain in every old injury and battle scar he'd ever received. 

Finally, he sighed, his breath clouding in front of him. It lingered like a tiny, shimmering cloud.

"I don't know," he whispered. "Demons. Witches. Monsters in the shape of maidens. I don't think it much matters what we call them, beyond the comfort of a name where none existed before. A nameless fear is worse than something you can call by name. That you can curse and deride." He took a breath, trying to keep his own fear from getting the better of him. "The only important thing is what they can do."

"And..." Calion paused, like he didn't really want the answer. He continued, compelled to voice the question. "What is it they can do?"

Once more, Calix picked up his spyglass. He didn't want to say it. He should have stayed firm in denying Calion back at camp. This wasn't the place for such tales, here on the edge of cold and darkness. These things were better said before a warm fire surrounded by comrades. 

He observed the valley, lingering overlong on the pools. On the Cairn, which seemed to glow bright as day beneath the full moon. 

"They control death," Calion whispered. "Don't they? That's why they're named the way they are."

Calix shivered with something more insidious than cold. He continued to watch the Cairn, wordless until Calion touched his shoulder. Slowly, Calix lowered the spyglass and looked at his friend.

Calion's face was even grimmer than usual, if such a thing was possible. "Just what have you been sent to fight, General?" he asked, sorrow tinging his voice.

Calix didn't answer. He didn't have to.

He—they—fought the unconquerable. They were here fighting the sword. The slow decay of time. They fought the creep of cold and the clenching fist of hunger. The heat of sickness and unstoppered flow of blood.

It was like the crack of a whip. Like the sudden shattering of glass.

It was the sound of a foot crunching through snow, and it echoed through the valley, filling up the still air until the very trees seemed to vibrate with it. Calix fell dead still, Calion doing the same, their eyes pulled down toward the bottom of the valley.

There, in full display beneath the moon, someone stood before the Cairn. 

Black as ink she was against the field of pale blue ice, her bare, uplifted arms so white they gleamed silver beneath the moon. Her heavy black hair hung like a curtain down her back, blending in with the material of her dress.

Gods. 

Even the thought seemed loud as it drifted through Calix's mind. He sat transfixed, rooted to the spot. He was nothing more than ice and snow, unable to move, hardly able to breathe as a high, clear voice suddenly leapt up from the bottom of the valley.

It shook his very bones, threatening to shatter him from the inside out.

Something clamped down on his shoulder. He was jerked suddenly to his feet. Frozen breath moved against his ear.

"Run, General," Calion whispered. "We need to run."