The black sand of the tiered arena didn’t crunch beneath the boots of the Two-Faced Cohort. It whispered.
Three hundred soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder across the northern exit, their formation as precise as a master builder’s height drawing. The cold wind sweeping down from the Crucible’s iron volcano bowl whipped their banners. But the fabric itself was split. The left half was royal crimson silk stitched with the golden lion of the High court. Meanwhile, the right half was a tattered strip of soot-stained burlap bearing the charred brand of the peasant rebellion.
Ren Prime held his breath, his ivory awl gripped tightly in his ink-stained hand.
Every man in the ranks was divided cleanly down the sagittal seam.
Their left halves were miracles of high royal craftsmanship. The gold-silver metal plate was mirror-bright, shin guards lined with soft white lambskin, left arms bracing eight-foot steel-tipped pikes that gleamed without a speck of rust. Their left eyes were calm, high-born, and pale blue.
Their right halves were nightmares of the trench wars. Scorched hemp rags hung from gaunt, blackened ribs. Their right arms were corded with hypertrophied muscle, scarred by shrapnel. They grabbed notched iron falchions bound with greasy hemp rope. Their right eyes were bloodshot, manic, and yellow with jaundice.
