A LEGACY OF LIGHT

TILLA

  
TILLA

She stood in the city square, hands clasped so tightly she thought her fingers would snap.

Be strong, Tilla, she told herself. Do not show fear now. Even if your heart trembles, and even if your chest feels so tight you can hardly breathe, you must hide it. If you show weakness now, they will crush you.

The others crowded around her—six hundred youths her age, all just turned eighteen this year. Their faces were pale. Their lips trembled. Tears flowed down one girl's face, and another girl was sobbing into her palms. A few boys huddled together, snickering and speaking of killing rebel men and bedding rebel women, but they too were scared; Tilla saw the sweat on their foreheads and the tremble to their fingers.

They laugh to hide their fear, she knew. They will stop laughing soon.

The Regime's soldiers surrounded the square, sealing in the youths of Cadport like wolves surrounding deer. They wore armor of black steel, the breastplates emblazoned with the red spiral, sigil of Emperor Frey Cadigus. Steel spikes tipped their boots, and steel claws grew from their vambraces. Crimson capes fluttered behind them. On their left hips, they bore swords with dragonclaw pommels. On their right hips, they bore their punishers, the tips crackling with lightning.

That last weapon scared Tilla more than the steel claws or blades. Each of these batons, their grips wrapped in leather, ended with a ball of spinning energy. Tilla had once seen soldiers torture a fisherman with their punishers. The man had writhed, wept, and screamed so loudly the whole city heard; his flesh still bore the scars.

They are demons, Tilla thought, looking upon these soldiers of the empire. They were created to kill, to torture, to destroy. She gripped her fingers so tightly she winced with pain. And they will turn me into one of them.

One soldier, a burly man who stood across the square, met her gaze.

Tilla froze.

The man's eyes were dead; his stare chilled her like a blast of winter through a door. He was easily the largest of the soldiers, probably the largest man Tilla had ever seen. He hunched over as if his arms were so beefy his back bent under their weight. Even so, he towered above the men around him; he must have stood almost seven feet tall. Lines creased his olive skin, and scars rifted his stubbly head. Dark sacks hung under his eyes, and his brow thrust out like a shelf. His armor was crude, all mismatched plates and chainmail cobbled together, and he bore no sword. Instead he carried an axe—not even an elegant battle-axe, but the heavy axe of a lumberjack, forged for felling trees.

This one must be Beras, Tilla thought with a shiver, unable to tear her eyes away. She had heard of him; everyone in this city had. Lowborn, once an outlaw, Beras was infamous for raping and strangling a girl two towns over. The Cadigus family had hunted him down… and employed him.

The brute kept staring at Tilla, his eyes blank, his expression dead. There was no humanity in Beras's eyes, no rage, no hatred, just cold ruthlessness. Tilla forced her eyes away and found that she had held her breath.

"Tilla!" whispered a girl beside her, a short and demure cobbler named Pery. "Tilla, what fort will they send us to?"

Tilla shook her head free of thoughts, blinked, and glanced at the girl. Pery was a pale, mousy thing, barely larger than a child. Her hair was so pale it was nearly white, and her eyes seemed too large above her gaunt cheeks. Her fingers were slim and quick, accustomed to helping her father make shoes. Could those small fingers ever wield a sword? Pery looked up, a foot shorter than Tilla and trembling like a rabbit cornered by a fox.