They parted ways with Godfrey. The day had faded.

The four of them made their way back to the manor. Overhead, the sky was dense with stars: the deep blue vault of heaven seemed to hang so low you could almost reach up and touch it. Small wonder men called this the place closest to God.

Even in the evening, the Holy Land's heat did not relent. The ground, baked all day by the sun, radiated warmth like a griddle beneath their feet.

"Prajna — are those your people?"

Fringilla pointed toward the roadside, where a caravan of men with topknots and dark hair and dark eyes was passing.

Prajna did not dignify the question with a response. She was of the Oni. She had no kin among men.

"They're from Song," Lothar explained. "The great empire of the East, the equivalent of the Yanxia Empire in your world."

He studied the caravan carefully. Its guards were broad-shouldered men in lamellar and leather armor. Servants in short tunics flanked a handful of merchants in red silk finery. The merchants were frowning, deep in some discussion.

Lothar listened for a moment, but the surrounding noise and the thick accent of the Song men made it impossible to catch their meaning. The Song court's official speech was the Kaifeng dialect, though even that had drifted far from anything he'd recognize. Up close, he might have been able to make out a few words. From this distance, it was all noise.

"Forget it. Let's go."

He nudged his horse forward, and their party passed the Song caravan by.

For now, contact with the Song Empire would offer him little. His knowledge of its history and the language barrier might help him win their trust, but at most it would secure a slightly cheaper source of silk.

Papermaking had already spread west; if he only wanted to improve it, he hardly needed outside help. Printing. He knew how to do it himself. The compass. He understood the principle, and he wasn't building a merchant fleet or exploring new continents anyway. Gunpowder? Leaving aside how weak this era's powder might be, no merchant would know the formula. Lothar at least remembered the ratio: one part sulfur, two parts saltpeter, three parts charcoal; though that was the molecular coefficient, not weight, so it was more or less useless.

He did not belong to this age, and his foreign face made any dream of returning to Song and propping up the Zhao dynasty absurd. Still, he wondered whether the Tatar riders history would call the Scourge of God would thunder out of the steppe on schedule. In his old world, their great western campaign was still decades away—assuming history followed the same course here.

He was still lost in thought when a company of riders came pounding down the road ahead of them. The lead squire bore the red Jerusalem cross banner and carried an oval shield, shouting at travelers to clear the way. At the center of the escort, riding a white horse and wearing an Arab-style headscarf with a black veil masking her face, was a noblewoman.

"That's Princess Sibylla!"

Those with any knowledge of the kingdom's heraldry recognized the device at once. Sibylla was not just a princess; she was a titled lady in her own right, holding lands that included the port of Jaffa, where Lothar himself had landed.

So this was Baldwin IV's sister. He'd barely noticed her in the great hall.

As the thought crossed his mind, a gust of wind caught her veil. It slipped from her face and drifted through the air, and Lothar, by reflex, caught it in his hand.

In that fleeting instant, he glimpsed her features. Fine brows, fine eyes, a lovely face.

She did not stop. She rode on without a backward glance, leaving only a faint perfume in the air.

"Well, that was artfully staged." Fringilla sniffed. "Lothar — she seems interested in you. Did you meet this princess in the palace today?"

"I saw her. I didn't pay much attention."

He handed the veil to Hans. "Keep this safe for the lady. I'll return it next time we meet."

"And? What did you think of her?"

Fringilla's smile was bright, but Lothar knew better. The look in her eyes was a clear warning. Knowing her temperament, she was probably already calculating how best to drain Princess Sibylla into a dry husk.

Prajna's eyes remained as placid as still water. She gave him the briefest glance, then faced forward again, riding on without a word.

Lothar shook his head. "Compared to either of you? Nothing worth mentioning. And she's a widow with a child, besides. I have no interest."

In truth, she was beautiful. But spending every day with Fringilla and Prajna had ruined his calibration. It would take a woman like Empress Lagaya of the Eastern Empire, beautiful and bringing an empire as her dowry, to tempt him into that particular arrangement. The princess was sought after because her son by her first husband stood as Baldwin IV's heir apparent. But what if the King didn't die?

Lothar was quite certain that if he ever drew a five- or six-star medical Retainer, curing leprosy was not outside the realm of possibility. He even had a method right now: Fringilla could give Baldwin the Embrace. But she would never agree. This fastidious creature would need to be thoroughly broken before she'd deign to drink the blood of a leper and then bestow her own precious essence in return.

And Lothar would never ask it of her. Even if Baldwin IV showered him with favor, he wouldn't make that decision. The one thing he could not stomach was spending other people's generosity.

Apparently satisfied, Fringilla awarded him a System chime: Affinity increased. Yet some unseen threshold remained. Her Affinity was still Cold.

Does it really take another brush with death? he thought. I want to use magic, too.

He spurred his horse to the front of the group and glanced back at Prajna. Their eyes met for a long moment.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice as flat as ever.

The corner of his mouth lifted. He said nothing. If the System hadn't told me your Affinity went up just now, I'd have sworn you didn't care at all.

He hesitated, then asked: "Prajna — what do you think? Is Princess Sibylla actually interested in me?"

Prajna shook her head. "I cannot read hearts. It is not what I am good at. Frin might be able to tell."

Fringilla's voice dripped with venom. "For once, the big lump speaks sense. I can indeed sense it. That smell — a bitch in heat. I know it all too well."

Lothar made a troubled face. "The princess is at the very center of the chaos in Jerusalem right now. Best not to get involved."

Sibylla could only choose a husband from among the King's party, the Baron's party, or the Queen's party. By all logic, she should pick Guy of Lusignan, the Queen's party's candidate. Sibylla was, after all, a member of that faction herself. And Guy, though he was only a landless Gaulish knight, was the younger brother of Amalric, Jerusalem's Chief Minister of Military Affairs.

Lothar honestly could not fathom why Sibylla would bother with him. If she wanted to draw the King's party closer, then Balian was the obvious choice. He was nobody, a fresh arrival, barely through the door.

Fringilla seemed to read his thoughts. She smiled. "Love comes when it comes. There's no stopping it. You'd better watch yourself."

"I will." Lothar meant it.

The King's party was weak. Even with Ibelin backing, trying to marry Sibylla and claim the regency would be a thicket of knives. And he had no desire to marry her in the first place.

"Balian would be a good match. Hans — do me another errand. Take this veil to Lord Balian. Tell him to return it to Princess Sibylla on my behalf."

House Ibelin was his most important political ally. If the veil could become an opportunity for Balian, so much the better.

Hans's face was a mask of resignation. He glanced at the two monstrously powerful women, one Legendary, one Epic, and sighed to himself. You brought me along just to run errands and do the heavy lifting, didn't you, my lord?

---

Back at the manor, Lothar did something unusually generous: he treated every one of his followers to a feast. Roasted lamb, wine, bread, fruit, vegetables, butter: as much as anyone wanted.

Over the long sea voyage, more than a few attachments had quietly blossomed among the men and women. Now, with wine warming their blood, they danced to the rhythm of clapping hands and pounding feet.

Tevel sat apart, sunk in gloom. Seven men and six women. He was the one left out. No one wanted him.

Firelight played over their laughing faces. Lothar sat by the flames and watched them with a smile.

But his thoughts had already gone to the next battle. How many of these vivid, laughing faces would return? How many would lie in the dust, bloodied beyond recognition?

He rose and walked away. A soft-hearted man had no business commanding soldiers, he thought. Sometimes he wasn't sure he was fit to lead at all.

He found Tevel and clapped him on the shoulder. "Train hard. A woman will come. When it's time, I'll preside over the weddings myself."

"Master… I…"

All day, the others from his village had mocked him. The girl he admired had looked at his cowardice with open contempt. The bitterness had been piling up inside him. Now, with a few words of comfort from Lothar, it all came spilling out in tears.

"Don't cry. That's no look for a man." Lothar's tone hardened. "Whatever path you choose—farming or soldiering—commit to it. Once you decide, don't look back."

Tevel fought down a sob, his voice thick. "Master, I've decided. I will take up arms. I will defend your honor and your name. I won't shame you again."

"I believe you."

Lothar rose and climbed the stairs to the upper floor.

In the darkness, Fringilla sat perched on a tree branch, watching in silence. Her expression was unreadable. Prajna stood at the window as always, gazing out at nothing; though every so often her eyes drifted down, and whenever they found Lothar, they lingered a moment.

---

That night.

The manor filled with muffled, breathless sounds. Midsummer, and yet the air was thick with spring.

From the room, Fringilla's voice came, silken with temptation: "My lord… if you want it… you can come to my side."

Lothar caught Prajna's cool gaze.

He buried his head in his hands in pure, silent agony.