The boy in Cigdem’s grip thrashed against his grip. Cigdem stepped back, dragging the boy with him, holding his free arm over the captive’s head. “Avert your gaze, boy,” Zoe heard him whisper. “There is nothing you can do.”

Next to her, Zoe heard the words of a prayer on Plato’s lips, the chaplain’s face placid and his arms still folded in front of him.

Fatih, grinning white, took the first of the two spears and plunged it through Marga’s lower back, driving upward so that the red tip burst from the middle of her stomach. Even through the gag her scream stung Zoe’s ears, and she twisted, her arms outstretched, fingers stretched out as far as they could reach, neck twisted. She would have fallen limp, but Fatih grabbed her by the shoulder with his free hand, even as he readied the second spear.

Zoe’s throat filled with burning bile and her eyes felt as though she had plunged her face into sand after cutting off her own eyelids. The second spear went through Marga’s upper back, just below the neck, and plunged downward through her chest, the tip of that spear meeting the tip of the first and scraping against it. Marga’s body spasmed and Cigdem leg to, and she turned, shaking, falling to the ground. Her face turned towards Zoe’s, eyes still wide and alive despite the weapons of execution impaling her.

Zoe saw the very moment at which Marga’s eyes glazed over in death.

Plato prayed.

Fatih grinned.

Cigdem struggled to keep a grip on the boy.

And then he broke from Cigdem’s grip and, his feet suddenly free from their bonds, ran – not toward the crowd, but toward the edge of the village. Fatih’s face went from crazed bliss to startled anger, and he tore one of the spears from Marga’s body, sending rivulets of gore across the field. He readied to throw the weapon, encrusted as it was with heart’s blood and ripped pieces of lung. Zoe broke from her line and ran forward.

“He is just a child,” she said, grabbing Fatih by the arm. As she shook the minelayer, the blood that was on him splashed and landed on her. As it ran and dripped down her face, the thought appeared at the edge of her consciousness: It’s so warm… How can it be so warm?

Fatih turned and shouted into Zoe’s face, more of Marga’s blood leaping onto Zoe with each word. “You idiot! Which side are you on here? Us or them?”

“There’s no need to hurt that kid, he’s just a child! He’s not a Mirshalite!”

“He’s that Mirshalite’s son!” Fatih countered, raising the spear to point downward at Zoe. Zoe nearly stumbled backward as, for the third (fourth? She’d lost count) time this day a deadly weapon descended toward her.

It stopped when Cigdem stepped between them, grabbing Fatih’s arm. The gory spear-tip hovered inches from Zoe’s face. “I can’t have my people infighting,” Cigdem hissed. “Fatih, stand down.”

Fatih did, and threw the spear to the dirt, where it remained.

Cigdem stepped over Marga’s corpse and called out to the crowd: “Listen to me, people of Etyslund. If you are harboring any more Mirshal operatives, turn them over to us! We can guarantee your own safety, should you give us an accurate report! All we want is the Mirshalites.”

Then, turning to Zoe: “Fatih and I will clean up this mess. Zoe, I want you to go to that building over there.” He pointed to the place where the guards had been held captive during the interval, however long it had been that Zoe was out of the village attempting to chase Marga down.

A slow breath left Zoe’s lungs. What else could she do? Her steps slow, ponderous, she made her way to the prison.

It was now a field hospital, of sorts. They gave her fresh hypos, fed her herbs and patched her wounds. The medicine quickly helped her pain subside, but she could feel the fresh weakness in every muscle, a weakness that she knew would last months.

Some time later, Arshay found Zoe in the field hospital and sat down beside her. He did not offer any greeting, did not ask how Zoe was doing. He only said:

“This is madness.”

“I know,” Zoe replied after nearly a minute.

“What are we going to do?”

She closed her eyes. “We’re going to be good soldiers.”

The air was thick with the blood and tears of a people. Zoe’s mind swam in it; but her hands knew better than her mind. She knew she could not live to be this.

Zoe, the soldier, locked herself behind a shell of steel and sand, and waited for her tears to subside.