That night, once Brigid finally slipped into a restless sleep, I seized the opportunity to call upon Merchecna. No sooner had I materialised in her library than the goddess sprang on me like a cat ambushing an unsuspecting mouse. Her face was mere inches from mine as she pinned me down to the lounge chair and looked at me with eyes widened in surprise.

  “Lucas! I’m… expecting…”

  Huh?! My heart skipped a beat. No way. I scrambled through my memories of that night back in my apartment—nothing. I was sure I hadn’t even brushed against her, let alone anything more!

  “…you…”

  What? I was still reeling. “Yes?” I answered, half-dreading where this was going.

  “…are in a shipload of trouble!” she finished with a mischievous grin, bursting into laughter.

  I blinked. “Wait, what?”

  “Soldier of Neith? Seriously?” She doubled over, clutching her sides. “Did you even realise what you just signed yourself up for?”

  The penny dropped. Oh, no. That little bluff back at Bodhmall’s hut.

  “I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds…” I began, hoping to defuse whatever divine wrath was headed my way.

  But Merchecna waved it off, still chuckling. “No, no, not at all! There’s nothing to apologise for!” She clapped her hands together with glee. “In fact, congratulations are in order on your induction into my father’s army—AND—your immediate promotion to honorary general of the Black Standard!”

  I stared at her, slack-jawed. “What? No, wait, I have more pressing—”

  But Merchecna was already on a roll, her words tumbling out faster than I could process.

  “Dad and I were falling off our chairs!” she exclaimed. “Your haughty little declaration? It was so over-the-top, we couldn’t believe Bodhmall bought it! Honestly, we thought she’d toss you both into the loony bin—or worse!” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “Dad was a bit miffed that you claimed to be in his army, but when I showed him the first person view playback of that fight… oh, he was floored! You took out two fully-armed soldiers with a walking stick, Lucas. A walking stick! And you did it while fighting in the body of a twelve-year-old girl! It was over in less than six seconds—we even rewound it to check. Five point nine seconds, to be exact!” She ended her rant with a look of satisfaction.

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  “Uh-huh.” I crossed my arms, trying to process this whirlwind of information.

  Apparently, I’ve discovered the root of her capricious nature. Must be from her dad’s side.

  “Wait—what? How did you even get a first-person playback?”

  “Oh, that Morwynian deserter you killed? We plucked him straight out of the afterlife queue.” She shrugged nonchalantly, as if soul-hunting was just another Tuesday errand. “Spineless fellow—he was one of the first to break ranks and flee. Even robbed a few of his wounded comrades on the way out, so it’s safe to say he richly deserved his end. We extracted the memory straight from his noggin. Dad sent him down to Dubnos afterwards, so we won’t be seeing him again anytime soon.”

  “The cunning father-and-daughter pair of martial justice, indeed,” I muttered. “So… coming back to the point…”

  “Yes, yes.” Merchecna waved dismissively, her grin fading into something more serious. “Brigid is going to be named my warrior saint before the general at Bryn Massan. It's not General Adair I'm worried about, it's that fool he reports to, Lord Riordan. I don’t expect it to go smoothly, but I have my reasons for avoiding supernatural measures unless absolutely necessary.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Could you maybe help me understand the challenges Brigid and I will be facing?”

  Merchecna sighed, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Lord Riordan of House Brannon… now, he’s a piece of work. Distrustful, pompous, and more full of himself than a peacock on parade. That could describe much of the nobility in any world, but Riordan takes it to another level. He surrounds himself with sycophants and has neglected his army and kingdom for years.”

  She paused, her eyes darkening slightly. “That is, until his cousin, Lord Sweyn, got his arse handed to him and ended up being besieged when the Horde overran Morwyn. Now that clown Riordan is in a panic, scrambling to ready the defences—but it won’t be in time.

  “He believes his ten-thousand-strong Ersean army can hold the Horde to a draw. But the dimwit doesn’t grasp that if the well-equipped Morwynians—fifteen thousand strong—were routed in their first battle, there’s more going on than meets the eye. Yet he’s still unshakably confident that he’ll be the hero who wipes out the same Horde that bested his incompetent cousin. You’ll see this deluded fool in all his glory soon enough. I pity you both, having to stand before him and make your case.”

  I groaned, rubbing my temples. “I already feel like tendering my resignation.”

  Merchecna grinned. “Do you think I’d let you off the hook that easily?”

  “Ever the slave driver, My Lady.” I rolled my eyes, trying to mask my dread with humour. “I’ll be unionising and demanding high-risk allowances right away.”

  At that, Merchecna burst into laughter again. With a snap of her fingers, two cans of my favourite brew materialised in her hands. She tossed one to me.

  “To our success?” she toasted, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

  “To our success.” I clinked my can against hers, though I had the sinking feeling I was toasting to my own doom.