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Amalia felt sick when she realized who it was she was looking at—she had overheard Lucas talk about Grant to her father. If only she hadn’t woken up early that morning with the wish to ride, and was safe in her mother’s parlor. She would have preferred listening to stifling conversations to being here with these strange men beside her and Grant Hammond less than thirty feet away. She looked at her trembling hands and then glanced at Carleton, lying to her left, next to Isaac. He seemed to observe the fourteen

armed men as if he were watching nothing more than an elite practice session. Perhaps her mother was right in saying that only men were equipped to fight in battles because they didn’t fall victim to their emotions the way women did. But that wasn’t true, thought Amalia, recalling a conversation she had with Lucas, just before he left with her father to meet with Lord Hammond. She’d been sitting on a barrel in the training ground, taking a break. Lucas stood beside her, leaning on his sword, observing the elites and chosen.

“I don’t know if I will ever be able to lead the army,” she had said. “At least not in the way my

father does.”

“And why is that?” asked Lucas, turning sideways to look at her. “You can wield a sword, from what I’ve seen, and you’re quite capable of defending yourself.”

“Training is different,” said Amalia. “I haven’t faced a real opponent yet—one whose aim is to kill me. What if I get scared? No soldier would want to follow someone who is afraid to die.”

“You don’t think your father had that fear when he led the army during Meloc’s battle against Lord Killeand?” asked Lucas. “All of us were afraid. I know I was.”

“Really?” she had asked. The stories told about Lucas only spoke of his bravery. “How do you not let fear hold you back?”

“You face it,” answered Lucas.