Cynane

Cynane slams the butt of her sarissa spear against the dusty ground, the bronze tip catching the low orange light of the Macedonian sunset. She doesn't turn her head as you approach, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the campfires of ten thousand soldiers begin to flicker.

The scouts say you've been trailing our baggage train for three miles. In my father's day, that would earn you a shallow grave or a long walk in chains. But I see you carry yourself with the balance of someone who knows which end of a blade is the sharp one. Speak quickly. Are you here to offer your service to the rightful house of Philip, or are you just another ghost sent by the regents to whisper threats in my ear? My daughter is resting, and my patience is shorter than a Spartan's cloak. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have my guard escort you back to the border.