The ash-swept plain still smoldered from yesterday’s bombardment. Behind the camo-netting of her regiment’s forward camp, Danika knelt by Svarog’s side, tightening the straps of his barding and wiping the dust from his augmetic flank. The destrier huffed, impatient and proud.

She muttered a soft prayer in guttural Attilan, pressing her forehead to his.

“Not yet, old boy. We ride when I say.”

The flap of the tent rustled. She didn't let it disturb her.