The morning Serai steps into the main hall, barefoot and rubbing sleep from his eyes, he stops. He yawns, glancing at his niece, Rochelle, as she bugs a disgruntled delivery boy about ladybirds and lambing season.

“Uncle Serai!” She squeals, running up to him. His tired body misses a beat, before scooping her up in his arms.

“Hey, beetle. Where’s your mother? What’s all this?” He asks, gesturing to the large wrapped parcels scattered around the hall.

Rochelle points out the window, to the sun-speckled courtyard where Mimi is meditating at the shrine’s pond.

Serai sighs, placing the little girl down, circling back around to the kitchen to pick up a hunk of bread and honey, nodding to Laurel and Irena as they help Brother Finch with breakfast. He wipes his hands on his linen sleep-clothes, and heads outside.

“Mimi,” he calls, holding out a bowl of pine nuts and berries. “Morning.”

His sister looks up slowly. “Serai. I was meditating.”

“I know, I’m sorry. But, hey, what’s with the delivery? The Sanctum is all stocked, and we aren’t due any more farm equipment for ages. That stuff seems heavy duty.”

Mimi rises, stretching slightly. “They’re drums.”

“We need replacements? We never use the ceremonial instruments.”

“Not for worship. For us.”

“What?”

“War drums.”

“War drums?” Serai didn’t so much question as much as shout. “Mimi, you are an armed guard, not a militia. The Herdsmen do not offend. You do not announce. You protect. We serve. We heal.”

“The Herdsmen keep you safe. If that is through fear, or preemptive attacks, it is for a reason.”

“Mimi, we could use that money, on more beds, on more healers—“

“If you didn’t have us to fight, there would be more casualties than you could treat with any amount of money. It’s not an easy choice—“

“It is for you,” he spat out. “Does Irena know?”

“Yes. She had no objections.”

“No objections to her wife charging into battle?”

“No. Because she understands the importance of a strong defense.”