Pan had not loved his wife, but she was dead, and honor demanded vengeance.

He carried Tari’s body in his arms. She was so small, so light. He thought of carrying a sleeping child, and then how she would never bear him one. He knew she hadn’t loved him, but she loved children. That was one thing they had in common, one thing they had to look forward to.

The house was small: just a kitchen, a bedroom, a chapel, and the parlor where they ate their meals and entertained guests. Pan wasn’t sure where to place his wife’s body. The bed? The low table in the parlor? The chapel?

Yes, the chapel. He placed her gently in the middle of the floor, where the nine gods in their nine shrines could look down upon her. He almost prayed for them to watch over her, but it was too late. They’d had their chance.

He placed Tari’s arms across her belly in the Stonehill style. He considered removing the arrow that still protruded from just above her left breast, but imagined the ruin it would make of her otherwise perfect flesh, the new fount of blood it would unleash, the red-stain desecration of the chapel. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered now.

*

Pan was eight years old when his mother had pledged him to marry Tari Ranu.

“The Ranu family is very old,” she said. “Very well-respected. They’ve held a council seat in Stonehill for six generations.”

What she didn’t say, but Pan was old enough to understand, was that the Ranu family was also very rich. While Pan’s family did well enough for themselves with their buying and selling, their business was strictly local, while the Ranu trade caravans stretched across the province like a vast spiderweb.

“You will marry the Ranu girl when you both come of age,” his mother had informed him. “We have a contract.”

Pan nodded, saying nothing, for he was too young to have a voice in such things. And though the thought of going to a strange village to marry a strange girl filled him with a terror and thrill he didn’t understand, he accepted the arrangement. Honor demanded it.

*

Through the window in the parlor, Pan could see the flames down the street and hear the militia doing its best to hold off the invaders. If he were anyone else, he would be expected to grab a spear from the armory and join them at the walls. But he was a Ranu now, and that came with its own duties.

He stood before the wooden case in the parlor. It stood taller than a man, and twice as wide, twice as deep. A stranger might mistake it for a wardrobe, but wonder at its inlaid gold and ivory designs. A stranger might also wonder at the ornate lock on its double doors, and its lack of handles.

Pan knelt before the case.

“I am Pan Ranu, husband of Tari Ranu, son-by-law of Kan Ranu and Sarit Ranu. In the name of Ranu I beseech you: Open.

“In the name of vengeance I call upon you: Open.

“In the name of honor I command you: Open.”

The wooden case clicked. Its doors swung wide, and a pale white light spilled out.

*

Until he came of age, Pan served his family well. He learned the business, and helped teach it to his younger brothers as they came up behind him. He became known in his village as a smart boy, serious and honest.

“Watch that Pan,” the villagers said when they thought he wasn’t listening. “He’ll go the distance. Just watch.”

But his heart wasn’t in the village. It was in Stonehill, with Tari Ranu, whom he would not meet until his wedding day. The people around him were phantoms and shades to which he could not become attached. His real life would not begin until he came of age.

*

The suit of armor stared down at Pan from inside the chest.

Pan hesitated a moment, but smelled smoke. He reached for the helmet.

The armor was old. It had last belonged to Tari’s grandfather, who had worn it during the beastling wars, but it had been in the family for many generations before him. Still it gleamed, white and gold and red, without a hint of wear or mold about it.

He put the helmet on his head. Something whirred and clicked, and it clasped tight to his scalp and jaw. The world turned red as he looked out through its translucent ruby visor.

“In the name of Ranu,” he intoned. The words echoed inside the helmet. “Arise.”

At the sound of the ancient command, the armor blossomed like a flower. The plates on its chest and limbs swung silently open, inviting Pan to step inside. The faint smell of oil and sweat mixed with the smoke on the air.

*

On the day of his wedding, Pan’s hands were slick and cold with sweat. It was his first time in Stonehill. He was surprised to see it looked so much like his own village, its people so much like his own people. The Ranu family teemed with aunts, uncles, and cousins, and they were all smiles and hugs and kisses.

When they brought out his bride, Pan thought there had been a mistake. The girl was too small, surely just a child. But when she lifted her veil at the end of the ceremony, he saw in her large brown eyes she was a woman grown. He searched those eyes for some affection, some trace of the warmth with which the rest of her family had welcomed him, but he found none. There was only duty. She was doing this for honor, and that would be enough.

That was a year ago.

*

The armor was far lighter than Pan would have imagined. More accurately, it made him far stronger than he had expected. Its matching sword, which he could barely lift under his own strength, felt no heavier than the sword he’d trained with growing up — and even better balanced than that clumsy thing.

Fire was already dancing at the edge of the house, teasing its eaves and corners. Pan thought of Tari’s body lying in the chapel, but all he could offer her now was vengeance.

He strode into the smoky street, sword in hand. The raiders had broken through the militia’s line. They charged down the street astride their warbeasts, blades and torches in hand. Pan stood ready to meet them.

Arrows bounced off his armor. He raised his sword as they drew closer. And then they were upon him, knocking him back (but not down; the armor kept him on his feet), whooping and slashing and thrusting their torches where they hoped the armor was thin.

Pan grabbed a raider. And crushed him. He swung his sword in a flat arc and sliced through two more. A fourth crunched like a dry leaf beneath his foot.

The raiders tried to scramble away, but were too late. Pan had his balance. He had momentum. He was a whirlwind, a scythe, a cutting machine fueled by vengeance and honor and some unknown burning thing in his chest.

And from somewhere above the battle, he felt wetness on his cheeks and heard himself shouting “Tari! Tari! Tari!” with a voice too raw to be his own.