Two quiet days after the ridge, Jonas swung his new axe for the tenth time, smiling at its perfect balance.
The militia yard sprawled behind the Winter Gate, a wide square of trampled snow ringed by crooked barracks. Three hundred farmers drilled across it in dented helmets, holding pitchforks and shovels the way soldiers hold spears.
"Jonas, put it down before you take your own ear off," Cassie said, trailing him with her sword sheathed and her arms crossed.
"He's been swinging it since breakfast, I think he's in love," Toby said.
"It's balanced, you wouldn't understand, you shoot arrows from a bush."
"From a rooftop, there's a difference."
"The difference is you get to fall off a rooftop, nobody falls off a bush."
Jonas rolled his shoulder, letting the axe head thunk into his palm with a satisfying, solid weight. Garrow's armory offered everything a boy could want, from spiked maces to a rack of gleaming axes.
