The construction yard was void of all people, empty skeletons of dwellings-to-be littered the area just outside the rest of the village. As we walked through, I observed the sight before us. Wooden beams of rich, dark red wood, splotches of pink pushing through every so often from the impurities present in the cutting. Rough hewn stone; marble and granite, smooth, polished quartz substituted when possible, filled the foundations of would be cellars and chimneys which dotted the landscape. The unpaved, dusty area kicked up small clouds of granules which clung to clothing and skin. Desert sands almost, yet in a land far from war and sweltering sun. Buildings akin to ruin, found in the warring-states and what was left of Mecca, Najd and Yemen. Cook knew these things, he taught us these things. His homeland was fire, his homeland was blood and desert heat simmering the sweat as it hit the sands. But there in Kathbury I knew peaceable warmth, and humid tidings abound with no fear of the Levantine sun. Those deserts were evil, and I saw them not.

  I brushed my hand against the stone wall along one of the houses as we passed, its texture felt coarse, not unlike a whetstone worn from years of use.

  As those thoughts passed, we arrived at our destination; the hideout. Gregori’s men were waiting in the shadows of a nearly finished storefront, it in the daytime looked less ominous. As we approached, Lais leaned down and whispered to me.

  “I hope you know what you're doing, Nelson.”

  “I do.”

  “Alright.”

  The unease she let off was understandable, but it was already too late by then. The meeting was about to begin. The guards eyed us as we passed into the shade of the partially built structure, the roof partly caved in from considerable overhang, broken wood and splinter scattered about as the rot of mildew seeped into the air. The marble floor, intricately carved with patterns of diamond and square, masterfully sanded to even level. The entire place looked no different than a bar or diner back home with the only differences being of aesthetics, material and wounded pride upon being never finished. The hideout was a whole different beast in the daylight, as compared to the night before. Some splotches of blood still coalesced in places, hurriedly mopped around with perhaps rags or some fool using a broom. The guards, more inside, stood idle and gray-faced. Most were blondes, a few gingers. But all were mournful, yet some had the glint of hunger in their eyes as I passed in particular. I knew what they were thinking, though none acted upon that vice of vengeance. When Judge died back in Africa, and we discovered that Parker was the look-out that day; the unit hunted him down. Followed his trail all the way to Apache Junction, the Savagelands. There we learned the truth that he was working for Atomwaffen the whole time. Wanted us out of the way so he helped the Congolese attack the base, bad move on his part. When that bunker went up in a flashbulb of flame, even though I had hurt so many people, I at least knew Parker was dead. Was it worth it? No. Trading a thousand for one man was a cost that even I could not live with. Still thought I deserved to be punished for that, but I wasn’t expecting to have myself promoted and sent to die in Kangar with the others. Just as I killed a thousand to get to one among them, corporate traded us thirteen in the Black Sheep to appease the shareholders. Lost a lot back then. Didn’t want to end it, not yet. Not then. Later.

  Lais, Kaloms and I stopped in front of the wooden door nearest to the open wall of the shop, two men stood in front of it, two I remembered faintly. The one on the left had a beard, and didn't say anything when we approached, leaving the other man to speak up; and his voice was stuffy.

  “You again?” He pointed a finger at me, accusatorily.

  “Yeah?”

  I could see his nose was inflamed. Not allergies, but an injury. I remembered the interrogation and then figured out who he was pretty quickly.

  “Hey,” I began, “aren’t you the kid who got his nose smacked by the door?”

  His eyes widened, a furious expression spread across him like a tidal wave. Beet red. But before he could curse or raise his voice, the bearded man placed a hand on his chest, or rather the back of his fist, as he was holding a tobacco pipe with it.

  “Don’t go starting trouble, the boss wants them unharmed.” He said. His voice was deep, commanding an air of subtle authority.

  The injured one sighed, straightened himself and calmed slightly. “Fine. But you owe me a drink.”

  “Aye.” The bearded one replied. He turned to us, “you three go on in. Gregori is waiting.”

  As we made our way down into the room, through the tight corridor and stairwell; Kalom groaned.

  “Damn, they had you down here?” He asked.

  I grunted in reply, trying to focus on not tripping as we descended.

  “Barely able to fit me, who built this place?”

  Lais, despite the situation, gave a giggle at her brother's predicament. “Maybe you should exercise more, you’d probably be able to squeeze through better.”

  “Huh?” I do exercise!”

  Hearing them squabble and playfully bicker was a fresh relief in the otherwise tense, dark stairwell. The smooth, damp granite walls and steps, mixing with the previously pungent odor of mold and wood rot made my heart beat faster. I hated tight spaces. Trenches, bunkers, even urban hallways were always too cramped for me. The feeling evoked a faint memory of a dark, long hallway that never ended, and a flash entered my mind. The nightmares.

  My breathing increased, the feeling of the walls brushing against my fingers, the sound of footsteps on solid stone, even the siblings voices started echoing in my head and their banter turned to a terrifying familiar drone. “Where are you going?” I tried to breathe quieter, but my heart only beat faster as we reached the last few steps. “Where off to?” As I reached the bottom, I hugged the wall for a moment. Lais and Kalom had stopped talking, and I could tell other people were also in the room. But I was busy, I didn't care at that moment. The silence only further hurt.

  The darkness, the tunnel, the screaming and battle cries of the Japanese and the Waffeneers as we all hit one another with pickaxes and entrenching tools, the Black Sheep trying to retreat as I held off some poor swastika covered moron charging at me with a lit stick of dynamite. His hail Mary attempt at sealing us and his foes forever in the soils of Kangar. Blood coating the faces of those around me as they slashed each other, dirt flying as picks and bodies slammed against the dugout walls. It all flooded back, and it hurt. Angel, Crossroads, Cook … Bad-Moon. The names I could not say before crashed against my psyche like a red-tide of regret and loathing. The names of the fallen. Of those who I let die on that fucking island, when it could have been or should have been me. It should have been me. Not them. Had I been a better leader, or had I never been a leader at all they might have gotten out alive. Injured perhaps, like all us who survived, but at least their corpses wouldn’t still be out there in the jungles. Bones unburied. A necklace of teeth still around a corpse's neck.

  “Nelson!” The woman's voice broke through the ringing. And I spun.

  Lais, Kalom, even Gregori at the other end of the room were all staring at me. Judging me I thought. They could judge all they wanted, I didn't care. But the memories had gone, and my heart had stopped drumming to the tune of the jungle. Sweat poured off me, I felt like shit.

  “Sorry.” That’s all I could say. “Sorry.”

  Kaloms face said it all, he knew exactly what had happened. He stood slightly in front of Lais, not to shield her from me, but from seeing me like that. He had told me of his time in the wars many years ago in his world. Trench wars, mortars and gas attacks; so he knew something about how shit went down. I didn't thank him, I didn't need to.

  “You alright?” He asked.

  I only nodded in response. Lais, concerned, just stared at me. Her eyes were filled with worry, fear even. The eyes of Gregori on the other end of the room however, were pained. His expression was stiff and stoic. But beneath it I could tell he, like Kalom, knew.

  “Those stairs are quite claustrophobic, aren't they?” He spoke up. He showed no signs of it, but the slight tremble signaled a reserved caution.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nelson.” Lais tried to walk to me, but Kalom stopped her mid-step before she had moved an inch.

  I nodded to Gregori, my eyes scanning the room as I started to speak. No possible escape except the stairwell again. When I had first managed to free myself, there was no time to think about the past. The walls were foggy, the adrenaline and the thought of a fight pushed everything else aside. But just now, after all those emotions bubbled up heading back down, after thinking about Bad-Moon …

  “Sorry we were late. Ready to talk?” I walked over to the table he stood behind.

  It was a worn out, wooden thing. The kind of antique you would see in thrift shops. Ornate molds and décor coated the surface and trimmed sides. The faces of lions flanked by stylized fleur de lis, and along the corners in red lacquer were chains forming a sort of prison for each head. The top was bare and sanded, much like Malkolm's, and was just as cluttered as we three had left it.

  Maps, compasses, chess pieces for marking things. And a single out of place sextant. As I approached, the other men in the room eyed me carefully, watching for any sudden move which would not come. The elf before me was taller than I, as with all the others I had met. His yellow eyes gave off a weary, exhausted strain of numbness.

  “So. Did you come to a decision?”

  He paused, looked around the room to his men. Nobody spoke.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  He sighed, letting his voice catch as he replied, “W-we accept your proposition.”

  “That easily?”

  “Yes. We will help you, and ourselves, erase Eli and his wretched Imperium from this world.”

  I wasn’t exactly shocked, but I had at least expected some pushback over the decision.I knew that Eli had his sister, but I had no hopes that it would be enough to drive him to treason. People didn’t usually work like that, not back home. They could have an entire family held hostage, and would only care if it directly disenfranchised themselves. Humans on Earth were like that often. Money, fame, power and sanctity of contract; the things which made the world go ‘round.

  “Huh. Didn’t take you for the kind of guy to-”

  “To what?” He snapped. “To go against Eli and save my own family?!”

  He slammed his fist on the table with a thud, the sextant crashed to the floor below and an audible crack was heard amidst the short din. Someone amongst his men groaned as if in pain, and I swear I could hear “that was my grandpa's” grumbled in a hushed tone. I raised my hands placatingly as the newly enraged Gregori stared me down, the searing glow in his eyes reignited with renewed vigor.

  “I didn’t mean offense.” I cautioned my own voice, a subtle change but necessary to prevent incurring his wrath. I needed him compliant.

  “Well, then go ahead. Say your peace.” His growl was not really an invitation, but a warning to tread lightly.

  “I meant to say that I didn’t expect you to work with me. You said it yourself, you hate humans, yes?”

  For a moment, he pondered this. Putting a finger to his lips, biting on the very tip as he lost himself in thought. I swore he was going to bite through the skin. As he took his time, I eyed his appearance and condition, he was still clearly bruised and battered from our scuffle the night before. the dark clothes he wore under his cloak were tattered in places. They were very fine apparel. Leather-strapped silk, not very durable yet most definitely breathable. Black in color, made a good match for his cloak, and if he were wearing it; the hood would have made him look in that room, a spectre of death. A piercing eyed predator of men, hiding in the clothing of his prey. I still could not get over his androgyny though. Slender, nimble body of an assassin from the fairer sex, and the deeper yet still oddly light voice of a man which carried the venomous tongue of a sailor. finally he rubbed at his face with both hands, before looking down to me once more.

  “I am doing this for her, not you. However you are also a skilled fighter, as are your present company.” He shot daggers Lais and Kaloms way, though I knew not if it was racial hate or anger at his fallen comrades done in by their hands.

  “Gregori,”Lais began.

  Gregori glared as she spoke. I turned her way as well, wondering what she was playing at. She did promise to not interfere. She swallowed before continuing.

  “Nelson seems to trust you enough to ask you to help him, though the same does not go for me or my brother.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Gregori, perplexed rather than upset, asked the obvious question.

  “And?”

  “And what?” She replied. in earnest.

  “Why would I care if you trust me? It is he who matters here.”

  She took a deep, steamed breath. Keeping the anger at bay, though her vision flashed rage for but a moment.

  “You hurt my brother. And me, and Nelson.” She pointed to me. “However, we are still going to help. But not because we forgive you, just to clarify.”

  Gregori nodded in understanding. “If it is any consolation, I apologize for the previous night's events.”

  Apparently, Kalom nor Lais had expected him to apologize at all. Nor did I for that matter.

  “Now,” he continued, “I suggest we get down to business in the plotting of this conspiracy?”

  I grinned. “Conspirators are we now?”

  He held back his own at that jab, but managed to stay cool. “Why yes, we are plotting to overthrow a monarch and ruin his empire. I would say that quite qualifies as a conspiracy, does it not?”

  Nodding and shrugging my shoulders, I leaned over the table and peered at the paper atop it. The other two fell into place to my three and nine, examining the ‘war map’ if you could even call it that. The thing was ancient, wispy, and looked as if it were about to fall to dust. Kalom was very interested in the older writing and art used to decorate the map, while Lais was actually looking over the river and road systems.

  “So,” Kalom started, “what are we looking for on here?”

  Gregori sighed in contempt. “Allies, roads for logistics, and places to set up a zone of control.”

  “Seems like a hard task,” Lais opined.

  “How so?” Greori asked.

  I interrupted, seeing the issue. “She mean-”

  Lais, for the first time, smacked me behind the head. Which caused Kalom to stifle a laugh.

  “I was talking, it’s rude to interrupt a lady, you know.”

  I missed that kind of rough treatment. Felt like I was back with the Unit again, talking shop as we prepared to head out. So, I leaned into it despite myself.

  “Well excuse me m’lady,” I feigned humility as I bowed to her, “I was unaware I was in the presence of a woman. I could have sworn you were just another one of the men.”

  As this, Kalom couldn't hold it back. a guffaw let forth as Lais stood there, red faced, part anger and the other pure embarrassment.

  Seeing her like that, flustered and pissed, was a sight for sore eyes. It reminded me of … Poppy. I stood up straight again, coughed and leaned back over the map, not daring to look up at her. Made an ass of myself, but at least Kaloms spirits were lifted.

  “As you were saying, Lais?” I managed to get out.

  She still stood there, in shock and fury. Her fist clenched and unclenched several times. It was clear she wanted to hit me, but I had a feeling she wouldn't. Finally after a moment to calm, she, through gritted teeth continued.

  “The map is outdated, its details are minimal.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “Yeah, I see where my sister is coming from.” Kalom spoke up. “This map is horse-shite.” He stuttered, catching himself as he said the insult. “I-I mean no disrespect, but-”

  Gregori raised his hand. “No, no. She is right, as are you with your true, albeit crass observations. We need updated maps for this plot, and moreover, we need an actual plan.”

  Looking at me, Gregori just blankly stared. The others followed his gaze.

  “Glad you asked.” I said. “I had a few ideas, been cooking them up on the way here.”

  “Well?” Gregori asked.

  “Yes?” Lais followed.

  “The marshes.”

  All three of them knew. Even Gregori knew what I was getting at, despite not being present earlier when I was shown Malkolms map. Yet, they weren't happy about it. They were downcast, somber. Kalom scratched the back of his head, looking away.

  “Look. I know that's where those, what are they called, Daeg live. Right?”

  Gregori nodded.

  “What is we asked th-”

  “No.”

  The voice of the refusal was Lais. She said it bluntly, without a hint of emotion.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It’s just not something we can do.”

  “Are they hostile?”

  “In a sense.” Gregori commented. “They attack us Cith and Cird on sight, as well as humans.”

  I was slightly taken aback by that. “What the hell did you people do to them?”

  Nobody spoke, none moved. Even Gregoris' men were utterly silent. The rain outside had started, faint pattering of water could be heard way above, as droplets began to leak from the floorboards and into the room. Some hit the map, others the floor or the occasional cloak or hilt of sword.

  “Nelson,” began Kalom, “remember when I told you about the war I was in?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Daeg were in that war. On the Ciths side.”

  So that was the reason. I couldn't understand why they hid it from me. Gregori kept his sight to the map, almost if trying to escape from the conversation into a land of faded rivers of ink and charcoal forests. Despite its age, the map was beautiful in its own way. The curves of the lettering, paired with the mystique antiquity imbued within the artworks added layers of age with every passing moment one scoured the stains and yellowed canvas. Lakes and waterways, stretched out over many miles from mountain to sea, from forking snakes of tributaries on towards the peninsulas of the south. Mountains, many peaks in the east, forgotten in name but portrayed in memory of watercolor greys and inked as the ages passed to never let their tale be forgotten by the next navigator to whom the torch passed. The lands of Britona, flanked by the rubbings of millennial trees which touched the heavens and spoke of long since forgotten seedlings, a metaphor perfect in symmetry of the people who lived there. Two stood beside me then, grounded down by age and scars of their own pasts. Each one, Kalom and Lais, were like the trees themselves. Filled with ancient tales and broken hearts. If the trees could speak, what would they say to the living? Would they mourn us, or themselves?

  Lais and Kalom still said nothing else as the silence dragged on. She was tapping the table in an effort to perhaps stay busy, to stay away from the conversation. Kalom however, shut his eyes. I had no other choice.

  “One of you needs to explain.”

  They all at once grumbled, but finally Lais relented first. With a weary inhale and inverse, she spoke.

  “They are a tragedy.”

  “I know. You’ve said that before. What happened?”

  “Nelson. Please, promise you won't think less of us for-”

  “Watchmaker dammit. We massacred them!”

  I wasn’t expecting Kalom to get that angry, however the pain in his now watchful brightly jade eyes made me realize just how much he was holding that in from the start.

  “We … ,” he paused, “we killed almost all of them. During the war we fought and defeated the Daeg. It was a bloodbath for both sides. But, in the end we won and the Imperium had the ones who were left ‘relocated’.”

  “Relocated?” I already knew what he meant, however.

  “Marched to the marshlands. Exiled.”

  “So, this is your worlds version of what happened back home.”

  Kalom raised an eyebrow inquisitively. Gregori himself even looked up from his map, interest piqued.

  “Back home, my world.”

  “Yeah?” He egged me on.

  “There was an event almost a hundred years ago called the Black Spring, where my people won a war. The losers were rounded up and death-marched to exile as well. Though it wasn't a marshland where they ended up.”

  “Damn. What happened, where did they go?”

  I looked away, not wanting him or Lais to really know the brutality of my homeland, but having no real choice. She just blankly listened, while the other two now focused on the conversation intently.

  “The Statist Reservation is what we called it.” I finally said. “It's what remains of what was once called Pennsylvania. It’s a concentration camp.”

  Kalom blew out a breath of air, “ That is bad.”

  I chuckled, which caused some alarm in the siblings, Gregori though was unphased.

  “That’s war.” I caught myself grinning a little. “At least that's what war was like in my world. If you didn’t die, you either got the hell away from the winning team, or you’d suffer a fate worse than death. Usually how it went. Not for my guys, but for others at least.”

  “Did-,” Lais paused, unsure how to voice her next question.

  “No. It was before my time. Don’t worry.”

  She closed her mouth, content and simply cast her view back to the map in shame. She didn’t want to ask that, but she couldn’t help it and I understood the concern. I had already told her of Parker and the bunker, and my own sins on the matter. Had I told her a lie, that I helped in the newest mentioned atrocity, she might have lost all respect for me. In history classes within schools you would learn about the Black Spring, or so I’ve been told. My mother had Aurum enough to send me to school, instead I spent my formative years deep within the libraries of the city. Monolithic buildings of granite, housing thousands of tomes stacked high upon laddered shelves. By age seven, I was proficient in reading and writing, and by ten I had digested volume after volume of the greats of the modern ages. Marx, Stirner, Machiavelli and Rothbard to name only a few. But with all great things, an end had come. By age twelve I was educated enough to perhaps win a spelling-bee and take on a middle schooler in a debate on class theory. It was customary for those of the age to get jobs, to contribute to society, and so I did.

  As I entered the militia recruiters office back then, the smell of cleaning alcohol wafted forth and drowned me in medicinal acrid. Shag carpeted office, dyed royal purple. Walls were slightly peeling in one corner where a brown stain spread across the asbestos ceiling, water damage. I sat in the wooden chair, the cushion was thin, cheaply produced in one of the area's sweatshops. Even though I was twelve, I still left miniscule to the woman behind her half crescent plywood desk. Sanded like the table in the hideout with Gregori. I reached out and touched it, course yet smooth. Rough grains going against and rubbing harshly upon my fingers.

  “You want to sign up for militia duty?” She asked.

  Her higher pitched voice caught me off guard. Her tone and body did not match. Even though she wore the standard issue dressings of the Free territory Militias, you could see her features. Sculpted, toned and clearly used for more than show. Like a feminine version of Kalom. Her hair was naturally brown, dyed in a few streaks with red.

  I nodded. “My mama's landlord says there's no rent for militia peoples' families, when they go to war.”

  She closed her eyes, shaking her head. It wasn't disapproval of my own request, just the necessity of it I think it was. My mother told me not to do it, the landlord said himself it was a fool's errand. But working three jobs was something I didn’t want her to keep putting herself through. My father died when I was younger. He was a mercenary for Wagner. From what my mother told me, he died out east in the Bohemes. I had visited there once with Judge later in life during the group's ventures in nearby Romania. Terrible place to die.

  “If you're sure about this, then please sign here.”

  The recruiter handed me a clipboard, pen and a piece of paper attached. That day was the day I lost the right to call myself innocent. The next year saw me fighting, killing men in a foreign land. Ventura invaded the convergence, and we were sent into the old forests of Vermont to push them out. The forest on the old map before me took an ominous turn, instead of better days and times; all I saw in those charcoal trees were charred remains of forests. Napalm, white phosphorus, the hulls of tanks which burned hot enough as to sear your flesh thirty feet away.

  I sighed and turned to look at Gregori in the present.

  “Regardless of whatever happened to the Daeg, we need to go through that swamp.”

  His gaze flipped back between myself and my companions, then to the map. Leaning over it, he paused and sunk deep into thought.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I replied, “we need to get around the toll bridges. What were they called, Lais?”

  I turned to her next , her face was full of angst at the topic of the marshes still.

  “Joranos and Keeleng.”

  I could still see her hands clenching and releasing, but if it was from anger she hid it well. Kalom was eerily silent on the topic, and understandably so. He had told me before that the elves hated talking about the past, and this topic hit close to home.

  “As for allies, we have you and your men. That's a great start at least.”

  Gregori smirked. “They are pretty wonderful.”

  “And as for the Daeg, can we write them off safely I assume?”

  “Very.” Lais added.

  “Then for logistics?”

  Kalom pointed to an old road leading near the marshes, skirting the border. “We can use this road here to travel around without the imperials seeing us.”

  Everyone looked at him, dumbstruck.

  “What? I needed to learn how to maintain safe routes and supply lines during the war. Easy to understand after the first hundred hours of study.”

  Gregori nodded, conceding.. “Alright. Then we have the basics for those three topics. Now what about killing Eli and ruining the imperium?”

  I shook my head. “Just killing Eli.”

  “Bu-”

  “I have no real concern about what happens to his Imperium. I just want Eli gone from the picture. Sending you after me was his first and last mistake.”

  Lais sounded dejected, “but don’t you want to get rid of it?”

  I held back my witty remarks on the subject of governance. “No Lais. I know how that kind of thing plays out and trust me, it won't be pretty if the Imperium kicks the bucket so quickly.”

  “What do you mean?” Gregori asked next.

  Soon all three were trying to grapple with my response. They apparently, through their reasoning, believed that my wanting to kill Eli was less motivated by tit-for-tat, and more for what otherworlders before me had wanted: Power, revenge or some sense of morality and ‘heroism’. I just wanted Eli out of my hair. To gall to send an assassin after me for no reason in particular or perhaps some veiled idiocy, was a radically foolish move. I was actually caught off guard that they thought I cared about any of the reasons they assumed I held. After all, I was certain I never once gave them that impression. But apparently, otherworlders before myself were so predictable in their ambitions, that they just came to expect such things. So I couldn't fault them.

  While he had chosen Gregori well, and the elf had almost bested me, I was still kicking. Meaning that he would find out sooner or later and send more of his retainers after me.

  “I understand that you people have dealt with outsiders like me, but I'm being completely serious. I just want to kill this asshole, simple as.”

  Lais harrumphed, “but wont killing him also destabilize the Imperium?”

  I nodded.

  “Then that works for me. After all, Eli is the reason Gregori is here to begin with, and why Kalom is all cut up.”

  Kalom grunted in agreement.

  “It won't be as easy as that Lais.”

  She cocked her head, giving me a sideways glare from the corner of her eyes. Her bright, shimmering death stare, intense with fire radiating with irritation.

  “When Eli dies, a lot of other people will as well.”

  Gregori sighed, shook his head and stood up. “He’s right, young lady. The moment he dies, the power struggles will only intensify as they find a new heir.”

  “Then,” Kalom interjected. “Lets just prop Nelson here up on the thro-”

  “No.” I said it bluntly. Loud.

  “I was just ki-”

  “Kalom. I respect you enough to say this aloud. My people do not joke about that kind of thing. Ever.”

  “Why?”

  “My people fought against rulers for over a century. I will not entertain any acts that put me in a position of power, joke or otherwise.”

  The silence that descended was slightly routed by the further pattering of rain above head. Lais, Kalom and even Gregori knew not what to say. I just glared long and hard at Kalom, he tried to meet my gaze, to look tough. It was partially successful, given his overall physique in comparison. However, my slightly sunken, fatigued stare made him blink first. It was a line I did not cross often, but I had to. All persons in the Free Territories knew of the days before the Black Spring from stories handed down from loved ones. Maximillian, my grandfather, was one such person.

  “Let me tell you something.” He began, myself sitting next to him on the sofa in the apartment. Mother was doing laundry downstairs in the building's washing room.

  “When I was a soldier in the Black Army, Hoppe himself led us to victory. Fighting those sick, twisted statist pukes was worth every fallen brother in arms. Every self respecting black-back worth an aurum fought and died to free the world from tyranny.

  His glassy, blind eyes used to terrify me. Greying and faded, he would usually wear black glasses over them when my mother was around because she would yell at him for scaring me.

  “You remember what I said about my peepers?”

  I nodded back then. “You got hurt?”

  He replied in kind.

  “Sawbones back then said it was some trauma from an explosion, can't rightly remember which one it was. So many close calls back then. Anyway, you should feel lucky to be in the age of Hoppe, young man. If it weren't for Commander Hoppe or General Paul, we would all be like those suckers in the reservation. Republics, democracies, hell even monarchies are all the same. All of them just want to control people, and that's why I fought, why we all fought. So don't ever go thinkin’ you're above other people. God made men equal under his law, and the Black army made them equal in right.”

  That memory faded, and I saw Kalom before me once more.

  He sighed, “I get it. Cultural thing, I’m sorry.”

  “It's fine. Just don't make that kind of joke again. Please.”

  “I won’t. But why the hostility?”

  Lais interjected, “It doesn't matter. Nelson was respectful enough to not delve into our people's history with lady Edme earlier, so-”

  “Edme?” Gregori burst out. His eyes widened startled.

  Everyone turned to him, expecting something. But what came next thoroughly shocked all of us.

  “What about her?” Lais asked him.

  “Edme is my sister. She’s the one Eli is holding.”

  The silence returned with a vengeance.