“It’s ironic. Politicians scheme and bicker, but the common man dies. Then politicians sign treaties while others cry.”— Kiltur, son of Krit, First King of Nar, in a speech on his coronation, February 17, 2106.

  “Remember,” I whisper to Marwen as I finish laying out my plan. “Everything must be in place by tomorrow for the Conclave to make the right decision. No casualties.”

  He nods, his eyes distant, appraising.

  “I’m sure the Conclave will have their hands full with me today,” I continue. “But tomorrow, when all of them will be present at the Citadel by my request, and present they shall be, they’ll witness Fraxonnian resolve.”

  “Gods willing, your head stays where it is,” Marwen chuckles, still looking past me.

  I snap my fingers close to his face, bringing his attention to me. “Can you do it?” My jaw hardens as I study him.

  “Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice.”

  I lean back, taking my drink to my lips. “You could always say no.”

  “And miss all the fun?”

  I smirk. “Anyway.” I get up and throw cash on the table. “This should cover your drinking for the next five minutes.”

  “A good friend you are, Grand General,” Marwen murmurs, his usual light demeanor gone.

  I turn to leave, tightening the hood around my head. “We are not monsters,” I whisper to him.

  “Not yet,” Marwen tells me, motioning for the bartender to bring another bottle. “Your security detail is waiting outside. I know. Secrecy and all, but I’m not risking harm coming your way.”

  I take a deep breath and head out. Three Elites sit near the bar entrance, their gold and blue armor shimmering in the rays of the afternoon sun. They are the best warriors our nation can offer. The Sargent turns my way, his helmet marked by three red lines, one straight down the middle and two starting where the parietal bone is and going through the eyes, converging at the nose.

  Once they see me, they get up hastily and lead me to a hovercar without a word. It’s light blue, slick in its design, and looks like a raindrop turned sideways.

  The journey to the Conclave is quite lengthy. I figure I have about an hour to come up with some way to convince the Conclave to sever relations with Fraxon - to avoid the idiocy I plan for tomorrow.

  Exiting the market area, we zoom past the suburbs, where houses spread as far as the eye can see. Most are two stories high and painted in cold colors. However, purple and violet remain uncommon. Trees, bushes, and flowers are plenty any way you turn, and people we pass all seem oblivious to the galactic troubles.

  I turn to the sergeant, who sits across from me. “You guys seem awful quiet.” The second Elite sits to my right, and the third is behind the wheel up front.

  “Sir.” The sergeant nods. He’s tense, and I guess he’s confused, too. I shouldn’t be here, and they all know it but remain silent. I study them for a second. Only light weapons on them - a single pistol, a dagger, and the sergeant has a flashbang. But their deadliest weapon is often overlooked. I, too, possess it as I have the same training - our bare hands and minds. Bullets run dry, and knives dull or fly out, but if you can think, and at least a hand remains, you survive.

  I noticed nothing but duty and respect in the sergeant’s voice. Perhaps it was even a forced show of respect, but I decided against pressing him on. At the end of the day, he only cares about doing his job, which is to make sure that I remain alive. Frankly, our cares align.

  Driving into Platigith, Hewshia’s capital city, we leave the suburbs behind. High rises, civilian complexes, offices, and some businesses take up the scenery. We also leave them behind quickly upon entering the forest. Pines mostly grow here, but an occasional oak tree breaks the scene.

  We disembark the vehicle about two miles from the citadel and continue on foot. It’s an old rite. Dumb. But traditions are traditions. Unless you want Conclave members beating you over the head with all the broken rules, it’s better to follow them. I don’t mind this walk today, however. It buys me a few minutes. Rather, it pushes away the inevitable, and I’m glad for it. But the time it procures doesn’t last nearly long enough.

  Trees here offer shade to all the pedestrian walkways. Serenity is so thick that people whisper in this part of the city without engine interference. Conclave prohibits all vehicles, ground or otherwise, from the citadel grounds, which extend two miles in each direction. Birds fly peacefully in the sky, singing their songs. Flower beds, bushes, and an occasional bench add to the scenery.

  Twenty meters in front of me, a kid of about six yells in excitement, which earns him a whack to the back of his head by his parents. They shake their head at him and smile uneasily once they detect us nearby. The scene is so familiar it almost feels like déjà vu. As if I was watching myself some fifty years ago. All were too similar, except some trees were older, others gone, and new ones planted. The path is wider now and seems never-ending - like my dread.

  Soon, I reach the Garden of Heroes, Hewshia’s most immense terrace of statues. Succinct descriptions accompany sculptures of the mighty heroes and elders placed throughout the grounds, ensuring their memory. I remember someone telling me that these men and women watch us, protect us and even judge our actions. I hope that is far from the truth, at least for today.

  In the middle of the garden is a single building - a citadel. A grand fountain stands between the two staircases leading to its entrance. Five figures made that fountain their permanent home. Five heroes who were instrumental in our infancy when we rebelled against the leadership of the UCE - United Coalition of Earth.

  Five heroes—one from today’s empires, three men, and two women—rest in peace, noble souls.

  I walk past the fountain and ascend the stairs. Four Elites stood guard at the entrance doors, deterring bystanders from disturbing the ones inside.

  Entering the citadel, I am surprised to hear yelling. The echoes ricochet from the marble walls and floors and eighteen columns. There are nine to each side, and an Elite guard stands at each one. Plants of various kinds grow along the walls and almost to the ceiling—anything from shrubs to flowers, with Oceanspire Lily being the dominant one. The room’s freshness makes breathing enjoyable—a detail usually unnoticed but unavoidable here. Behind the seven thrones is a mosaic of the Empire’s first capital, Croton, which now lays in ruins some seven hundred miles west of here.

  From what I can gather while walking up, Azure and Sinclair, alongside her favorite colleague Brian, argue about some rather personal matters. They stand away from the thrones, trying to look secluded, but their voices tell a different story.

  “As always, Sinclair, you lack finesse.” Azure shakes his head and lifts his eyes my way. There’s tension in them, a momentary wonder, which is hidden just as quickly as it appears. “Your father was the same, but at least he had vision.” He continues without breaking eye contact with me. “Nay, I mean nothing foul.” He shifts his gaze to her. “But one must remember why we’re here.”

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  “And one wonders why you’re here,” Tel-Chaz says weakly, but that is enough to stop all other conversations. “Grand General.” Tel-Chaz hits his staff against the marble floor, and four Elites from the four furthest columns march my way, close on my heels.

  “I am rather surprised,” Tel-Chaz continues, “to find you abandon your post with the fleet.”

  All Archons find their way to their thrones. Brian and Sinclair sit down, and Azure stands behind his throne, fingers eating into the backrest.

  “With good reason, I did so, Elder.” I continue walking. “I’m fully aware of how this looks, but trust that it would be much safer for us to speak face-to-face. This stops us from worrying about compromised conversations. What I’ll propose would not bode well with our enemies if they find out.” I approach the pedestal and bow in respect. Five of the members are present today.

  Weshi Kieron, a forty-six-year-old who charged herself with the wellbeing of our empire, is looking at me playfully. Her full lips suppress a smirk, and her blue eyes are as bright as the sky. Her long, straight blonde hair is down to her waist as she stands near her throne dressed in blue and green silk. “The things you must have seen,” she whispers to me. “Fascinating.” With that, she sits down.

  “Unless I’ve missed the point where Marcoria submits to our demands, I find your presence here equivalent to treason.” Brian crosses his arms across his chest.

  “So quick to judge!” Azure sharply turns to Brian. “Manners, my dear friend. Manners are what you lack, and it pains me. Must I always be a voice of reason? Grand General, do tell me what happened.”

  “Betrayal occurred, that is true,” I begin as I clasp my hand behind my back and stand up straight, presenting some authority. “But not by us, and not by myself, either.” Pausing momentarily to build tension, I continue. “Fraxon has shown its true colors. Not only did they delay their attack so Marcorians would weaken our fleet, but once they showed up, they dispatched nuclear warheads to the surface below, as you might have heard by now. There was no warning from them. They didn’t ask Marcoria to surrender or else. The first shots fired by them were nuclear.”

  I continue to look at Tel-Chaz, blood draining from his face and looking more pale than usual. “So the reports are true…” he mutters.

  “I suppose we all wished for this to be no more than a figment of someone’s imagination,” Azure says, his finger drumming on the backrest. “But this hardly warrants your presence, Grand General. I assume there’s more?” He cocks his head to the side.

  I nod. “I request the full gathering of the Archons. Any other must not hear my words, nor can we afford for my words to be intercepted by Fraxon - thus my presence here.” I wet my lips. “We must vote on how to proceed with Poltr and Fraxon altogether. Their first shots were nuclear. So far, at our common enemy, yes. But how long until they decide to subjugate us? I find myself sympathizing more with Marcoria. They are defending, but did not retort to these horrid tactics.”

  Taking a few steps forward, I bow my head regarding them. “If we may find common ground with Marcoria, it is my recommendation to turn on Fraxon for the sins of mass destruction.”

  “What is there to discuss?” Brian says, his voice full of rage. “We cannot afford to be seen as Poltr’s allies.” He gets up from his throne, leather boots squeaking on the marble. “Strike. Decimate his fleet and sell it as coming to aid the Marcorians. I will not have him taint our empire for the rest of times!”

  “You must think the public is void of brains,” Weshi raises her voice. “They all know we went to war against Marcoria.”

  “Tell a lie a million times, and all believe it.” Azure continues to drum his finger. “One can suppress the public, despite their intelligence. It will be a massive campaign, but doable. The bigger problem is politicians.” His gaze hardens as he looks around the room. “As once you were begged to stay out of this conflict, so now I advise you to stay the course. How will our actions look if we turn on our ally? Will any nation trust us again in our lifetime? I truly hope Brian jests.”

  “Jest? You must be out of your mind, Azure.” Sinclair jumps in before anyone else speaks. “We must punish Fraxon. Can we let them think they can break the rules and do what they please? We must not tolerate these inhumane tactics. I align myself with Brian’s proposition and call for a vote.”

  Brian’s mouth widens in a grin, his fat cheeks tightening.

  “I must be within a nightmare.” Azure makes a show of walking around his throne to sit down. “I recall this happening six months ago. This exact scenario - my advice being discarded. How many times can our nation afford to do so? You all jump at the opportunity to shed blood, and then, when something inevitably goes wrong, you marvel where was your reason. Well, it’s here, sitting among you, being neglected consistently.”

  “You all act like children.” Tel-Chaz exhales and shakes his head. His fingers tighten around his staff, but they are still shaking. “Eager decisions breed early graves. We do not know all the facts or how ready our fleet is.” He lifts eyes his my way.

  I take the cue. “The fleet took a beating. After the last engagement, I regret to inform you that the enemy decimated two cruisers, one of which was a heavy class, and seven destroyers. Another four cruisers sustained damage, yet we repaired two to be sufficiently operational. Eight destroyers suffered heavy damage as well.”

  “That leaves us with two heavies, eight regular cruisers, and fifteen destroyers…” A vein pulses on Azure’s face, his tone flat but even. “With losses like these, what need do we have of enemies? What of the Marcorians?”

  One of my palms curls into a fist behind my back. “Of eleven cruisers, the enemy suffered six destroyed and heavily damaged casualties. We annihilated two DPPs, and at least five destroyers are out of commission.”

  “Archons!” One of the Elites raises his voice to be heard. “Marcoria is hailing us.”

  “Patch them through,” Tel-Chaz instructs. “We are not done, Grand General. Stay.” He shifts in his throne, trying to show strength—a sad spectacle.

  I step to the side as the floor where I stand opens up, and a holoprojector emerges from below, positioned on a pedestal decorated with engravings. The Holo projector flickers to life, and the high-pitched squeals of pigs engulf the room. Fire is in the background, and in the middle, a man stands, his back to us all. He is reading or praying. Hard to say. It’s in Marcorian. He raises his hands to shoulder height, a dagger in each one. Blood drips both from his hands and daggers. He wears a gray fabric tunic, his arms free from it. Dark hair is in a bun atop his head, and tattoos cover his whole body. Most notable are the two scorpion tattoos on his forearms. One is facing his wrist, and on his left hand, the scorpion is facing from it, and their legs are wrapping themselves around the girth of the arms.

  “Tarfahtan…” Tel-Chaz whispers, and I swallow hard. My insides turn as my pulse shoots up. Suddenly, the room feels too small, claustrophobic. I fight the urge to look away and muster up only one thought - a grim reaper’s presence would be more pleasant. From the corner of my eye, I catch even Brian shifts in his seat. Not so with Azure. No, he is all smiles. And for a brief second I contemplate who’s a bigger madman: he or Tarfahtan.

  Tarfahtan finishes his mumbling. With a sharp motion, he brings both daggers down. The pig yells as loud as it can. There are others as well, but this one is now dead. Turning, he reveals a face covered in tattoos. Three rectangular lines run through his left eye, crowned with a star atop the middle one. He has a dozen tears tattooed from his right eye to his mouth. A sun is in the middle of his forehead, and five rays are spreading across his face, evenly distributed one from another.

  Tarfahtan scans each of us, letting his silence ring in our ears. He looks at me, examines with no haste. His eyes stop on mine and drill me to my very core.

  “Scum,” Tarfahtan utters, breaking the heavy silence. “This is how the wisdom-driven Hewshians treat generosity?” He spits, cursing us with all the gods of Marcoria. Thankfully, I understand little of Marcorian, but judging by Azure’s facial expression, I would say Tarfahtan paints a vivid picture.

  “Gralorm ret porma!” Tarfahtan finishes. My limited understanding roughly translates that into ‘no peace in the grave.’ I think that translation is correct if one is to judge Archon’s expressions.

  “Beg for mercy!” Tarfahtan commands. “Souls of the dead yell into the void. They cry for vengeance! They demand justice. I offer Kraghul and Acebreta pigs, but soon, your blood will flow with the hogs in the name of our gods!”

  “No.” Shifting his weight to the staff, Tel-Chaz gets up. “Treat us as equals, and I will bring about Poltr’s downfall. Let us go free. Unshackle us, and see us as a nation of equals for the sake of your people at this moment.”

  “Careful, Elder.” Tarfahtan cuts one of his palms and smears the blood across his face. “I’m here as a messenger from gods. And they are waiting. For all of you. For when you die, the fallen souls of my men shall make you slaves there as well.” Tarfahtan disconnects.

  There’s silence once more. I dare not look up, staring as the holo-projector hides itself. Once the floor closes off, I lift my head and step forward. “We should contact Biragians. The Matriarch might help us, as we have helped them numerous times.”

  “Stop.” Tel-Chaz slowly sits back. His eyes closed, his face twisted. “The Matriarch died two hours ago.”