Dawn broke over the Garden. Gradual, golden rays pierced clouds painted in shades of purple, orange, and amber, set against a brilliant turquoise sky. From his vantage on the observation platform overlooking the Hanging Terraces of Sector 3, Arizeal watched the first light touch the crystalline trellises, setting them ablaze with the refracted colors of the sunrise. The luminescent vines stirred in response, their blooms pulsing from deep violet to pale blue to silver-white, a cascade of living light that stretched to the distant horizon. He shaded his eyes, and his lips twitched upward.
With a smile, he drew a breath of the cool morning air. The aroma of the Garden. For him, it was the scent of honeysuckle, rain, lilacs, earth, and new life. It felt familiar. For each person, it varied. The Garden responded to different people in different ways, after all. He released his breath slowly as the aether responded to his presence. The energy came eagerly, as always.
Seeing it, he found it hard to imagine the desolation it had been crafted from. There had been centuries of reconstruction since the war. Somehow, they’d managed to salvage this small patch of paradise from the ash and ruin. The thought made him even prouder of his people than he thought possible. Through the careful cultivation of hard work and stubbornness, Pawns had once again coaxed life from devastation.
Arizeal closed his eyes and reached out with his awareness, sensing the flow of ambient energy through the terraces. This technique was part of his path—his way of seeing the world and facing its challenges, distilled into lessons passed down from Pawn to Pawn for time immemorial. What he was doing now was called Gathering: harmonizing with the ambient aether around him and simply drawing it to himself rather than trying to shape it or use it for a specific purpose. When he first learned the skill, it was a secret fiercely guarded by his clan. Controlling aether could take decades of practice or even centuries of attunement to a single place. Now, most Pawns could manage basic aether manipulation by the time they were ready for their rank assessment. He knew well where he fell on that spectrum.
The Garden knew him. Trusted him. Responded to his touch like a conversation between old friends. He gathered the energy slowly, feeling it pool in his core, the metaphysical center he’d spent millennia expanding. The sensation was warm and grounding. This was his standard morning routine: standing here as the sun rose, drawing strength from the place they’d built, and preparing for another day of tending, teaching, and leading. The last one, a bit more reluctantly than some of the Council members would prefer.
The aether shimmered around his hands—a faint blue-gold corona he barely noticed anymore. Just the natural byproduct of channeling so much energy at once. Nothing unusual about it, though sometimes the younger Pawns would comment on how bright his aura burned. He always told them the same thing: time and practice. Anyone could achieve the same results given enough of both.
A crystalline chime sounded from the gardens below—sixth bell. As beautiful as the sunrise was, it was time to start the day’s work. Arizeal opened his eyes and released the gathered aether back into the atmosphere. He felt a portion of the excess aether settle into place within his newly expanded core, like water finding its level. He sighed in contentment at the sensation.
From this angle near the top of the Scholarium, he could see much of Sector 3 spread out below. He took in the Districts still under reconstruction, with the framework for what would become elegant spiraling towers. The agricultural terraces where food grew in abundance. The markets and communal spaces where Pawns gathered to work, socialize, and trade, free from the spectacle of war.
Beautiful. Gorgeous in a way that still caught his breath sometimes, even after all these years. It was why he came here. It was his center, the place that felt most like home. It made him think of better times and better people, when the brilliance of the Garden spanned the globe rather than merely these few Sectors. It may not have been what they’d once had, but it was a start. They had promised themselves this. Promised each other that if they survived, they would build something worth the price they’d paid, worth the friends buried and the scars they’d earned along the way. Even if some of those scars still felt like open wounds on some days.
This view was his daily reminder that they’d kept that promise.
They were at peace and had been for centuries. Perfect? Not by any means. What endeavor ever was? But this was real. Substantial. Tangible success you could see with your own eyes.
Below, a group of guards passed along the garden path. Their identical sets of obsidian armor tapped rhythmically as they moved. One of the guards glanced up and caught his gaze. The guard froze midstep and windmilled their arms as another guard bumped into them from behind. The guard on his right caught them and looked up, spotting Arizeal watching the group from the terrace above. The entire cohort snapped to attention—backs straight, fists to chests in perfect military precision.
Arizeal hid a small smile and raised a hand in acknowledgment. They relaxed, resuming their patrol. He’d told them a thousand times they didn’t need to be so formal, but old habits died hard, he guessed. Many of these Pawns had served in the war and stood in formation before Kings and Queens. They showed respect in the only way they knew how, even though they no longer had a King to serve. They simply transferred that formality to the Keeper. The poor fool elected to lead the reconstruction effort. He looked over into one of the aviary pools lining the railing, at the face of the fool in question. Dark-skinned, with black curly hair that seemed to be speckled with more gray with each passing day.
It was one of the small prices of being Keeper—the deference, the formality, the way people unconsciously straightened when he entered a room. He’d never wanted it, but it came with the position. Four times they’d held elections since the Pact. This was his second stint as Keeper. The first time he ran, he was ready to renounce the role and the whole reconstruction plan altogether after learning what it would take to accomplish it. There had been decisions made in those first decades of rebuilding that took nearly a century to recover from. He resigned in shame and entered seclusion, running from his responsibilities and the consequences of his choices. In the midst of his depression, a young Bishop sought him out and convinced him to return to his people and make amends properly. With reluctance, he’d done so. He’d been reelected by such overwhelming margins that they’d stopped counting after the first 3 Sectors reported. There were only 5 Sectors back then, and Arizeal had received every vote. Now there were 12, with 4 more under construction.
The people trusted him. That was all it was. Trust earned through shared struggle and sustained by consistent care.
He collected his training robes—plain, undyed cloth with no runes or enchantments—and headed down from the terrace. It was time.
* * *
The training grounds occupied a cleared space on the eastern edge of Sector 3, near the outskirts of District 14, far enough from the residential areas that the sound of combat practice wouldn’t disturb anyone, yet close enough that the walk didn’t take too long.
When Arizeal arrived, a dozen young Pawns were already assembled, going through their warm-up exercises. Most had been born in the Garden after the Pact. They knew peace not as a hard-won treasure but as the natural state of things. He tried to teach them as he had been taught, sharing the same insights his master had given him. The one thing he couldn’t teach them was the necessity of learning. He had the war to drive his motivation, these Pawns? He was uncertain whether any of them understood why it was important for them to learn. Save for one, maybe.
Lyssa spotted him first and called the others to attention. They lined up with varying degrees of military precision—some, like Lyssa, moving with trained efficiency; others stumbling into place with the awkwardness of youth.
“Rest,” Arizeal said, waving off the formality. “This is practice, not inspection.”
They relaxed, but not completely. Some had been in a relaxed position from the start. He could see the mix of excitement and nervousness on their faces. They were young, most barely past their first century. To them, he was a figure from legend—one of the original Pawns who’d stood against the Lightbringer and fought beside the King of Kings himself. He’d helped forge the Pact that gave them this life. To them, he was living, breathing history. To him, they were children. The future.
“Today,” Arizeal began, pacing in front of the line, “we’re going to talk about the Way of Pawns and Kings. Not combat techniques—those are just tools. I want to discuss the philosophy behind the movements you’ve learned.”
He stopped, turning to face them fully. “First, let me ask: What is the nature of a Pawn?”
Lyssa answered immediately. “Advance.”
“Good. But incomplete.” Arizeal nodded at her with a smile. It was a textbook response, the motto etched across the top of both the Scholarium and the Protectorate. “A Pawn advances, yes. But how? Why? In the Way, you learn to advance with both offense and defense at once. Forward momentum with purpose. You defend not only yourself but those beside and around you. Pawns form the vanguard—the line that holds. That is your nature. Offense and defense, intertwined. With the support of his shield brothers, a Pawn can best anyone. A Knight, a Bishop, or even a Queen. Kings fall. But in the end.”
“There will always be a Pawn,” the group finished the statement in unison.
He let the words settle before continuing. “When you advance, you create pressure. You claim ground, forcing the enemy to respond to you rather than act freely. The very presence of a Pawn changes the battlefield.”
A younger Pawn, Kael, raised his hand tentatively. “Keeper, what if we’re outnumbered? What if advancing means walking into danger?”
“Then you advance,” Arizeal said, his voice firm but not harsh. “Consider the consequences and whether you have what it takes to bear them. Life is uncertain, and victory is never guaranteed. You may not get to choose the battles that find you. Some are fair, and the odds are with you. Others are not. In both cases, a Pawn who hesitates dies. The moment you stop moving forward, you become a target rather than a threat. Remember this: your advance is your defense.”
He gestured toward one of the other students, a girl named Sera. “What does a Pawn rely on?”
She hesitated, then her face reddened as she answered uncertainly. “Strength?”
“Themselves,” Arizeal corrected gently. “Pawns defend themselves. You fight alongside others, but your survival is in your own hands. You trust your back to the Pawns behind you, but your life is your responsibility. You watch your flanks. You cover your advance, then trust your training and instincts, especially your instincts.”
He paused, letting them absorb it before continuing. “This doesn’t mean you’re expected to hold the line alone. It means you’re expected to be self-sufficient within a collective. The Pawn beside you advances. You advance. Together, you form an unstoppable line. But each of you must be able to hold your ground independently. That independence is what makes the vanguard strong.”
Lyssa frowned, working through the philosophy. “So, we protect ourselves, but we also protect each other by advancing together?”
“Exactly.” Arizeal smiled, pleased. “You defend yourself so others don’t have to. And as you do, they do the same for you. It’s not about depending on others—it’s about being dependable.”
He turned to face the group fully, his expression growing more serious. “Now—what is the nature of a King?”
Silence. The question seemed to confuse them. Finally, Kael spoke up. “To rule?”
“To preserve,” Arizeal said. “A wise King knows when to retreat. When the battle is lost and the position untenable, a King falls back, regroups, and saves what can be saved to fight another day. That is their nature—preservation of life, continuation of power.”
“Cowardice,” one of the students muttered quietly. Not quietly enough.
“Some would say so,” Arizeal acknowledged, making the Pawn jerk, eyes wide with surprise. “No need to feel embarrassed about that. It’s a common stereotype attributed to Kings. It’s a bit more complex than that. A King has responsibilities that extend beyond a single battle. They carry the weight of their people’s survival. Their retreat might save hundreds, even if it costs a few. That’s the burden they bear.”
He began pacing again, hands clasped behind his back. “I would like to thank Cadek for his comment. Though not spoken with authority, it was spoken with honesty, and I believe this may be a good place to address it. For every Pawn who speaks of Kings in reverence, there are those who view them differently. Kings have the luxury of retreat. The system protects them. They can afford to preserve themselves because others—Pawns, Knights, Bishops, and Queens—stand between them and danger. They can calculate when to withdraw because they have that option.”
“And we don’t,” Lyssa said quietly.
Arizeal gave her a sad smile. “When we advance, we do so knowing retreat may not be possible. That’s why I teach you this: Attack and defend. When in doubt, advance with purpose. Retreat is a luxury you may not have.”
He stopped, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “You will face moments in your lives where you must choose—stand or run, fight or yield, advance or retreat. In those moments, remember what you are. Remember that a Pawn’s strength comes from moving forward even when the way is uncertain.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Keeper,” Lyssa said slowly, clearly wrestling with something. “The war is over. Isn’t it? When would we ever need to make those choices? We’re not fighting anyone.”
The question hung in the air. A reasonable question. An innocent question. It hit him like a war hammer. He had to stop himself from stepping back. It took all his willpower to keep his face neutral. He was sure he’d failed.
“You’re right,” he admitted after a moment. “You likely never will. But understanding who you are isn’t just about combat. It’s about how you approach life itself. A Pawn advances with purpose—that’s true whether you’re fighting or farming, serving on the guard or the council, even an…uh…a merchant. Even a merchant. The philosophy transcends the technique.”
He sputtered at the end and almost let out a sigh of relief as understanding dawned on several faces. “When you face a difficult task, you don’t retreat. You advance. When you encounter a problem, you don’t wait for someone else to solve it. You advance. When you see injustice or suffering, you don’t walk away. You advance. That’s what it means to be a Pawn—not in war, but in life.”
Lyssa nodded slowly, then asked the question he’d been waiting for. “So we should never want to be Kings? Even in peacetime? Even when there’s no fighting?”
“Especially then,” Arizeal said, his voice full of absolute conviction. “Kings are prisoners of their power, Lyssa. They become what they must to maintain their position. Their identity becomes inseparable from their authority. They can’t step down without losing themselves. They’re trapped by the very thing that elevates them. It’s the greatest and worst quality of a King.”
He gestured broadly, encompassing the Garden around them. “But Pawns? Pawns are free in their purpose. We choose to serve, to build, to advance. That choice is what makes us free. A King’s authority is inherited or seized from Pawns. A Pawn’s purpose comes from within. We decide our direction, choose our battles, and select our own path. That is our Way. The freedom of Pawns is worth more than any crown or title, or any position of power. Even Keeper.” He smiled as Lyssa’s mouth gaped when he said that. “Yes, Lyssa, even Keeper. That freedom is priceless and should never be sold for anything less. Do you understand?”
She rapidly nodded her head. Arizeal was afraid she would bite her tongue off as her mouth was open for the first few nods. He chuckled a bit as he continued.
“No Pawn should aspire to become a King. Once you pursue that level of power, you’ve already forfeited what defines a Pawn. You’ve exchanged your freedom for authority—an authority that leads to either death or obligation. Better to remain what you are—free to advance, free to decide, free to live according to your own rules.”
The students absorbed this in silence. Some nodded. Others looked thoughtful. He noticed Lyssa watching him with an intensity that suggested she was committing every word to memory. Embarrassed, he coughed.
“Now,” he said, shifting back to practical matters, “pair off. We’ll run through basic defensive forms, then light sparring. Remember—advance with purpose. Every movement should have intention.”
As the students dispersed, Lyssa lingered. “Keeper? Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Were you ever tempted? To be a King, I mean. I was reading one of the tomes on the Lightbringer’s War, and it said the King offered, like, after the war. You could have been a King. Didn’t you want to?”
Arizeal felt a twist in his chest—an emotion he couldn’t quite name. “I was offered,” he said slowly. “And I refused. That’s all there is to it.”
“Why?” Her question was simple and genuine. He could feel the curiosity coming off her.
“Because I’d seen what it cost,” he answered. “The King who led us—he bore the weight of every sacrifice. That burden... it changes you. Makes you into something else. Something necessary, perhaps, but also something less than I wanted to be. I wouldn’t wish it on any Pawn.”
Lyssa nodded slowly. “Thank you, Keeper.”
She moved off to join the others, leaving Arizeal alone with his thoughts and a hollow feeling in his chest.
* * *
The Council chamber sat at the heart of the Garden, Sector 1, District 1. The imposing spire could be seen from every District in the entire Sector. Its main chamber was a circular room grown from living wood, coaxed into intricate woven patterns. Twelve seats were arranged in perfect symmetry. No throne. No hierarchy. Seats lined the chamber. Though the center housed the twelve seats for the representatives of each Sector, each District was allowed two representatives, each with an equal vote on matters of State.
Arizeal had been the first to insist on it centuries earlier, after his first failure. That experience taught him the importance of structured governance and the necessity of shared power. When they laid the foundation for the Garden’s governance, he ensured the model was built into its structure. He’d seen the flaws in the hierarchy of power. They wouldn’t recreate that here. Not on his watch, anyway.
The afternoon session was already underway when he arrived. He slipped into his seat—marked only by a simple bronze nameplate that read “Keeper.” Merra was either just beginning or already in the middle of presenting harvest projections for Sector 7. He gave her a sheepish smile as he sat. She looked directly at him and gave no indication she noticed he was there.
The eldest Council member had her hair braided with silver thread today, her voice steady as she outlined production targets. “...which brings us to the question of expansion. We have the surplus to support new agricultural terraces, or we could allocate those resources to expand the Merchant Districts. Not both.”
“The Monitor has submitted a proposal,” said Brandtly, one of the newer Council members. He was also a veteran, though younger than Arizeal by at least a few decades. “He wants to expand the administrative districts, which would add four seats to this Council by the next cycle to maintain proportional representation.”
“No. Absolutely not. We discussed this last month,” Merra said, a touch of weariness in her voice. “The consensus was—”
“With respect,” Pegrit interrupted, his voice carrying that particular tone that meant he was about to challenge something. “There was no true consensus. Six members deferred to the Keeper’s preference. That’s not the same as agreement.”
Several Council members shifted uncomfortably. Arizeal noticed that Merra’s faction—four members who generally aligned with her—exchanged glances. Pegrit’s “faction,” if you could call them that, looked smug in response. Only three members, consistently bickering among themselves and pushing different priorities. Pegrit himself seemed to associate with them only out of necessity. He sat straighter.
“Pegrit,” Merra said firmly, “this applies to everyone here. We’ve talked about this before. As far as I remember, the people have elected Arizeal twice now, and each time by large margins. His judgments on infrastructure have been consistently correct. If you have concerns, please share them. You have the right and authority to voice your opinions. What you don’t have is the authority to question the legitimacy of Council decisions. In that, you overstep.”
“I merely offer counterpoint,” Pegrit spoke, lips quirked in a slight smile. “Someone must.”
Arizeal leaned forward, keeping his voice measured. “And we value it, Pegrit. That’s why you’re here. Your election to this Council was as legitimate as mine as Keeper. Dissent is to be respected.”
He gave Merra a meaningful look, and she nodded in acquiescence.
“My concern,” Pegrit continued, apparently satisfied that his point about process had been acknowledged, “is that we’re not adding administrative capacity while creating sufficient need. One hundred and forty-four districts function under the Monitor’s current oversight. How would you lessen the burden as we expand?”
“Population growth,” Brandtly answered. “Sector 12 alone has seen a thirty percent increase in the last decade. The Monitor’s staff is stretched thin.”
“We need to hire more staff,” Pegrit agreed. “Anything less than devoting those resources to Administration risks crashing the whole system. We have those Districts under construction, and they now require their own representatives. If we hesitate to—”
“We’re not going to solve this today,” Arizeal said, and the debate immediately paused. Everyone turned to him. “Pegrit raises valid concerns about administrative needs. Brandtly raises valid concerns about current capacity. Why don’t we table this until next session? Give the Monitor time to prepare a detailed analysis of workload distribution across all Districts, including administrative needs and budgetary requirements. Then we can make an informed decision.”
There was a moment of silence, then nods around the table. Even Pegrit seemed satisfied with the outcome, though Arizeal caught a flicker in his expression—not quite frustration, but something close to it.
Did Pegrit want him to take a firmer stance? To push one position or the other? Sometimes Arizeal had the sense that something was off with the former Bishop, though maybe he was reading too much into it. Pegrit had his principles and argued for them. That was enough.
The meeting continued through various routine items—maintenance schedules, resource allocation, and minor disputes between sectors. The boring minutiae of bureaucracy.
Near the end, Daxil cleared his throat. “One more thing. Nothing urgent, but... there’s been some talk. Rumors, really.”
“About?” Merra prompted.
“There’s some confusion in Sector 9. A few Pawns are reporting odd incidents, including lost time and memory gaps. The Medicis have seen maybe three or four cases over the past few months. They’re treating it as stress-related, possibly exhaustion from the harvest work.” Daxil shrugged. “I wouldn’t even mention it, but the Monitor asked me to note it for the record, and I’m not looking to get on her bad side.”
Soft chuckles came from around the chambers.
“Sector 9 specifically?” Pegrit asked, his tone curious and his eyes sharp.
“Mostly, yes. Though there might have been one in Sector 12?” It came out as a question as he glanced over at Nuburu, the Councilor for Sector 12, for confirmation. The youngest Councilor paled under the attention, then went a shade of crimson that reminded Arizeal of this morning’s sunrise. She awkwardly nodded.
“The reports are vague.” Daxil continued, ignoring Nuburu’s audible sigh of relief at his interruption. “No one’s filed formal complaints—just mentioned it to the Healers during routine visits.”
“Harvest season can be taxing,” Merra said. “Especially in the agricultural sectors. If the Healers believe it’s urgent, we’ll act accordingly. Since I haven’t heard that, I’m inclined to trust their judgment.”
“Agreed,” Brandtly said. “Unless there’s evidence of something more serious?”
Daxil shook his head. “No. Just typical fatigue symptoms. Missing a few hours here and there, feeling disoriented. Nothing that didn’t resolve with rest.”
“Keep an eye on it,” Arizeal said. “If it becomes a pattern or if anyone reports more severe symptoms, bring it to the Council. But for now, this sounds manageable.”
The Council agreed, and that was it. A footnote. The kind of minor administrative detail every governing body tracked and promptly forgot.
The Monitor remembered.
As the meeting adjourned, Pegrit lingered near his seat. The former Bishop approached Arizeal slowly, his expression thoughtful rather than troubled.
“Keeper. A moment?”
“Of course.”
Pegrit waited until the others had left before speaking. “Those incidents Daxil mentioned. I’ve been hearing whispers. Nothing concrete, nothing I could present to the full Council. But...”
“But what?” Arizeal asked.
“Some of the affected Pawns are veterans. Not all—not even half. There’s just been talk. Confused talk, the kind you’d expect, but one thing keeps coming up.” Pegrit paused, as if weighing whether to continue. “A few of them have mentioned... Kings.”
Arizeal frowned. “What about Kings?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. The reports are secondhand at best. Someone heard from someone else about a veteran who mentioned Kings and crowns. When I try to track it down, to find the actual source...” Pegrit spread his hands. “Nothing. It evaporates. No records in the Scholarium, names that don’t exist, or people who claim they never said anything or dismiss it as a strange dream.”
“Dreams about Kings?”
“Or memories. Or confusion between past and present. I honestly can’t tell. It might be nothing—just stress manifesting as anxiety and dreams about the war. We all have those sometimes.”
Arizeal nodded. He did have those dreams. Not often, but they came. The Lightbringer’s fall. The hills of Sedonia. The fires of Asimata. Chamizal. Faces of friends who didn’t survive. People who trusted him. People he’d failed due to arrogance or pride. It was natural enough that others might be experiencing the same.
“Do you have any names? Anyone I could speak with directly?”
Pegrit shook his head. “That’s the frustrating part. Every lead goes cold, but I’ll keep listening. If it becomes more than whispers, I’ll let you know.”
“Please do. And Pegrit? Try not to worry about it too much. It’s natural that some of us still carry the war in our heads. If talking to someone helps them process it, that’s the Medicis’ charge.”
“You’re probably right.” Pegrit didn’t look entirely convinced, but he let it go. “I’ll see you at the next Council session.”
After Pegrit left, Arizeal sat alone in the chamber for a moment, thinking about whispers and dreams.
In Sector 9, a Pawn named Horas sat alone in his chambers, staring at his hands. He’d lost four hours today. Simply... gone. When he’d come back to himself, his hands had been working on something. Metal. Twisted.
He didn’t want to think about what it looked like.
He looked around his chamber. Everything was normal. Everything was fine.
Why did it feel like a prison?
* * *
Evening found Arizeal walking through the Memorial Grove, as he often did when the day’s responsibilities were done.
The Grove was a sacred space where thousands of Mogwyrth trees stood. The Living Wood. Each tree grew from the remnants of Pawns who’d fallen during the Lightbringer’s war. Every friend and comrade who’d died so this peace could exist was remembered here.
He walked slowly between the trees, his fingers trailing across carved bark, reading names he knew by heart.
Kelris. Seranna. Torvald. Malindr.
His shield-brother’s tree stood near the center of the Grove. Arizeal stopped before it, looking up at the branches that caught the fading light.
“Peace, old friend,” he said softly, as he always did. “This is it. We finally have it. Everything we promised each other. The Garden was rebuilt, not better than before, but good enough for now. Our people are free and thriving. Your sacrifice is remembered.”
The tree rustled in a breeze that Arizeal couldn’t feel.
“I talked about Kings today,” he continued, his voice quiet. “The next generation. Ha! Who would have pegged me for a teacher? I don’t know if I’m failing them most days. Pegrit said something today that made me think of war. Dreams still haunt us. But that’s to be expected, isn’t it? We carry what we’ve seen. We always will.”
He pressed his palm against the carved bark. The small flecks of wood rippled, forming a pattern that looked like a face. “Sometimes I wonder whether we paid too much or not enough for what we have. It’s the questions that haunt me, Malindr. What is the value of life? How much does it cost to earn something like this? Was it worth the sacrifices?”
The sensation of being watched prickled the back of his neck. Arizeal turned, scanning the Grove, but saw nothing. Just trees, shadows, and the last rays of sunlight filtering through the leaves.
“I don’t know, Mal,” he said, turning back to the tree. “Maybe I’m just overthinking things, as I always do. What we built is real. I feel it all around me. Just being here proves it.” He paused. “I just wish I understood why it sometimes feels... incomplete.”
The bark parted in a semblance of a smile. The tree offered no answer. Only the wind through its leaves, a sound like distant voices speaking words he couldn’t quite make out.
Arizeal left the Memorial Grove as darkness settled over the Garden. He walked back toward his chambers, noting that the nylcinth flowers began to glow a vivid lavender, adding a soft light to the Garden’s evening radiance.
Guards on patrol passed him as he crossed into the residential units in District 9, snapping to attention every time he came into view. One of them—a young Pawn named Vess—held the salute a beat too long, his eyes bright with respect. Arizeal acknowledged them with a raised hand and kept walking. The attention still made him uncomfortable.
Everything was fine, as it should be.
At his chambers, Arizeal paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. For just a moment—so brief he almost missed it—he felt a strange sense of déjà vu. As if he’d stood here before, in exactly this position, feeling exactly this mix of contentment and unease. He shook it off and entered. Mind focused on the past.
In Sector 9, Horas woke from another blackout to find the twisted metal in his hands more complete than before.
He threw it across the room and watched it bounce, then settle in the corner.
Tomorrow, he intended to dispose of it. He would visit the Medicis, consult a Healer, and seek treatment for whatever this was. In the end, it would be costly, but what’s the price of your mind? Who knows? Maybe they could even help him figure out how many hours he had lost this time.
Tomorrow.
