Marble walls. Granite floor. Chinese porcelain tableware. Crystal glasses. Platinum cutlery. A wooden table made from trees now extinct on Earth, with a silk tablecloth on top. Six-foot panels with Victorian-style frames offer a glimpse of outer space, dark and deep, dotted with lights, and with the arc of a blue planet on one side. Beyond the Cydonia, other ships and space colonies are seen blurred by distances.

Three double doors remain open to a vast hall of revolving platforms, where couples dance to the rhythm of the orchestra's waltz. The servants serve the banquet and disappear unseen and unheard. The orchestra ceases. The host sounds a bell and signals the beginning of dinner.

Chester takes his place at his designated seat. He is dressed in a pristine white suit with borders woven by gold-plated threads. His right hand is gloved in white. His cufflinks are genuine sapphires. He wears light blue shoes and a bow tie of the same color. In his pocket a red silk handkerchief, destined only to shine. Bad if she touched it, because she wasn't even allowed to blow her nose. Nor was she allowed to comb her hair to her liking, that is to say, not to comb it at all. His wild mane is flattened to one side, tamed by fashionable lotions and many hours of work by the earthly maids. If a single strand jumps out of place, they would be punished with pain, cold, hunger, or all three combined.

With his mouth turned into a grimace, he twirls the engagement ring on his left ring finger. He's sure it will break out in a rash and fall off from the base of his hand. Beyond his discomfort, he looks flawless. He is a sample of the cream of the aristocracy, like his brothers, cousins, and uncles, present at the long table. Avatars of vanity. Muskitas. Princes of heaven. Blue lions and golden kings. Lancaster. One of the eleven great houses of the Principality of Elon. They gather to celebrate the engagement between two of their members, who, as tradition dictates, share blood ties.

Ermengarde, as a good fiancée, occupies the seat to his left. She gives Chester sporadic glances and fake smiles, although she is more focused on chatting with the other cousins, or making eyes at Dorian, the first-born son of the leader of the caste. Dorian, on the other side of the long table, reciprocates those furtive gestures with half-smiles of a bird of prey. Chester notices, but if it were up to him, let them stop half-heartedly, fornicate over fondue, and make it a threesome by adding the turkey.

With one finger he stretches his bun to catch his breath. The toe of his foot does not stop drumming. His eyes search for any mildly interesting sight to distract him from the increasingly pompous and ass-kissing toasts. He glances at the Lancaster coat of arms: a silver shield with a base of waves in a golden dawn, flanked by the blue lions that give the family members their nickname (Along with the distinctive hair color, like all respectable lineage). It occurs to him that the coat of arms would look better with a pair of flame decals.

Chester turns from the crest and now gazes at his mother, who raises a glass and smiles in his favor, wearing that wide cream swirled gown that gives her the cloying appearance of a cake. The swordsman had not seen pride in his mother's countenance for years, and he cannot think of how to react. Instead he glances at his father, the man who takes his rightful place at the head of the table. The commanding Lancaster looks back at him with a half-smile that cries victory in that peculiar bilateral battle to see who succumbs. If the father by accepting such a rebellious son, or Chester becoming another noble soldier who lives for and for the glory of a greater goal: Divine War. Hail Principality of Elon!

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Combed and perfumed, participating in that festival of vanities, where it is hard to see the slaps or the daggers coming, and almost married to a woman he neither knows nor desires? Chester questions to himself: Is this me? He blinks his eyes wide-eyed after facing his reflection on the surface of the wine. Where are his oaths? His freedom? His way of being?

(Uncle, how much I wish you were here.... Uncle, really, how I miss you!)

A sharp, sweet voice calls out to him. He looks back and finds his little brother, Simon, dressed in his best clothes, holding a sheathed katana in his little hands. Simon was the only one there who seemed to look at him with curious and honest eyes, and behind that childish look there was real appreciation. Chester, for the first time since arriving at his engagement party, smiles. He takes the sword in one hand, and with the other hand, he tidies his brother's hair in a caress. She thanks him for bringing it to her, just as he asked. He wanted to tell Simon so many things, to advise him on the kind of man he has to be, and also to apologize beforehand. But speed was of the essence...

With one leap he is left on the table. The dining room is infected with silence and uneasiness. All eyes fall on him. It is like standing over a heart that is afraid to beat again. But Chester runs and forces it to beat.

He breaks the porcelain. He kicks and turns delicacies into dirt spilled on the faces and clothes of the nobles. His father's stern and reproachful countenance is closer every second. His mother screams for him to stop. Several pairs of hands seek to restrain him, but he kicks them away. He hits one especially hard on Dorian, breaking a wrist. He is two steps away from the target. As soon as his father's face turns from anger to surprise, and from surprise to eyes tinged with shock, Chester draws.

Julius, his uncle and mentor, once told him that the Japanese don't buy the whole slashing-people-through-people thing. If you hit a man with a katana and don't make an effort to stop the blade, it will probably get stuck in the skeleton, and you'll find yourself there, in the middle of the battlefield, with one foot on your late enemy's face, pulling to free it, while his brother-in-arms lunges at you from the side or behind. That's why Julius always advised to stop the sword completely, right after impact, killing without excess, and then pull it out and look for another opponent.

But Chester on that day of presumed celebration, was more unruly than usual.

The head falls to one side and the body to the other. Shouting ensues. Someone calls the guards. His mother stares wild-eyed at the red fountain her husband has become. Chester remains frozen in the pose with the blade outstretched, wielding a bestial smile, and invaded by a freedom that intoxicates.

He opens his eyes. The dream of memory ends, replaced by the mouth of the ledge. Red hills, leafless bushes, and a sunrise baking on a wide horizon. The world reeks of earth and steam, and sounds desolate, naked of destiny. Chester takes a deep breath, satisfied with the rough sensation the air leaves as it passes through his nose and throat. Then he looks to the back of the den, and unconsciously draws an entertained smile at the sight of Nadjela sleeping next to her pet. The feeling raises an uncomfortable question in his mind. He wonders if he will be able to protect her, or if it would be his turn to avenge her. What makes him bitter is that the second would be easier and more liberating.