Hours passed by in a blur, the sun and moon gazing sorrowfully at the empty wasteland I, and the rest of the survivors, used to call home. Those whose minds weren't bogged down by sorrow had made tents and food. At night, we tried to make a feast, to lighten the mood, but it didn't help. Greith and a few others from my apartment had survived by jumping out of a window. Somehow, they survived the fall, and had managed to fight their way into our group. We were both empty inside and didn't bother talking to each other or trying to lighten the mood. The next day, when the sun towered above us, [Planar Doorway]s sprang up where we'd set up camp.

Armed imperial troopers marched out of each one, wearing uniforms and carrying military standard staffs. They wore cloaks with imperial regalia, seemingly frail and light in the dejected breeze. My eyes perked up, but I didn't feel it in my heart. Those cloaks had enchantments that could stop a Magic Missile in its tracks, keep someone warm in a blizzard, and cool in a volcano. They were the epitome of the genius and might of the many artificers of the Empire, people who could weave magic into the very fabric of existence. How the Republic could fight against the Empire was beyond me.

My mind spun up theories on how the enchantments worked, but I wasn't really in it. I wasn't really into any of this. Looking around, I saw that no one else was really caring about what was happening, lost in their own sorrows. Why wouldn't they be sad, I thought, they lost friends and family. In that one day, the whole city lost something. We were shuffled through the portals and into a large courtyard. From there, we were separated into different groups over and over again, until we were each alone.

The rest of the day passed by in a hazy blur, being shuffled in and out of different rooms, answering questions.

In one room, someone asked, "What did you see regarding the incident?"

Another asked, "Where were you at the time of incident?"

It was only ever referred to as "the incident", not "the slaughter", not "the massacre", just "the incident".

I talked to these people a few hours apart, each person different from the last, but every single one was forgettable, or maybe I just forgot them. My mind was fuzzy throughout the whole day. I could do magic again, but I couldn't muster the will to make a change.

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Whenever I wasn't answering questions, I was in a lobby-like room. Maybe a waiting room would be better. It felt cold and blank. It was warm, like a sunny day, in the room, but the room just, felt cold.

One of the core principles of magic is that you can't do magic with a head full of thoughts. Because I didn't want to be crippled, I spend a few hours by myself in the waiting room. I sat down on a soft comfy couch, head in my hands, and spent a moment with my thoughts.

What good would magic do? I asked myself, it can't bring back the dead, and it can't... wait. I sprang up, bursting with anticipation. Ok. What do I know? I know that magic is the changing and shaping of the fabric of the universe to my will. What else do I know? I also know that seals can be used to cast magic faster and with less effort. What is the problem? I, and lots of other people from my city, don't have any resources and we lost friends. What can we do from our information? We can use magic to regain the resources, and potentially regain livelihoods. How can we apply it to death? Suddenly an idea struck me. If magic was just changing the environment, what if someone used magic to get someone close to them back to, well, here. Like, make them reborn. But do I want to become this sort of person? I shuddered. In literature, we'd read books from before the Change, before magic was known to everyone. There, these people were known as nekramaserz, probably. In every single situation, these beings were always evil monsters.

Suddenly, someone knocked at the door. "Come in," I said. I felt better, for some reason. A tall, gangly sort of man walked into the room. He was short and thin, with long arms.

As if tasting the words about to come out of his mouth, he shifted his jaw, before saying, "The Empire is willing to compensate you 48 cret in exchange for your silence in this matter." He spoke in a deep, baritone voice, a stark contrast from his appearance. "You will receive another 150 cret to compensate you for the loss of your livelihoods. We recommend that you contact your insurance. If you have any problems, please contact the Office of Civilian Council." Abruptly, he stopped, turned around, and walked out, almost marching.

A few hours later, full of thinking, planning, mulling over, and being questions by dozens of people, I walked out of a building and into the fresh, cold, winter air, my pocket 48 cret heavier and the beginnings of a plan in my mind. I would not be stopped by words, mess-ups, fights, or even a... My breathing hitched when I thought of... the violence. I would not be stopped by anything. I didn't know what my goal in life was, but I would live a comfortable life, somewhere.

It shouldn't be too hard, I thought. The Empire is incredibly prosperous, so I should find a job easily. Nevermind that I never left the city I was born in, I would live a peaceful life.

Oh, how naive I was.