“One’s inner Flame is not measured by how they treat their kin, their friends, their church or their countrymen. Rather, one’s Flame truly shines or extinguishes in how they treat their worst enemies once they are at the Child of Light’s mercy.”

-From “The Book of the Holy Flame”, Proverbs of Lady Fakona

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His feet were bleeding. The timberwolf hadn’t noticed it until stepping on the broken wheat stalks littering the moist earth like caltrops elicited a muffled moist slap, like a body collapsing in a muddy trench.

His trained ear picked out a sound from among the faint rustle of wind blowing through grass and the tired, yet steady march of his comrades: a faint flapping.

Looking up, he saw it. Unlike their wartime counterparts, Osnyan police dragons had lamp backs to be easily visible during nighttime to civilians on the ground or low-flying aircraft. Yet he’d have spotted it without that aid anyway.

“Dragon!” He almost shouted, diving on the ground, his two companions doing the same. The logical part of his brain knew that police dragons were muzzled to avoid immense collateral damage should an outlaw or civilian spook it, yet even so, he expected the feel the infernal heat or hear the screams of his comrades burning to death any second…

Neither came, and the dragon flapped away, its lamps making it look little more than a distant firefly upon the mauve-blue canopy of the night sky. 

        “It’s passed,” He sighed in relief. His companions did the same.

Getting up, he laid the heavy knapsack down, cans and boxes and tools clattering. He lifted his injured foot and looked down on it, the moon’s Radiance lighting it into full clarity. His leftmost pawpad was split open, blood flowing freely across to stain his dirty white fur. Dirt, sharp pebbles, pulped grain and a few tiny critters coalesced and pulsed into the open wound like miniature ships in a crimson ocean. He sat down on spiky stalks and began brushing the muck out. He winced as the numbed pain made itself known again, stinging and insistent. A puckered piece of dark skin dangled off his padding.

A million years ago, his feral ancestors could have walked barefoot across such terrain easily. Yet with civilization, with padded city streets and cleared dirt roads largely taking the place of wild, hostile terrain, evolution had seen fit to devolve instead. It was perhaps a sin, yet in that moment, Ofred envied his distant ancestors. Civilization was dominant and that wouldn’t change, but primitivism and savagery still had their uses.

The Osnyans understood that. That’s perhaps why they won the bloody war and why he and his comrades were here now.

        Alongside him, seeing their officer taking a breather, Sigri and Korbuk fell alongside him. Korbuk’s chest rose and fell with the big rottweiler’s labored breathing, yet other than that, he showed no signs of fatigue. He wasn’t even sticking his tongue out like his brethren usually did when exhausted.

        Sigri, however, collapsed. The small deer shivered and coughed into a dirty rag. Fresh crimson-coated sputum joined the old dried blood which had turned the once pure white handkerchief his mother gave him upon conscription into a dark gray and red piece of muck.

        Two jagged stubs protruded from his small, oblong skull. Prisoners were not allowed anything that could be used as a weapon, and that included claws, horns or antlers.

        Ofred rubbed Sigri’s bony shoulder, cringing as he felt the swollen relief of the lashes he’d received this morning for passing out during last night’s labor. The swamp-gray uniform he’d received two years ago felt two sizes too large now.

        “Stand up straight, soldier.” Ofred said firmly, yet comfortingly.

        The young herbivore’s flat teeth were chattering. “G-guh h-hum…”

        “What?”

        “I… I w-wa” The deer’s glazed eyes streamed as he was racked by another coughing fit. A glob of foamy blood and mucus dribbled from his quivering maw. “I wanna go home…” He said. Ofred felt ice stab into his heart. “M-my father… h-he was-, is, a stonemason. It’s how he escaped conscription. But I joined to spare my family the shame of having no members fight for the Eclipse.” He went on.

        “When we’re released, I’ll join him. The country needs rebuilding. And as harsh as the barbarians have treated us, I learned a thing or two about laying bricks, at least. We’ll rebuild the Empire. We’ll give people jobs…” He looked up at his NCO. “Do you think he’s still alive sir?” He asked. As if his old man’s fate rested singularly upon Ofred’s opinion.

        “Yes,” Ofred said, hoping he sounded surer than he felt. “But we have to keep moving. You saw what happens when you keep the light barbarians waiting. Just a little further.”

        “The Moon’s beautiful tonight.” Korbuk finally piped up. Ofred looked up. It was indeed. It was a cloudless night, and the small town nearby still ran mostly on gaslight, leaving the Radiance to bask upon them in its full splendor.

        It had been a hot day, the sun beating mercilessly upon them as they rebuilt the road. The Osnyans didn’t just want it repaired after it had been mercilessly shelled by both sides, they wished to transform it into a true modern highway for the neoteric automobiles; a luxury for the rich before the War, an increasingly ubiquitous commodity now. Therefore, they had to painstakingly rip out the ancient paving stones, then widen the road, and only then could they start the assiduous process of pouring gravel, cement and sand.

        The highway was to be finished within the year. Normally an impossible task. Not, however, when you have thousands of POWs at your disposal for whom labor rights and the ten-hour work day are nothing but a distant dream of home. At least they weren’t clearing minefields anymore…

        And after a day of backbreaking work beneath the merciless sun, seeing the Moon in its full splendor, not through a boarded up grimy window, was a blessing he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed.

        “May all those scorched by the Sun’s burning rays find solace in the Moon’s gentle Radiance.”

        Ofred took the chance to mutter a prayer to Kirous, wishing all his fallen comrades a good, honorable spot in the Pale, ready to take up arms again upon The Great Eclipse, whether it was the next day or a millennia later.

        “Let’s go.” Ofred said, getting up and suppressing a wince. He thought of maybe looking in the knapsack for rags to dress his and his comrades’ wounds. A medkit was among the supplies they were to deliver, surely they wouldn’t miss a few strips of bandages. But no. He wouldn’t give the bastards any reason to punish them.

        Their previous captain had been honorable. An old wolf named Hettor. He was as devout a Fakonan as any of the barbarians of this land, yet he allowed the Lunist prisoners to observe their faith’s holidays and allowed them days off for the more important ones, even when doing so delayed a project. He was still harsh with the prisoners, but fair. His punishments had been to keep them in line and remind them of their place, which while Ofred didn’t approve of, he at least understood.

        Captain Odium, however, punished because he could. The massive bear took great glee in coming up with new ways of retribution upon his detainees. And furthermore, when he replaced the previous captain, he dismissed most of the current guards and supplemented them with his own brutes. Whatever familiarity and strange sort of friendship the prisoners had with their captors evaporated. He’d only led the POW camp for two months, yet already dozens of his comrades had perished of non-natural causes under his regime. Sending three convicts barefoot across a freshly plowed field to deliver goods that a five-minute automobile ride would have solved was just his newest invention.

        Ofred spat as he got up. Sigri leaned on Korbuk to stand up and struggled with his load. He grunted, yet his enfeebled limbs barely budged the heavy sack. Korbuk picked it up and slung it over his free shoulder, the big rottweiler leaning down to also help Sigri walk. The deer attempted to mutter a thank you, yet all that came out was another consumptive coughing fit.

        They walked for another ten minutes, when they saw two tiny flashes of light on the road ahead. Focusing his night-acclimated vision, Ofred saw they were the headlamps of bicycles. Doubtlessly the guards to whom they were supposed to deliver the goods.

        “We’re almost there! Come on.” Ofred encouraged, picking up the pace in spite of the agony in his soles.

        “C-can’t we rest a little more?” Sigri muttered, more asleep than conscious, coughing slowly as if he’d grown utterly disgusted of the act.

        “Come on, boy. When we get back to the camp, I’ll give you a nice bottle of lemonade.” Instantly, the deer’s eyes went wide. It was surprise rather than hope. The poor boy had probably forgotten what lemonade tasted like by now. Ofred smiled to mask the tears welling in his eyes. “That’s right. A guard’s canestilio got tangled in some barbed wire. I helped him out of it. In return, the boy gave me a bottle of lemonade to refresh ourselves on a special occasion. It’s still under the floorboards in our dorm. I was meaning to save it for a special occassion, but by Kirous, I’ll let you drink it all.”

        The promise of the refreshing drink had much the same effect as promising an unruly child ice cream. The trio walked on towards the two soldiers. Electric torches shone upon them and they shielded their darkness-adjusted eyes.

        “Do you have the goods?” One of them asked roughly.

        “Yes, sir, we do.” Ofred said in heavily accented Osnyan, showing his sack.

        “Good. Put it on your back again.”

        Ofred frowned. Didn’t they want the supplies? What game was this? Then again, this whole thing had been only a humiliation run from the beginning. Maybe they would now be made to carry it all the way back. He felt the urge to pick up a rock and throw it at the bastards. Yet, like so many times before, he resisted and did as he was told.

        The moment he did so, the guards unslung their rifles and took aim. Ofred’s mouth went slack, unable to comprehend what was going on. A question, or a plea, he wasn’t sure which, itched in his throat, yet his tongue refused to work.

        One of the rifles cracked, a blinding flash momentarily lighting the plowed field around them into perfect clarity. The bullet hit Sigri in his thin neck. He fell into Korbuk’s arms, frothy blood and sputum flowing down his too large uniform. His eyes spoke nothing of shock or grief or disappointment. He knew in the clarity of death that now he would meet his father once again.

        Korbuk looked down at the dying young man in his arms. He turned towards the killers, eyes blazing with rage. With a great roaring bark, he charged at them in blind ferocity. The other soldier’s aim was true, tearing through the dog’s skull.

        Olfred looked at the bodies of his comrades. Alongside grief, he felt relief. They were in Kirous’s arms now, to honorably join his Great Army in the Pale, no longer to suffer the cruel humiliations of capture.

        He looked at the two soldiers, their rifles trained on his chest. He looked up towards the Moon and the Stars, basking in their Radiance. He felt the cool night breeze upon his fur and sunburnt skin below. Eight years of war flashed before his eyes, victory and defeat, triumph and terror, followed by two years of capture. It was all over now.

        He closed his eyes and smiled, spreading his arms and puffing his chest as if to present a greater target.

        Then, he knew no more.

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        “So, you found them like this?” Constable-Sergeant Tyras Maloko looked over the three bodies. Their identity was no great mystery. They wore the faded ashen uniforms of the former combatants of the Eclipse Empire. A stark contrast from the dignified white shirts and pantaloons, together with a gray or dark green stealth cape that they had fought most of the War in.

        “Yes, sir. I was doing my first patrol of the day, when suddenly I noticed a murder of crows circling over the field.” The first officer on scene, Ionno, a young mule who was nearly as thin as the wheat stalks around him said. “One or two crows, that’s a dead hog-bun or ratwolf. Three or four, it’s a poor farmer’s canestilio. Anything more, it’s either an equi, or people. This many, I knew that not only was it the latter, it was multiple.”

        “Good thinking.” The Sergeant, a white-furred steppe lion, said, standing up to his full eight feet of height. One deep brown left eye and an eyepatch regarded the poor devils.

        “My guess is, they were trying to escape and an army patrol got them.” The mule said. “Or a few farmers with rifles who decided that stopping the heathens from escaping was their civic duty.”

        “No, it was clearly military men.” Tyras said, scratching absentmindedly at his eyepatch. It was large, yet even so, a faint bit of angry red scarring flowed below it, like blood streaming from a corpse covered in tarp.

        “What makes you so sure, sir?” Ionno asked.

        The one-eyed lion moved away from the corpses and onto the road. He bent down and picked up one of the four shell casings shimmering in the dirt.

        “I assume you know what this is?” He asked. The country constable shrugged.

        “It looks like a rifle shell casing, sir.”

        “Very good. What kind of rifle?”

        “I dunno… a hunting rifle?”

        Tyras sighed.

        “This is the shell casing of an 8mm Maskon round, as are all the others. Which as I’m sure you know, is the standard issue rifle caliber of the Osnyan Defense Legion. While it is still a popular big game hunting cartridge, there isn’t much big game around these parts. If these men had been killed by armed locals, a varmint rifle, shotgun or revolver would have been the most likely culprit.”

        “Oh, of course. Now that you mention it, the locals don’t really carry guns casually. Marauder attacks haven’t been a threat around these parts since before the War.” The country conner said.

        “There’s also the fact that four shots were fired for four hits. No shots were wasted. One man was shot in the neck, another in the head, the last twice in the chest. This speaks of not only good marksmanship, but of efficiency under pressure.” Tyras went back to the bodies. He looked down at the deer, his paws clenched around his thin neck. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen. Which meant that he was seventeen at the oldest when he’d enlisted, assuming he did so in the war’s closing months. His eyes were still open, mouth half agape as if in an eternal question. Tyras reached down and closed his eyes.

        “Any idea why they don’t have shoes?” Tyras asked, looking at the victims’ bloodied feet. Ionno smirked.

        “A couple a’ months ago, the labor camp got a new administrator: Captain Odium. And he’s a lot less merciful than his predecessor. One of the first things he did is take away the heathens’ shoes, only giving them during labor. That way, they ain’t tempted to run off.”

        “And you think that’s funny?”

        Ionno spat.

        “I think it’s fuckin’ hilarious, sir. Me Ma fought the lightless bastards for three years, then she was captured. Every day I prayed like a bloody hermit to Lady Fakona to bring her back. Only to find out when the war ended that she was beaten to death in the Lunists’ slave camps for giving some nightened fucker lip. Five years I prayed for her return while she was already dead. So no, I don’t much care if the lot of them are worked to death, shot or burned in the Holy Flame.”

        The mule’s flat teeth grinded, his dark eyes blazed and a vein below his ear pulsed in a way it shouldn’t have for one as young as he. He looked like a sick man on the verge of a fit.

        And it was an all too real sickness. One that ravaged the body and mind, perverting all that is good within. Hate was a poison, yet a persistent and addictive one. He looked at the young man and saw himself not too long ago.

        He’d done horrible in the name of hatred perfidiously disguised as justice. Tyras was glad that the war was over. If it weren’t, that young mule would have lost his soul the same way he had. There was nothing worse than being utterly overtaken and perverted by that demon.

        “Have the camp guards come to reclaim the body?” Tyras asked, glad that there were yet practical questions he could change the subject with.

        “No, sir. But that’s not entirely unusual. When the guards find an escapee, they shoot them if they won’t surrender, then move on to see if there are others. Then they leave the cleanup for daylight. It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

        Tyras looked at the corpses. They were very closely bunched together, much like a patrol at a casual march. Had they attempted to flee, they’d have likely split up to confuse chasers. He doubted the guards who caught the escapees gave them a chance to surrrender, yet that was nearly impossible to prove.

On the other side of the road, Tyras noticed a small mound of dirt. It was recent and hastily dug with the heel of a boot.

He held his breath, focusing his Forte. He drew upon only enough power to see through it. He didn’t bother expending energy to look out his missing left eye, as there was no need. Buried only a few inches deep was a large pile of spent cigarettes.

“See anything, sir?” Ionno asked.

“No. Just looking.” Tyras said, dropping his Forte. His power was no huge secret, yet he preferred keeping it on a need to know basis. A lot of people didn’t trust Forted, especially those who could see through walls.

        Just then, the rumble of an engine and tires crunching gravel made the two constables turn. It was an open-top olive-green army automobile. Two puma soldiers occupied the front sofa, while the entirety of the rear was taken up by a massive bear captain.

        The vehicle stopped and the driver exited and held the door open for his captain. The black bear stepped outside, the car’s suspension whining and groaning like a laborer finally relieved of a substantial burden. His perfectly pristine forest-green uniform seemed to struggle to contain an ever-increasing paunch. Over his shoulder he held a stick not unlike that of the Centurions of old. Judging by the wear on its brass boss, it saw frequent use in its traditionally brutish role, though Tyras doubted that it was to discipline his own troops.

        “Ah, I beg your pardon, Constables,” He began in a surprisingly silky voice. “My men are utterly inconsiderate of the beauty of the countryside and they drop their litter everywhere.”

As he walked, Tyras noted that the bear’s gait was a little off.

        Focusing his Forte just a little, he saw through the ankles of the captain’s trousers and confirmed his suspicions: The bear’s ankles were an amalgamation of brass tubes, rubber baffles and gears. The prosthetics were top of the line, mimicking a natural leg’s movement to the point that it was possible to walk without a cane (though that was still recommended; the Captain ignored that advice to make a point)

        “My name is Captain Nerva Odium. You are the new transfer in the Constabulary, I trust?” He extended his massive paw. Shaking his hand felt much like placing one’s paw in a grape crusher.

        “Indeed I am,” Tyras said, resisting the urge to flex his numbed hand. “Sergeant Tyras Maloko, at your service, sir.”

        “I am correct in assuming from your bearing as well as your injury that you are a fellow veteran?”

        “Correct, sir. I was honorably discharged with the rank of Lieutenant, 15th Scout Raiders.” Captain Odium’s stone-colored eyes widened and he whistled lowly.

        “You were a Raider!? Oh, please accept my invitation for dinner tonight! You must have so many stories to share! Sent those fucking moon-humpers packing, eh?”

        Tyras shrugged. “We did our duty, same as any other soldiers of the Light. Our much lauded trench raids and urban engagements wouldn’t have been possible without the bravery and sacrifice of the regular infantryman keeping pressure on enemy lines.”

        “Of course, of course,” Odium chuckled in almost childlike fashion. “Tyras Maloko… Oh, I believe I have heard of you! We have your actions against Marauders to thank for their raids practically being a non-issue.

Well, sorry to make your first day so… bloody. We had other duties last night, including checking the other nearby fields and forest for escapees. Well, we are here to clean up our mess, no harm, no foul I trust.” The captain gestured to his two soldiers, who removed two stretchers from the car’s trunk.

        “I appreciate the promptitude, sir, but-”

        “Please, call me Nerva, Tyras. We’re both fellow warriors of the Light.”

        “Very well, Nerva. I should first like to finish my investigation here. “

        Nerva burst out laughing, gripping his paunch, which caused him to wobble uncertainly on his artificial legs.

        “I’m sorry, Sergeant, but that hardly seems necessary! I can tell you what happened right now! My men here, Privates Apion and Baciu, were on patrol last night. They spotted the escapees and-“

        “Around what time?” Tyras interjected.

        “At about-“

        “With all due respect, sir, I’d rather they answered.” He looked towards the two pumas. The two soldiers looked taken aback, yet Apion responded quickly.

        “About… one-thirty, I’d say? Two, perhaps? Me and Baciu were doing our bike patrols, when we noticed something shifting in the wheatfield. We shined our lights onto it and noticed the three escapees. We shouted at them to surrender, but they ran towards us. They were relatively close and they perhaps believed that they could close the distance, using our confusion. We did what we had to.” He summed up.

        Tyras nodded. It certainly seemed to line up with the wounds. The three POWs had been shot in the front. And the footprints of the rottweiler prisoner seemed to suggest he’d ran a few steps.

        Tyras walked to the corpses and began rifling through their bags. Cans of food, canteens and twigs for fire clattered on the ground.

        “I heard you take away your prisoners’ shoes when they are not working, correct?”

        “Yes.” Captain Odium said, puffing his considerable chest. “It was my idea. I believe the fact that we’ve had no escape attempts until now proves my policy’s effectiveness.”

        “Yet these men managed to steal food and other supplies.” The constable-sergeant said pointedly.

        Odium frowned. “I don’t see what you are driving at.”

        “I find it difficult to believe that in the same storeroom where they found canned food, firestarter kits and even backpacks, they found not even a few rags to use as footwraps. I’m sure you know as a fellow veteran that there is nothing more important than feet. A soldier who does not take care of their feet cannot move, cannot fight, gets infected, or worse, suffers trenchfoot.” Tyras dug through the many provisions. He retrieved a metallic box, Lady Fakona’s Arrow proudly stamped upon it. Undoing the latch, he took out a roll of gauze, letting it roll over the stalks, coming to a rest against the dead wolf’s bloodied foot.

        The bear shrugged his fat shoulders.

        “I suppose they wanted to put as much distance between them and the camp as they could first.”

        “They wouldn’t have been able to cover much ground at all with bloodied feet.” Tyras pointed out.

        “Well, Lunist soldiers aren’t exactly renowned for their intelligence, are they?” Odium chuckled, prompting an exaggerated laugh from his two underlings.

        “Yes, we were kept in a chokehold for five years by an army of dimwits.” Tyras didn’t say.

        Osnyan soldiers and officers did not lack brains any more than their Eclipsian counterparts in Tyras’s experience, yet the Legion treated them as if they did. Most of High Command viewed soldiers as uneducated plebians who needed to be told exactly what to do and not allowed to step outside of those parameters.

        One of the main reasons the Eclipse Empire had done so well in the first few years of the war was the trust and autonomy they extended to their lower ranking officers and even privates. They were given their objectives, but how they achieved said objectives was largely up to them. Taking initiative was encouraged and rewarded. And their officers were promoted based on merit, not seniority or social standing. Meanwhile, the Osnyan Legion was incredibly rigid in its rank structure and the way soldiers and NCOs were expected to follow orders and plans to the letter. It wasn’t until they revamped their command structure two years into the war to more resemble that of their enemies that things began to gradually improve.

        “Very well. I don’t think there’s much more we can do here.” Tyras said.

        “Good.” Nerva said. “I don’t think either of us want to waste more time on these pukes than we need to. Their bodies will be shipped back to what’s left of their blighted empire. I’d just have them thrown in a mass grave, but our Grand Ektore-“

        “No.” Tyras replied flatly as he retrieved a cigarette. He didn’t offer the captain one.

        The bear’s beady eyes narrowed.

        “I beg your pardon?”

        “In case I was not clear enough, ‘no’. Procedure as per the Grand Ektore’s Order 337 states that in the event of prisoner of war fatalities, their remains are to be sent to the nearest morgue to determine the cause of death.”

        Odium chuckled that same child-like chitter, yet it possessed an underside of malice. Like said child was a bully about to torment a weaker schoolboy.

        “I… don’t see why that’s necessary, Sergeant,” The Captain put emphasis on the inferior rank of the policeman before him, taking a careful metallic step forward, gears and joints creaking under the weight. The bear loomed over the shorter, slighter feline. “It seems quite cut and dry to me. Do you suspect me or my men of anything?”

        “I have only known you for five minutes, sir.” Tyras replied evenly, puffing smoke to his side. “I reserve any judgment before I acquire data, of which I have little of regarding you or your men, save a certain reputation for harshness towards our prisoners. I do not act without facts, which is what I am attempting to achieve now.”

        “The facts are the following, Maloko,” The bear said in that same silky voice that belonged rather to a mild mannered functionary. “My men saw three Lunist scum attempting to run away and did what they had to in order to protect our people from them. End of story.”

        “I understand your desire to trust your men, sir. I trust them as well, yet trust is an emotion. Emotion has no place in an investigation. And I am afraid it has to be thorough, regardless of my gut feelings about it. Because if my report is considered unsatisfactory… it may become a matter for the Vine Canes.”

        Nerva Odium’s tiny eyes suddenly left their hiding place of fur and fat as they widened for half a second. The two puma soldiers’ mouths were agape, both in fear and in shock that this conner dared threaten them with such a force.

         In the end, the bear forced a smile, showing fangs and flat teeth, half of which were fakes of porcelain or gold.

         “Very, well, Sergeant… I hope I am correct in assuming you’d wish to avoid having those bloodhounds down here as much as I… for both our sakes.” That voice like a flowing river seemed to turn into running rapids.   

         He signaled his men and the two pumas replaced the stretchers into the car’s trunk.

         “You can handle the bodies yourself, I trust.” Odium said acidly, getting back in the car, the two soldiers doing the same. The car once again groaned and strained beneath the load of the obese bear like an over-encumbered dragon struggling to take off.

The car drove off, rather deliberately leaving behind a dust cloud which almost reached the two officers.

         “Sir,” Ionno piped up for the first time since the soldiers arrived. “I’m sorry to say, but I agree with the Captain. Why are you bothering with this? It seems as cut and dry a case as they come. And to be perfectly honest, those wretches are hardly worth our time.”

         Tyras sighed.

         “Constable, I understand your reprehension towards our former enemies. Believe me, I do. But the war is in the past. And regardless of our feelings towards them or the crimes they committed in these lands, the Grand Ektore has promised their safety during their capture. We-” The veteran stopped as he looked at the sky.

         A couple hundred meters above glided a medium-sized gray dragon, a Venfalx judging by the protruding spikes from its tail. The bottom of its saddle was draped in a navy-blue flag portraying a five-pointed star within a laurel crown; the symbol of the Royal Osnyan Constabulary.

         Ionno grinned and waved. Despite the distance, the rider waved back, his hand like a beetle’s limb extending from its fat body.

         “Say hello to Senior Constable Thisos and Rocky.” The mule said with pride. “They’re our daytime air surveillance unit. Recently, we were sent a second dragon, which allows us round the clock air coverage! It seemed like a worthy precaution, given the POW camp and all, and there’s always the chance the Marauders will grow bold again.”

         Tyras nodded in approval. With the advent of airships and fighter aircraft during the Burning Steel War, dragons had lost their millennia-long supremacy over the skies. However, what they were still unmatched at was aerial reconnaissance. They could take off or land virtually anywhere and there was no engine noise to speak of. This also made them an invaluable tool of law enforcement.

         Tyras stared at the noble creature flapping over the golden wheat fields and the stone bridge still crumbled from shelling two years ago. He longed for the skies, remembering Mudstroke. He thought of the times he flew her outside of combat to deliver messages or perform reconnaissance, just the two of them high in the sky, the canopy of fluffy white clouds a curtain concealing the devastation his country was going through.

         He tried not to think of the times they’d gone into combat. Of the young men screaming as her flame melted their flesh. Of her choked death rattle…

         “Who’s your night air recon unit?”

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“Salmon…”

         She was awake. Constable Yllarion Macro could tell by the slight draft of warm air around his left hand, close to where Salmon’s nostrils were. Even when breathing slowly, a dragon’s prodigious lungs were hungry for air.

         The sinewy snow cheetah had cycled back as fast as the old cycle the constabulary had supplied him with was capable of. Salmon had woken up screaming again. One of the other conners came running into the inn as he was having lunch and told him, yet he was already hurriedly leaving: he’d heard her from across the village.

         “Hey… come on, old girl, don’t give me the cold shoulder.” Yllarion bent down and rubbed the dragoness’s pink scaly neck. He felt her muscles tense, yet they relaxed the next moment at the familiar touch of his paws.

         Evidence of the dragon’s fitful sleep lay in the hay bed that now lay scattered all over the roomy stables. Four fresh parallel gouges now marked the stone wall. Though he hadn’t noticed them first among the veritable tapestry of scratches that accompanied it. There were more claw marks than wall at this point.

         Salmon opened her eyes yet didn’t look at him. Her fiery orange orbs were glassy and half-lidded, looking down at the hay-covered dirt. He said nothing, only continued slowly rubbing her neck.

         What could he say that he hadn’t said before? “It’s not your fault, it’s in the past now, you did what you had to in order to achieve us victory, you were only following orders”, everything that the Legion head doctor (psycho-ther-something they were called) had told him, for the same mixed results.

         As a former soldier, and especially dragon rider, he knew exactly what she was going through. He too had woken up screaming that morning. His wife had been cooking poached eggs and fried bacon when she rushed into their bedroom, kitchen knife clutched in terror in fear of a burglar. As a result, the bacon was slightly overcooked, the smell of charred meat filling the house. Of searing fat. Fat that popped and flowed down the screaming faces of young men…

         He decided to skip breakfast.

         He’d once told an airplane pilot “You plane boys are lucky: you’re not close enough to hear the screams or smell the burning flesh.”

         He didn’t know much about Salmon’s service in the Legionary Air Cavalry. What he did know, however, was that she’d taken part in the firebombing of Nyko City. That was enough. Hardly a day passed when he didn’t thank the Great Lady that a Lunist sniper had had the courtesy to shoot him in the shoulder just before the raid was ordered. 

         She cooed pathetically and finally dared to look up at him. Yllarion hadn’t been her rider long, going on three months, yet he had already begun to form that preternatural bond with her. Understanding a dragon wasn’t as much about deciphering their growls and croaks as much as it was getting to know each one individually, which took time (unless one was a Druid who could communicate with them directly). It was difficult to describe, yet speaking to a dragon was less like a conversation and more like a direct exchange of emotions. It’s how the best dragon cavalry got to the point of knight and flyer practically predicting each other’s intentions. Scientifically, it was the same way a small combat unit bonded and eventually understood each other like the fingers of a hand. Yet to Yllarion, it was something more.

         Something that even science, with its leaps and bounds, that seemed that someday even in his lifetime may take Bestia Sapiens into the realm of the stars (if the science gazettes were to be believed), yet failed to grasp.

         “Try setting up a game with her when you both have the time,” Yllarion turned around, coming face to face with a one-eyed white lion. The new transfer, certainly. “It will give her something else to focus on.”

         “Sir.” The cheetah clicked his heels and saluted. Tyras returned the gesture.

         “I am sorry I haven’t come over earlier,” The Sergeant said. “I heard of the bodies in the wheatfields and considered that they were a higher priority than a meet and greet.”

         “Oh, no worries, sir. Senior Constable Yllarion Macro, at your service.” Both men exchanged a handshake.

         “She’s beautiful,” Tyras nodded towards Salmon. “Takes quite a bit of grooming to get the scales such shine. Good thing, too. That hue is rare amongst Venfalx dragons.”

         “Thank you, sir.” Yllarion looked embarrassed, as if he were responsible for his dragon’s state of mind.

         “Just do what I said and she will be back to her own self in no time. If not… I suggest putting in a request for a Druid to see about treating her.” Tyras took out a cigarette and offered his subordinate one as well, which was accepted.

         It was recommended for dragon riders to smoke around their mounts when possible. It seemed that dragons seeing their riders breathing out smoke strengthened their bond.

         “You are the nighttime air reconnaissance unit, correct?”

         “Yes, sir. Me and Salmon here start by hovering over the village at around 15 sharp, midnight. Most villagers have already gone to bed by then. It’s mostly to ensure that everyone is safe and there are no n’er-do-wells hanging about. It’s a pretty quiet area, but we did catch a couple of would-be burglars this year. Flew right down and swooped ‘em up!” Constable Macro chuckled, and to his delight, Salmon cocked her head as well and bared her upper teeth, the closest a dragon came to smiling.

         “Afterwards, we go around the other settlements, looking at the roads, paths and forests. This of course, is mostly to look out for escapees from the local POW camp. Then we-“

         “Excuse me,” Tyras interrupted him. “Last night, you performed this exact route, right?”

         “Yes. We sadly missed the escapees last night. We could have probably caught them with no bloodshed.” Yllarion grit his teeth in frustration. Tyras cracked a sympathetic smile. It seemed he wasn’t the only man with a shred of sympathy for their prisoners in these parts after all.

         “Did you see anything at all, however?” Tyras asked. Yllarion thought for a second and shook his head.

         “Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. There isn’t anyone on the roads at those hours save for the odd traveler or army patrols. Last night all I saw were the local guards on their bicycle route. I missed the time they confronted the escapees, sadly.”

         “What is the guards’ usual route?”

         “I’m not quite sure, sir. That’s Legion business. But I have observed their patterns over the last few months.”

         “Pray describe them.”

         “Well… there are two parties, both usually of four to six soldiers. They start before I do, at around 14 in the evening. They cycle together from the POW camp then split up at the junction. One goes through the village and the paths to the East, one through the harvest fields and forest to the West. The latter are obviously the ones who shot the prisoners last night.”

         “And you saw them?”

         “Yes. I saw the West Patrol as Salmon and I took off. They were cycling through the village’s Western exit. We saw the East Patrol later as we finished off our first round. They were-“ Yllarion frowned.

         “Yes?” Tyras pressed him.

         “Huh… there were only two of them.”

         “Only two?”

         “Yes. I never saw that few of them.” The cheetah shrugged. “Oh well. Perhaps the others patrolled ahead?”

         “Perhaps…” Tyras replied. “What were they doing, exactly?”

         “Well… they were taking a break, I suppose.”

         “A break?”

         “Yes. They were on the road across the wheatfield, their bikes leaned against a rock. Actually… I believe that’s where they found the prisoners!”

         Tyras’s mangled right eyebrow cocked ever so slightly.

         “What time did you say this was?”

         “I just happened to be glancing at my watch when I saw them. It was 1 AM, sharp.”

         Tyras stroked his chin. “Are you positive?”

         “Yes. There is no more accurate clock in all of Osnya.” The dragon rider proudly drew back his sleeve, showing a modern wristwatch, the clockface placed above the wrist so the rider could see the time without taking his hands off the reins. 

         The lion’s singular amber eye glinted like brass under moonlight.

         “Now… that is interesting… what were they doing?”

         “As I said, they seemed to be taking a break. They were smoking. I guess they just happened to catch the escapees as they were going through the field. That was lucky, eh?”

         “Damned lucky…” Tyras muttered.

----------------------------------------

         “Put yer fucking back into it, mongrel!” the guard growled, his hand resting on the ax handle stuck to his belt, stroking it like a lover’s thigh.

         Renaud grit his teeth, the wolf swinging his pickaxe into the stubborn gravel once again.

         He looked back at the guard, avoiding his eyes. Looking into a guard’s eyes was inviting a beating. He was a Silerian Tiger, big and bulky like most of his species, yet lacking any definition. He was flabby where he should have been sinewy, his vast paunch looking ready to burst the dirty brass buttons of his uniform. He looked sweatier and more tired than the laboring prisoners, despite the fact that all he’d done was walk here with them.

         The previous guards had been Light Barbarian veterans. While they had initially been as gratuitously cruel as expected, the prisoners and jailers gradually grew to a begrudging understanding of each other.

         These men were not veterans, save for a pawful that Captain Odium did not allow to interact with the prisoners. They likely hadn’t done as little as a push up ever since they left basic training. Tired and malnourished as he was, Renaud was sure he could take down the obese cat with a couple good swings from his pick. Yet he doubted he could get very far. Pathetic wretches the guards may be, they were pathetic wretches with guns. And then he’d also have his comrades’ deaths on his consciousness as well as having died for nothing.

         The wolf’s limbs ached and his back felt like it had been run over by a tank. He hadn’t eaten this morning, a fact that his aching stomach and tired muscles reminded him of with increasing insistence.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

                     Yet he kept at it. He kept at it because he knew that collapsing or giving the barbarians lip would mean his entire group got punished. He kept swinging the rusted pickaxe into the tough rock over and over again in spite of his exhaustion by imagining the guard’s face where he struck. Or better yet, that scorched bastard, Captain Odium.

         Ofred’s death had affected them all. Before, they joked in whispers, maybe even got away with a few muttered Lunist marching songs if the guards were particularly hungover. There was not little as a peep now. Not even the morning prayer, their last connection to their faith and homeland to which they fiercely hung to.

    The highest-ranking officer among them, Ofred had been the closest thing they had to a leader. Someone they could look up to for orders and reassurance in times of strife. Now he was gone. As was Sigri, the child who’d hardly gotten to fight for a few months before their new sad excuse of a Speaker surrendered. And Korbuk, the silent, powerful dog who didn’t give the barbarians the joy of the slightest growl of discontent at which they could lash out at.

         They all had their suspicions, but now it was confirmed: they were being killed off, little by little, one by one. When others turned up dead for “trying to escape”, they rationalized it as true. After all, who wouldn’t want to escape from these slave pens? But not Ofred. Ofred would have stuck with them through the Pale itself, as he had so many times during the War.

         “We’re not interrupting anything! Piss off, conner!” The tiger guard growled. Looking back, Renaud saw a constable, his uniform far more pristine than one usually saw of country conners. He was a steppe lion, tall and lean, his posture suggesting veterancy far more than the flabby excuse of a soldier before him. That was further confirmed by the eyepatch over his scarred right eye. Renaud wished whoever did that a long and healthy life.

         “I just wish to ask a few of the prisoners some routine questions about the men who were shot last night.” The lion’s voice was smooth, almost aristocratic. “I appreciate that you are running on a taut timetable, but-“

         “But nothing! Three light-scorched bastards thought they could outsmart us and escape, they couldn’t! End of story! Go fine some peasant for having a broken wagon axle or some shit!” The guard sneered up at the taller constable, his hand on his stick. The one-eyed cop seemed unimpressed, his paws behind his back, far away from his own weapons.

         “Very well. I shall get out of your fur.”

         The guard grinned.

         “Glad ye could see sense… comrade.” Even though Renaud saw his back, he could feel the triumphant grin. The cop turned to walk away and Renaud felt an unexpected pang of disappointment.

         “Oh, one last question, sir,” The conner stopped in his tracks and the guard grit his teeth in frustration. “Would you like the Legionary Police to come interview you and the guards tonight or tomorrow morning?”

         Tiger-guard’s eyes widened and his mouth went slack. He turned around. “E-excuse me?”

         “Well, since I cannot interview your prisoners,” The white feline began. “I am unable to finish my report. And since I am apparently unqualified for such a task, perhaps my colleagues in the Legionary Police are more adequate. After all, military investigations should be more their expertise.”

         “You… you fucking wouldn’t! You have no power to bring those jackbooted traitors here!”

         “Don’t I?” The lion took a step forward, towering over his paunchy comrade. “The Grand Ektore, blessed be his lineage, has made it quite clear: Anyone who suspects anything amiss in the way our armed forces behave, and this includes the Home Guard, is to report to the Legionary Police Corps. I am no stranger to them. I have had to deal with them plenty as a Scout Raider.”

         In spite of the heat, Renaud was seized by a sudden shiver. That man had been a Scout Raider. A Pugna-Zuras. For only a moment, the Eclipsian veteran was no longer there. He was in a trench, holding back another Osnyan assault. He barely heard the scream to his left over the ravenous bark of the machinegun.

         Four green-clad figures descended upon his comrades, armed with pistols and short swords. Their faces covered in sinister steel masks which left the maw exposed to allow them to bite. In a flash, his comrade’s arm was chopped off. A claw then wrapped itself around his neck.

         A sound like wet paper ripping permeated the constant rattle of gunfire as the Lunist collapsed and the Raider’s green trenchcoat was turned crimson…

When he was back in the real world, Renaud heard his own breathing over the constant, musical clatter and scrape of the picks and shovels. He’d been gripping his pickaxe so hard, his claws began piercing the flesh of his palm.

And as the guard allowed the one-eyed, scarred constable to approach, it was all Renaud could do to not flee or use his tool on the bestial warrior in a desperate attempt at life.

“Good afternoon. I am Constable-Sergeant Tyras Maloko, I am here in regards to the tragic death of your three compatriots last night. If you could tell me your name?”

Renaud blinked. Whatever he’d expected the savage to say, it hadn’t been that. For one thing, he hadn’t expected the man to speak in Alexandrian. Aside from the Osnyan custom of prolonging the ‘a’ and the ‘e’, he spoke the foreign language excellently. His tone was almost aristocratic.

“What the Pale do you care?” Renaud growled. He knew how this worked. Get someone to treat the prisoner with far more clemency than they were accustomed to, which in turn makes the captive lower their guard and share information they otherwise wouldn’t. In such situations, the prisoner is subconsciously in desperate search for friends.

Renaud ought to have known. He’d done it plenty with Osnyan prisoners during the War.

The conner was infuriatingly unphased by the rejection.

“You believe I wish to get you to confess about a future escape attempt or some other conspiracy you and your confederates are cooking up,” Tyras said matter of factly. “I know my word means nothing to you. But I assure you, I have no grounds to believe you are planning anything of the kind.”

“You’re right: we’re not. And neither was Ofred.” Renaud sneered. “I don’t know what it was like in your mob, but in the Eclipse Army, an officer is more than a bigshot barking orders. They led from the front, and their foremost responsibility was the men and women under their command. If there wasn’t enough food, then the officer abstained from eating and sacrificed his portion for another soldier.

And Ofred lived by that. He wouldn’t have abandoned us here in this Pale. And neither would Sigri or Korbuk. If he’d have staged an escape attempt, he’d have made sure we all escaped.” Despite how fatigued he was, standing up to this Pugnazuras filled him with a vigor he hadn’t known since the war. He stood up straight, puffing out his emaciated chest as much as he could.

“I know.” Tyras answered.

Renaud frowned. Part of him was disappointed that he didn’t get the vexed scowl he’d been expecting, but moreso, he was curious what this light barbarian’s game was.

“You… know?”

There is a conspiracy afoot, alright,” Tyras lowered his voice. “But you are not the instigators, but rather the victims.”

Renaud frowned. “What are you-”

“Two months ago, when the leadership changed: three prisoners working in the carpentry shop were beaten to death by the guards. The guards claimed the POWs attacked them with tools, yet they presented no injuries of their own. One month later, another three prisoners were killed. This time shot in the prison’s autopool. They were apparently attempting to hotwire a truck to make their escape. And now, another month, another three prisoners dead.”

Renaud stifled a gasp, feeling a knot in his stomach that had nothing to do with his hunger. He’d figured it out himself, of course. They all had. Yet to hear it spelled out in such perfect clarity, by the enemy no less, made him feel powerless.

It was like Asteracra all over again, where his battalion volunteered to hold back the barbarians as long as they could while the bulk of the army retreated to defend the Motherland.

Outnumbered four to one, with nowhere to retreat to, helplessly watching the specks on the horizon materialize into airships, dragons, tanks and legions of men with a bloodlust fueled by seven years of occupation and a yenning for retribution.

Of course, back then, he’d had a rifle and his brothers in arms. And the Osnyan Centurion that took his unit prisoner extended them quarter. Two luxuries he’d have no part of now.

Why was this man telling him this? Was this just a new way for Odium to torment and mock his prisoners? A real possibility, but it sounded more like a genuine warning than a gloat. As soon as he had a quiet moment with his fellow prisoners, Renaud would inform them. Which would cause unrest, perhaps even a riot later on down the line, which Odium was ill equipped to deal with.

“W-wh-” Renaud’s tongue felt like a brick in his mouth, and he realized distantly that he hadn’t drank today either.

“Why one month? Why three prisoners?” It was a stupid thing to ask. What did it matter? It could have been a month or a year, three prisoners or thirty, what difference did it make? They were being killed off for the crime of fighting on the ‘wrong’ side.

“I cannot be certain for now,” Tyras answered. “But firstly, one month is a good period between crimes. Gives enough time for the incident to die down, especially since sadly, despite the Grand Ektore’s efforts, prisoner of war fatalities are neither uncommon nor much noted. And three is a good number of victims because it’s a larger number than one or two, but not too large that they may think on their feet and overpower or outsmart their executioners. Secondly, killers of habit make a sort of ritual of it. Like you or I have our morning routines. For instance, neither war nor imprisonment has stifled your habit of smoking a cigarette the first thing upon waking up.”

Renaud’s eyes widened.

“By Luna’s Radiance, how did you know?”

“Your breath carries the distinct scent of low quality tobacco. However, your lips are dry and your speech hoarse. You have not had a drink today, and I assume neither a meal. What you did have was a morning cigarette. The fact that in such conditions you put tobacco over your basest needs speaks more of your addiction than the yellowing of your claws or the fur above your mouth.”

“Amazing,” The wolf couldn’t help but mutter. If there were only a hundred others like this lion in the Osnyan Legion, Renaud could see how they won. “What… what can we do?” He didn’t know why he was so quick to trust this man. This enemy. This barbarian who’d used blade, fang and claw to kill his comrades in the most savage of manners.

Yet the lion had come to warn Renaud of the storm. The next three victims may be anyone else, including himself. And if the time before Odium had taught him anything, it was that not all of the Osnyans were savages. Captain Hettor and his men had treated the prisoners fairly. Was it that unbelievable that there were others like him?

“Here’s what I need you to do…” Tyras began.

The tiger guard looked at his old watch, harrumphing in discontent. “ ‘Ey! What the fuck is taking so long? He needs to get back to work!” he barked at the conner interviewing the prisoner. He frowned. Their conversation looked less like an interview and more like a back and forth. In fact, the conner seemed to speak more than the interviewee. And why had he chosen to interview that one prisoner alone?

“We are done, sir. Apologies for any delays I have caused.” Tyras nodded at Renaud and set off.

“Wait!” The Lunist shouted. Tyras turned back.

“What were you?” Renaud asked. He knew what he meant. Every soldier did, regardless of flag.

Tyras remained silent. His one amber eye looked forward to nothing in particular while he adjusted his eyepatch. He cracked a sad smile of longing.

“My family and I were a traveling stage troupe. I was a tenor.”

Renaud nodded. He faintly remembered what opera was like. “Beautiful yelling” his old man had called it. He’d heard it over an old gramophone back home once. There was beauty and passion in the “yells” that not even the rusted interference of the instrument could hide. He’d bought tickets for a show as a surprise for his fiance. He’d have proposed to her there and then… with the very ring that he’d made himself… then the war began. And his sense of duty overcame passion.

Where was she now, he wondered? Had she survived?

“I was a jeweler.”

The two men looked at each other for another moment. Then, with a nod, Tyras departed wordlessly, leaving Renaud with hope in place of a goodbye.

----------------------------------------

Captain Odium sipped on the Luminka, letting out a satisfied, hot breath. If the Moon Savages were good at anything, it was good liquor. Sure, there were plenty in his circles that would have raised pure fucking Gehl over him buying a Lunist import, even moreso preferring it over good Osnyan spirits, but they could go poke a dragon for all he cared.

He and millions of others had fought and died for eight long years to ensure not only the liberation of their nation, but the subjugation of its nemesis to ensure such an invasion could never happen again. That cowardly excuse for an Ektore may have stopped his Legions from completing the latter, and now spent his time suing for “peace” and “tolerance” for the heathens who’d murdered and raped their way through Osnya, but the once proud Eclipse Empire was still brought to heel.

And their national drink was just one of the many valuables they’d had to export at rock bottom prices to stay afloat.

To the victor, the spoils.

Just as he was about to down the deliciously fiery dregs of the clear liquid, the intercom on his desk buzzed. Sighing, he set down the glass and angled the brass microphone closer.

“Yes?” He gruffed, making sure his displeasure was not lost on the caller.

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there is a constable who wishes to speak with you.”

‘If it’s who I think it is, I’ll poke out his other fucking eye.” Odium thought.

“Send him in.”

It was, in fact, who he thought it was. Odium looked at the fountain pen on his desk with a great desire to utilize it in a way it hadn’t been designed for.

“Ah, Sergeant! I hadn’t expected to see you again this soon!” Odium forced a chuckle. “I trust that business the other day has been resolved? Surely you had sufficient information to satisfy your superiors, especially after interviewing other prisoners at the construction site.” The bear allowed only a tiny bit of venom to drip into his forced, broad smile. He gestured to a seat opposite, which Tyras took.

“Well, sir, that’s exactly the problem… I cannot finish my report.” The lion shrugged.

Odium puckered his lips to hide his gritted teeth.

“Would you like a drink? I was about to have one myself.” Odium refilled his glass.

“No, thank you, sir, I am on duty.” Tyras replied.

“Why can you not finish your report? I thought the facts spoke for themselves.” Odium knocked back his glass in one gulp.

“Well, sir, yes. But there are certain issues… first off, I am confused about the timeline of events.”

“In what way?”

“Well, sir, after yesterday’s excitement, I evidently met the rest of the constabulary. And one of them is Corporal Yllarion Macro, who is the night time air patrolman. He and his dragon, Salmon, were patrolling that very night. And he says that at exactly 1 AM, he saw your men at the very spot where the prisoners would be killed. And he said that they were just standing there.”

Odium shrugged. “Yes. That’s perfectly in line with what we both already know.”

“But it is not, sir. Firstly, there were only two of them. Constable Macro tells me that your patrols always consist of two parties of four to six men.”

“I decided to spread the patrols thinner to cover a wider area.” Odium said his pre-prepared reply. “Two soldiers can handle themselves, and if not, they can quickly cycle back to request help.”

“Yes, that would explain it…” Tyras muttered. “How long are your guards’ brakes when on patrol?”

“Five.. ten minutes at most?”

“You see, sir, that’s the problem. Constable Macro saw them at 1 AM sharp. He looked at his watch, he was positive. Yet your guards claimed to have spotted and shot the escapees between 1:30 and 2 AM.”

“So, they were a little confused about the exact time.” Odium said annoyedly. “Really, Maloko, this inquisition is getting rather-”

“Doesn’t explain the cigarette butts, sir.”

Odium frowned. “The… cigarette butts?”

“Yes, sir. Clumsily buried in a mound of dirt were twenty smoked cigarettes of two different brands. One of them was bought from the village store. But the other is from a tobacconist in Libinn called Helvia. His signature was on the cigarette butts. I telegraphed him last night and he replied this morning, confirming two things: one, that he alone sells cigarettes with his signature, with that blend, and two, that one of your guards receives two packs by mail every week. There is no one else in the area he sends tobacco to.”

Odium bit his tongue to suppress a grimace and suddenly found an uncomfortable lump in his seat.

“Am I very stupid or am I failing to see the connection?” He asked.

“A cigarette takes roughly five minutes to smoke fully. Since they couldn’t have come from any source other than your guards, the only explanation is that they were taking a fifty minute smoke break when they saw the prisoners.”

Odium tensed. He thought of having another drink, then thought better of it and lit a cigarette. He didn’t offer Tyras one.

“Right, so… they took a longer break than they ought to. It happens all the time. I’ll have a word with them.” He waved a dismissive hand.

“If it were only that, sir…” The white lion reached into his knapsack and pulled out a document.

“This is the autopsy report for Sigri leCerf. He was the young deer of the three dead. The usual coroner was held up with something or other, but thankfully, my wife was a field medic in the War, and thus is perfectly qualified for such things.” Odium gripped the arms of his chair a little tighter. Sending Dr. Mekko away on some phony case had been easy enough. What he hadn't thought of was convincing the clinic to not let anyone else near the bodies.

“According to your men, all three prisoners, upon seeing them, charged them, and they were forced to open fire. But according to the coroner, leCerf was suffering from consumption, and had been for at least two weeks. Furthermore, he was dehydrated, there was little food in his stomach, suggesting he hadn’t eaten in at least a full day, and he’d been lashed recently.” The single amber eye glinted beneath the constable’s cap in a way that made Odium’s fur stand on end.

  He chuckled to hide his discomfort. “Come now, Sergeant, you aren’t about to lecture me for-”

“Oh, no, sir. Not at all. How you… discipline misbehaving prisoners is none of my concern.” That singular eye, however, did not quit its glare. Did this bastard not blink? “I’m just confused how a frail, sick, beaten, starving young man suddenly has the vigor to charge at two armed men?”

“People in life or death situations are capable of feats far beyond their usual corporeal limits, Sergeant. You fought in the War, you should know.”

“Oh, I do know, sir. Still… considering that he was unarmed, and unlike his two companions did not present the natural weapons of claws and fangs, I should think a rifle butt should have sufficed.”

“Sergeant… What is it exactly that you suggest? That I prosecute my men for fearing for their lives?” Odium spat acidly.

“Oh, far from it, sir! I know how difficult it can be to make split-second decisions in the heat of the moment. On its own, it means nothing. Yet when taken as a piece of a whole, it has meaning. Take for example the lemonade.”

“The… lemonade?”

“Yes, sir, the lemonade. You see, I took the liberty of interviewing some more of the guards around here-”

“You seem to be taking an awful lot of liberties, Sergeant.” Odium cut him with asperity.

“As I was saying,” Continued Tyras, completely ignoring the Captain’s remark. “That guard’s canestilio got tangled in the barbed wire of the camp two nights ago. Captain Ofred, one of the three killed the other day, had led an engineer company in the war and skillfully cut the wire in such a way as to free the feral canine while minimizing injuries. To show his gratitude, he offered the prisoner lemonade.”

“Who was it!?” The bear was subconsciously grating one of his prosthetic legs under the desk.

“I am sorry, sir, but… I do not wish to reveal that. And as we are of different agencies, you cannot order me to reveal their identity.”

Odium’s eyes bulged, little veins appearing at the corners. He looked ready to throw his uninvited guest out.

  “Right… and what does lemonade have to do with anything?” Odium growled.

“The prisoners’ knapsacks were packed.” Tyras replied. “Food, medicine, rope, even alcohol. Yet they didn’t take their lemonade. I’m sure you’re familiar with scurvy, sir, the disease of sailors, and more recently airmen, caused by lack of Vitamin C in the body. That was also a concern on the battlefield. Prolonged diets consisting of nothing but meat and bread also affected soldiers. Fruit juice is as valuable a commodity in the trenches as it is on ships. What kind of veteran, knowing he’s about to undergo a trek where opportunities to acquire food, especially fruit, would be scarce, packs beer, but not lemonade?”

Odium cracked a smile, covered his vast gut with his mitts, threw his head back and barked a guffaw which echoed around the office.

“You… you don’t actually believe all those foolish things you’re saying, aren’t you? You want to convict my men over cigarette butts and… lemonade! Really, I admire your enthusiasm, Maloko, I really do. But go to the inn and ask anyone. Even if my men did premeditate to murder those scum, and I’m not saying they did, they’ll think we did Osnya and the world a favor!” Still chuckling his schoolgirl giggle, he poured himself another measure of Luminka.

The bottle was withdrawn from his hand with shocking strength. The lion slammed the bottle on the desk with resounding CLANG, a crack forming from the bottom up to the neck.

Tyras’s face was mere inches from Odium’s. That searching single amber eye and that black void seemed to look right through the bear.

“I know that you killed them,” Tyras’s lips moved, yet the voice was not the same. Gone was the mild-mannered gentleman constable. This was the low whisper of a killer stalking his prey, hatred reined in by patience. “I know you killed before. And I know you will kill again. And I will stop you.”

Tyras reached for Odium’s glass and gulped it down, letting it clatter on the table.

Once the lion exited, Odium released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been keeping in.

Shakily, he reached for the intercom.

“P-private Terka?” He hated himself for letting that damned cat get to him. He could snap that skinny little uptight bastard in two!

“Yes, sir?”

“I need to set up an… operation. I need three men. I’ll accompany them. Have a few on standby as well in case we don’t return in fifteen minutes. Make sure to tell only the right people, understand?”

Scout Raider or not, four trained men taking him by surprise would be enough to overwhelm anyone. There was also his wife, yet he doubted she’d put up much of a fight.

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Tyras’s new home was a fairly typical West Osnyan farmstead in the style of the Previous Era. Or rather, what was left of it. The one surviving sign of its former grandeur was the pristine wooden gate. Made of solid oak, with a handmade basorelief of a peasant plowing a field on one side, and a dragon flying over a mountain on the other, it had doubtlessly once been the property of a well off peasant or a craftsman.

What had once been the barn was now the village’s only bicycle and auto repair shop. The house seemed oddly asymmetrical. It seemed to wish to follow the general shape of the gate, yet it stopped just short. Like a sandwich one took a bite of then left on the table.

Vague stone shards of where the foundation had once been criss-crossed the grass like broken teeth. Doubtlessly suffering a direct hit from an artillery shell during either the initial Lunist capture of these lands or the Osnyan reconquest.

Tyras smiled sadly. Before the War, Western Osnyans mocked Easterners as dumb provincials, since the West had the more developed cities.

Because even united by kin and faith, people needed something to divide themselves by, to showcase the superiority of “their tribe”.

After being devastated by the war and most of the industry being moved East away from enemy occupation, no one in the West was making those jokes anymore. 

  Tyras sat down next to his son. Cyprian was stacking wooden blocks, carefully balancing an archway over two blocks.

“Pa-pa. Look! I built a castle!” His lavender eyes, so much like his mother’s, looked up at his father, together with a beaming, proud smile. Tyras ruffled the fur on his head and kissed him. The construction was actually very advanced for a two year old. Rather than blocks randomly stacked together, it vaguely resembled the castle in the painting the previous owners had left in the living room. And his son wasn’t even in the same room to draw direct reference from it.

Cyprian took two tin soldiers from a box, placing one on either side of the gate. They were Previous Era soldiers, in pristine dress uniforms, muskets with sword bayonets aimed for the sky. Their deadly purpose seemed completely lost on Cyprian, as he crudely drew a smile on them with a colored crayon.

How had he produced such a gentle, intelligent and beautiful creature? It must all be from his wife, he decided.

“Supper is served!” Rhodika announced, the lioness appearing in the doorway with a large plate of sandwiches and a kettle of tea.

“Melties!” Cyprian beamed, clapping in ecstasy.

She set the plate on the floor, grabbing a pillow to sit at the impromptu table as well. Their son eagerly grabbed one of the toasted sandwiches, taking a large bite, slurping up the string of cheese that followed it.

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  “That’s the house.” Odium pointed out. The driver said nothing, turning on the indicated road. The two other soldiers in the back were checking their weapons. They were Lunist “Harbinger” SMGs, rechambered in the Osnyan 9.5mm pistol caliber. It was loaded on the side with a stick magazine and was lighter and more accurate than its Osnyan counterpart. In return, the Osnyan “Vezia” SMG had a more generous top-loaded pan magazine and higher rate of fire.

Odium would have preferred his own nation’s submachine gun for this job, since accuracy by volume of fire was what they were aiming for, but this was better for their goal:

In the confusion of the War’s end, many captured Lunist weapons “disappeared” and mysteriously ended up in the hands of Marauders. This was a Marauder revenge assassination. The good Sergeant had spent his career up to that point in the Open Range, arresting or killing many of their Raid Lords with the same tenacity he’d shown in hunting down the Sunless.

Whatever witnesses there were, would only see a motor carriage built out of cannibalized parts, painted bright red with a boar’s skull, driven by masked men in slapped together leather and metal armor.

Getting the impromptu disguise had been easy enough. Odium had gotten the POW camp as a sort of reward after his actions against Marauder Packs in the North-West. He always knew that holding onto some of their equipment would pay off.

Odium didn’t enjoy doing this. Whatever drivel he believed now that there could be peace with the moon heathens, he was undoubtedly a war hero. And he’d figured out the case in less than 24 hours. He’d have probably continued being an exemplary policeman, apprehending many lawbreakers and saving unknown lives. It would be like crushing a unique diamond into dust.

Yet Odium was also a firm believer in the right to self preservation. Maloko could have overlooked this… discrepancy. The Lunist soldiers he killed couldn’t be used later to hurt Osnya again. Besides, all of them were guilty. All had cooperated to murder millions of his countrymen, to turn the beautiful fertile land into a grey wasteland, to destroy and profane their holy places…

And Maloko believed that scum deserved mercy…

No… he was just as guilty, Odium decided. He would take great pleasure in disposing of that traitorous scum.

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“Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Sirs!” The frantic prisoners all but broke down the guardhouse doors. The guards inside grabbed rifles and batons, ready to send the captives packing.

“Quit fucking hollering! Back to bed!” The bulldog guard growled, brandishing the ax handle.

“Sir! Renaud! Renaud sick! He sick bad!” The lupine prisoner desperately gesticulated to add to his broken Osnyan. The guard looked at the watch on the table. If Odium didn’t return in fifteen minutes, they were to go assist. And the other guards, the ones not in on their plan, couldn’t know.

“Let’s check it out quickly and be done with it.” Another guard proposed. “That deer kid had a nasty cough before he got his ticket punched. He could have given it to others… guards included.”

“Shit…” The bulldog growled. Last thing they needed in this filthy hovel was an outbreak. Disease meant quarantine, it meant prisoners relocated, and it meant the damned Legionary Police sticking their noses in.

Each grabbing a weapon, the four guards within the shack ran to the main barracks. The prisoners were forming a circle around a mysterious display, something between concern and horror on their faces. The guards pushed and shoved their way through the crowd with batons and rifle butts, eventually coming face to face with the source of the commotion:

The prisoner known as Renaud was on his back, spasming as he retched, a glob of sputum-covered crimson coughed out on an ever-growing pool of blood and mucus.

“H-heeeelp…” The wolf wheezed out weakly before being seized by another terrifying fit.

“Good Light!” one of the guards exclaimed at the sight of the ghastly show. “Let me through! I have medical training!”

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The scrap-carriage pulled up before the Sergeant’s house, its rear engine, barely held together with spot-welds and rivets, spat out oily black smoke. The four occupants quickly got out, cocking their guns in unison.

They vaguely aimed for the massive target from the hip and fired.

The hellish rattle of four machineguns filled the night, overwhelming the gentle chitter of cicadas and the wind blowing through the grass. The muzzle flashes lit the masked men into perfect clarity as they traced their weapons across the house. No room was spared. Glass shattered, plaster flew off walls and the wooden door was shot to splinters.

Once their 25 round magazines ran out, they reloaded and emptied another full load into the house. They traced their fire lower this time, in case any survivors were hiding beneath beds or closets. A support beam of the front porch gave out, collapsing a section of roof.

Odium raised his fist. The three men instantly stopped firing.

Their gun barrels spat out smoke like eager dragons. The booms of automatic fire were replaced by a consistent ringing in their ears. The stench of burnt cordite replaced that of freshly cut grass, manure and flowers. Two hundred smoking shell casings rolled on the dirt and against their boots.

There was a house behind them, but it seemed like no one was home. All the lights were turned off, and the owner at most had a double barreled shotgun. No way they’d try to take on four Marauders armed with automatic weapons.

They listened for screams. None came. Odium didn’t sigh in relief just yet.

“Everyone reload. Apion, Baciu, take the backdoor. Athan, on me for the front door.” Odium ordered, slapping a fresh magazine into the breach and pulling back the charging handle, his burly ox underling following suit. Dead or not, he would send one extra bullet in Maloko’s skull…

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The bulldog removed his coat and pulled back his shirt sleeves. He grabbed a towel off a nearby table, wrapping it around his mouth in a makeshift mask. First things first, he had to remove the blockage.

“Get everyone out of here!” He screamed at his colleagues. They began ushering out the prisoners.

He tried to remember his succinct medical training from the War. Possibly there was still something damaging he was trying to swallow. He flipped the prisoner onto his back, gripping his snout, trying to look inside the mouth without also getting a faceful of infected blood.

The guard cried out as pain exploded between his legs. Renaud instantly stopped coughing and followed up the groin knee with a kick to the man’s gut. The guard doubled over in pain, and as he did so, he saw the prisoners overpowering his comrades.

“You ba-” He was silenced when another prisoner knocked him unconscious with a table leg.

Renaud spat the rest of the dark red mixture and grinned. Quite lucky that they’d been served beet salad and mashed potatoes today. Each man drained the juice from their salad and sacrificed a spoonful of potatoes. Mixed with some non-toxic colorant from the workshop and thinned with water, it produced a thoroughly convincing impression of the regurgitate of someone dying from advanced consumption.

“You fucking morons!” Another guard, a ram, growled as he was wrestled down and manacled by three prisoners at once. “You can’t escape! There’s twenty more armed guards outside, including two machineguns! You won’t make it five steps!”

Renaud grinned down at his captor.

“Oh, you misunderstand completely. We’re not doing this so we can escape: we’re making sure you can’t escape.”

The ram’s mouth lay halfway open in confusion, then in horror. At that moment, Renaud knew that he’d done right to listen to the Scout Raider.

“I hope you’re as successful as we were, Tyras Maloko.”

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  Apion crept open the side door as Baciu covered the corridor with the SMG.

Baciu stepped inside what had once been a dining room. Chances were their three marks were already dead. The house was over a century old, made out of wood, hay and dragon manure. The bullets had zipped right through, as evidenced by the chaos within.

Plaster and wood fragments crunched beneath his boots. Furniture lay cracked and shattered. Dozens of bullet holes pockmarked the wall. Dust and debris choked the air as it lazily floated down. Baciu tried his best not to cough. Breathing was already made difficult enough by the Marauder mask he wore, a hideously crude facsimile of what tried to be a dragon’s head. Clearly it had been designed with intimidation rather than practicality in mind.

They went into a room which seemed to be a nursery. It was still incomplete. The walls were halfway painted from a dirty white to a sky blue. A pistol-like implement was plugged into the wall, which Baciu recognized as an electrical power drill. He’d been meaning to buy one of those to finish the renovations his wife had been pestering him about.

A crib was on the far wall, the bars blasted to cinders, bullets pockmarking the drawing of a grinning dragon above it.

“Oh fuck…” Baciu fell on one knee and almost retched.

“That bastard made me kill a child… I have murdered an innocent child.”

“Hey, snap out of it!” Apion demanded, lifting up his comrade by the shoulders. “That moon-lover killed himself and his family! He threatened us, we had to retaliate! Got it?”

“No, I don’t get it. I’m out, you fucking childkillers.” He was about to sneer as he looked up at Apion. He never got the chance. His comrade spat blood upon him as a long tongue of silver pierced his maw. The blade retracted from his skull with a terrible meaty rasp and Apion collapsed. The tall, sinewy figure towered over him, a single amber eye glinting like a firefly in the night. The shortsword was dripping blood and brain onto the floor.

For half a second, Baciu was frozen. His brain analyzed the situation before him, yet refused to process it. Then, realizing the danger he was in, he raised his weapon and drew in breath to scream.

He never got the chance to do either. The sword wooshed in a flash of silver, splitting open his neck practically ear to ear.

As he watched his lifeblood seep onto the floor, his fading vision saw that the ruined crib had in fact been empty. The house had been empty.

They were in the house opposite.

Baciu’s final act had been to smile, knowing that he wouldn’t have the murder of a child weighing down his scales at the gates of oblivion.

“Well played.” He’d wanted to say to his murderer, yet all that came out was a bubbling gurgle.

  “That sounded like a fight!” Odium remarked, running towards the sounds. He and Athan had cleared the living room, kitchen and master bedroom with no sign of the Malokos. The bear ran for the door from which the horrifying sounds of death came.

He was almost too awestruck by the two mangled bodies at his feet to notice the gun barrel trained on his face.

Tyras Maloko was before him, wearing a simple yet elegant gray evening suit ruined by the splash of crimson that went from the waist almost up to the lion’s neck. Still keeping the handgun trained, Tyras ripped the SMG from his opponent’s hand and tossed it aside.

“Captain Nerva Odium.” He began in that even, aristocratic tone. “You are under arrest for the triple murder of Captain Ofred Ulvrod, Private Sigri leCerf and Corporal Korbuk Skyros.” He spoke each name clearly, almost with pathos, like a priest reading off an obituary. “Furthermore, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of me and my family.”

The steppe lion clutched his Gladius tighter, blood dripping off the fuller as he imagined it driven into the guts of the man before him.

Athan raised his gun to get a bead on the lion, yet the feeling of cold steel on the back of his head stopped the ox.

“Don’t.” Rhodika Maloko snarled, a small automatic in her hand. “One thing I learned in the War: it is infinitely easier to take a life than save one.”

The man sighed and dropped his weapon.

“How-” Odium began.

“I knew that you would take my threat as a declaration of war,” Tyras began. “Knowing my reputation, you knew that I would end you, given sufficient time. Therefore, you had to end me. So, me, my wife and my son spent the night at our neighbor’s house. She offered to be Cyprian’s governess when me and Rhodika are away.”

“What are you going to do now?” Odium asked. He had only to stall for time. Backup would be here soon.

“I will be taking you into my custody and you will be tried by a military court. And a civilian one for the crimes against my family.”

“You could have kept your family out of it, Maloko.” Odium growled. “You put them in the firing line. Why, pray, do you feel the need to defend these wretches so? There is not a soul in Osnya that did not lose a mother, father, brother or child. Who didn’t watch their cities and holy temples burn. I am doing this because the shades of the dead are still crying for blood. Vengeance has not yet been achieved.” He said with conviction

“Vengeance?” Tyras said the word like he was trying a new word in a foreign language. His finger tightened on the trigger. “Have we not had enough vengeance already? We humbled our archenemies and turned them into little more than a vassal. We all but wiped out their First Army.

And when we turned the tide and poured across their borders, we reduced entire cities to ash and we committed cowardly atrocities against their women and children I shan't repeat in the presence of my wife.

We didn't take our pound of flesh. We took a ton.

You didn't kill out of vengeance. You killed simply because you could. Because they were in your power. You are the worst kind of murderer. You disgust me."

Odium grit his teeth. Where the Gehl were they? He couldn’t resist a glance out the window.

“They’re not coming,” Tyras said. “Your backup is… otherwise preoccupied at the moment. I took the liberty of observing them for a minute while I was still enjoying a quiet evening with my family in the house next door. My Forte allows for such pleasantries. Those Lunists would have made their country proud. It was a textbook takedown.”

Odium clenched his fists. “You… you had those heathens kill my men!?”

“They’re all still alive. And it’s only the guards from your inner circle, the ones who stay in the shack at nighttime. The other guards are still oblivious, I believe. I have already wired the Legionary Police. A unit will be here within the hour.”

Odium said nothing as he was manacled and led outside. He and his companion were ushered into the backseat of their own car, with Tyras squeezing in alongside them as his wife got in the driver’s seat. His pistol was holstered, yet his still bloody sword was held casually at the side. It seemed he preferred that over any firearm in close quarters.

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Renaud grunted in satisfaction as he beat in the final roof shingle.

“I think that’s it for today.” Tyras smiled as he gracefully jumped off the roof. Most of the other prisoners were already taking their breaks, drinking water, smoking or grabbing one of the delicious chicken pies Rhodika had provided.

Renaud looked pridefully at his creation as he took a sip of water. After the whole debacle, the governor quickly offered to provide Tyras funds to fix his house. And with the camp’s former captain and many of his guards arrested, the provisional warden struggled for a bit to find something for the prisoners to do. Tyras pointed out that fixing his home was hardly a one man job.

In the meantime, things had gotten more organized. A permanent camp warden was found, someone handpicked by the Legionary Police to ensure a future Odium situation was avoided. The highway construction had been put on hold, being deemed unsafe for workers and other labors were found.

Each prisoner was asked what he was good at. Renaud said “I was a jeweler.” Next morning, he and three volunteers were shown into a small room that had been turned into a jeweler’s workshop.

Renaud gawked at the uncut gems, the strips of gold and silver ready to be molded into gorgeous rings and necklaces. He picked up one of the gems, a small amethyst.

It glittered under the faint light, the rough gem pricking his fingers. It had been ten years since he’d been in such a room. The first thirty minutes of his new labor were spent sobbing like a child.

At the end of the day, Renaud asked the new warden if Tyras’s house yet needed repairs. They were apparently in search of companies willing to undertake the project. Renaud answered “no need”. He and his men hated leaving a job unfinished.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Tyras asked, downing a mugful of cold water in one gulp.

It really was. In addition to plugging all the bulletholes, they had fixed the roof which sorely begged for new shingles.

Even the smallest Lunist village was more a miniature city. The borders between nature and man were clear. Osnyan villages, however, seemed more an extension of nature than anything else. It was a philosophy Renaud could not understand, and had even spent much of his life trying to destroy. Yet, he had come to respect it.

“It is.” The wolf agreed. “And thank you… for everything. You saved us. And none of us will ever forget it.”

“My duty is to uphold the law and protect those who cannot defend themselves.” Tyras answered. “My duty in the war was to protect my nation and to vanquish the enemy. I followed that to a T then. I don’t see why I should change that now. Regardless of the past, you are under my nation’s protection.”

“You didn’t have to do it. You could have let things be.” Renaud said, more to himself.

  “No. I didn’t.” Tyras agreed, refilling his and Renaud’s water mug. “But… do you know what the foremost sin in Fakonism is? More than murder, more than lust, more than anything. Idleness. The sin of inaction. Having the ability to do something for the Light, be that praying every morning or protecting the innocent, and not doing it. Out of sloth, out of fear or out of indifference. And I, my dear friend, am no idler.”

Renaud smiled. He looked at his comrades. A few were lounging in the shade of a great elm tree, playing dice. They were all fatter and stronger, yet aside from that, they were… alive. They joked, they laughed, they got up each morning with purpose. They talked of their families, of what jobs or business ventures they’d undertake once back home.

Tyras Maloko hadn’t just saved their lives. He’d given their hope back.

“I understand you did it for your gods, and the kindness of your heart, yet me and my men wanted to thank you in a more… substantial way.” Renaud walked to his knapsack and retrieved a small velvet box. Tyras cocked an eyebrow.

“You’re not going to propose to me, are you? I know you Lunists go for that sort of thing.”

Renaud laughed out loud, almost dropping the box. “Well, I could do worse, I suppose,” He winked. “But I already have a lady waiting for me back home, sad to disappoint.” With another chuckle, he opened the box.

In it sat a small silver ball, shimmering in the sun. It was flawless sterling silver and polished to a mirror-shine.

It was an eye.

Tyras gingerly reached for it. He looked into it, seeing his reflection. The eyepatch was a large blob of darkness upon his face. He slowly removed the eyepatch, letting it fall to the grass. He carefully guided the eye into the empty, scarred socket.

He blinked, with both eyelids, an unfamiliar feeling. He tried his Forte. His world broadened as he could see out of his left eye. He felt like it took less effort now, almost like his body recognized the fake eye as part of him rather than an addition like the eyepatch.

“I first thought of painting it the color of your other eye,” Renaud explained. “But you don’t seem the type of man to hide a wound.”

“It’s perfect.” Tyras muttered. He felt his one good eye grow moist. He reached out and embraced his former enemy.

“Thank you.”

Renaud broke the embrace and patted his friend on the shoulder. “May it give you sight and wisdom.”

Tyras heard a gasp and when he turned, he saw Cyprian a few paces away, clutching a ball.

“Momma!” He shouted with glee. “Papa’s eye grew back!”