Luke seemed amicable enough, but he didn’t seem very into the tour. That was the feeling Cyrus got, at least. He couldn’t blame Luke. After all, he came all this way from Sirius’s famous capital, Aetas Origo, one of the greatest cities in all of Asundria. Castitas was… well, Castitas. It was what it was, and nothing more. A small, simple village with little in the way of excitement.

Luke had gone back to the mayoral residence after overhearing that Cyrus’s father had returned home. Mr. Grith— Castitas’s one and only cobbler— had let it slip chatting with Cyrus how the man had come by asking after the man’s leather quantities, as he often did. Cyrus had opted to stay behind and chat a bit. He offered the young traveler a fruit on his way out.

He’d go back as well soon, but for now, he needed to retrieve the Alder water pack. Luke had found the concept strange when he mentioned it— Castitas folk leaving their belongings out in public? Again, he couldn’t be blamed. Great as it was, Aetas Origo was likely overflowing with crime and the unruly, disorganization and chaos, the poor and the hungry. Out here in Castitas, everything worked. Each person had a role, a comfortable place in their miniature society of some two hundred people. Add more people— become a city— that’s where it goes wrong. Too many mouths to feed. Too many people with nothing to do. Too many people to even remember the names of!

Cyrus shook his head at the absurdity of city folk and approached the Castitas well. It was a small, enclosed stone structure standing proudly in an intersection of two dirt roads— automobile drivers would hate it, crowding the path— tall as a man and a half and fronted with a plain old wooden door.

He entered and set his paper bag of purchases down, leaving the door open for light. The well was small but effective, and the village folk had been using it for decades. It was one of the few structures in Castitas that had survived the Razing. It was a sign of good luck, he thought. Of course, it was entirely possible Emperor Munitio’s armies had simply used their well. Were that so, the soldiers of those days, either side, would have tasted excellence. Castitas had the purest water this side of Altair. Perfect for cooking.

He smiled and approached the low table slab lined with leather packs. Behind the slab sat the actual well, usually worked by Mrs. Kol and her two sons. Each pack had a metal name plate sewn on. He reached for the Alder pack, testing its weight— yes, it had been filled— and slung it over his shoulder by its strap. Inside the pack were several hollowed-out Altairan gourds, hourglass-shaped, grips for holding delicately carved and affixed to the side. They were fitted with simple leather caps to keep dust and the elements out when not in use. The gourds themselves were naturally colored with simple swirls of green, yellow, and thinner bits of white. Supposedly, there existed many types of gourds that take on different appearances in different parts of Asundria, though Cyrus had never seen any. Travelers left too quickly, and he did not wish to plunge himself right into their exoticism, though he did find it fascinating.

I should ask Luke to show me some gourds from Sirius if he stays another night, he thought idly, grabbing his bag. He shut the door and stepped out onto the gravel road. He must have a few. Even traveling city folk carry a few gourds.

A firecracker sounded. Again.

Startled by the bang, Cyrus nearly dropped his bag. Whose kids were doing that? Loud, for a prank. It had been happening all morning. And if it wasn’t a prank… well, Castitas didn’t celebrate the Empire’s birth. Did they? No, there was no chance. He’d have to ask his father.

Putting the bang out of mind and a spring in his step, Cyrus began his walk home. He glanced down into the brown paper bag in his hands, inspecting his collection. He breathed the scents in. It all smelled fresh, vegetables and fruits and wrapped mutton. Good. Everything he needed for this afternoon.

Today, he would cook!

———

The room stank of charcoal. Typhos knew it well, that scent.

Typhos strode through the constable office’s lobby, trailing his master and maintaining vigilance while trying to project an air of confidence as he had been instructed to do. It was an artful balance— silent steps, eyes forward. He carefully avoided the obstacles in his path.

Until one of them moved.

Typhos glanced down flat-eyed at his ankle, wrapped by a hand.

He bent his head and was struck by the second smell pervading the building. A scent that he had become the most intimate and familiar with during his time under Levian Vega. Fresh blood, the aroma of death.

“Please,” the man groaned. He laid on his side, one hand tightly clutching his hip. His green wool uniform was stained with dark— almost black— blood around his hand and hip. Nasty wound. He had been slashed down his side. There was no chance of survival, not with the best surgeons in the Empire or anywhere else.

“You are dead,” Typhos said quietly.

“My men…” he said, holding fast to Typhos with his other hand.

“Will be joining you,” Levian said coldly. His charcoal-colored coat fluttered as he strolled toward the fallen man. The tall Elite flicked his icy blue eyes down to read the name tag on the man’s breast. “Constable Delphy. Do not fret.”

“Should I…” Typhos began, trailing off at his master’s expression. Levian was smiling. It was a genuine smile, Typhos had learned. He could always tell by the twinkle in those shining blue eyes.

“No,” Levian said, turning away. “We must assuage the good constable’s fears.”

“Spare… them…” Constable Delphy groaned again, throat ragged.

“Do not fear, my good man. We are quick, constable,” Levian said, back to the man. His smile deepened. “Those I suppose we can be prone to errors, given your case. Come along, Ty.”

“As you say,” Typhos said and bowed. He spared a final glance for the fallen. The man’s mouth had fallen open in disbelief, eyes glassy. His master was often cruel to the dying, he thought.

The pair ventured deeper. Typhos counted fourteen bodies, though most were of frail builds, not suited for combat. Only about two or three, including the earlier man named Delphy seemed ready to take on a threat. Of course, as his master would say, threats in a village like Castitas probably consisted of the same habitual drunkard lashing out at whoever or whatever came close.

“Finally,” said a voice. Rounding the corner, they came upon a dark-skinned man in a candlelit doorway, thick arms crossed. Behind him was a crowded room of uniformed men— proper uniforms, not simple dyed wool. Some stood attentively, others leaning restfully against the wall.

Two or three constables? Poor fools. They had had no idea.

“Rixator,” Levian said cheerily, smiling. “Meet my apprentice.”

Typhos bowed, eyeing his master. That smile was fake.

“It’s good to meet you, Typhos,” said the dark-skinned man, Vassago Rixator. He was the one who had spoken. He held out his hand. Typhos looked to Levian, who nodded. He clasped it and shook firmly.

Vassago Rixator, the Shield’s Ace. He had a distinct look about him— well-muscled, thick black eyebrows shaped like broadswords, and a prominent scar running along the side of his bald head. He had a stern, no-nonsense face, but gave Typhos a pleasant enough smile. He seemed familiar, somehow. Vassago did not seem phased by Typhos’s stark lack of emotion, but he had a feeling the Shield’s Ace was not phased by very much at all.

“Capella is in the back,” Vassago said, lips drawing to a line. “I didn’t want to leave him until you arrived. Where are your men, Vega?”

“Around,” Levian said with an honest grin. The lie by omission darkened the Ace’s face, but he smoothed his expression after a moment. Vassago stepped back and conferred with his soldiers briefly.

“Excuse us,” Vassago said simply. He elected to take six men, trotting with his group past the pair.

The Shield’s Ace and his men wore immaculate Daevan military uniforms of light brown— light yellow in the throat and chest. The uniforms’ color scheme represented the Capella-Rixator alliance of recent years, established just before the war had boiled over. Emperor Munitio permitted it, as he did most things religious in nature, despite the obvious foundings in royalty politics. The emperor strived to protect the Flocks while erasing concepts of nobility, which led to some interesting contradictions every now and then, given how closely the Families had tied themselves to the Flocks. Religion and politics. It made no difference to Typhos. Only the task of protecting his master mattered.

“In we go,” Levian said lightly. He smiled disarmingly at the stern-faced guards all around. “Historic moment, you know.”

His master often exaggerated for theatrics, but this was true. After all, this quiet little village called Castitas did not simply have an Elite-Ace pair strolling around.

It had two.

And they had plans.

———

“Met my son, have you?” Mayor Orcus Alder laughed. “I am afraid the boy tricked you. Oranges do not sit right with me. You are welcome to it, as he so sneakily intended.”

The village mayor was a corpulent man with curly ginger hair straining the buttons of his sweater. He had a jovial way about him, an instant sense of friendliness. Luke gave him a half-smile, glancing down at the orange. He had initially turned the thing down, then been told to offer it to Mayor Alder instead. But he must have known. What a roundabout way of forcing a snack on someone.

Yes, this is a nice orange. Very… orange. Anything to distract him from the fact that the man’s sweater was the same clipping shade of pine green as his son.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” the mayor said, waving an arm inward. Orcus turned and walked— waddled, really— up an impressive pinewood staircase carved in surprisingly ornate patterns of white long-tailed birds. “Let’s get you ready to go.”

Luke idly peeled away the skin of the orange and bit into what remained. It was as fresh as it appeared, and sweet. He savored it for a moment, lost in thought. Finally. Only a little further. Only a few more days. His tongue tasted sweetness, but his mind went sour. The man with blue eyes would not— could not hide from him for much longer.

“Luke?” Orcus called from atop the staircase.

Luke shook his head and hurried up after him to the second floor, then followed down the hallways. The walls were painted what would have once been white, now yellowed from the passage of time. He passed a wide oil painting of white birds clustered together in the clouds, each bearing a twin-ended tail as long as the rest of their bodies. One of the Flocks. Toward the far end of the painting, the Flock was led by a magnificent white bird sporting a thick tuft of feathers at the head reminiscent of long human hair and a twin-tail twice the length of its body. Phaethon of the Twelve Flocks, books called him.

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Old man Snare made Luke study the Flocks more than once. To Snare’s dismay, all Luke really learned from the— admittedly brief— experience was how to swear by them. Deific, to be sure, but they weren’t going to swoop down from Above and solve all his problems or strike him down for blasphemy, so what was the point? Some people seemed absolutely convinced of one or the other, but thievery was often cited as a reason for the so-called striking down, and nothing had ever happened to him other than the occasional shopkeep chasing after him with broom or sword.

“There we go,” Orcus mumbled as he pried a wooden door open with a violent rattle. He eyed Luke, then laughed. “Not what you’re used to, I imagine. Castitas only has one carpenter, our number for most things.”

Right. The village. Castitas. That’s what it was called.

Luke flicked his eyes away from the oil painting, trailing after the mayor, who had already disappeared beyond the door. He entered a cozy little room lined with shelves, stools, and a small stone hearth. In the middle sat a quaint desk of sturdy-looking dark pine wood, stacked with papers.

Orcus sat down gently in a wooden straight-backed chair, letting out a relaxed sigh. He pulled a drawer out and began to riffle through more papers. Luke seated himself on the other side of the desk on a short stool, setting his large blue traveling bag on the desk at the mayor’s insistent prompting. Then, the man went back to his drawer, noisily shuffling and sifting. How did people manage to keep track of all that junk? You can’t even eat paper. Luke should know. Once, in Aetas Origo, he tried to—

“What brings you through Altair, Luke?” the mayor asked suddenly. “Your grandfather— grandfather, right? His letter didn’t say much.”

Lights. When there should have been darkness. Luke shook himself, as if the question had surprised him. Well, it had. It shouldn’t have. He was facing his past. No one said it’d be easy.

“Grandfather, yes,” Luke said, calmer than he felt. Close enough to a grandfather. No need to overcomplicate it. “There’s a person, er, someone I’m trying to find. I think Mirastelle can help me.”

“Enlisting, though? You should know, the minimum age is—”

“Sixteen, I know. I’m only a few weeks away.”

Orcus frowned. “But, surely, there are other avenues of searching available to you. Perhaps I could…” He trailed off. Realizing.

“…It’s about the Purge,” Luke said, distant. “The Mirastelle army is easily my best chance.” The General of Ulciscor has the best chance of knowing the information I’m looking for, and he always meets new recruits as part of a joining ceremony. That’s what I’m aiming for.

“I see,” the mayor said. “I won’t pry, then. I hope you can find your peace, and pray for Phaethon’s blessing for you. I’ll set you up with a letter of introduction— I know the man, you see. Oh, yes, and a guide, of course— he’ll be here soon to lead you through the Pines.”

The edge of the Great Pines weren’t particularly thick with trees, but wolves and the like were known to roam this far south. A guide residing near Castitas came highly recommended by old man Snare, who sent a letter in advance on Luke’s behalf. Luke could read, but writing was still beyond him. Happened when your only education came from a grumpy old man in his spare time.

“If I can find the clipped things…” Orcus swore under his breath. “I’ll just be a few moments.”

Luke almost smiled. He was right about that ‘document’ junk. He finished his orange, carelessly wiping residue on a sky blue sleeve, and tossed it in a garbage bin before settling back down on a different chair, a more comfortable one with a padded seat and back in the corner of the room. The tiny little mayoral office had fallen silent, leaving Luke to the ambience of his own mind. He closed his eyes and drifted off.

To the sound of thumping boots. To the cries of children and men alike. To burning. When there should have been coldness. The memory was so vivid, he could smell the smoke.

Wait. He did smell it!

Luke jolted awake. Had they left? He couldn’t wait any longer. He had to escape. He had to—

Luke started. He looked left to the window, right to the door, then rose. He spun around to the sight of Orcus in front of the lit hearth.

“Sorry,” the mayor said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Luke took a deep breath and sat back down.

Wing-clipped fool, he thought ruefully. Are you going to be afraid of fire your whole life?

Luke hesitated, then stood back up, walking over to the mayor.

“Pine wood?” he asked, glancing down at the hearth.

“Yes,” Orcus said. “It doesn’t burn long, and it’s a bit dangerous if you don’t clean regularly.” He laughed. “Fortunately, there isn’t a whole lot to do in Castitas. For some of us, anyway.”

Luke forced a weak smile. He breathed out slowly and cleared his mind, then glanced around the room. His eyes took notice of a gourd atop the mantel. It was too small for drinking, and had a curious pattern he had never seen before, violet swirls light and dark radiating from the cap at the top, coiling in crazy directions. Just as Luke opened his mouth to ask about it, a loud knock sounded at the door. The handle rattled, then stopped, probably because the person on the other side had realized it was locked.

“That’s either… Cyrus or your guide,” Orcus said uncertainly.

“Something wrong?” Luke asked.

Orcus hesitated, then shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

The mayor took a step.

And the door crashed inward.

The entire thing fell off its hinges, plummeting to the floor. It was replaced by a broad-shouldered man dressed in a light brown uniform with a bald head and dark skin. The throat and chest of his uniform was a separate color, light yellow. His thick eyebrows were shaped like black broadswords, and a scar ran down the side of his emotionless face.

Luke and Orcus stiffened as the man surveyed the room with silver eyes. A picture came to mind almost immediately. Combine all these features, and one gets a person with very pure Rixator blood.

But who? Luke thought. Flocks, why?

The man set his jaw and stepped toward them, crunching splintered wood underneath his boots. Soldiers in Daevan uniforms of the same color scheme stood behind him in a row.

“Orcus Alder,” the man intoned in a deep voice. “I have come to collect you.”

Luke couldn’t move, couldn’t think. What was happening?

“I…” Orcus stammered. “I suppose asking you to come back later…”

“…is not an option,” the man interrupted. “We are leaving. Now.”

The man lifted something from a uniform pocket with a gloved hand. Some sort of device. He thumbed a piece on the back, and it clicked.

“Come here, boy. You as well. Let’s keep this peaceful.”

Luke had seen the thing once before. Only once. He took a step back.

“I promise not to hurt you,” the man said. “So long as you comply. Know it as the promise of a man of Lophostrix.”

Lophostrix. That Flock… Yes, this man was unmistakable. In that moment, he finally understood what was going on.

He heard a voice from his past, spouting the same lies.

Disobey, and I will have no choice but to use this. Obey, and I will guarantee your safety. Understand?

It was happening again. This time, his family was not there.

That suited Luke just fine.

“Vassago Rixator,” he said quietly.

“What was that?” the man— Vassago— said. “Speak up, boy.”

“Vassago Rixator,” Luke repeated, louder. Firmer. “Isn’t it?”

Orcus turned his head from the uniformed man with a look of disbelief, perhaps at Luke’s bold tone. Luke ignored him, meeting the man’s silver stare. With the brown-and-yellow uniform, eyebrows like swords, the scar down his face, and the way the man carried himself like a nobleman— he was a nobleman— it couldn’t be anyone else.

“Yes,” he said evenly. “That is my name.”

Vassago Rixator. An Ace.

Flocks Above, an Ace! The Third Ace of the Terra Daeva Empire was right in front of him!

Maybe he wouldn’t need to join the army after all.

“Which Elites have blue eyes?” Luke blurted out suddenly.

Vassago cocked his head slightly. Orcus said nothing, face pale— from Luke’s brashness, no doubt. Right then, Luke didn’t care if he was brash to the emperor himself. He had to know.

“Only two of them have faces known to the public,” Luke said. “But you would know what they all look like. Right?”

“Blue… eyes?” Vassago asked uncertainly. That sword-like brow had furrowed in puzzlement.

“I’m looking for him,” Luke said.

Boots thumped, wood burned, children and men cried. Eyes of frost gazed down at a woman, curled lips barking orders, proclaiming to be one of Munitio’s chosen. Black smoke wafted from his metal weapon, the very same weapon Vassago was holding. A deep hatred swelled in Luke, and his hands balled into fists. He did not say what he wanted to say most of all.

When I find him, I’m going to kill him.

The Ace measured him with sharp silver eyes, then exhaled slowly.

“An odd question, but simple enough to answer, if it will earn your compliance. I’m afraid I don’t know all of their faces. Some are unknown, even to me. I do know a few, but…” He trailed off and frowned. “Boy, what is your name?”

A color flashed through his mind.

Luke took another step back. He was not scared. Anger suffocated his fear. He was determined to live, to do what needed to be done.

I can’t let them catch me. I know what the Daevan military is like. This village, whatever is happening, this village is finished. I need to do something to get out of this, fast. Think, Luke!

“Listen, I’m not going to use the flute on you,” Vassago said, moving toward Luke on thick black soldier’s boots, wood creaking and groaning with every step. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Flute? That thing in his hand? Not a flute I’ve ever seen.

“That’s what he said, too,” Luke said, feeling cold in spite of the hearth’s warmth. Daevan soldiers flooded into the room behind the Ace and fanned out at a hand motion.

I need to move. Green. …Green? Stop thinking about the damn pine green shirts, you wing-clipped idiot! Your life is in danger!

He glanced backward. What was down there? Grass? Or stone? Luke looked to Orcus. The mayor sweat profusely, face panicked.

I’m sorry, Luke thought sadly.

Then he spun and ran for the window.

“Stop!” Vassago bellowed, eyes growing wide. He raised a hand as if to grab Luke from afar. “This is the second floor, you fool! Stop!”

By the time the Ace broke into a run, the glass had shattered.

Luke’s mind blanked as he plummeted through the air. His only thought remaining was— strangely— of how blue the cloudless sky was.

———

Was that Luke?

Did Cyrus imagine that crashing sound; those glass shards sparkling in the sunlight as they fell from the window? Did he imagine that figure in sky blue hitting hard, dropping and rolling across the grass? Surely he had. He was about to slap his forehead feeling like a clipped fool with an imagination running wild when he saw the young traveler sprawled out on the ground. He blinked three times. Not his imagination. He glanced up at the shattered window, then dropped his brown paper bag, filled to bursting with ingredients, and ran for the garden. Tomatoes, onions, and various other things he didn’t take notice of rolled on the grass behind him. He approached quickly and crouched down to get a closer look at Luke.

Of all things, Cyrus thought, panic rising. We don’t have a doctor! Castitas still doesn’t have a doctor! Apprentices, but are any of them ready?

“Luke? Luke…?” he croaked weakly. Oh, Phaethon… I have to get someone, fast! I—

A groan drew his attention, and he started. Luke stirred, pushing himself up and over with shaking arms. Cyrus stared in complete shock as Luke sat up and blinked at him.

“Lophostrix!” a scarred man swore from above, head sticking out the broken window. “Of all the—” The man cut off, ducking back into the room. It seemed Cyrus wasn’t the one shocked. But who was that? What in the world was going on?

“Flocks,” Luke muttered unsteadily, staggering onto his feet. “You… Cyrus… We need to go…”

“Go?” Cyrus asked, still bewildered. He realized he was shouting, but he did not stop. “Go where? What does that mean? What happened to you?”

“I jumped out the window,” Luke said calmly.

“Jumped out the—”

Luke grabbed him by the arm.

“Listen,” Luke began, cold as steel. His eyes contrasted his cool voice, red like the hottest fire. What a time to notice such an odd detail. Anything to avoid thinking about what was happening, but the voice snapped him back to events he wanted nothing to do with. “The Empire is here. Right here in Castitas. We need to leave.”

“I…” Cyrus trailed off. Out past the garden, beyond the white fence, across the street… who were those uniformed men? Daevan uniforms?

Luke tugged at his arm. Terra Daeva? Here? Impossible.

“Cyrus!” he yelled. “Now!”

The shout somehow broke Cyrus out of his shock finally, and he scrambled to his feet after Luke.

“Where?” Cyrus asked urgently. “Where are we going?”

“To Ulciscor,” Luke said. “We can make it on foot in half a day.”

Cyrus did not know what he was thinking when he took the time to grab what was left of his spilled paper bag at the entrance.

He had never moved so fast in his life. He ran after Luke, watching with terror as the streets in his home of sixteen years began to flood with Daevan soldiers. It hurt to breathe. Blood thundered in his ears as he caught sight of the front door opening to a broad-shouldered man in a light brown Empire uniform. Neither boy looked back after that. Low, flat-roofed houses, towering pine trees, and clotheslines of swirlsheep shirts fluttering in the breeze blurred by as they threw themselves into the forest.

Boys. They were just boys. He prayed that would be enough.

It wasn’t enough during the Razing.