Eolh’s mind was already made up.

It was made up nine years ago, when the cyrans first invaded the Cauldron. It didn’t matter what this cyran tribune had to say, all they could do was lie.

Eolh just had to make sure the fledge understood that the Emperor, and this Kirine, and all the Cyran Empire that stood behind them… were trying to use him.

Because if they poured their honeyed words into his ears any longer, Eolh feared that Poire would change his mind again. And would fly headlong into their waiting jaws.

“You don’t know how important this is,” Poire was arguing, “The grid is the start of everything, Eolh. Without it, nothing works.”

The grid - some ancient piece of human architecture. Poire had tried to explain it to him, how it connected all the worlds. How it stored the wealth of human knowledge… in what? In the air?

“What does that possibly mean?” Eolh said, “Everything is working just fine. You’re alive. They discovered you - and let you go.”

They were standing in a garden, at the base of the hill. The garden was a long, curving place with freestanding arches and marble columns, wrapped with vines, and marble benches sitting next to green pools of water that were filled with fish. Clay pots, bursting with greenery, punctuated the granite walkways.

A retinue of guards, dozens of them in full battle kit, with their gleaming rifles and ceremonial polished armor, were standing around the edges of the garden. Far out of earshot. And high above, the Emperor’s Statue gazed out at the sea.

Eolh had sent away Annoch the merchant with a nod of thanks and a heavy sack of coins. She bowed graciously, and told Eolh where she could be found, “In case you ever need my services again, discreet or otherwise.”

Kirine, the cyran Tribune, was waiting at the edge of the garden. Giving the trio all the privacy they could use. He’s pretending to give us space. But Eolh couldn’t help but feel they were being watched. Listened to. Maybe it was the Emperor’s Statue staring down at them from that high hill, a frown etched into his immense, stony face. Or maybe it was that visage that covered the statue’s eyes, shining with human-made metal.

“Eolh, I have to go to Thrass. If I can get the grid working-”

“And what if you can’t?”

“It worked before.”

“You don’t know how long ago that was. And you might not know how to fix it. How do you know he’s telling the truth, anyway, about this grid? How do you know what he wants? There are too many unknowns. They’re fighting a war on that planet. It’s too dangerous.”

“Then what? Are you saying we stay here?”

The mask dangled on straps around Poire’s neck. There was no point in wearing it now, not while they were alone in this garden, with its thorny hedges blocking out the rest of the city.

Eolh shook his head, “I brought you here to find your library. What happened to that plan?”

“Too dangerous,” it was the an-droid who spoke, echoing Eolh’s words. While Eolh paced back and forth in front of the fish-filled pond, Laykis stood still, as if she were just one of the many statues that lined the walkways.

“The library, the place that might hold the answers to all our questions, is too dangerous,” Eolh’s voice was dripping with skepticism, “According to who? The Emperor?”

“Yes,” her voice clicked. Whether she did not understand his accusation, or chose to ignore it, it was impossible to tell. But at least Poire seemed to think twice - seemed to hear the question that Eolh was asking.

The fledge bowed his head, defeated. Eolh crouched down in front of him. Put his hand to Poire’s shoulder, and tried to look him in the eyes.

“Listen, Poire. I can only guess at what’s going on in your head. But you can’t trust these people. You can’t. They’re cyrans. This is what they do. They find out what you want, and then they tell you anything you want to hear. The moment you let your guard down, they strike.”

“You talk like they’re all the same.”

“They are.”

Poire pursed his lips at that. His eyes flashed, disagreement clear on his face. “And what do you think they say about you, when they think you’re not listening? Nuwa - my caretaker in the conclave - she said you become what you hate the most. What are you becoming, Eolh?”

“I am here to listen. You are here to learn. Don’t complicate this. Don’t be rash.”

“The Queen wants peace. Isn’t that why you’re here? You have to hear them out.”

That shut Eolh’s beak. The fledge was right. Even if peace was impossible, Eolh had promised to listen for the Queen. To look for the slightest glimmer of a chance.

But the longer he stayed here, the more the Cyrans and all their politicians and the Everlord himself wrapped themselves around Poire, the harder it would be to leave.

“What if there’s a way, Eolh?”

He turned to Laykis, but she would be no help. As far as she was concerned, the human could do no wrong.

“What if there’s a chance?”

It just didn’t seem possible. He had seen what the cyrans would do, given the choice. They would conquer. They would kill. They would burn. And when all that was left was a mountain of ashes, they would fight each other, tooth and nail, to be king of that ruined mountain.

There could be no peace with a species like this. They should be focusing their energy on protecting the Cauldron, on shoring up the defenses around the gate.

Or, hells, even burying the damn thing, so that no one could come through.

Eolh sighed, finally sitting down on the marble bench. Listening to the trickle of the pond. Trying not to think about what his old crew would think of him now. Consorting with the enemy.

I’m not the right person. She should have sent someone else for this job.

The cyran tribune wandered into the garden, clearing his throat to announce his presence. “I want to show you something. The three of you. I wasn’t sure if it was necessary, but now it must be. I want to show you what I’m dying for.”

They left on foot because, as Kirine said, “That damned carriage is making me soft.”

They wandered through the too-clean streets of Cyre. Past the hedges and olive trees, down the roads where the estates grew smaller, the gardens less manicured. Kirine avoided the crowds, keeping them away from the bustling dockyards and warehouse districts. They were headed for a bridge that crossed the river, and as they grew closer, Eolh began to notice a change. In the buildings, yes, but also in the people.

The clean, clay roofs turned to thatch or wood. And here, there were fewer cyrans than anywhere else in the city. Those he did see were more ragged, with none of those twinkling scales on their throats and faces.

A few of them nodded at Kirine, and he nodded back.

The bridge was an immense structure. A series of immense stone arches that soared above the banks of the river and walked across the water. Short stone parapets, lined with plain, utilitarian capstones were wide enough apart that the entire vium could move across the bridge without narrowing.

But instead of going across the bridge, Kirine directed them down a side alley that lead underneath, where the arches met the bank, and small, squat buildings huddled in the shadows.

Eolh’s stopped.

But Kirine seemed unbothered. “Don’t worry, avian. It’s safe.”

For who?

Laykis and Poire strode forward, her heavy-metal clanking and his light footsteps carrying them down into the most run-down part of the city that Eolh had yet seen. Eolh followed, keeping his eyes on the rooftops, and the single-room houses that were stacked on top of each other.

It would be nearly impossible to drag a cart down here, where the road dipped sharply down the river bank. The houses were made of brick and plaster, and all of them were badly in need of repair. Cracks, flaking paint, sections of brick popping out of the walls. When a large ship passed underneath the bridge, its smokestack filled this nearly-vertical suburb with a choking smog. Even the wind seemed unable to carry it away.

There were people in the streets. Sitting on the stoops of houses. Walking arm in arm with each other. People like nothing that Eolh had ever seen.

Xenos.

Shapes and bodies and skin of all kinds. Some wore shawls more colorful than any cyran fashion. Children with long snouts and hard carapaces were running up a street, kicking at a ball with their trunk-like feet. Snorts and shrills of laughter echoing underneath the bricks of the bridge overhead.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Some houses also doubled as shops, or service entries to more houses.

One storefront, littered with machine parts - legs, arms, cores - was swarming with a cluster of small pink and green flying things, each one no larger than his hand. He thought the swarm was an infestation, until he saw they were talking to each other. And working. They slipped in and out of machine parts, carrying small metal tools as they tinked and clinked on the chassis of some cargo droid.

So enamored with their flittering movement was he, that Eolh did not notice the fat, mucus-covered thing riding up behind him, until it’s transport - a contraption with eight metal legs - almost bumped into him. It burbled and burped something at him, and Eolh apologized without thinking. Then, he stared at the slug on its transport, watching it tap its way up the street.

Kirine was next to him, smiling gently. “They know when they’re being stared at, you know. But while you’re at it, look at them.”

Over there was a cluster of redenites. Natives from Gaiam, who had built a kind of workshop in the middle of a run-down courtyard between four houses. They were hard at work at their forges and cranks, cobbling together some kind of farming machine.

Kirine nodded at Eolh, as if to say, See? I know the people of your world.

But all Eolh could see was that old cyran smugness. And he couldn’t help but hate Kirine for it.

In the shadow of a courtyard, two thin, nearly translucent beings were talking to each other. Their relaxed, almost elegant posture was outline in the bioluminescence that flickered up and down their bodies. One of them turned its head, and looked directly at Eolh with huge, curious black eyes.

“It looks rough,” Kirine said, “And it’s not easy living here. But they make do here.”

“This is what you want?” Eolh asked. “For xenos like me to live in squalor? To feed off the dregs of your empire?”

“No, Eolh. No. The people, that’s what I want. Look at them. These are some of the brightest, hardest working people in all of Cyre. They could be so much more, but the the laws prevent xenos from living anywhere else in our city. If Vorpei and the rest of the Veneratian have their way…” Kirine shook his head, and for a moment Eolh thought he saw genuine sadness pass through his eyes.

“Wasted,” he said. “All of them, wasted. This is not just my vision, Eolh. But the Emperor’s too. I am only a disciple of his message.”

“Why doesn’t he change this?”

“His word is law. His will is law. But the world does not always act in accord with what should be.”

“Your words are like knots, cyran. Speak plainly.”

Kirine stroked the scales on his chin, his eyes bright and intelligent. And dangerous.

“How do I explain this? An Empire is not a carriage to be driven this way or that. Have you seen the new trains at the heart of our city? An Empire is like that, only with a hundred cars pulling it in a hundred directions. The culture, the laws, the traditions, the people. The Emperor must wrangle all these together, and work through them. He could wave his hand, and upend the whole Veneratian overnight, if he so chose. But would that not hurt more than it helps? And what of the future?”

He took a step forward, and held his hands out, as if he were groveling at the sky. “But don’t listen to me. I am but a lowly Tribune. The smallest of the Venerate. What do I know of the gods and their power? All I can show you, Eolh, is the Empire that is, and the Empire that could be. This city is all the evidence your eyes should need to show you how grand his eternal majesty is. And he has only just begun.”

That, Eolh thought, is exactly what I’m afraid of.

“I count myself blessed, my avian friend. Because the Emperor has chosen me.”

“Chosen? How?”

“Through this sign, and that message. Through the wind in the leaves, and the grinding fate of all things. The Emperor has made it known to me that I have but one path to follow. The martyr’s path.”

Kirine stood in the middle of the courtyard. All the xenos were staring at him now, but he was only smiling up at the bottom of the bridge, as if it were the brightest sun.

“Your Emperor sends you to die, and this is a good thing?”

Kirine’s face fell. His eyes were on Eolh once more. “Yes. Because he has finally set me free. Long have I fought the Veneratian and all its hateful ways. And only now do I see the light that guides me up from the depths.”

“What if you fail? What does the Emperor do then?”

“He has the luxury of time, doesn’t he? He can choose someone else. Ten years from now. A hundred. It is a drop in the ocean to him. But for me, there can be no higher purpose. Failure does not matter. It is the trying that creates change. Excuse me a moment.”

The fledgling xenos with their hard-back carapaces were running up the street again, curling themselves into balls, and rolling back down. Screaming and chittering with laughter. Two other aliens, adults with the same carapaces, were watching the fledglings, and talking to each other. One of them waved at Kirine, and he smiled and went to them.

“Not all cyrans are so false. Look how he knows his people,” Laykis said. She, like Eolh, watched Kirine’s every move. The easy way he touched the aliens’ arms. How they laughed together.

“It’s a show,” Eolh said. “This is what they do.”

“How can you tell?” Poire asked. “It looks real to me.”

It looked real to Eolh, too. But that only cemented in his mind how devious and dangerous this cyran was.

The Cyran Empire was built upon the backs of so-called lesser beings. They feigned diplomacy, until they could crush their enemies outright. It was how they had always been, ever since the gate first opened on Gaiam. First came the diplomats, promising their alliances. Then, came the soldiers. Free to walk through the gate.

It was possible, Eolh conceded, that Kirine might be different. But how could one cyran change an entire culture? Not even their own Emperor could change them. They were obsessed with victory - even this Kirine, who was so completely absorbed he was willing to throw away his own life.

Let him.

Let them all throw their lives away, for all Eolh cared.

Tribune Kirine came back, apologizing for the delay. First, he addressed Poire.

“Savior Divine, I hope I have not offended you with our lowly existence. I merely wanted to show you a glimpse of what I fight for. Of what I’m going to die for.”

Even now, Kirine spoke of his own death so casually, so easily. There was no hint of fear in his voice.

An act. All of this.

It has to be.

“Thank you for showing me this. It’s noble, what you do. What you’re doing here.”

Eolh made a scoffing caw, but Poire ignored him. Somehow, that made it worse. Even now, this politician was wrapping himself around Poire, and he didn’t know how to stop it. How could the fledge not see this?

Why didn’t the an-droid say anything?

And then, Kirine brought them to a cluster of small, squat houses at the bottom of the hill. The bridge soared high overhead, making a huge echoing space that projected the sound of the rushing river back to them.

“This one is mine.”

“You live here?” Laykis asked. There was surprise in her mechanical voice. “But you’re a Venerate.”

“Unfortunately, a tribune’s salary is sparse enough. And lately, my expenses have been, uhm, tied up. The wealthier Venerate find it amusing to embroil me in legal affairs crafted to sap what little reserves I already have.”

Oh, Eolh thought. Is this why the Emperor chose him? Because he was a man at the end of his rope, willing to do anything?

Or had he been chosen at all?

Was that only a story that Kirine told himself, to make himself feel more than he was. Eolh could think of at least one other cyran who had followed down the path of grand delusions...

“Well,” Kirine said, “Now that I have laid bare before you all that I am, let me ask again. I beg your help. I beseech thee, oh, Savior Divine. Will you help me on this, my hopeless path?”

Poire and Eolh spoke at the same time.

“Of course-”

“Absolutely not-”

They looked at each other. And started talking at the same time.

“What is wrong with you?” Poire said.

“Can’t you see what he’s doing? He even told you he would do this.”

“They’re people, Eolh. He’s on our side.”

“He can help himself. I had to.”

“You had me.”

“Okay, fledge. Okay. You want to know what’s going to happen here? The last time we made a deal with a gods-damned cyran, they burned down our city. They took our people, they murdered us.”

“What they did to you,” Kirine said, “Was awful. Truly, I cannot express-”

“Save it.”

“You sound like one of them,” Poire said.

Eolh’s crest feathers flared up. He whirled on Poire, and couldn’t stop himself from shouting, “Crucified. Do you know what that means? They take your arms, your wings. They stretch them out on a piece of wood, and tie you to it. Then, they tie your legs. You hang from your arms, with nothing to support you but the bite of the rope. Eventually, the bones in your arms break. But it’s not a clean break - no. It’s a slow, splintering fracture. Do you know what that scream sounds like? Night after night, begging for death. Because I do. I know what its like to live nine long years, listening to my friends murdered. They stripped her feathers, Poire. They almost killed Ryke.”

He hated that he was acting this way. Hated that it was coming out like this. Hated that Poire was turning against him - how can he let this cyran do this? - but he wasn’t going to back down. Not from this.

Somewhere, there was the sound of hooves clopping. And a voice shouting in the distance.

“They’re people, Eolh,” Poire said. But his voice was quiet, and low. “They’re individuals. You can’t judge them like that-”

“They’re cyrans. And they’re turning you against me. Don’t let him do this.”

Poire’s lip was quivering. His eyes were dark. Confused. Angry.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Eolh saw Kirine standing there. His face was grim. His jaw, clenched, as if he was in pain.

It was the wrong expression. The cyran should’ve been defending himself. The cyran should’ve been twisting Eolh’s words against him.

But, instead, the cyran Tribune remained silent.

The clopping of hooves was louder now, and a cart swung into the courtyard, hauled by two narrow-bodied drudges. One of those priests in those long, crimson robes. This one had a veil in front of her face, with the Emperor’s symbol painted on it.

She climbed off the cart as quickly as she could.

“Heirarcha?” Kirine said, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, before he bowed deeply.

The Heirarcha ignored him, instead falling to one knee in front of Poire.

“Divine One,” she said, “My deepest apologies. By the Emperor’s command, you must leave Cyre immediately.”

“See?” Eolh said, “See this, fledge? This is what I was talking about. He’s forcing you to do his bidding, now. To go to Thrass.”

“No,” the Heirarcha looked up, as if just noticing Eolh for the first time. Eolh couldn’t see her eyes through the veil, but he could plainly see the flash of disgust in the twist of her mouth as she regarded him. “The Emperor only wishes you to leave this planet. The Divine One may return to Gaiam. Or Thrass et Yunum. Or any planet he wishes. But he cannot stay here.”

Before they could ask why, she pointed up at the sky. The bridge’s soaring bulk blocked out most of that blue stretch, but even now they could see it.

That bright streak in the sky - the scar - was rippling with light. Tearing itself open. Sharp, narrow cuts appearing and disappearing in that patch of the sky.

“What is it?” Poire said. “I can see it. I can see through it.”

“What are you talking about?” Eolh said, squinting up at the sky. All he could see was rays of light, sparkling like slivers of glass.

“It’s opening,” Poire said. “It’s…”

His eyes were wide open, flicking back and forth as if he was watching something high above the city.

Laykis had her head bowed. She was muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

Poire turned to Eolh, “I’m going to Thrass et Yunum. I’m going to find the grid.”

“No,” Eolh said. And immediately knew he shouldn’t have.

Poire’s face hardened. Eolh thought he could see the liquid armor underneath his clothes, writhing as he spoke.

“You can stay here. Or go back to Gaiam. Do what you want. But I have to go. I have to do something.”

“Take my cart,” the Heirarcha said, “Divine One, take my cart and go.”

Poire went first. Followed by Laykis. And then, Kirine as well. It was the cyran who last looked at Eolh, and said, “Come with us, Avian. And help us change the Empire.”

Eolh stared at him. No answer. Daggers in his eyes.

Kirine looked genuinely saddened by this. “The only one holding you back is you.”

And then, Laykis grabbed the reins, and the drudges began to move.

And all Eolh could think, as he watched them trot away underneath that shining scar, was this: she should’ve sent someone better.