Feel nothing but hate, do nothing but destroy.

-Opening line of Tal Shadi Alvathi, a Khazath sacred text

Arrus knelt beside a woman caked in blood, gripping her hand, watching her breathing gradually steady. A long gash ran across her chest, but it was shallow. She would live. Hopefully. She would if he had anything to say about it.

The surrounding battle had slowed to a stop. Gunshots still rang in the distance, but the louder rumbling of bombs had ceased, and Talar soldiers now patrolled the street, setting up tents and stands and preparing for the occupation. Arrus still hadn’t seen any Miradoran citizens, but he suspected it would only be a few more hours before the Talar started taking stock of their new captives. For now, though, the invaders confined themselves to the streets; Larsh had a strict policy against unnecessary looting.

Arrus could see a medic among the nearby soldiers, tending to wounds, most of them minor. He caught the doctor staring at the wounded slave several times, though no help came. The woman wanted to, though. Arrus could tell. She was just too afraid to actually do it.

The slave in his arms shivered. “Am I going to be alright?” She was growing pale.

“Yes,” Arrus lied. He clenched her hand tighter. “Just hold on.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

There was no reason to thank him. He didn’t have the training nor the equipment to do anything real for her. But he nodded back, and kept holding her hand, until her eyes finally closed, her chest rising and falling in a constant rhythm. Then, finally, he rose to his feet. His legs ached, but he stumbled over to a small, makeshift fire where the other survivors sat on empty crates, eyes staring lifelessly into the flames.

Arrus gazed at those flames for longer than he should have, numb. He wished Perelor were here. Not that the captain’s presence would improve his mood, but conversation with a cynic was at least conversation. He tried to force himself to start telling a story, but couldn’t muster the willpower. Instead, he folded his arms in close, closing his eyes as night fell and a chill swept over the army.

He couldn’t get the image of the Talar doctor out of his head. The way she stared, lips pursed, but didn’t help. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she was afraid.

So many of the Talar were like that. Not all of them, of course; there were plenty of bloodthirsty monsters who kept everyone in line. But most people were good. Like Ryla, his cousin, who had given him his Surgeblade. Or Captain Vyrus, who had helped exploit the legal loophole that had allowed him to wield the Surge. Yes, most people were good. But, like the doctor, they were far too safe with their goodness, trying too hard not to step on the toes of the few who were truly monsters. Because they were afraid.

He hated that. Yet, he wasn’t really sure what he could do about it. It wasn’t as if they had no reason to be afraid. And, deep down, he was afraid too. So he just did the little things. Like holding a woman’s hand, hoping she wouldn’t die.

Little things were just that, though. Little. And the galaxy was a big place. Sometimes, stories helped Arrus feel bigger than he was, but not tonight. So he just kept his eyes closed, the wind whipping against his too-thin uniform.

He stayed silent for a long time before one of the slaves spoke.

“We really are going to die, aren’t we?”

Arrus’ eyes involuntarily peeked open at the words. He opened his mouth to say something, then realized he had nothing to say, and closed it, instead giving a curt nod.

“I thought Captain Krot was exaggerating,” the man continued. He was a tall, hulking man, though against the backdrop of a smoking city, even he seemed small. “I told myself he just hated us. Kept pretending that even after the first raid. But after today… he’s right. We’re doomed.”

Again, Arrus was silent. He hated how Perelor had given up, but what he hated even more was how sensible he was about it. Hearing the same logic from someone else wasn’t helpful.

“No story tonight,” the man whispered. “I guess I can’t blame you.” He shook his head. “I can feel Torment already.”

Arrus closed his eyes again, for a moment. Then he sucked in a breath, and forced them back open again.

“I do have a story tonight,” he said. “One you’ve heard before, I think.”

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The man’s expression turned surprised for a moment, then relaxed. “What is it?”

“The tale we’re all in,” Arrus said. “The one with no ending yet.” He straightened. “The Tale of the Endowed.”

The man sighed. “A lie.”

“Or a truth not yet revealed.” Arrus looked upward, where the stars were slowly beginning to peek through the night sky, mostly hidden by the thick pollution, but still there. “You’ve heard the prophecy, I presume?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Many hear, few listen,” Arrus said. “Repetition is not evil, but I think I will keep quiet tonight.” He paused before continuing. “Did you know, though, that Erak’assala — the word for the Endowed in the native tongue of the prophecy — is not specific to any group of people? There are no gender identifiers. No racial tags. It’s neither singluar nor plural. There is a lesson in that, I believe.”

The man snorted. “That we don’t have any idea who the searing person is?”

“Exactly. It could be any of us, really. We talk about things like scars and mastering the powers, but, in the end, it could be any of us. And, in a way, that means it is all of us. We don’t know how our actions will affect the greater picture.”

A long pause. “And if the outcome for us is death?”

“The only thing to do in the face of death,” Arrus said, “is to live the best life we can in the time we are given. This is the burden we all carry.”

Another long silence. Then the man sighed. “Well, thanks for trying.” He rose, stepping away from the fire and toward a flatter portion of ground where some of the other slaves were lying down. Slowly, Arrus let himself close his eyes again.

Then a hand shook him. He started, hand whipping downward to the now-empty blade on his belt, but a voice hissed.

“It’s me.”

Arrus’ arm relaxed as he recognized the voice, but his chest tightened.

“Father.” He pursed his lips. “What do you want?”

“I had a moment, so I came to see you. Is being your father not reason enough to visit?”

You’re the one who always screamed that I wasn’t your son, Arrus thought. “I see.” Slowly, he turned, meeting his father’s eyes.

Though he was less muscular than the slave Arrus had just been talking with, Traegus Yral somehow seemed larger. Perhaps it was the way he held himself, his head always tilted up just a notch higher than everyone else, his legs spread apart just a bit more, his mouth always turned slightly down in disapproval. His skin was a perfect Talar tan, his jawline flawlessly square, his long, curly black hair tied into a bun atop his head. He was covered in immaculately painted titrite; the only chips and discolorations were those acquired today. His helmet was tucked under his right arm, and his other hand rested on the pommel of a Void Surgeblade — a rare honor for even a noble, as accessing the Third Power always came with the risk of losing one’s sanity. Arrus didn’t think he’d ever seen his father far from either his suit of armor or his Surgeblade -- Traegus was nothing if not proud in public, and nothing if not paranoid in private.

Traegus shifted uncomfortably at Arrus’ tight expression, turning his gaze toward the stars in the distance. As much as he liked to pretend he was the perfect father, Arrus knew that deep down, Traegus hated his own parental failures. Arrus just wasn’t sure how to turn that hate into actual change.

There was a long silence. “Krot is gone,” Traegus said finally.

Arrus grunted.

Traegus snorted. “Off slashing himself again, then? I thought you told him not to do that. Granted, he’s clearly too Soulcursed to think.”

“He’s not Soulcursed,” Arrus grumbled. “And what would it matter if he was?” He’s a better man than you.

Traegus shook his head, gesturing toward the slaves surrounding him. “Oh, Arrus. Look at this place, full of filthy men covered in filthy mud. Look at yourself, taking pleasure in the squalor. One day you will see sense. Mud is exciting for a child, but not for a man.”

“Perhaps we all need to be more like children, then.” Arrus met his father’s eyes, frowning. “I know why you’re here. And the answer’s the same.”

“Is it? These men will all die, son. Even Krot only has so much time before he slits his own throat.”

“They will.”

Traegus sighed. “And you’ll stay anyway, won’t you?” He shook his head. “Such potential, all wasted because of a lack of vision. It is a shame that there are no Purity Surges for that kind of blindness.” He straightened. “But, if it is your answer still, then so be it. One day, the bloodshed will be too much for you, and you will finally kneel.” He paused before continuing in a lower tone. “That day may be coming soon. Things are… afoot. You would be wise to reconsider, before the hour is too late.”

He left without another word, armor clinking as he walked. Arrus didn’t even bother looking at his father as the man left, though, instead turning back to the fire and trying his best to put the encounter out of his mind.

In that, he failed.

He didn’t know exactly what the Shadi were, though he’d gotten glimpses into their motives through his father, and those glimpses weren’t pretty. Lots of things about changing Delti, no matter the cost.

His father always spoke of changing Delti, of the ways he would end the old traditions and usher in a new age. He sounded very sure he would succeed. Arrus dearly prayed his certainty was misplaced, for he suspected that, if his father did change the galaxy, it would not be for the better.

But, Arrus was Arrus, and so far, he hadn’t even changed his father, much less the galaxy. So, falling silent, he watched the fire until dawn broke, the slaves woke, and the army began to move again.