...

— So, how are you doing, Bart? – Sigurd asked to me. It has been a long time since I didn't met his on this way. Well, there was a check-up made by his and the Prince some weeks ago, as they went throught all the tents, but allow of this closure, and privilege to sit on this wooden chair once again... My head feels like it's going to explode. This heat, this sweat... this urine; they are drying me as a whole, alike that tea did.

— I'm fine, my commander – I said, even thought I ain't that much to be considered as 'fine', or even 'well'. I'm not sick, ill enough to be put in a bed, but I can't keep walking like I did before anymore for this day. I still wonder when the last day will come, Sigurd...

— You don't seem that much of fine to me – he said. I expected him to say such thing already. Well, he is a commander, and he knows what each soldier feels with the eye of experience. If they are tired as I do, confused, angry, doing a sort of mockery, even if such is hard to spot at individuals like Clyde, and happy as well. There are many mays to shed a smile, as there are many ways to bring happiness, but such vary with people, althought it's clear that nobody I saw, or never saw, is happy, or sad. The sweat falling from the faces makes it hard to spot some tears, unless they had gotten the tongue to tell it so – ...you've came here to tell me something, didn't you?

— Of course, my commander. You see-

— I know it already, Bart – Sigurd said, as he did that gesture with the right hand, telling me to stop. Even before he did that, I stopped to talk, as if that hand was there, even when I was a kid. A sort of shiver ran into my skin, and I don't know why, or maybe I knew why, and I didn't wanted to knew what that fist could do to me. A slap? No, that wouldn't be prudent for someone like Sigurd – 'they seem to be pulling out of the ground like carrots', right? No, you aren't wrong. Many like you came here to report the same as you did. With enough evidence, sharing of similar results, the truth rightfully arrives to the mind, althought, it's still not clear yet for me to know the reason why those alexandrian soldiers are running underground...

— This place is a desert, commander. It ain't nothing alike Burmecia, so everything changes... – I said. My head dazzled, but I didn't cared. Now I care, because I wan't to puke... Sigurd knows by seeing this throat, and so, with the look of that face, I refused to do it so. I must be the heat, I would blame if I could speak clearly. I can speak, with the expressions, but they seem to reveal nothing new for Sigurd. who saw many of us reduced to offscourings, or handled of such hand to ease the pain of same process.

— Everything changes... no, things do not change, Bart. Everything seems to happen again and again, althought slightly different than before. I see you, and the name of your father upon you, although you don't seem that much alike his. Of course, because you are younger than his, a son of his like Clyde, but the blood is the same. You are growing a bit of a beard, as it seems. It may be dangerous to use the spear's blade to shave your neck instead of the beard, don't you think?

— Yes... I'll be more careful – I said, as if I needed to say such thing. Agree to your commander, that's what Clyde would say. I agreed to Sigurd's advice, and I would do it so anyway, with words, or with nods made by the head. Good soldier... Sigurd seems strange, and how strange was the way he talked to me. From commander to soldier, it seemed strange, but to closest friends, or even brothers, it was just a small talk. He knew my father, besides the title of Major, so I guess a son of my father doesn't mean anything else to his. The things do not changed... what does ever that mean? Well, I'm still a Burmecian since the day I was born...

— Sigurd! – I heard a shout, the owner of same name as well, coming from outside the tent. It is the Prince, alongside my brother. The guards let both in, since Clyde shares of father's blood, and because the Prince was close of his. It was the task given to his, after all. Geez... my head hurts. If by any time I closed these eyes to allow the pain to be gone into the emptiness of the black...

For an instant, Bart closed his own eyes, due to an awful headache. 'Headache', and 'awful'; others would say these words to simplify of such condition, who only seem to have worsened for Bart. The pain is felt, even after the midday sun had been set in the horizon, but still Bart was sitting there, on that chair, without even falling, or thinking to do it so there, or anywhere he had been gone.

The sand seemed comfortable on his face, until the though of a scorpion being there came into his mind. If Bart ever fainted there, Sigurd would be here, and the Prince, Clyde as well; three options with same arms to be lead. How long it has been since he sat on a wooden chair, he thought. That tea, the least of all the things that Bart could blame it's lose of balance, ure is something else to feel that numb... a sort of numb, ants crawling the legs, and so gravity began to work again, same gravity who lead a puke out of a sailor's throat. Your eyes remind me of the sea, because they make me sick... No, Lenneth wouldn't ever say such thing. How long had Bart been filled by such kindness? And violence... A slap came into that face; Sigurd's one. No, did he?... Of all the people to deliver such fist upon that face, even Clyde there had enough reason to do it so, althought not understandable, but the Prince? Less so. Everything had a reason to happen, or to be blamed into something so there's a reason for such to happen. Blame God for the rain.

...

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♫Depeche Mode - Stjarna♫

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— You... Gabriel. How could you?... – Sigurd asked, or so seemed to had asked, with a voice covered by the arm of his. Foggy eyes, the nose of Sigurd bleeded, althought none of his bones broke, as tiny drops of red felt above the armor wore by his. With the touch of his warm hand upon same warmth of the nose, as the blood who once dripped from its cavity was being cleansed – you only did this because you are the Prince, didn't you? To share of such power... just so you know, this fist of yours did nothing to me, but your status allowed it so to happen. Lenient as I am, I'll be awaiting for you to explain yourself... – he said, still erect on his feet, same for the spear

— I hope this doesn't get any personal between us, Sig, but how could you? Traitor, scoundrel, filty... these words aren't enough to define you, and your acts, am I correct? This fist of mine who had hitten of your face before means nothing, compared to what you had done... Sig – Gabriel came in this same tent, saw his tutor, a figure, that belonged to then entirety of his youth, and gratefully punched his. The blood seemed to be gone, unlike that frown belonging to the commander, who demanded of more explanation. It wasn't enough, for both. The Prince without a crown had no reason to cry yet, or to show any signs of being the weak one.

— And who said it so to yours? My Highness, you couldn't have taken this information, a rumor who shares of this bad taste towards me from the thin air, and to claim such as the 'truth'... That wouldn't be a wise thing to do, would it be? – Sigurd asked, as the Prince whom he took care ever since he was an infant, reckless like now, stood there, in front of his, instead of the back, on both feet as well, unlike Bart, still sitting on that table. With his eyes closed, Bart still he could hear the talk between them, not as much as Clyde could hear both cleary, standing on his feet, with a mouth sharing of some brief smirks, though he didn't seemed to be the one who spread of such rumor for the Prince, even after a bit of closure. No, for the Highness to be that upset, Clyde wouldn't be that enough of a piece of information to be trusted, and besides, he just wanted to see everything burn, scorch like his feet and the sand between his toes.

— As much as you let my fist to be delivered in your face, you showed me of your plans as well. Remember those papers? Trance, isn't it? A massive power that supposedly comes out of our inner emotions. or so past legends tell them so for us. Suspicion came into my mind, but that wasn't enough of evidence, maybe you've burned it afterwards, but you can't burn people and hide their ashes so easily. Never you would, because you need of the many soldiers as you can, or could gather with the activation of the patent of those who enlisted in the army by compulsory enrollment, all belonging to the army reserve. You did this before, and had done it again, for the same purpose...

— Interesting. Tell me more... Did you said something about Trance? I admit that I've burned such documents after you saw them, there is no need to hide such fact, irrelevant as it seems, but please, look once again to your words. Those are serious accusations, and defamation against me is a serious crime as well. You won't have your hands cut, because we aren't animals like the Vastitas used to be when alive, but if you weren't the Prince, you certainly would receive of more punishment than the capital one. So, what is my purpose? Is it... to achieve Trance, right? Or is it another slander? And who told it so for you? Was it Bahamut, perhaps? – the tone of Sigurd didn't changed a bit, only the amount of words that came from that mouth. Bart just felt asleep, Clyde thought, not even being close of his own brother to do a check. The eyes aren't that enough to say if someone feels good, or feels bad. And Clyde wouldn't miss such thing...

— The 'wind' refreshed the sweat of mine as a breeze from the morning, Sig – so it was Hyuuga who confessed to his prior the homecoming, was he? And our Highness had been awaiting for this moment all along? Where's the bread? Clyde thought, and only. That man was miles away from that tent's distance, and miles away of height as well – by claiming a civil war, you had the right to take all the men needed for your plan. Prescott Highwind, Major Brandford, Arc, Fei... just to name a few. Even father was there, with you. The two wars, counting this one, shared of the same goal in common: Trance. To achieve Trance, you needed to make a war, a place that isn't a place, where the layers of fantasy mix with reality, confusion into the minds, the Mist blinding the view, same for the light of the desert's sun... the perfect, flawless state of a deranged person, overexposed by suffering, deprivation, and the innermost of emotions flowing into the skin is enough to make Trance to happen, or so this theory you've made states it all.

— Excellent – Sigurd briefly clapped with his both hands. Clyde only watched, without moving a lip, seeing how much the commander had been attent to the Prince – to think you have come this far, only in words, but, it saddens me to say such thing, but there is a flaw in your argument. Now you should be the one in grieve here, my Highness. Sure, with the power and influence I hold, I could have called as many men as I could, but why would I call same men without an excuse? Are you pretending to tell me that I made this war, no, these wars? And against the alexandrians? I hope you can explain it so, or else, I'll deny them all, and I think you should rest for a while too, my Highness. Covered by dirt like that, it must had found a way to pour inside your mind. You look as dirty as many soldiers here, and I am sorry if I did offended you there, Clyde. My dear apologies shall be grated to you as soon as you take care of your poor brother, if you please – once a Royal Guard, always a Royal Guard; that mantra from before echoed inside Clyde's mind, besides some offensive words towards the commander. Nobody can read minds, but Sigurd sure can hear faces, so Clyde just moved his ass and came closer of Bart, who seemed dead, but that neck and it's vein still pumped, a bit slow than usual, but still a beat.

— If mother knew you became so elusive and so filled in by secrets... – the Prince said, with his head still looking front to front to Sigurd. He dared to look at his feet, as he used to do whenever he had done something bad, resulting in a punishment, often that kid would be grounded, but the walls surrounding of that Palace for an eternity, same for the rain who poured outside the window, always seemed to ground his, and Sigurd wasn't needed to do it so all the time. If Gabriel avoided to look at that face, that frown, then everything would be over, and Sigurd would have a complete, total control, and guess what would happen next? No, nothing of sort would happen against the favour desired by the Prince.

— Elusive? Maybe. Filled in of secrets? Who wouldn't? I ain't not the only person here restricted by such. You as well also counts, Gabriel. By the looks you had been giving to me since that day you looked over my documents, an image burnt on your mind until now... I can still see clearly the shock of those pages upon your face. Frightened? Do you know why you are the Prince, to begin with? All the conquests, victories, this easy life of yours, the same life brought to your brothers as well, it was all thanks... to your mother. My sister, my younger sister. She needed to be young, after all. It's part of our tradition, isn't it?... You may recall what Mr. Highwind told to us back at Gizamaluke's Grotto: 'Materia can't be destroyed'; I never thought that such statement made by his would be so truthful to believe into. If nothing can be destroyed, either it's transformed into something else, or transferred to another place. From sand to glass, and glass to tiny shards alike sand, the Cleyrans and its descendants are the main proof of such statement. You need to pour some heat to make the gold turn clean, right? Althought the Cleyrans do not accept of a Burmecian identity, they still had been conservating of their natural essence; the essence of being a Burmecian.

— So you... you are a Cleyran? – Gabriel asked. He was shocked, not as much as Clyde was, after seeing for himself the tearing of those thick layers belonging to that matroska doll apart, like slices of onions itching more than the view of both eyes. Bart, on it's state of darkness within the view, heard of such words, but they didn't meant nothing for his, because he didn't shared of strong ties with Sigurd, unlike the Prince there, who shared of same blood belonging to his uncle's sister. Uncle... he never called Sig by such name, as far as he could remember.

— Yes. I am a Cleyran by birth, per se. So do your mother, Gabriel, or used to be before she came to the arms of your father. When Cleyrans decide to stay at Burmecia, they still kept their traditions learned since children, but most of them disappear and change with the time, and the place to call home, such as the peach dresses once wore by the women and other clothings made to be wore into dry places, not on a Kingdom obscured by clouds. Those who belong to the rain are Burmecians, so do the ones who had gotten outside of it's refuge, no matter the time or centuries it took for their return. As soon as the Cleyrans like me return to Burmecian, we become Burmecians as a whole once again, as our ancestors once were proud to be. That's what you call by 'convertion', 'baptism' or whatever word of your choice that makes things easier to distinguish between each; even elements that share of a kinship into blood are included as well.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

— Sigurd... How? How could you? You are a Cleyran. Of all the people of this world, and you are the one who proposed a war against Alexandria... – Gabriel said. Still he couldn't accept many of the things told by Sigurd, as much as he was reluctant to prove it was that same person who began everything; this conflict, this suffering, even the Prince's own life by the cost of another – you... you, as a Cleyran, had the knowledge of White Magic, and yet, you haven't used it? I know that mother couldn't because of her condition, but you, so near of her... For the sake of being a Burmecian, you refuted to save the life of my mother, your own sister?

— You can't cure mortal wounds, or people at the blink of the death with White Magic, as much as you can't ressurect the dead with a single dosage of Phoenix Leaves. All I could do was to accept it was all over, same for your mother. If this may sadden you, then that's fine. Your suffering, same for this this anger as well, are temporary, and they won't last for a lifetime. Do you know how does it feel for a Cleyran to die and be buried in such a place once meant to be home? To be taken from the warmth of the sun to be placed below the rain, and its coldness, alike the people who belong to same lands? To let you discover the world on your own, to let you walk with your feet in the garden's mud, same earth she now stands below? My name ain't even Sigurd, but a long forgotten name that stood in that trunk, same for the long roots still hid in the underground. I do not feel as a whole, but a half of what once was broken. That's the main reason I've 'returned' to Burmecia, alongside my sister. From single flies to steps above sand scorpions to later be almost swallowed by a Zuu's throat before I cut it from inside; I, as a Cleyran, was a sinner, but as a Burmecian, such acts were acceptable in order to assure of a self-defense, or so what comes close of the so called 'natural essence of being a Burmecian'.

— So, because you are a prideful bastard that you've began this conflict against those alexandrians? And not on your own, but with a hundred men on your disposal, Sig? – Clyde asked. He had been kept quiet by his own thoughts, until he found an opportunity to squeeze a bit of them out in words. Bart woke up, but still he could only hear some words, unlike his brother, who spoke some and was ready to hear them all clearly – that's what I call by teamwork...

— Betrayal? How can this be considered an act of betrayal, when the King himself allowed of such act? When a soldier lose its hand, but survive for example... to where do you think his life goes on? Answer is dependable of the way it happened. If the soldier had lost its hand on battle, then he is forever regarded as a brave one, but what if he lose the hand by accident? Accidents don't belong to brave people; these accidents belong to the careless ones, cowards that don't deserve to attain such glory. But here, on army, even the worthless pile of puke can become a saint for the children to pray of by each morning they woke up earlier – I understood. I won't pray for you then, or even eat of your flesh to acquire your powers as well, Clyde thought. He only set a blaze, that was already put out, unlike the fire that was about to burst alike the heat of those feets covered by sand instead of rain.

— So my brother Edgar accepted what you had been doing all this time? Father did the same as well? For what reason?

— My Prince... do you why the alexandrian beings fight against the Burmecians? They all fight in order so to acquire a sort of territory. However, there is no such territory, yet humans and Burmecians do want such. And how do an entirety acquires such territory, how do you convince the entirety to live on same territory? A ruler above them all is the clear answer. One ruler, and thousands to follow of such. A ruler can't make all the people, civilians of his lands, to kiss his own feet. God comes before all of us, but which one below God to rule us? The –KING– is the entirety, and the entirety is the KING and its –DOMINION– over the lands, or should I say, the –KINGDOM– made to be his own. And how do you sustain a Kindgom? With power. And Influence. Power is Influence, and Influence is Power. See, you've got these muscles around your arms and legs, this body; given enough training, any kind of being can learn to move their bodies on mysterios ways. And which way more mysterious than an erect being, holding of a spear on an arm? An extra, and sharper, tooth, to pierce throught the skin, the flesh of the soon-to-be meal. Wonder why a King's crown tips are sharp, alike blades, atop his own head, made of gold, valuable because of its rarity, unique to others by its strenght, durability, same for the fur of argento throught their skin? Do you need any explanation to understand such?

— Ughh... – Bart woke up, uttering a sound as if he was about to puke. His head hurted, being hammered by the unrecognizable noise of a few words he soon would understand. With his face upon the shoulder of Clyde, briefly before he stood on his feet, somehow, althought his column wasn't fully erect, because side of his had been towards the left, oscilating between the right, the balance of his as an entirety wasn't alright, neither it belonged to a vagrant on its sleep. Working so hard lately, only to get beaten up not by the enemy, but the words belonging to Sigurd...

— ...However, a King can't rule on its own. The weak, the fragile ones called by soldiers, guards, knights... they are what sustains the table. Such thing you call by cooperation is nothing but an excuse for another to be equal to another. The Cleyrans are weak on their own, still they are weak as a group, same for the Burmecians, the alexandrians, unless they had gotten of more than their claws in the hands. Not only spears, but drugs, opiates, sedactives extracted from many sources, anything who shares of the purpose of relief, including the poppies stain running down into Bart, and many soldier's bloodstream. Like a ratio given to a hungry dog after a hunt, these tea had been prepared for those avaliated by their efforts, also a sign of gratitude for the Cleyrans. The one responsibe for it's exposure was Hyuuga, or Prescott for those intimate of his, and so do I as someone who lived at Cleyra for a far amount of time than his. We agreed that a sort of relief attained by a dosage of an opiate was enough to less the pain brought by those near the death. It was one of the few things belonging to the ancient Burmecian that the Cleyrans had preserved until now, before such tea was replaced by a less tranquilizing, but bittersweet chai.

There are side effects, as you can see on Bart. This Bart. Fortunately, they didn't passed already, thought they weren't on the brighest of the days, but still he had the will to fight against anything who became a menace to his family, the Burmecian family. The Poppies, and the sedactive extracted from then, given to yours... or was it only given to a few of yours? While one had been in bed, comfortably numb, dreaming of whatever your mind makes you see, good or bad put aside, would someone other than you also received of such treatment as yours too? Or, would such wounded one had been taught to believe he was given of same tea, same warmth that freezes him as a whole, but in reality beyond his mind, beyond the comfort of the entire crew, who share of same tent, same nationality, same skin, and for all this time this individual had been given nothing instead, but hot water? Water instead of the sedactive... You all are taught to believe in someone, even a deceptive one, because of a thing called by trust. And who more trustful than a soldier like you, or a Dragoon Knight, who is far more trustful than a soldier like you. Unfortunately, they can only be found inside the boundaries of Burmecia while on duty.

If you make a Dragoon Knight, for example, cross into what we call by bad neighborhood, with its raised pike with a sharp tip above, would they still remain bad? Coca leaves apart, well, here is the truth once beneath the 'truth'. Dragoon Knights do more than kill a few Ironites. They do kill people, dragons of our society, individuals who commit of such bad behavior, only for the sake of their own survival, their own territory, themselves. We had been deceptive for a honorable goal, I had been acting and giving some deception to yours because I carry on of such honor, and with deception, however, comes the lies. Truths beneath the truths, now, Bartholomew... should I answer you if those cuts at the back of your wife are the same ones made by the jaws of the Grand Dragoons, Bart? Would Lenneth really tell you the desired truth of her heart for you, instead of avoiding the damage, as Dragoons are taught well to do? And you? Would you really tell her that you only stood on her side, even had to stab on her back before others could do, dirtied by the stain of your portraits, to satisfy your own selfish pleasures? That you both had been living such pitiful lifes all in order to attain such thing you agreed to call by happiness for both, that only lasts seconds, minutes, only you two together, and nobody else?

Many questions were raised after that speech. Bart, Clyde, Gabriel... They just stood there, quietly listening to those words. No such interruption happened, not even the interference coming from outside the tent. There wasn't any flow on what seemed to be an endless talk, but a harsh stream coming out of that mouth. The Prince just stood like he did before, awaiting for an opportunity already proven, yet incomplete due to the demand of a way for Sigurd to justify of his acts, while Bart and Clyde stared at his. More than the contempt, their faces had been filled in by a blank state; if it was anger, or grief, both, something unrelated, no one knew, same for many of the revelations told by the Sigurd who took a chair to sit. He seemed to be the only on there tired of his own words, whereas the others only sweated, or maybe they cried, but who else to tell other than the man without a tongue? From the cause of the harsh dazzling in his head, to the slight mention of his dear wife; things had gotten too personal, thought Bart. To shout a 'bastard' wasn't enough, nothing seemed to work, as nothing came out from their mouths, only breaths, a sign that they were still alive. The words also had some effect on Clyde, a solidary effort of his in relation to his brother, besides allowing of his warm shoulder for that head to be placed. That's what father would do for his...

— ...This ain't the end of the trail for today, Sigurd – said the Prince, the only who could move an inch belonging to the lips – there are still a few questions unanswered by you. You are willing to answer them, I know it, it's your nature as a loyal advisor of father. So loyal of his that you've brought an entire conflict, you did it again, only so to prove something. I don't know what it is cleary, but it is something related to Trance, isn't it? There is nothing between us to make a boundary anymore, Sig, so put it out.

— Well, if you won't insist anymore, then I shall tell it already. The feud between us and those belonging to Alexandria had been lasting for centuries, since we met and poisoned of each other. Some fellow members of a sect converted themselves into new people, the Cleyrans, only so they could fled from the horror and taste of blood from another gathered inside our jaws. The sandstorm holded by the power of the Desert Star and the prayers is what protects those people from the outside world. Meanwhile, the alexandrian forces, whom I've called upon throught a card, full of hints that guided them all into this same desert by the knowledge restricted by my position, are ready to put an end for those who live above the Yggdrasil, and retrieve of that same shard of crystal once given centuries ago for the Burmecians, unless we do something. Between the pain of a leg to the effects of an overdosage of poppies, between the violence and the inner peace; Trance, my dear Highness, is the perfect state of the living beings. Wealth and surplus, poverty and famine, not an excess, or the fault of what's needed, but something in the middle, a balance that sustains both. If the Desert Star is either taken by those alexandrians, or by the Burmecians, if the Cleyrans will come to Burmecia to find some refugee, if some may end up dying in the process... I want to see where everything will lead into, no matter the possibility. Though I may not be able to see it happen for too long, in this age, I want to rebuild Burmecia, to make its Reunification be possible once again.

Silence. Nothing seemed to move inside that tent, as everything stood still, alike the furnitures belonging to the trunks of wood, who used to breath when alive. Those who remained there were still alive, as they breathed, though the dead, moribund ones shares of an ounce of air before they are gone, as they rest above a table. Sigurd didn't left no such question to be answered, but only answers for the many questions raised before. Those were the questions, the doubts belonging to the Prince, and they were over, unlike the look of that face. To call such thing by noble, or pitiful enough to make a swallowed spit share of some flavor... who else to clarify of such matter? Bart and Clyde still stood there, like children lost in the middle of the debris, even thought they were already over for the looks of Sigurd. Suddenly, a horn broke into their ears, and the silence of before was gone, unlike the heartbeats. Outside the tent, the orange sky of the dusk looked red, and the sand was about to turn into same color as soon as the shadows began to march. Gabriel only came near Sigurd to take the Gram with his hand, as he came out of that place. They needed someone with that blood and royalty to assure they weren't left alone...

As for Clyde, soon as Bart opened of his eyes, fully gazing them towards Sigurd, he left his own brother in there. He may had abused of ours until now, but at least he let our families free of such. Free? Our families, left at home... Isn't this a kind of abuse? But there's only a way for such to be over, the nearest of them all. I want to be so near of them, not only Bart, but that one with the skin crawling up, that kid with the gap, damn, I forgot their name... I don't want to be forgotten by they too; those were the thoughts belonging to Clyde. Bart stood inside that tent, same for his commander, sitting on that chair, hearing the people from the outside as a hymn of victory, or defeat, the chance may answer later.

— Bastard... – Bart said, and only. He had so many things to say, and so many things to think about. The veins seemed to be there, on his neck, and a blade would soon come out of nowhere, only to tear them apart. The thoughts of murder were denied, and reserved for people other than Sigurd.

— Bartholomew Brandford, I am not the only one you do have the need to kill. If you, by chance, kill me, then what will you do next? After all you had been fighting for their sake; for the sake of your people, for the sake of a father not here anymore, for the sake of children you had been awaiting to bring to this world so you won't be forgotten by anyone, except those who accepted of your higs, your lows, all for the sake of being loved, and for you to share of such love. You would even die for their sake, won't you? You own something, right? No, you don't. You, like many Burmecians, alexandrians, those from Lindblum, they own nothing, but borrow it. Your house, your food, your money... Not even families are related by blood, but finances. Your father did died, was willing to die, only because he had a family already raised by his so he would be remembered for generations, and so did the father of his, who instead of dying in the fields, found on a cold bed his way to give up the fight.

— Bastard – Bart uttered, once again, slightly changing the tone. His both fists were kept close, but without any skin other than his own. The sheath were his blade lied all along seemed empty, and dry as well. What such rage would change, besides the position of those vessels?

— Bart, Bart... What does the Mist and the scorched earth had induced you? Was it anger? Sadness? Loss? Anxiety? Either if you kill me with those sharp claws, or anyone else does, I still will be regarded as a savior for all our people, even when I shall be kept resting on a warm grave buried by a shovel made of the finest gold. Yes, they will give me the medals of honor for such honored person I was, and still is as the tale yet to be told describes. Our children will see this same way, even your wife may think this same way. If I killed you right now, guess what would happen? Nothing. Nothing bad for me. Now, if you are a good boy, and if by any chance the alexandrian's death wing flies into you, I'll gratefully reward you, given how courageos was you, Bartholomew Brandford, even though I won't ble able to put a medal in your dead chest. You deserve it, right? With the power I hold on, I can make your entire legacy so far to be written as a tiny scratch of ink in the middle of a black page.

So be it. Everything will soon be over, Bart thought. But nightmares always seem to appear after the dinners watered by fat. And meal.

[https://i.vgy.me/k4Chj8.jpg]

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