A man may find happiness everywhere he looks, yet he will not find his happiness save in the proper place. Many content themselves thinking they have found true joy while sipping at the tepid water of contentment. They know no better; the man who has never trod a path will delight at every meadow or deer trace that spares him passage through the bramble.

Yet when they first set foot upon their path, their eyes are opened. The way ahead is clear, the destination plain even though it may be years of travel before it comes. There is no burden that cannot be borne by a man walking his true path, no fatigue that may slow him.

When life delivers pain to you, therefore, do not despair. Every hurt dealt to you will sweeten the feel of the path beneath your feet, when at last you find it.

- The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Growth. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

“I hope you’re pleased,” Leire said, glaring from her crystal-enclosed seat down at Antolin. The grand marshal stood dispassionately, betraying no hint of emotion. “Wounded, nearly killed a dozen times to hear him tell it. Direct confrontation with the strongest potens we’re aware of on the Ardan side - plus six more for good measure. On the receiving end of a Sibyl-guided artillery barrage.” She leaned forward. “We almost lost everything yesterday on your presumption that a pair of fortimentes would be adequate protection for the most important asset we have in the field.”

Antolin let a few moments pass between her final words and his reply. “And yet we won the day with our casualties at half of even the most optimistic projections,” he said. “Even Ardan casualties were relatively light. We have the port of Leik, we have the vast majority of what the Ardans were stockpiling against an extended siege. Had we managed to capture Sibyl and the Ardan artillery division west of the city I would term the day perfect; as it stands we must content ourselves with mere excellence.”

Leire stood, pacing within the confines of her chamber. She let her eyes slide from Antolin, looking at Michael for the first time in her tirade. “None of it means anything without Michael,” she said. “The lives saved, the extended conflicts avoided - without Michael to receive my soul, it dies with me.” Her gaze sharpened on Michael. “I would prefer if you remembered that, because it seems like Antolin requires assistance in doing so.”

“Antolin’s precautions saved my life,” Michael said. “Without Etxarte and Zabala I would have been dead from the first barrage. If there’s blame to be laid for my injuries, it rests with me. I should have fallen back rather than trying to attack Galen directly. I underestimated his ability, his speed - and his antipathy towards me personally.”

Leire’s eyes narrowed. “It was more than a simple response to your attack?” she asked.

“We had met briefly before, at Friedrich’s camp near Imes,” Michael said. “We didn’t exchange words or anything, he was just among the Ardans we were running from. He apparently heard that I fought Friedrich later, though, and blames me for his current state.”

“Elaborate on that,” Antolin said, his head coming up. “What did he say about Sever’s condition?”

Michael paused. “Galen called him shattered, said he was a shell of the man he once was. He stopped short of details, though.” He ran a hand through his hair, the memory of Galen’s rage flooding his mind. “The implication I took was that Friedrich was - broken, mentally. I don’t think he would have been as angry as he was for anything transient or trivial. He was coming after me because I had done irreparable harm to his friend, in his mind.”

Antolin rubbed at his chin, looking thoughtful. “They’ve done a good job keeping it quiet,” he said. “We knew Sever’s convalescence was long, but we thought he’d be back in service eventually. Standard Ardan practice for men that can’t return to service is to affinity-bond the soul and kill the bearer, but in this case-”

He looked over at Michael. “They’re likely afraid that the soul will pass beyond their reach, so they’re keeping him as he is. Even if he can’t fight, bearing Sever’s soul gives him a great deal of influence over the Swordsmen. If they lost the soul entirely I imagine they’d be facing mass mutiny and desertion from their elite units.” He sighed and shook his head. “Eromena. The Safid never truly pushed them; I think Taskin knew they’d fall over and end his fun. It’s everything they can muster just to show the appearance of strength.”

“They still have Sibyl,” Leire reminded him. “Admittedly, the current bearer appears to be a poor one - but should she find competence in desperation, Ardalt may trouble us yet. We should make every effort to allow them a route to escape from Imes rather than crushing them against the Safid. Once the dregs of their army leave the continent I imagine that their domestic politics will take a hard isolationist turn.”

“And Taskin won’t give them any reason to reconsider,” Antolin mused. “Ardalt will become largely irrelevant to international affairs for at least a decade. The problem of Saf falls to us.”

Leire sat back down in her chair, crossing her legs. “Which returns me to my prior point,” she said. “Our future plans rely on Michael’s inheritance of my soul, plans which remain intact after yesterday thanks only to sheer, bumbling luck.” She turned her glare to Michael. “Promise me you won’t place yourself in harm’s way like that again.”

“I will be more cautious,” Michael said. “That, I can promise. I’ll stop short of saying I’ll remain entirely safe in the midst of the War, though.” He looked at Antolin. “I want you to keep making use of me if it will save lives. Hiding in seclusion isn’t a way forward. No matter how safe you feel, the world always catches up eventually.”

“You’re a bit young for platitudes,” Leire said. “Nobody is proposing that you stay confined to the airship, but you were fistfighting seven potentes under an artillery barrage. I’m suggesting that there is perhaps a more reasonable midpoint between the two extremes.”

Michael nodded, conceding the point. “I’m not looking for a repeat of yesterday anytime soon,” he admitted. “But Galen’s speedy removal from the battlefield saved thousands of lives. If a similar opportunity presents itself in the future I will pursue it - after consulting Antolin to determine the best way to do so.”

“Wonderful,” Leire sighed. “I suppose that’s the best I’m going to get.” She gave Michael an arch look. “I rather wish you would have killed that man. A potens soul would go a long way towards alleviating my worries about your health.”

“I had determined to, in the moment,” Michael said. “But given the choice I’d prefer not to bear the soul of a man who hates me.” He paused, his fingers brushing lightly over his chest. He looked up at Leire. “I didn’t get my first - you called them low souls. I didn’t get it until well after Jeorg died.”

Leire did not respond, but Michael saw her eyes narrow. “I’ve wished that I could have kept him with me, like I did Clair,” he said. “But I don’t often think about the implication in that - about what I would have received from Spark.”

“Hmm,” Leire muttered, settling back in her chair. “Do they speak to you?”

Michael shook his head. “They don’t. But I can get a sense of their - feeling towards something, their sentiment. There’s an awareness of what’s happening. When I was on the battlefield, I felt Clair supporting me. When I realized Sofia was watching me, though, I couldn’t call on Vincent. It was only when I worked to force the Ardans to retreat that his low soul returned.”

“Which you saw as saving Ardan lives,” Leire said. “Interesting. I can see how it would be unnerving. It’s too much like having a hostile mind within you.” She folded her hands in her lap and gave Michael a somber look. “You should prepare yourself for the eventuality. As this campaign unfolds and knowledge of you spreads, you will find yourself saddled with more souls.”

“I know,” Michael sighed. “Ghar’s bones. I feel like the candle flame trying to warn away the moths. It seems as though I can’t go outdoors without inciting affinity. My soul, though - it’s too weighty, it invites repercussion.” He quirked his lips in a wry smile. “The world pushes back, as Luc put it.”

Leire and Antolin exchanged a look, then Leire turned her eyes back to Michael. “Don’t mistake subsequence for consequence,” she said. “The world pushes, as you say, to a certain extent regardless of your actions. Those with great power often have the desire for peace, especially once they realize how difficult it is for one with power to attain it. My soul invites challenge as well, given its very public nature.”

She drummed her fingers on her armrest. “There is never an end to people like Taskin - or like your father. Men who strive for striving’s sake, who must breathe conflict as necessarily as air. Asking such men for peace is useless; you may as well ask them to take their own lives.”

“It paints a dark picture of my future,” Michael muttered. “Forever pursued by ambitious sorts, except I can’t easily forget them once they’re gone.” He raked a hand through his hair, feeling melancholy and manic in turns.

Leire chuckled. “I expect it will be worse for you than it ever was for me,” she said. “Power like yours invites people to speculate on how it might be used, and since humans are self-centered they will inevitably dwell on its uses against them in particular. Simple fear will drive some to lash out - but there is a way to dissuade them.”

Michael’s head came up - then his eyes narrowed, seeing the pleased look on Leire’s face. “You already know I’m not going to like it.”

“He has you,” Antolin chuckled, scratching at his chin. “You do take too much joy in speaking uncomfortable truths.”

“You would deny me my hobbies in my old age?” she shot back. “Bah. True is true, regardless of comfort - and the fact is that few men listen to reason, but all men listen to self-interest.” She pressed her lips together, then shook her head. “Every so often it is beneficial to take one of these troublesome men and give them the fight they want. Make it public, make it bold - and show the world what happens to such men.”

A chill prickled up Michael’s back; he shivered. “You were right,” he said. “I don’t particularly like that, even as I hear the truth in it. It’s unpleasant to hear you make such a convincing argument for the utility of humiliation.”

“The utility of humiliation,” Leire said. “Ah, I like that. I may steal the phrase for my memoirs.” She rose from her chair with a grunt of effort, then turned back to look at Michael. “You’d best get used to the idea,” she said. “Peace only comes in death, and it’s preferable if the death isn’t yours.”

She left without awaiting a reply, leaving Michael in the room with Antolin. The two men exchanged a glance.

“Was she always like this?” Michael asked. “Or is it something that came on with time?”

The corners of Antolin’s mouth twitched. “The advantage of being her age, I suppose, is that there are few people around who might answer that question. But - yes, I have heard the occasional story from her younger days that paints her as quite the idealist. Fiery speeches, calls to action.” He gave Michael a significant look. “Spiting the law by teaching an Ardan man how to better use his soul.”

Michael blinked, having taken a moment to realize Antolin wasn’t talking about him. “You know, considering everything - she hasn’t asked me much about Jeorg.”

“I expect that she will, in time,” Antolin said. “If we’re talking of her descent from idealist to cynic, that was one of the major inflection points. I would not presume to speak for her, but-” The grand marshal rocked back on his heels, looking at nothing in particular.

Finally, he looked back at Michael. “Fallibility,” he said. “All men fail. I think seeing it from someone she valued as a peer came as a shock. She considered him insightful, even brilliant - and then look what happened.” Antolin tapped his chest. “Watching Ardalt turn on Dreschner made her start paying more attention to the machinations of government. She saw how a country could rot from within while seeming unblemished; in many ways I think it’s part of why she’s been more effective than most in her office.”

There was a pause; Michael looked curiously at Antolin. “That’s a rather incisive view,” he said. “I’m surprised to hear you share it so candidly.”

Antolin raised an eyebrow. “She is vested in your success,” he said. “She wants you to learn, from her mistakes and triumphs both. Having to put up with an old friend’s unvarnished opinion of her is a smaller price than some she’s paid.”

Michael laughed, though his heart wasn’t in it. “It just seems bleak,” he said. “And I wonder if after twenty or thirty years of what she’s described I’ll be advising someone younger on the benefits of excess and humiliation as tactics.”

“You won’t have to wait that long to see how you feel about it,” Antolin said. “No man needs to become a cautionary tale quite so much as Saleh Taskin.” He smiled thinly at Michael, nodded his head and turned to walk back to the bridge.

Michael watched him go before walking to the window, wincing at the first step; his hip ached where the Mendiko anatomens had healed it, though it lessened a bit with each step. He came to a halt just shy of the glass.

The airship was on a hill overlooking Leik, surrounded by ranks of Mendiko armor even as a long line of supply trucks snaked in and out of the city. The port was crowded with the huge bulk of freighters, as well as the slim, angular shapes of Mendiko warships.

After a few moments watching the buzz of activity surrounding the city, Michael exited towards the airship’s cavernous landing bay, then from there to the nearby motor pool. Partway through he heard footsteps behind him; a quick check with his sight showed Zabala jogging up.

“Afternoon,” Michael said. “I didn’t think I’d run into you again so soon.”

Zabala coughed. “I have orders from Grand Marshal Errea,” he said. “Whenever you go off the ship, I’m to accompany you.”

Michael paused, then sighed. “That’s Leire,” he said. “She was very unhappy with - well, everyone. Except you.” He turned to Zabala with a grin. “I think she quite possibly credits you with saving Mendian.”

“I am very pleased that the Star is happy, jauna,” Zabala said, his voice somewhat monotone. The annoyance coming from him in waves made up for the lack of inflection, though, and Michael couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get you wrapped up in - all of this, whatever it is.” He waved his hand absently at the world. “But for what it’s worth, thank you. She’s not wrong, you and Etxarte are the reason I’m still alive.”

Zabala shook his head. “Your artifex friend did more than either of us on that count,” he said.

“Yes, but Leire can’t order him to follow me around,” Michael said. “Although I would love to see her try.” He grinned again, then clapped Zabala on the shoulder. “No trouble today, I promise. I was just going to go down to Leik, most of my friends are already there coordinating with the local resistance cells. I was thinking I’d swing by the headquarters, catch up, maybe see my anatomens friend if he’s at the clinic they were setting up.” He grimaced, rubbing at his hip. “Still a bit stiff.”

“Bai, jauna,” Zabala sighed. “And may I say, I admire your ability to promise no trouble and then propose trouble in the next sentence.”

Michael paused. “Leik is swarming with Mendiko soldiers,” he protested. “And the ones that aren’t Mendiko are in the resistance. With you by my side it’s hardly dangerous.”

“Not dangerous.” Zabala shook his head and began to walk towards the motor pool. “Trouble.”

“Fair point,” Michael conceded. “But I’d still like to go. With everything that went on, with everything we’re going to do once the campaign heads forward - I need to see what all of this is buying for Daressa.”

Zabala looked over at him, then shook his head. “May not be the best time to go down, jauna. If your goal is to see smiling faces then you want to wait more than one day after the battle.”

“I didn’t say I wanted smiling faces,” Michael replied. “I want to see what we did yesterday. The good, the bad, the first day and the hundredth. If I’m going to be the Star some day-” He paused at the sharp pulse of shock from Zabala, turning to see the man’s poorly-concealed surprise.

“Ghar’s blood,” Michael groaned. “That was a secret, wasn’t it? At least, mostly secret. Please do me a favor and don’t spread it around, I doubt Antolin would appreciate that.”

Zabala nodded slowly, then began to walk again, faster. Michael followed after, frowning at the rapid pace. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to-”

“Not a problem,” Zabala said. Stress pulsed from him in a rapid beat, putting the lie to his words.

Michael gave him a pointed look. “You’re sure?” he asked.

The fortimens stopped, returning the look. “I was walking slow when I thought the trouble was in Leik. Now that I know I’m driving it there, I see no reason to delay.”

The smile Michael mustered in response was half-hearted; it was another uncomfortable truth. Zabala did not wait for a response, however, and as they walked towards the motor pool his words played over in Michael’s head.

They rode down to Leik in silence.

It was Michael’s first time in Leik’s city center, for all that he had visited the city once before. The staged attack had been in the lower city, in the poorer districts that occupied the space between Leik’s harbor and the affluent regions farther away from the stench of fish and smoke.

For a city as central to the War as Leik, the old districts were surprisingly normal. Michael watched out the window as residents did their shopping, hauled bundles of goods through the street and generally went about their quotidian business. There was an oddly tentative quality to them, however, one that Michael could not place.

It was plausibly due to the generous numbers of soldiers walking the streets, of course, but the conspicuously-armed Mendiko patrols did not disrupt the urban idyll; to the contrary, the city fairly hummed with excitement. A low background din of positive sentiment suffused Leik’s streets, setting Michael in a similarly-content mood.

Not all was happiness, of course. The outer districts of the city near the Ardan positions had suffered fires and other damage from the intense fighting, and though its residents had largely evacuated there had been deaths among those too stubborn or hopeful to leave.

Michael looked out at the street rolling slowly past, his mind drifting back to carriage rides through Calmharbor with his father. He had wondered often about the lives he glimpsed through the windows, tried to extrapolate something about the person from those stolen moments. It had always felt empty, somehow; the people blended into an undifferentiated mass in his mind, fading away seconds after his eyes left them.

The addition of Spark’s soul lent color to that drab tapestry. The man walking on the sidewalk was ecstatic, another passing him on the street was anxious. Michael leaned back against the seat and let the flow of people wash over him, a slight smile touching his lips.

This was the first time he had been genuinely grateful to hold Spark’s soul within him. He felt a profound connection that had been absent in those prior rides, deepened all the more by the knowledge that he had helped spare these people some measure of the fighting. The routed Ardans had run rather than staying to resist, the scattered remainder of the garrison surrendering or succumbing within the first day.

He was jarred from his contemplation by the squeal of the truck’s brakes as Zabala brought it to a halt; Michael sat forward and saw that they had arrived at the town’s central plaza. The expansive square was thick with broad canvas tents, the space between them choked with soldiers and locals both. A long line of people snaked away towards a cluster of trucks offloading food. Other, smaller queues had formed outside of the tents; those waiting there bore wounds or bandages.

“Those are the clinics?” Michael asked.

Zabala nodded, pulling the truck to a halt. “For the central district,” he said. “There are others on the outskirts, but this is the largest.” He turned the truck off. “Also the safest. I don’t know where your friend is in this mess, but odds are he’s with the main cadre.”

“I think I’ll have walked off the stiffness by the time we find Luc,” Michael muttered, still too buoyed by the city’s energy to be truly frustrated. “Do you mind walking around to look?”

“Jauna, we can stay here for as long as you like. Makes my job easier when we’re in the middle of this many soldiers.” Zabala gave him a smile that was almost genuine, then jumped down from the truck.

Michael sighed and followed. He began to walk down the nearest tent row, wincing as the nearby emotions took on the color of pain - but also hope, and relief. They passed by a line of people waiting to get into the near tent; Michael sent his sight inside to scan for Luc, finding only mundane doctors in Mendiko uniforms.

He frowned. “Only a few of these wounds are fresh,” he said. “Most of the injuries are older, and far more appear to be sick or feeble than wounded.”

Zabala coughed. “The way I heard it, the Ardans had this city locked up ever since the Judgement of the Star. Didn’t want any unrest in the city, since it was their main port for resupply. Of course, that didn’t endear them to the resistance, especially since your friends were feeding them the story that the attack was an Ardan plot.”

“But it was an Ardan plot,” Michael said. “We found proof.”

The fortimens shrugged, his eyes tracing over the next line of people. “Point is you told them, and they believed it. Ardans had to crack down hard. The Watcher was here for weeks, started requiring passes to be out in the streets and sending men to peoples’ houses in the night. Nasty business. Nobody was running out to the doctor.”

Michael nodded, finally placing the odd hesitance he had felt before; daily life had not been daily life for some time, here. Those walking the streets were not just going about their routine, they were reacquainting themselves with it.

“You said not to look for smiling faces, before,” Michael said, sending his sight into another tent. “Even if they’re not smiling yet, the city seems happy enough to have us here. I can’t imagine - ah, found him.” He came to a halt.

His sight had found Luc sitting on a spare cot, inspecting a young girl’s knee while her parents hovered nearby. It was marred by a thick, twisting scar that snaked along the skin. He laid his fingers on the scar and told her to flex the joint; she did, wincing with evident pain.

After a few moments Luc laid his palm over the scar and told her to bend it once more. Michael saw the subtle twist of Luc’s soul around the hand - Michael’s hand. The girl’s face went blank. She slowly bent her leg, then again with excited vigor. She jumped up and hugged Luc around the shoulders, babbling incoherent joy.

Luc’s eyebrows went up with shock; his eyes crinkled at the corners as he returned the hug, pulling away to smile at her and her parents in turn. The strength of their sudden happiness was dazzling. Michael felt momentarily disoriented, taking a step back and blinking fresh tears from his eyes.

He felt Zabala’s hand on his shoulder and pulled his sight back, taking in the soldier’s concerned eyes.

“You okay?” he asked. “Want to go in and talk to your friend?”

Michael shook his head, looking back towards the tent. “Another time,” he said, smiling again as he felt his heart pound from the borrowed joy. “I think he’s busy.”