Vorpei’s soldiers streamed through the city, hundreds of boots squelching and flinging up mud and gravel. Hundreds of rifles clutched to rain-soaked uniforms. Officers shouting orders every few blocks, urging the dullscales to arms. All of them, headed the same way: towards the gate.

Towards the cracking gunfire and the rising clouds of smoke.

And Eolh ran with them. Even though he limped along (with Agraneia’s help) out in the open streets, no one seemed to care. All the soldiers wore that same grim, determined look on their faces. Even the officers and decorated commanders, who trudged with urgent purpose amidst the throngs of soldiers, had that same unhappy look.

They knew their chances. They knew they weren’t good.

Eolh almost felt bad for them. These cyrans, these people… Maybe they had a choice, once. But now the machine was moving. And all of them were merely pieces, caught up in its crushing momentum.

Somewhere ahead, there was shouting in the back ranks. A soldier had tried to run. His fellow soldiers caught him under the arms, and an officer was screaming into his face.

“Get back to your position, you worm! You maggot! You insufferable excuse for shit jelly! You are the most disgraceful, worthless, useless, piece of-”

And so on.

As long as they were running towards the battle, nobody seemed to care, so Eolh kept his head down and kept walking. But as they passed the would-be deserter, a gunshot made Eolh turn his head.

Agraneia tugged on his arm, trying to pull him along.

“They just shot him!” Eolh said.

“Deserters always die.”

“They didn’t shoot you.”

“I didn’t desert,” she said, without a hint of irony in her voice. “I came back.”

Whatever she had done, Agraneia believed she had done her duty.

The three of them circled around the center of the city. They found pockets of uneasy peace among the chaos.

Here, there were dozens of Vorpei’s soldiers. Sitting behind sandbags and dugouts. Nobody saying a word as they waited for the enemy to come.

The next alley was filled with smoke and screaming and bullets that smacked into brick, or blasted through bamboo walls. And then, the next road over, it was like the battle had already finished. Bodies lay in the streets, none of them making sound. Eolh thought he could see the enemy soldiers, wandering like ghosts in the distant smoke.

This was the avenue Agraneia chose.

The scribe helped Eolh over the more treacherous parts of that muddy road. More bone than muscle, the scribe’s scales were coral-colored. Aquatic blues and touches of pink, mixed with those silvery, shining scales. His head and neck was lined with soft, almost flowing fins.

“Sorry about earlier,” the scribe said, as he helped Eolh limp down the gravel street, now pockmarked with bullet-sized craters. And bodies. “Back in the prison. I wasn’t expecting… I’ve never seen a…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Eolh grunted, trying to ignore the pain flaring red-hot in his hip. Something was fractured there, and the more he walked, the worse it hurt.

“I’ve never been in prison before.”

“It does things to you, doesn’t it?”

“I thought you were a dream.”

“Guess that’s a compliment, then.”

Agraneia held up her hand up, silencing them both.

They were on the north side of the town. They could see the road, a straight shot towards that heavy, whitestone manor sitting in the middle of the city. And all the way down, there were sandbags and gun emplacements and foxholes and cannons.

And soldiers. On the roofs. Sitting behind the sandbags. Leaning against the walls of the stone buildings. All of them, anxious to start shooting.

Vorpei’s? Or the other side?

How could anyone tell from down here? If only I could fly up to the roofs. This would be so much easier...

“Just walk straight, and don’t look at any of them,” Agraneia said. “They’ll ignore us.”

Will they? Eolh thought.

All the soldiers stared at them, the odd trio making their way towards the General’s mansion. But nobody stopped them. At one intersection, Eolh thought he heard someone shouting, “Lieutenant?” at her, but Agraneia didn’t stop. She just kept walking.

The General’s mansion had been turned into a fort. There were dozens of guards, and cannons on the roof. Dozens more on the ground levels, and Eolh could see the barrels of rifles jutting out of the windows, making the whole stone structure bristle with armaments. The fighting was not here yet, but when it came, it would come heavy.

Fortunately, the Boxes were not inside the fort’s walls. The Boxes was a single, low-slung longhouse made of hardwood, with no visible windows on any part. There was only one door, with two uniformed soldiers guarding it. Neither of them looked happy to be standing out in the open.

“Halt!” one of them said as Agraneia approached, but she merely grunted, “General’s Orders,” and stomped past them before either of them could stop her.

The doors were also made of wood, so solid that Eolh could barely see a gap around the edges. Each door had a small, wooden slat at the bottom - presumably for pushing in food - and another one at eye level.

One by one, they opened the eye-level slats.

The rooms were dusty, sparse, and far too small. Smelled of rot and mold and old bodily fluids. There was barely enough room for a person to lay down. One room per prisoner, all of whom already looked dead.

It was the scribe who found him.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Scratching at the wood with his fingernail. Not writing. Not drawing. Just digging at the wood, over and over. There were dozens of similar marks already on the wall.

A huge, heavy wooden latch held the door shut. No key required. Eolh lifted it, and opened the door.

Kirine didn’t look up.

His chest rose in sawing, laboring breaths, and not just from the dusty and humidity. There were white spots spreading across his scales, and even his silver scales were peeling off.

Gods. He looks awful.

“Is it time already?” Kirine asked, his voice bored. Almost disinterested.

“Yeah,” Eolh said. “It’s time.”

“And what if I refuse to go with you?” His words were slurred. Like he was fading out of reality. “What more can you people possibly do to me?”

“We had a deal, cyran.”

The tribune stopped scratching at the wall. Slowly, he turned around. Blinked, and squinted up at Eolh.

“By the gods. It’s really you.”

He pushed himself up, his knees wobbling as he struggled to stand. Eolh took a step forward, wincing at his own pain, and tried to help the tribune.

“Easy there,” Eolh said, as Kirine latched onto him. As they held onto each other.

“I saw her. She was here with me, every single day. My sweet Cinnael. I was with her, because I was dead.” He sounded like he was about to fall to pieces, until he looked over Eolh’s shoulder.

At the other two cyrans, staring at him. Quiet. Not saying a word.

Kirine swallowed hard. And tried to pull himself to standing. “Are we out of time?”

“Yes,” Agraneia said.

“Something’s happened?” Kirine asked. His voice was rough, from lack of speech. “Out there, something’s happened?”

“Happening.” Agraneia said.

“Oh,” he nodded. His face, his eyes were still distant, as he slowly adjusted to the light. He clenched his jaw, and swallowed hard, and when he spoke again his voice had regained some of that former orator’s strength. “The war. The Emperor has begun. Did he send you to rescue me?”

There was an explosion that rocked the ground, shaking the dust from the wooden rafters. They ducked, instinctively. Eolh almost lost his footing, and so did Kirine and the Scribe. Only Agraneia remained on her feet.

After the rumbling died down, Eolh could hear the screams. The gunfire, far too close. It sounded like the battle was happening right outside.

“Don’t think the Emperor wants you alive.”

“Ah,” he said. Calm and sad. As if everything was so simple, and so disappointing. “I see.”

A bullet hole appeared in the wall, smashing through the wood. Taking a chunk of it with it.

“Move,” Agraneia said.

She hooked her arm around Eolh.

And the scribe helped steady Kirine.

And together, the four of them walked out of the Boxes, and into a new hell.

One of the guards was gone. The other one was lying on the ground, a bold, red stain bubbling out of his chest. There were ghosts in the smoke, soldiers with weapons aimed at the walls of the fort. Smoke was pouring down from the walls of the fort - and there was something wrong with it. It was powdery, and white, and thick as chalk dust. Not gunsmoke but something else.

A gunshot cracked across the street, and the scribe screamed in pain. Agraneia bellowed something that Eolh couldn’t hear. She grabbed the scribe with her free hand, the muscles in her arms tensing as she hauled him.

They were running. Away from the fort. And not a moment too soon. The smoke erupted into flames, setting the air around the fort’s walls on fire. Bloodcurdling screams as dozens - maybe hundreds - of soldiers were set on fire.

Agraneia didn’t let them stop. Anytime they tried to catch their breath, she was there to haul them off their feet and keep them running. The scribe was clutching his side where he’d been shot, bellowing in pain.

Agraneia made them stop under the blown-out remains of a bamboo hut. The straw roof was collapsed in on itself, but at least it kept them hidden from the battle raging outside. The scribe was still bellowing, until Eolh grabbed his arm, and pointed down at his “wound.”

There was no blood. Shrapnel had torn his clothes, but he was untouched. The scribe paled, his face full of embarrassment.

Then, Eolh looked at Kirine. He had been quiet the whole time. Stiff. He was leaning against the wall, and his hands were covered in blood, and shaking as he tried to wrap a strip of cloth around his thigh. His face was pained, but he made no complaint. Through the torn rags, Eolh could see the blood pooling and dripping down exposed muscle. The sudden urge to vomit rose in his chest, but he swallowed it down.

“Stop,” Eolh said. “Give it to me. I’ll do it.”

Kirine made no protest. Only let his head fall back and breathed heavily out of his nose as Eolh worked. The scribe was staring, eyes wide.

“What a fool I was,” Kirine said, wincing as Eolh pulled the cloth taut. “To think I would be his champion. Is this all we are to the gods? Their toys. Their playthings.”

“Their machines,” Agraneia said.

“Maybe the Emperor sees you that way,” Eolh said. “But not all of them.”

“Your human,” Kirine said. “Yes. He was rather young, wasn’t he?”

Agraneia stared at Kirine. A strange expression on her face. Not quite disbelief.

The ground was shaking with the near-constant blast of cannons. Shockwaves rattled the thatching of the roof, and the walls felt like they might collapse any moment.

“He’s the only one who can help us,” Eolh said. “Kirine, do you know where he is?”

“Who can say?” Kirine gasped. His mouth was dry, but somehow the tribune still had the strength to speak. Maybe it was the only thing keeping his mind off the wound in his leg. “I haven’t seen him since my own damned mother threw me in that hole.”

“Any idea? Anything at all?” Eolh looked around at the three of them. Trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“He was looking for the Grid,” Kirine said. “But who knows what that means?”

“I don’t.” Eolh said.

The scribe only shook his head.

Agraneia made a sound, a deep, hum that rolled up her chest. And for the first time since he’d met her, he saw an emotion flutter across her face. Fear. "I do." Her voice was grim. “I know where to find him.”