Crimson paints the corners of the pale sky. Is the sun rising? Or setting? Or is it only fire that blazes across the heavens?

I don’t know.

I sit behind a wall, broken-down remains of Devon-14’s house, as I have sat for hours. I am listening and watching. Unable to act, frozen in uncertainty. The humans want us to fight their enemies, but their enemies are human too.

You can put a uniform on me, put a gun in my hands, shout orders until the sun dies, but this isn’t my war.

My astral sigil pulses with faint warnings. Useless warnings. There is no escaping this madness. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

A windflier buzzes by overhead. Fire spews in a brief torrent from the astrarium’s stardome.

Even the sacred has been stolen, twisted, turned to war. The decision may make sense in the moment, but I can see the implications rippling out into the future. No astrarium will be safe, now; they’ll become targets.

My people will be driven harder, drawn ever deeper into this war not of our own making. In making the decision for our own protection we’ve doomed how many others?

“Rasa-12, what are you doing?”

It should require no explanation, but Veres-94 is young. The sigil of flames is not attuned to wisdom. And the young are so eager to throw themselves into this war not our own.

“I am listening and watching.”

“Lile-53 was captured! We need to mount a rescue.”

I shake my head.

“But—”

“Sit down, 94.” My voice resonates command. Veres-94 sits. “How many of us have been captured or killed in the past week?”

“Mmm. . . Eight? Nine now.”

“How many of us were killed or taken from our homes in the past hundred years, not counting this week?”

Veres-94 grips the gun tighter. “I don’t know.”

“That is untrue.”

“One.”

“Do you remember who and why?”

“Of course.” Veres-94’s voice modulates into scorn.

“Tell me.”

Anger rumbles in Veres-94’s voice. “We don’t have time for history recitals. Lile-53—”

“Will live or die without our interference.”

Veres-94 stands, swaying forward just enough to evade an incoming bullet. “If you won’t help me, I’ll find someone who will.”

I envy that certainty. But I only nod in acknowledgment and watch Veres-94 turn away.

Smoke billows past us, and for a moment I can’t tell the difference between Veres-94’s silhouette against the flame and a human invader.

How has it come to this?

Here I sit, awaiting the inevitable. Sooner or later, the lines will bend in our direction. Sooner or later an attacker will come around the corner or climb the broken wall. Sooner or later, I’ll have to stop listening and watching.

I ought to be in command. Ought to have taken charge when Devon-14 fell. But my sigil, prosperity, is not suited to war. I cannot see the steps which must be taken. Can’t order others to die and to kill, which are equally anathema to me.

This isn’t my war.

A scream tears through the air, the voice one I automatically analyze and place as Coden-31. A sharp CRACK silences the voice. Coden-31 will never speak again, never laugh, never stroll into a room with that odd mix of shyness and self-confidence.

That makes ten. And for us, few as we are, that is no small loss.

What am I doing?

What am I doing?!

I reach up to my sigil and feel the warm glow pulsing beneath my fingers. I trace its outline one last time, an open circle of welcome. Prosperity. I center myself and stare up at the sky. Clouds of smoke mask the constellations, and with the astrarium no longer suited to its purpose I have to do this from memory.

My focus intensifies, drawing my eyes to a certain point in the sky. I mentally grab the edge of the circle and draw it downward, outward, in a single harsh movement.

For a moment, disorientation overwhelms me. The transition between sigils is never easy, even with time to meditate and act with careful precision. Done in the heat of the moment like this, an impulsive decision with no preparation?

For a moment, an endless frozen moment, I am three people at once. I am Rasa-12 of Prosperity, who would rather die than hurt another. I am Rasa-12 of Uncertainty, with no sigil and no purpose. I am Rasa-12 of Judgment, untempered by morality or compassion, knowing only law and recompense.

The sigil is imperfect. In that eternal moment, it wavers between almost-something but not quite anything. And so do I.

Who am I?

What do I believe in?

My memory replays the final instant of Coden-31’s now-vanished life. Coden-31, who I watched from infancy to adulthood to the brink of mastery. Then Asis-23, who gave up the sigil of contemplation to become our strategist. Wilau-40, taken for her expertise in alchemy and never seen again. Jashen-93, whose overconfidence. . .

The direction of my mind shifts.

Lile-53, captured today. Veres-94, attempting a rescue alone.

No.

Not alone.

This was not my war. But it is now.

My hand moves of its own volition, a different line added, as my gaze flicks to another point in the sky. The sigil shifts, snapping into place with a resonance that knocks me flat on my back.

I rise to my feet.

I am Rasa-12 of Retribution.

The sun is setting behind the fires, the enemy line closer than I’d guessed. The astrarium fires regularly, flames bursting out in waves. Bullets fly toward me but the sigil’s warnings are sharp and clear. I move with precision, evading almost before they’re fired.

Veres-94 is crouched behind an overturned cart more than halfway to the invaders’ line.

Not too far for me to reach.

I won’t let anyone else die unavenged.