We stand unbroken in our places,

Our shovels dare to take no rest,

For not in vain his golden treasure

God buried deep in earth's dark breast.

Then shovel on and do not falter,

Humble and hopeful, clear we see--

When our land has grown rich and mighty,

Our grandchildren will grateful be!

Nikolay Alekseyevich Nekrasov, The Songs of The Exiles.

To say that the white ginger is a gift from god himself to the cold lands is an understatement. While the only visual difference from it’s red and yellow counterparts is nothing but the white coloured flesh, it was superior in every single way compared to the other variants. It could grow in any environment, whether it was the warm summer or the deathly freezing winters while being plentiful and quick and easy to harvest. They taste better and have a stronger fragrance, along with having energy restoring qualities. And thus, the spice was added to every dish, every liquor, even eaten raw at times. It’s only catch was that it couldn’t live anywhere except part of the world it was found on, which strengthened the theory that it was a gift to the harsh, unforgiving land.

And so, the drinks, the stews, and everything with water in the winter ridden country were filled to the brim with it. Men, women, even children shorter than the average rifle length were eating, drinking, chatting, and resting inside the tavern, enjoying their warm, refreshing drink to fight off the bone chilling cold and wind down from a hard day of work.

Even through her dead, insensitive nose, she could still feel the almost painful smell of the drink. It stabs through her nose, as if piercing straight through her. She couldn’t stand it when she was alive, and her death doesn’t change anything about it. The only difference now was that here, rejecting the free boiled ginger water will at the very least turn a few heads around, with the worst case scenario being that she might have to fight a few drunkards in the nearest alleyway.

She sat in front of the bar, content on taking the tiniest sip of her drink and looking at the very busy staff. It wasn’t as if they weren’t suspicious of her, a brown hair in a sea of black, wearing rags as a coat and has stayed in the bar for a tad bit too much time. Not to mention, the huge object wrapped in cloth beside her that resembles a huge sword more than anything else added a good deal of intimidation to her. She has stayed for two hours, to be exact. It hasn’t been that long to her, but she’s been drawing attention from the servers for quite a while. She was lucky that they were too busy to ask her.

“You’ve been sitting for a while, lass. Who’re you waiting for?” Said a burly, bearded, greying old man in front of her. Maybe she shouldn’t have jinxed it. He talked in a perfect common tongue, despite his thick Siberian accent.

“Don’t you have a lot of customers to deal with?” Replied Alma, staring back at the old man under her hood.

“I’m not a waiter. I only deal with cooking stews and serving special drinks. We’re cutting down the stews in winter and there’s hardly anyone who prefers a good drink over a huge jug of mead. Speaking of which, you want some?”

“Do I look like the type of person who has more than thirty sens?”

“You look like a person who would stay in a tavern just to be warm and get a free ginger, but you’re not fooling me.”

“How so?”

“You’d think someone from Kazimierz would stop here of all places? Also, don’t even try lying about your drink. What you’re doing right now is blasphemy.” He gestured at her mug, his face filled with disgust towards the barely drank water.

Alma sighed. She’s starting to hate their designated meeting place. She could’ve been led straight to his lab or something alike, but no, he needed to send her to a tavern of all places.

“She’s waiting for me, old man. Gimme some stew.” Said a dark skinned man, taking a seat beside her, “Long time no see, Captain. You look like shit.”

“Oh, it’s you, you fucking kuritsa. Finally graduating from the virgin life?”

“Suck a dick, old man.” countered the man beside her, noticing Alma’s sharp glare at the both of them.

Alma got a good look at the black skinned man. A lanky, short haired man in his early thirties, wearing nothing but a scarf, a sweater and a lab coat. He looked as if he hadn’t taken a single wink of sleep in a year, eyebags as big as his eyes decorated his face.

The old man came with a bowl of warm stew with pieces of potatoes, gingers and beef floating in it. The black skinned man put down a few coins in front of him, which the cook swiftly took before leaving the two to their own devices.

“How’s life, Professor?” Started Alma, not bothering to look at her companion who was slurping his stew with vigor.

“Life is shit. You don’t need to ask.” replied the man, putting down his bowl, “how about you, Captain? Any explanations on having twenty five million Pieni on your head?”

Alma sighed, “I’ll explain once we get out of this place.”

“What’s wrong with this place?”

“You’re supposed to be the smart one.”

He let out a chuckle, “Everyone is a dumbass around these parts, Captain. Including me.”

“Stop calling me that. I’m out of the army.” Alma rubbed her nose, looking around for any suspicious figures around them, “ever heard of anonymity, professor? Or are you too busy shouting at the cook?”

“Fine, then stop calling me “professor”.” He took another sip of his stew, savoring it, “ Refuge in audacity. Everyone thinks I’m an alien around these parts. Me keeping this schtick lets my studies under the radar. Can’t blame them, these inbreds barely leave this country anyway. Not to mention only a dumbass like me would go to this shithole to do shit.”

“Coming to another country only to hate it? Real classy, Haytham.”

“Let me hate on shit. I’m tired enough.” he puts a few coins on the table, standing up, “Let’s go. The sooner we can get this over with, the faster I can get back into my research.”

Broken buildings, tents, rubbles, and open flames. More than a year after they left, this city is still in shambles. It’s not like there weren’t any repairs or progress of some sorts, proven by the tavern she was in. There was electricity, fully restored buildings and public facilities, with factories running and streets that were good enough for trucks to go through. She could think with optimism, maybe the people there are much stronger, much more patriotic than anyone in pangaea. If only the dying, starving men on the streets could say so themselves. Reality truly is better inside her head.

She followed the man in front of her, going through tight alleyways and cramped ruins. There was a layer of heat surrounding him, keeping himself warm without any need for thick clothing. She couldn’t see it directly, but she could still see a glimmer of light coming from his eyes, letting him see into the dim, unlit streets. The massive object behind her back was nudging the things around her, much to the chagrin of the people she passed.

The claustrophobic path they went through eventually led them to a huge, snow-filled clearing. It reflected moonlight in a way she had never seen before. Across them were a towering wall of leafless trees, a withered forest that is surviving against the cold. She thought that they were going to stop there. Instead, her companion walked towards the forest, seemingly unfazed by the otherworldly scenery in front of him.

They followed a snow path, marked by fresh footsteps and lanterns that burned with white fire and smelled an awful lot of the tavern. While the absence of thick foliage lets the bright moonlight dimly illuminate the forest, there wasn't a whole lot to see. After all, twigs and logs of fallen trees aren’t something that is particularly special to this place.

They arrived at what looked like a wooden cabin, surrounded by a variety of plants and guarded by a wooden fence that will make someone think that it was made by a beaver rather than a person. The place was brightly lit by torches, with the same white hue coming from the flames.

“Researching on gingers?” Asked Alma, gesturing at the plants.

“Starting conversations? The fuck happened to your head during the coma?”

“Shut up and answer the question.”

Haytham sighed, “Their set of qualities are special, but I can’t say that they’re not normal. We have seen these properties in all kinds of cacti back in the desert. The only reason that this shit is used everywhere is that those mouth breathers are just too stupid to realize that their attachment to this organism is nothing more than a cultural bullshit. However,” he took a piece of root from a storage box and channeled energy to it, letting it glow brightly. Then, it withered, slowly turning to white glimmers that floated on air. “There’s something more to them. Have you ever seen what a person looks when they overdose on them?”

“I don’t even know you could overdose on gingers.”

“My old man did. His body parts disappeared. Not destroyed, not decayed. Disappeared. Into thin air. Almost as if it bypasses the law of thermodynamics. But there’s no way it does, because shit doesn’t ignore physics just because. Of course, nobody believes me because an old man dying because he ate too much ginger doesn’t make any sense. Plus, doing research that could highlight the gingers in a bad light would cause trouble with The Siberian government. Therefore, here we are.”

“Make sense. Yet you still consume them like air itself.”

“Don’t care, it’s good. If I continue at this rate, I’ll die after finishing quite a bit of my research. My corpse will be studied, then someone will continue my work. I have planned it all the way.”

“What an awful way of thinking.”

Her response triggered him, but he kept his anger, opting to end the conversation. He sighed and opened the door to his cabin, letting the both of them enter. It was a spacious, albeit a little simplistic cabin. A bed, a few chairs, a working desk with piles of neatly stacked papers, and carpet lined floor. The fireplace was already burning a normal red flame, showing signs of normal human activity.

“Surprised you kept it tidy.”

“Shut the fuck up. If you need to shit on me some more, my lab is on the other side of the wall, looking as clean as ever.” He sat on his bed, gesturing at Alma to sit on the chair across the room. Instead of sitting down, Alma put down the object behind her, leaning it on the wall. A glimmer of light reflected from the uncovered parts, showing a rough metal surface. “What the fuck is that?”

“A sword.”

“A sword? Sword? How the fuck do you even lift that thing? Shit’s massive, thick, and far too rough. It looks like a shitload of raw iron more than anything else.”

“It’s a sword. Don’t worry too much about it.”

Haytham rolled his eyes before speaking once again, “Aight, enough chatting shit. What do you want?”

Alma pulled out an item from her robe, throwing it to Haytham before sitting down. Haytham caught it mid air, but almost dropped it once he felt a sharp, stinging shock on his hands. An expression of pain showed on his face as he got a closer look on the object. A small, golden cup with various inscriptions written engraved all over it. He could feel a massive flow of energy being crammed inside him, like a waterfall pouring into a measly bucket.

“Is this…?”

“Yes,” affirmed Alma, “The Knight’s Chalice. That’s one of the reasons for the twenty five.”

“And the others?” He asked, his voice filled with shock.

“Attempted murder on a high ranking general, desertion, and some other things I’m sure I’ve missed. You haven’t been listening to the broadcasts, haven’t you?”

“Can’t,” he said quietly, a look of stress visible on his face. “I don’t--Fuck! Don’t tell me it’s him.”

Alma’s grim expression answered his question. Haytham let out a huge groan.

“Alright, fuck. I trust you. Ten years, I know you trusted my shit, and I also trusted you for having a semblance of integrity. You know what? I trust you. Yeah,” he took a deep breath and stood up, trying to adjust his erratic breathing, “just- Why. Why. Why? Tell me.”

Alma looked away towards the window, almost as if she felt shame, “Because we haven’t won.”

“And so you think it’s good to attack the general responsible for protecting the world?”

“It was not an assassination attempt. We battled and I hurt him, yes, but I was not even close to killing him. All I wanted was the chalice.”

“Same shit, different toilet.” He exhaled roughly, letting his frustrations known, “Fine. I’ll bite. The fact that you did something that stupid tells me that you have a good plan. Scratch that, not a good plan. A plan. Something workable. Say it.”

Alma sighed. The man was cynical to his core, but she knows without a doubt that he’s a reasonable and trustworthy person. Besides that, he was the only person she knew that would be able to help her. If she can’t gain his help, then her plan would rely on a lot of uncertainties, something she’s not keen on having.

They both stared at each other, waiting for Alma to open his mouth. There was a storm of emotions in Haytham’s face, further shown by the signs of tiredness. He was afraid and terrified, but there was also determination in him. Deep down, they both already knew that he was ready to help her and deal with the consequences of his actions, regardless of what she’s going to say.

“We’ve had enough of defending ourselves, Haytham.” She paused herself, letting him process her words, “It’s time to fight them on our terms.”

Haytham closed his eyes, letting out a breath of air from his mouth. “And I trust that this thing has something to do with this?”

“That sword, too.”

“Of course it does. Alright, alright. You know what, fine. Fine! I’ll help. Just,” he rubbed the bridge of his nose, “leave me be for a bit. Hold your explanations tomorrow. I-I need time.”

“Very well,” Alma said, already opening the door and grabbing her sword. Somehow, the freezing winter air that entered the cabin didn’t feel as cold at that moment. “Just as an insurance, take the chalice. We’ll be needing it later but it’s you’re free to do whatever you want for the time being. See you in the morning.”

The door closed and Alma left him in his lonesome. He laid down on his bed, staring emptily at the wooden ceiling.

Maybe befriending that woman was a mistake.