Multiple sources have now confirmed that Leire Gabarain has died under violent circumstances, and that Mendian knows the identity of Stellar’s new bearer. A reliable single source indicates that the bearer is outside of the Mendiko power structure and hostile to them.

This represents an unprecedented opportunity in the domestic and foreign arenas. Cohesion in the Batzar will suffer greatly as long as Stellar remains with a hostile foreign force, potentially compromising the ability of Mendian’s military to project beyond its borders. Every effort should be made to identify the new bearer and ensure they remain free of both Mendiko and Safid influence.

Unrest will present an opportunity to remobilize recently-arrived military forces. Deployment of emotional state management personnel is largely as-expected as we approach the planned handover to Assembly control; continue under plan variant 3-A-Defensive until clearance is given to commence 3-B-Aggressive.

- Institute Circular #3551, 37 Gleaning 693.

Michael knocked twice, then worked the newly-repaired handle to the bulkhead door. The Mendiko artifices had been thorough; there was no trace of conflict in the immaculate entryway of Leire’s suite, the crystal walls restored to their usual unbroken state. There was a certain lack in the air, however - a stillness and torpor that would have seemed at odds with her radiant soul. He did not know if empty houses truly did have a distinct ambiance, or if his mind forbade him from seeing Leire’s home as complete without her.

More likely, it was the pervasive note of sorrow emanating like the peal of a deadwood bell from the man he had come to see.

Unai emerged from his quarters as Michael entered, a smile on his face. “Good morning, young master Baumgart,” he said. “I’m glad to see you up and about.”

“Entirely thanks to you,” Michael said, smiling in return. “I meant to come by earlier to tell you how grateful I am. Things have been - busy.” His smile faded. “How have you been?”

The valet pressed his lips together. “As well as circumstances permit,” he said. There was a long, painful pause that followed. “I wonder if you’ve heard any news?”

Michael shook his head slowly. “Nothing, save that the forward elements should reach Agnec later today. No further news on the Safid. No messages from Goitxea.” He paused. “No sightings of Luc.”

Unai’s expression tightened. “I see,” he said. “I suppose it is early yet.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw, then let it drop to his side, looking at Michael. “May I ask a favor of you, master Baumgart?”

“Anything,” Michael said. “As I said, I quite literally owe you my life.”

“You were not so far gone as all that,” Unai said. “And it is largely my fault that you were injured to begin with.”

Michael frowned. “It isn’t,” he said. “Or you may as well blame me for bringing Luc along in the first place. Someone - important to me, he told me that it’s hubris to take all the responsibility on yourself and folly to accept none of it. We can all find fault with ourselves.”

A quiet smile pulled at the corners of the valet’s mouth. “Wise words,” he said. “Yet the fact remains that it was my - blindness, my incaution that permitted this travesty to occur.”

“There was nothing you could have seen.” Michael leaned against the wall. “I have more sight than most, in this regard, so I can speak with some authority.”

“I suppose I cannot argue with that,” Unai laughed. “So I shall desist, and ask my favor. Will you convey my sincerest apologies to Grand Marshal Errea?”

“I don’t mind, but why? You know that Antolin would make time for you.” Michael looked at him, puzzled. “Has he not?”

Unai looked away, towards the reformed crystal dividers. “I think you’ll find that not everyone is so magnanimous as you when it comes to forgiving my role in events,” he said. “I bore a solemn duty to Her Radiance, and I have lapsed grievously. I doubt the grand marshal would appreciate my presence, and I don’t intend to remain overlong on the airship in any case. Rather than bother him, I’d ask that you convey my apologies at - whatever moment you deem appropriate.”

“If that’s what you want,” Michael replied, still frowning.

Unai bowed deeply, raising his head in a smile. “Thank you, master Baumgart,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me - I’m nearly finished packing Her Radiance’s personal effects, and my own. It’s something I’d like to finish before we land once more.”

“Of course,” Michael said; his impulse was to offer assistance, but something in the tone of Unai’s voice warned him away. Perhaps it would offer some sense of closure, or an outlet for the grief - in either case, the valet seemed more peaceful when he talked of it. “You’re always welcome to come to me, if there’s anything you need.”

The offer earned him another smile and nod; Michael sensed it was time for him to leave. He shut the door, rubbing idly at his breastbone as he began to walk down the hallway; it was not until he had rounded the first corner that the pain swelled, and Michael’s face went pale. Unai’s words echoed back at him, their meaning twisting into something darker. I don’t intend to remain overlong-

Michael wheeled, gritting his teeth against the burgeoning ache in his chest. “Unai!” he called out. “Wait!” For the second time that week, he mangled the door’s handle as he burst into the room, his chest heaving in great gasps. Michael’s vision swam with the pain; he pitched forward, slamming a hand against the wall to keep his balance. The scream of metal blurred in his ears, his mouth worked to form words that he could not hear.

There was vague motion in the corner of his eye; darkness took hold.

A small boy played in a flat, pushing a wooden horse across the floor. His focus was only halfhearted; his parents were yelling in the other room, tense and frightened voices seeping under a closed door. The argument ended when his father stormed out, sparing a glance for the boy before continuing through the door. It was the last time he would see his father.

The boy remained with his mother, who grew wan and pale; there was work in town, but none of the Safid would hire a nonbeliever. She fought with-

Michael’s mind detached from the stream of memory for a dizzying moment, the impressions blasting apart into inchoate sound and color. His thoughts were sluggish, but he knew this wasn’t right; he had felt Unai’s death coming. What he saw was not Mendian, however. The boy was Daressan by birth, and apparently Safid by nationality. Had he been mistaken? Was Unai originally from the continent? Was this even the life of Leire’s valet?

He looked back at the roiling mass of light. It was, in the end, irrelevant what Michael had expected. The skein of a man’s life was before him. It demanded respect. He calmed his thoughts, marshaling the other flames within him to steady him, ground him against the flood.

Light seeped through him; in his mind’s eye it coursed in a radiant stream through his veins, shoring up what was Michael against the tide of unrelenting other that pressed in around him. His head cleared. Just before the tide bore him upward to the waking world, though, he turned.

Whatever this was - whoever - he wanted to see. Slowly, it began again.

The boy’s mother was alone. His father had gone long ago, never to return, and his grandparents had cut all contact when his mother began attending Safid services - but for a believer there was work, and food.

For a believer’s child, there was school. He began attending services with his mother, and in the childrens’ circle they read tales from the Book of Eight Verses. Seer, Seeker, Caller, Speaker, Ember, Sunlight, Sword and Stone. The stories fascinated him, so unlike the tales of naughty children and wise animals that his mother told him late at night. He preferred stories of the Great Mountain, who bore up under all struggle, and the Great Caller, who saw hope even in the darkest moments.

He grew older and learned of the world. Life in Agnec was far from the front, but still the War made itself felt in little ways. The stories shifted, lost the gauzy shape of a fable; those characters he had treasured were real. He learned of the Flame that guided their people, the Seeker that lurked in shadows to prey on the unwary.

Partisans struck a market square while his mother was shopping, seeking to burn supplies for the Safid garrison. Caught between soldiers and rebels, she strayed near death - but found life instead when a Safid officer ran to pull her to safety. The two of them moved to a better part of town, and the boy had a father once more.

His path grew clearer each year. He followed in his stepfather’s footsteps, enlisting in the garrison. The training was the hardest thing he had ever done, though the physical strain was nothing next to the worry he felt at being so distant from his beloved mother. He wrote to her at every opportunity, and fell asleep each night wishing he could see her.

One night, he found that he could.

The young man’s path shifted; the gift of a Seer’s soul pulling him away from the trenches. He lurked in hidden observation posts, watching and reporting as other men died - sometimes to gunfire, more often to the brutality of souls. He was at Azim Alsu when the great Blade came, that legendary soul more beautiful than anything the young man had ever seen. Men tested themselves against it and fell like grass - but one day his sight grew cloudy, and the Blade departed.

Reconnaissance was a game of whispers. A squadmate who could Listen overheard that the Seeker had fled north with the Caller in tow. That the Blade had pursued, and been brought low when the Caller spoke thunder and fire against him. A forgotten piece of memory came alight.

He began to read through field reports, piecing together a new story of the Caller for the curious boy within him. He heard the Flame’s proclamation that the Heart-Eater had been found, but his fascination only intensified; this was the man who would test the world. He had known, somehow, the divine within him focusing his attention on what others had missed. The revelation spurred him to request a transfer to forward duty. The path bent towards danger, but it was so clear in the young man’s mind that there was no question of turning aside.

The first time he saw Michael Baumgart’s face was when the Mendiko attacked Leik. He was hidden away in the forest, his squad tasked with observing Mendian’s tactics and strength. The young man saw Baumgart fight the Blade’s second - and leave him alive.

It contradicted what he knew of the Heart-Eater, the rapacious fiend who sought to devour all in his path. His squad stayed close to the Mendiko advance, and the young man continued to watch the Great Caller. He saw Baumgart throw himself between a Safid ambush and his own men, saw him carry a wounded artifex back from the lines.

They pulled back before the Mendiko made their final push, but the young man saw the flare of the Great Light’s attack against the Mountain from far along the road back to Agnec. She arrived looking like a charred corpse; the young man distracted himself from the interminable tension of waiting by watching the anatomentes heal her inch by inch, their souls weighed down by her colossal divinity.

The Flame came to wait by her side, holding her ruined hand and speaking words that the young man could not hear; the two great souls smiled at each other constantly, full of hope and joy even as she lay half-burnt on the gurney.

He was awoken in the early morning by the garrison’s alarm; the young man spilled out of his bunk in a panic, casting his sight around frantically for the enemy - but there was none.

There was only one man, riding a staggering horse. The animal fell to the ground drooling blood, his rider standing to look at the low walls of Agnec in the distance.

Michael was jarred from the flow of the recollection as he saw Luc’s face; it seemed to hang motionless before him for an eternal moment. He did not pause long, dreadful curiosity pushing him onward. The dream blurred back into motion.

Luc began to walk towards the distant city. He was challenged by a sentry, but the man had scarcely spoken before Luc began to shine with a harsh light, speaking words that sent the lookouts scrambling back to their posts. The young man heard terse, shouted instructions at his own post: the visitor was a holy man, a great soul, and he was not to be touched.

He was meant for the Great Flame, and none other.

But the young man knew Luc’s face; he had seen Baumgart speak with his friend the Healer. That same man now shone with light that no Healer could wield, and a dark suspicion took root in the young man’s mind. He brought his sight back to the confines of his body, seeking out his post commander. The man told him to be silent, and to heed the Great Flame’s wisdom.

The young man wrenched his sight back to the walls, where the Great Flame stood with his arms wide, a beatific smile on his face. Luc stepped forward. His eyes were fixed, deadened; frost formed around him as he extended his arm and spoke a single word, his lips spitting the epithet forth with such clarity that even in soundless Sight it was unmistakable.

Murderer.

Dawn touched the land outside the wall, the frost sublimating into dancing steam as light sprang from Luc’s outstretched hand. Men flinched and cried out, shielding their eyes - but the Great Flame only smiled wider. The light failed to reach him, and between the two men the air began to darken and shimmer with scorching heat. Luc’s eyes widened, then narrowed; the light intensified. The heat intensified.

Slowly, darkness crept forward. The Great Flame looked untroubled by the light; by contrast, Luc’s teeth were bared, sweat beading on his brow. The light wavered. Luc dropped to one knee, the darkness surged forward - and paused.

The young man was reminded of the epic, expressive paintings that Saf had commissioned all across Agnec, showing scenes from the Book. Luc’s face was twisted in rage, his fingers digging into the thin dirt at his feet. The Great Flame’s eyes had shifted from joy to surprise, looking down at the thin spire of rock that had grown up to pierce him in the side. It was still, and silent.

A gunshot shattered the frozen moment, then another; Luc jerked backwards as a bullet punched through his shoulder. He grimaced, one hand flinging up stone walls around him while the other pressed against the wound. Moments later he wiped away the blood to show unbroken skin. Gunfire and ethereal Blades marked the stone shields he had erected, answered a moment later by a thin line of light that traced across the wall.

Men died. The Great Flame staggered backward off the spike that had impaled him, realization fading to something hard and unyielding even as soldiers pulled him to safety. The young man knew what the Flame saw. In his heart he had always thought of Michael Baumgart as the Great Caller, the proclamations from on high notwithstanding; he knew all of the stories. He knew the Caller when he saw him.

In the light spearing out from churning, screaming stone he saw just as clearly. It was written in the recognition on the Flame’s face, in the disbelieving murmurs from a hundred lips, in the gasping agony of soldiers writhing blistered and burnt atop the wall.

The young Seer knew his role in this story well, for it was the Seer’s place to shout the truth for all to hear. He stood from his sheltered place and raced up to the wall, leaving behind the frantic shouts from his post commander. The turbulent air stank of char and metal, the sky teeming with clouds.

“Heart-eater!” he cried, casting an accusing finger across the burnt plain. Some men turned to look, others echoed the cry. In the distance, a ragged shape of blood and char vaulted over the wall with painful grace. Luc saw, and the light followed. The young man watched soldiers burst into sweet steam at its caress, drawing ever-closer. “Heart-eater! He who seeks to supplant-”

There was a flash of light and heat and pain, fast as blinking, and Michael stood looking at the unassuming orb of a soul as it hung lambent against the void. His hand reached out towards it, feeling the dancing flames lick at his fingers. There was no conflict, no resistance - only the feel of a footfall landing upon the last stone of a long and twisting path.

Michael woke to find Unai kneeling beside him, the old man’s hand on his brow - but his vision swam with oppressive detail, every line sharp and hyperreal. He pulled back by instinct and found his sight reeling away through the corridors of the airship until he saw morning sun reflecting from its metal skin. He soared upwards, flying above trees and rolling hills, exhilarated and free - and then saw a patch of darkness swelling in the distance, clouds swirling around a flickering, burning light.

He flew towards the distant calamity, though he could already feel himself approaching the limit of his sight. Michael paused before it became uncomfortable; it was a staggering distance, far greater than he had seen the young man achieve in his dreams. In midair, over the dwindling shape of the airship, he watched distant flares of cold light ripple through the storm.

After a few long moments he pulled back to his body, opening his eyes; he felt tears streak across his face with the motion. Unai was looking down at him with no small amount of concern and relief. “Young master Baumgart?” he asked tentatively.

“I’m fine,” Michael rasped.

Unai raised an eyebrow. “You came running back in here in some distress,” he said. “And then collapsed into unconsciousness on my floor. Perhaps in Ardan Gharic the word means something different.”

“It’s not what’s important right now,” Michael grunted, rising to his feet. He met Unai’s eyes. “I need to talk to Antolin. Luc is at Agnec.”

There was a pause; Michael felt the shock of the news as Unai registered it. The old man was nodding moments later, however. “Then we should go,” he said.

It was Michael’s turn to raise an eyebrow, but he did not comment on Unai’s sudden shift in attitude. He only nodded, and turned towards the door.

Sobriquet was already there when they arrived at the bridge, pointing emphatically at a map of the region; Antolin’s staff was gathered around, making notes from her commentary or hastily transcribing radio communiques. Antolin himself was standing away from the fracas, looking as though he had slept at least a little bit overnight. His eyes marked Michael, then Unai. He strode over in a few brisk strides.

“I take it you’ve heard,” he said.

“More than heard,” Michael replied. “I received the soul of a Safid spector before I came here.”

Sobriquet’s head came up, and she abandoned Antolin’s staff to walk over. “Are you well?” she asked.

“Well enough.” Michael shook his head. “I saw glimpses of the battle when the soul came to me. Luc was fighting close to the eastern city wall. He’d managed to wound Saleh, and I think I saw Amira running towards him. She’s still injured, though, and the Safid were taking heavy losses.” He paused. “I haven’t felt anything further from Luc. I’d know if he died.”

“So either he’s won, escaped or the Safid have captured him,” Antolin sighed. “If you had told me a few days ago that a third force would break the Safid fortifications, I’d have thought it good news.”

“It’s hard to picture,” Sobriquet said quietly. “No matter how I try, I can’t imagine Luc standing up against Saleh, never mind Amira.”

Michael shook his head. “I barely recognized him. His face is the same, but his eyes - there was nothing behind them. Not even the fear that he always carried.” He turned to Antolin. “You told me yesterday that Saleh, Amira and Luc all needed to die; I think Luc would agree with you.”

There was a moment of quiet, broken when Antolin raised his head. “Accelerate the advance,” he said. “We have an unexpected advantage over the Safid, and I mean to press it. Make certain the forward elements know the current appearance of all three major ensouled at Agnec; if the Star is spotted he should be killed on sight. Under no circumstances should the other two be harmed.”

Sobriquet gave Antolin a sharp look as his staff burst into motion. “You think they’ll pass to Luc if they’re killed?” she asked.

“I can’t rule it out,” Antolin said. “Given his actions thus far, our first priority should be limiting his access to powerful souls. Over Mendian’s history we’ve seen a few cases where the wielder of the Star escalated to indiscriminate violence before we retrieved them; none of those wielders could be safely rehabilitated.”

He turned to Michael. “Spector, you said. Can you see within Agnec?”

There was a quick intake of breath from Sobriquet, her eyes widening; Michael shook his head. “Not nearly that far,” he said. “But farther, and better. Perhaps twice the diameter of our camp back at Imes.” He let his sight soar upwards to test, feeling the faint pressure as he reached his limit - high, high overhead.

In the distance, the clouds still circled around Agnec, though there was no light from within. “I think Luc has stopped attacking,” he said. “At least, I don’t see evidence of it. Sera?”

“Not a chance,” she said. “With three of the Eight clashing, and Luc’s particular vintage of chaos muddling things - I’d be lucky if I could spot Agnec itself, much less anyone in it.”

“There’s no substitute for a presence on the ground,” Antolin said. He walked around the table to stand in front of Michael, looking unflinchingly into his eyes. “If he gains the other two souls we don’t have anyone but you to face him. I need your word before I send my men forward; I won’t send them to their deaths. Tell me you’re ready.”

Michael licked his lips, then nodded. “The man who died, whose life I saw - he knew within moments of watching Luc that he was looking at a man capable of destroying the world. He named him Heart-eater, as Saleh tried to do to me. He believed it, though. He knew. And so do I.”

He looked at Sobriquet. “The thing he was most afraid of, more than anything else, was that he would succumb to the evil of his soul, the temptation of that power, and - somewhere in the man I saw, I think he’s still counting on me to find him. To stop him.”

He turned back to Antolin, nodding once more. “So my answer is yes. I won’t let any of us down.”

Antolin held his gaze for a long moment before returning the gesture. “Hala izan bedi.” He turned to his staff, beckoning them around the strategy map; another shouted commands into an intercom. Far in the distance, Michael heard the airship’s great engines pitch higher, straining against the air.

Sobriquet walked over to thread her fingers into his; he returned a gentle squeeze, looking down at her. There was a question in her eyes, and Michael found that his answer hadn’t changed from moments before.

“You didn’t see him,” he murmured, closing his eyes to recapture the image of Luc’s face contorting in rage. “I know he killed one good man today. Probably a lot more than that. He didn’t even notice.” Michael let his sight drift out from the airship again, looking at the blot of darkness shrouding Agnec. “To him, they’re all Saleh.”

An uncomfortable look spread across Sobriquet’s face; she withdrew her hand and glanced away. “I don’t know that I disagree with him on that point,” she muttered. “Good or not, they still put on the Safid uniform. They still marched against Daressans on our own land.”

“He was Daressan,” Michael replied. “Born in Agnec to Daressan parents. He was exactly the person you’ve been working to save.” He paused, then shook his head frustratedly. “But now it’s done, it’s simple. That’s what Luc’s doing, he’s - a rod for the fucking storm, just like he said. Taking the short path with the strength of his souls so that nobody else has to.”

Michael’s fists clenched; his sight snapped back into his body as rage bloomed - then quieted. He took a steadying breath. “I hate this. I hate all of this. It has to end.”

The word rippled out with undue force, drawing glances from a few nearby officers; Sobriquet’s hand touched his arm gently. “We’ll figure it out,” she said. “It won’t be easy-”

“It will,” Michael said grimly. “Luc’s making sure of that.”