His father was right. It didn't matter how strongly he ached to avenge his mother. The reality of the task would catch up with him. Of course, he was destined to fail where the Guard of Ceres hadn't succeeded for the last two years. Several times, he considered walking back to the courtroom and backtracking on his words.

The thoughts were obsessive and left him exhausted. By deepnight, he became feverish. And, shirtless and trouserless, he cooled his room with a whiff coming through the window. He stood there, looking out the oval gap, running his gaze aimlessly through the grove until it caught the spot where Heron had first found Davir, where lightning had struck the day of the storm. The sight consumed his thoughts.

By now, the workers on the restoration of the gardens after The Chill had finished removing debris from the area. But the imprint of the lightning blast wouldn't fade until the vegetation grew anew.

The words of the soothsayer from the domain of Scura began to percolate. That woman had infiltrated his thoughts and known who he was in a matter of seconds. She knew Davir too. More than anyone: the fact that his body was made out of stone and his sinful ties to supernatural arts, in ironic contrast with the pious man Heron discovered Davir to be in the forest.

Heron scoffed at the irony of it. He had his answer, finally. Engaging in supernatural arts was a crime as it was considered quackery. There. He had proof enough to mistrust Davir. Send him to prison. Yet, Heron was determined to trust him. They were equal to an extent: both navigated the unknown without hindsight and all foresight they had was a gamble. It was a necessity too. Perhaps— Heron didn't consider alternatives. Everybody had left: Servyna, Amyra, the man his father used to be. Perhaps the aversion to his loneliness had taken control of the reins now. To band with somone dubious still trumped over complete isolation.

As long as he hadn't stepped into his role of Monarch-in-Prospect end of this Drought, in practice Heron wasn't worth more than a nobleman. He had influence but no real political power. So long as Davir remained his ally, Heron was determined to use that influence to shelter him.

When Heron became conscious of the burnt hole on the grove again, a strange realization struck him. Despite all the destruction, the blast of lightning had wreaked, Davir had been unharmed— it was strange he hadn't considered it before. It would have been a fit in itself to have crossed the ramparts of the domain unnoticed. But for the first time, Heron considered the opposite: Davir had been inside the domain even before the storm of ice.

What little sense Heron had left caused him to shake his head, but it was too late to backtrack. He was already cladding himself, then turning to the door, grasping a lantern of crystal dust, descending the stairs, and reaching the stables. To take a horse in a gallop inside the grove, where the lightning had struck, where he'd first seen Davir.

Heron dismounted and tackled his objective right away, leaving the horse untethered behind. The visual contrast to the day he had last been there was staggering. As he advanced to the spot where he'd found the unconscious man, he still flashed to the image of the ice where underbrush had already taken off. His impulses still made his hand itchy to pull his clothing closer to himself to deter non-existent cold.

He sighed with relief. What he sought remained there: a broken pedestal of a statue. Heron crouched and ran the lantern on the broken block of marble, extracting dirt away from it until he found the title:

12th Forgotten Soldier of the Ukewian War.

The name of the soldier and the year the broken statue had been erected had been destroyed by the blast. But Heron had gathered enough information for a start. Davir was made of stone, he repeated the words the soothsayer had said in the forest. To remind himself that he wasn't crazy. This was the base of his reasoning. Davir could be the statue that had been there before the storm. Now awakened.

The chance that Davir was one of the Forgotten Soldiers of several wars Ceres had been a part of was slighter than that of the rivers Eyrees flowing back towards its headwaters. But Heron had limited clues to work with. He needed first to rule out the possibility by consulting the book of wars.

Heron limped his way to his horse, panting and moving one stride in the period he willed to walk four. He galloped back to the palaces and strode to the grand library in the eastern palace of the domain. By the time he entered the library, his temples were throbbing with pain, a fine layer of sweat dampening his forehead.

The head librarian didn't hide his surprise when he saw Heron. He stood, crossed his arms against his chest, and waited as Heron paced over to him, his receding brows steeping and giving the man an inquisitive look even after he bowed to salute Heron. "I am bound to retire shortly, my Lord. I would be grateful if what Lord has come to find could wait for the start of the solar arc tomorrow."

Heron shook his head. "Would you help me find the Onus Krot, please?"

Heron could feel the man refraining from sighing. "My Lord, if you allow me, the book of the wars is not among your reading assignments list Sir Salmior has trusted me to make sure you finish by the end of Sprout. Lord, we have no time to lose and you're already quite–"

The pain spreading from his wound and the wave of nausea took hold of Heron's attention. For a moment, he contemplated retiring to his chambers, but he bit the agony down and waited for enough clarity of mind before he spoke. "I am not well," he said.

"I can see that," Arai said. "I will help you to your bed chambers and call a nurse."

"You'll do with me as you wish after you help me find the Onus Krot," Heron said. "But no nurses –" before he finished, Arai had his arm around his upper back, and led him forward, with Heron's arm thrown around his shoulders.

The librarian lit a lantern of white light and led Heron to the history aisle, walking alongside the walls behind the last shelves on the right. On their way, Heron prayed the madness he had come up with about Davir was but a manifestation of his wound causing him sickness. The librarian let go of him and Heron found support on a table.

All the Onus were as long as an arm and were lodged in thin rectangular holes carved deeply into the walls. They were arranged in two horizontal lines that reached just short of Heron's height. Silver ornaments were imprinted on the red spines. At the center of the headband, hang a ring wider than a hand.

The librarian muttered things to himself, scanning the row of books and tracing his path with a finger. "Onus Krot," he said, stepping towards the book, the second to last in the inferior row. He grabbed the circular handle and pulled the enormous book out of its lodge.

When the book was sitting on the table, the man stared at Heron with something that resembled pity in his eyes.

Heron knew what to do. He brought the lantern close to him and flipped through pages, struggling against his pain to master his focus. His fingers trembled as he ran them along with list after list of titles arranged in columns of text.

'...1st Army against Ukewus...'

Heron exhaled at the sight. His eyes trailed downwards, five lines below.

'Forgotten Soldiers... [...] ... Page 523'.

He flipped further. His dark eyes scanned name after name, his heart heavy. And in dark ink:

Davir Her Arun

Bottom of the list, 12th position.

His whole body weakened. His mouth went so dry he felt as if Drought season was already upon him. He stepped away from the book and the pain he had been fighting to contain came in a stronger wave. He could be hallucinating. The thought both comforted him and washed him with dread. Ancients, he couldn't be that sick. He braced for a second read, expecting a different outcome that did not materialize:

'...12th Forgotten soldier of the Ukewian war... [...] ... Davir Her Arun, son of Arun, Captain in charge of the guard of the domain-Year 12 of 31st Tor of Ceres.'

"Sir," Heron turned to Arai, who raised his chin and stepped near him. "Read this to me out loud," he said, tracing the imprint with the tip of his finger.

Despite his skepticism, the tutor did as Heron asked and he repeated what Heron had just read numerous times.

"Spirits," Arai said, scratching his chin. He pulled out a pair of eyeglasses from the pocket of his robe, dragged the lantern closer to the Onus, and read the passage again. Not a word had changed. "It's impossible."

"It's possibly just a mistake," Heron said. "Davir cannot—"

"The dates are completely incoherent in this," the man said.

"The dates?" Heron asked.

"The 31st Tor of Ceres reigned ten Monarchs ago, in the years 1600, three centuries from now. Ceres was at peace then. There was tension with the precursors with the Malay. But we were certainly not at war with Ukewus. The last forgotten soldier died during the year 5 of the 26th Tor of Ceres, that is fifteen Monarchs from now, further in the past, roughly a century before, in the late years of 1400. It is inadmissible for an Onus to contain such a grave mistake."

Arai flipped a page. Scanned the book in deep concentration."Strange," he muttered. "As I said," he guided Heron's gaze to the page:

...11th Forgotten soldier of the war in the Bacias Sea... [...] ... Gaon Her Samion O'Arun, son of Samion, vendor -Year 5 of 26th Tor of Ceres.'

"—but," he paused, "how could have the eleventh forgotten soldier have died during the last Great War? It should be the twelfth..." He stared at Heron as if expecting a solution from him. "Wars, yes," he muttered and flipped again."No," he said."There were only eleven Great Wars. There shouldn't be a twelfth forgotten soldier. I never realized it."

The man was horrified. He scanned the row of Onuses on their lodges. "What other inaccuracies could they contain?" The thought of it seemed so unbearable that the man gasped.

"What does it all mean, exactly?" Heron asked. "The twelfth Forgotten Soldier didn't exist? There was a statue of him in the domain."

The man took a small piece of paper and pen and a small flask of ink from his pocket. He leaned on the table and began to scribble. "Well, it means, for one that my work for the week has just increased tenfold. I must assure myself of the accuracy of the information as soon as possible," he said. "That implies it's past time I rest. Since I'll be opening the library earlier than I first intended tomorrow. Please, come back then if you'd like, Lord, although I tell you in advance, I won't have any answers for you. Now, I'll accompany you to your bedchambers, as you so kindly promised. You won't disappoint me will you."

Arai was tired as Heron had rarely seen. "Yes, please," Heron conceded. In any case, his headache was increasing to a point where his willpower wasn't enough to allow him to function. And after the man had placed back the Onus Krot at its lodge, his hand went around Heron's back again, and he led the way to the chambers in the western palace.

"Thank you, tutor," Heron found himself saying. "Thank you for your kindness." Silent, Arai helped him jngo bed. The fatigue took over quickly. Heron didn't realize the moment his thoughts and his pain drifted into numbing sleep.