“One who sows in the time of reaping will know despair, the despair of a call into the unlistening void.

But he will also know joy, a joy that no pain nor power can quell for long.”

-From “A Warning on Devotion”, 5 YT

Outside Etyslund: 243 YT, Three days after the execution of Marga Zelenko

Some time after they passed through the caverns and out into the early morning air, the dew on the grass-tips washing Kamila’s boots, Hilda began to speak again. Slowly, painfully, rasping. Her voice was a twisted, hurt mockery of itself, but she spoke still.

“Kamila… it’s not about being strong…”

Kamila stopped for a moment, struggling not to shift her grip on Hilda. With every shift of position her sister would groan and a twinge of fresh guilt and self-loathing lanced through Kamila’s mind. “What?” she said.

“Being a Reaper… it’s not just about being strong.” Hilda coughed. “Yeah, you were always the better fighter. I knew that. You’re stronger. You’re faster.” She stopped for a few seconds, unable to speak through the pain. Even with the benefit of the hypo Kamila had stolen from Plato’s corpse, Hilda was very badly hurt, and her body wasn’t responding as strongly to the drugs as somebody older might have. She’d heal, but… slowly.

Hilda continued: “That’s not why.”

Kamila did not respond, resuming her trudging steps. Images flashed in her mind. Her mother’s face, covered in blood. Zoe standing over her, spear in hand, grinning with undisguised sadistic pleasure. She couldn’t help but imagine the scene, wondering: would it have changed anything if I’d been there? Could I have saved Mom? Or would Hilda and I have just gotten killed too?

She tried to shut out the thoughts, but they would not leave her. Just as she could not stop the images behind, she could not shut out her sister’s words. Every miniscule expression of pain in Hilda’s voice was as a hot knife in Kamila’s back – just punishment for her crimes.

“That’s not… the reason… they chose me…”

She tried not to let the pain show, tried to will her eyes not to burn. They were already red and puffy and she was too tired to cry. She blinked. Behind her eyes, the soldiers joked and laughed around a campfire, passing cups out to one another. Zoe Bari was among them, amiable, the hero of the hour. Plato Arap, too, sat rigidly, composed, dignified. Kamila blinked again. She saw the soldiers from above now. The campfire around which they sat was not built of wood and flint. It was built of arms and legs. Between the tongues of flame Kamila saw a charring skull.

She tried to keep her eyes open. It’s not real. I’m imagining things. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

She blinked. Behind her eyes, the soldiers drank deep of their cups. Zoe’s cup spilled and stained her. It was red – not the deep purple-red of wine but the muddy brown-red of blood. Hilda shuddered, and Kamila felt it in her shoulders and arms – the sympathetic echo of a sympathetic echo of her own pain.

Kamila turned her gaze to the distant southern sea. Across there, Gaurlante – the land of the conquerors, the killers. Her heart swelled with uncomfortable heat. She sighed and, whispering to Hilda so quietly she did not know if her sister could hear, she said, “I understand now.”