“In the winter of 170, the Empty City of Iron emerged from its place under the sea. I watched it crest and grow above that surface, saw the water flow down and fall from its shining towers. When the Veil was at its weakest, I felt the ecstasy of knowing the old world would return. Glory! A true Divine Kingdom, pure in splendor! But the cursed ones sought only to save themselves – they know there is no place for them in our world. And selfishly they flocked to the Well at the End of the World and they shored up that divide, they pushed off the Aether again. They stopped the process halfway – the Xen’Ria walk the earth, the Chroniclers are protected in their shining spires, the Vadallat guardians standing sentinel over them. The salt desert grows in the east and the blind tinkers build their enclaves among us. What purity is this? It is the fault of Mirshal and their love of the Veil that our world continues to decay. Only when we throw off their deceits and their shackles, only when we drive them into the caves like we did the Bemont so long ago, will we be free.”

-Ariochus of Dresh

210 YT, Kurikuneku, at the Dawn of War in the East

Cigdem Nacar smiled when he heard the distant drums and the droning of voice underneath. With each drumbeat a thousand footsteps moved in unison, glory in each step, unity in the air. Cigdem moved along the flat stone streets with a light spring in his step, an anticipation of that which he’d soon see firsthand. In one hand he held a sheet of paper. He was shaking so much that it was a great effort not to crumple the paper into a little ball as he went, but Cigdem knew first impressions mattered a great deal. He needed to look his best to the recruiter and a crumpled-up form wasn’t going to make him seem like prime soldiering material.

Cigdem shuffled past street-shops hawking wares – from sherbet in a thousand fruity colors to steaming teas and skewers of spicy meat and bundles of vegetables arrayed in pockets of freshly baked dough. There were shops selling books, too, and paintings and photographs – many of the east. Posters lined the walls behind one of the photographers’ shops – stylized images of silhouetted barbarians, menacing, clawed, towering over fine Kurikuneku and threatening the city with death. But always there was a brave soul standing up to defend the city, to defend all that was holy within it.

Cigdem swelled with pride when he looked upon those posters. He only wished he’d had a little money in his pockets, so that he could support the artist. He turned, and continued walk-skipping toward the office. It was within sight now – far down the street and to his left, great metal pillars holding the place up. Cigdem almost broke into a run.

He nearly tripped over the old man squatting upon the top of a barrel, hands on his knees. The man glowered down at Cigdem as he stumbled, caught himself with one hand. Then the man reached out and grabbed Cigdem’s other arm, hauling him up to his feet. He stared at him for a while.

Cigdem stared back, unsure of himself. He pulled his arm away after a moment, and the old man made no motion to keep hold of it. Instead he just gestured with a finger at the paper. Cigdem looked down and realized with a painful start that it had crumpled in the fall.

“War makes madmen of the kindest boys,” the man said. “Better to stay away from it.”

Cigdem stared at the old man for a long while, and then he scoffed. The fellow looked so pathetic on his barrel, just watching the city pass him by, watching life move on without him. “I’m going to stand for something,” Cigdem said, his chest swelling with pride as he stood. He expected that would cow the old man, seeing him lower his head gaze. But then, he only shook his head sadly and chuckled.

“Better to run away and hide than stand and fight, boy. You’ll realize that some day.”

“Would you rather die on your feet than live on your knees?” Cigdem asked immediately, without hesitating. The man made a small choking sound in his throat.

“How old are you, boy?”

“Twenty.”

“You look about twelve.”

Cigdem sputtered angrily, muttered, “You’d rather live on your knees?”

The old man spat, bubbling saliva on the stones between man and boy. “I’d rather live on my feet than die on my knees,” he said. “Who’s the prouder, boy, you or me?”

“Me,” Cigdem said, no hesitation. “I’m part of something greater than myself.”

“And I’m greater than that something,” the old man said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Only then his face became deadly serious. “You may not respect me, but I respect myself enough to know what is worth less than myself. So who’s prouder?”

“You blaspheme,” Cigdem said, enunciating each syllable with care.

“I speak the truth that keeps me alive,” the old man said. There was a sharper edge in his voice than before – anger growing in the old man’s gaze.

“Your words may just get you killed some day,” Cigdem said. “Especially sharing them with such strangers as me.”

“Oh, but you’re not a stranger,” the man said. “And I know you wouldn’t dare betray me. I am no fool, Cigdem Nacar.”

Cigdem blanched. “I… don’t know you…”

“Only because you pay so little attention that which is around you. Too busy dreaming of things far away. Well, that’s something else you will outgrow in time.”

Cigdem started to back away, shaking his head. “I’m the prouder one,” he said, more to reassure himself than to argue with the old man.

“Nah,” the man said, rising from his barrel and starting to turn away. “You’ll realize some day just how low a soldier truly is.” And he began to walk away.

Cigdem started to turn, when he saw the old man take one final glance over his own shoulder. He shouted at the departing Cigem: “Assuming you don’t die before then, of course!”

Cigdem, teeth gritted, fists clenched, began to run. His wish to keep the paper uncrumpled was forgotten at the back of his mind – it was a rolled wad in his fist as he dashed toward the office. His mind buzzed as he walked up the stairs, between the pillars, and toward the office gate.