Gharic culture has a curious obsession with time. To them time is a coin that must be measured, weighed, and spent with care. They live as misers, shaving precious scraps from the sides and hating every moment that slips through their fingers.

Yet all they manage with their clipping and paring is to debase that precious currency, for time is not something to be spent. It is meat to be savored, wine to take in great draughts, and honey to coat the tongue in ecstasy. No man has ever experienced more joy in marking a year than in the moments when one’s mind forgets time entirely, existing only in the endless, perfect now.

- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

Michael sat on the balcony, sipping at a mug of tea. It was a strong, dark tea, brewed in the Safid style; several decades of occupation had left their mark on Daressa in more ways than one, manifesting in tea shops and the smell of heady southern spices wafting from alleys. He took another scalding mouthful of the beverage and leaned back, watching light slowly creep across the city of Imes.

It was a handsome city. After the crowded brickwork of Calmharbor and the clean glass facades of Goitxea, Michael held a new appreciation for the blocky, whitewashed architecture that characterized the Gharic coast. It felt old, lived-in - comfortable.

Not that Goitxea hadn’t been wonderful. The city had been a whirlwind of activity, of batzarkideak and various hangers-on courting Michael’s favor with gifts and dinners, party invitations, policy proposals - all juxtaposed somewhat awkwardly with the reality that there was no formal place for him there, not without Stellar’s soul.

He poured the last of his tea from the pot, refilling his mug, and smiled as the first rays of sunlight began to paint the town. People began to make their way through the streets below - streets that were clean of debris and rubble, patched and paved. The Transitional Committee had done a remarkable job in the short time they’d had, though Michael suspected that the situation in Imes was somewhat rosier than in the rest of the country. The woes of the highlands weren’t likely to have improved much since he visited last. Vast swathes of the countryside had been depopulated, and those communities that still clung to life tended to be poor and insular, struggling to find a direction in the aftermath of Saf’s rule.

But Imes was doing well, for the moment, as was Leik. Agnec, Rouns and the other regional capitals were variously disorganized and reeling from the sudden change in administration, but things were stable. Enough to take a moment and enjoy some tea on the balcony, at least.

He pulled in some of the burgeoning sunlight and warmed the last swallow of tea before rising to go back inside. The flat was one of hundreds that had been left vacant in the last weeks of the War; it was notionally possible that someone might show up claiming to own it and its eclectic assortment of furniture. Until then, however-

The faucet groaned as Michael drew another pot of water; he laid his hand on it and turned to face the morning sun once more. The room darkened, then lightened. He smiled and grabbed a fresh satchet of tea.

“Morning,” he said, padding into the bedroom. He set the tea down on the room’s battered end table; beside it the mound of twisted blankets on the bed shifted. A hand emerged, then an arm. It clawed at the pile of bedding to expose Sobriquet’s bleary face.

She blinked at him, then let her head fall back against the pillows. “Some of us still need to sleep,” she muttered.

“I waited until the sun was up,” Michael retorted. “And I made you tea.”

“Neither of those things are sleep,” she said. A moment later her eyes slid back open. “Breakfast?”

Michael nodded. “We’ve still got some of those sausages-” He cocked his head as Sobriquet made a garbled noise of negation. “Potatoes, then.”

“Eggs,” she grunted.

“We don’t have any eggs,” Michael protested. “It’s winter. This city was a warzone last month. You can pick between potatoes, sausage, or potatoes and sausage.”

She closed her eyes again. “...both, then.”

Michael nodded and turned back to the kitchen, rummaging through the supplies that were left there. A few aged rinds of cheese jostled for space with remnants of butter; Michael was rationing those, since both were scarce at the market. He took a scant scrape of butter and used more of the morning sun to heat a battered iron pan.

By the time Sobriquet walked in, cloaked in the heaviest of their blankets, Michael had fried up a passable breakfast for the two of them. She sat and squinted at it, then snaked her arm out from the blankets to eat a bite. “You’re no Helene,” she said. “You’re not even Richter. But this is good.”

“I helped her out in the kitchen a few times when I was a boy,” he said. “Before my father put a stop to it.” He sighed. “It was nice to have her cooking again, if only for a bit.”

“They would have come to Imes,” Sobriquet said, talking around a mouthful.

Michael made a face. “I know. But they deserved a rest as much as anyone.” He took a bite of his own food, chewing slowly as he looked out the window. “And I wanted - this.”

She smirked at him. “A mediocre breakfast?” she asked innocently.

“I’ll freeze your tea,” Michael warned, though his smile robbed the threat of its teeth. “No, just - quiet mornings and you.”

Her cheeks colored, and she looked down at her plate. “That’s been good,” she agreed. “Though I’m not sure how long they’ll let us keep it. We are who we are. Whether it’s Ardalt or Saf that breaks the peace, we’ll be dragged into what follows.”

“I know,” Michael sighed. He stood to collect their plates, bending down to kiss Sobriquet on the forehead. “But I’ll take what I can get.” He cleaned up quickly before sitting to finish the rest of the tea with Sobriquet; as he sat she stretched the blanket out so it wrapped around him as well.

“Mm,” he said, having seen rather more and less than he’d expected as the blanket shifted. “Aren’t you cold?”

“That’s why I’ve got you,” she murmured. She drew close, and for a timeless moment there was little else on Michael’s mind. She drew back from the kiss, a wicked grin on her face. “I have something to tell you,” she said, letting the blanket slip from her shoulder.

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he asked.

She drew close, whispering into his ear. “There is,” she purred, “a courier at the door.”

“You do this on purpose,” he said, pulling back with a betrayed look. “And every time-”

A knock at the door interrupted him, he turned to glare at the offending noise. After a moment, he sighed and extricated himself from the blanket. “You knew he was on his way well before we had finished breakfast, didn’t you?” he muttered, shooting her a glare.

“Before we started,” she laughed. “He’s one of Emil’s. I expect we’re being summoned again.”

“Your sight is better these days,” Michael noted. “Did you hear what for?”

She grimaced. “It’s not so good that I can eavesdrop at the government offices. I can only see the barest hints through the chaos. But I don’t need to eavesdrop to know where he’s from; Emil makes all the government officials dress in those stodgy suits.” She shook her head. “He bought them hats.”

“They love those hats. It’s practically the symbol of the Transitional Committee at this point; I’d say Emil knows what he’s about.” Michael shrugged, then padded over to the door. He glanced back before he opened it; Sobriquet had disappeared from the couch.

“Good morning,” Michael sighed, opening the door. “I-” He broke off, eyes widening. “Vernon!”

Vernon smiled; he was dressed in a smart winter coat and one of the Committee’s short-brimmed hats. There was a small bundle tucked under his arm, which promptly dropped to the floor as Michael wrapped him in a hug.

Michael pulled back a moment later, grinning at his slightly-winded friend. “Sera didn’t say it was you - although there’s no way she didn’t recognize you.”

“I told her yesterday that I would be by in the morning,” Vernon said, his eyes twinkling. “It’s not a bad time, is it? Am I interrupting anything?”

Michael sighed, gesturing for Vernon to come inside. “Nothing that was ever going to happen, apparently,” he said, glaring at Sobriquet as she emerged from the bedroom, dressed in Mendiko fashion; she had retained Helene’s alterations to her hair, and had supplemented her Ardan finery with generous additions from Goitxea’s shops. Today she wore a loose white dress, one sleeve specially tailored short and closed.

“Hello, Vernon,” she said, brushing past Michael to hug the auditor. “Don’t listen to him, he’s grumpy.”

“Well, maybe this will ease your mood,” Vernon said, bending down to retrieve his parcel. “Butter, bacon, salt, a little bit of chocolate.” He tossed it to Sobriquet, who snatched the package out of the air and ran grinning to the kitchen. “A few other odds and ends. Emil managed to get contracts in place to see us through the winter for staples, although we’re going to be handing over about twice what the goods are worth.”

“Lekubarri, I assume,” Michael said wryly. “He’s going to be richer than the old emperor by next year. I can’t say he’s been any less of an ally than he promised, but there’s not one bit of charity in him.”

Vernon gave him a sly smile. “Don’t worry about him,” he said. “Emil is holding his own. We can’t do much about the immediate supply situation, but we’re getting good terms on investment and loans in the bargain. Part of Lekubarri’s aid is in helping us get one over on his rivals in the Batzar; the deals we’re getting from Mendoza’s consortium are very favorable.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “That does sound like him.” He walked back to the couch and took a seat; Vernon followed and sat beside him. “You didn’t come out to the third arrondissement to be our grocer, though. What’s the daily crisis?”

“We don’t have one every day,” Vernon said. “And it’s not a crisis at all in this case. There’s a conference in a few hours, the zuzendaritza is giving a briefing. Reports from Ardalt and Saf, as I understand it, but nothing so alarming that they’re going to the military first. Your presence was requested, though.” He craned his neck to look at Sobriquet. “Yours too.”

“It’s never a good sign when they invite both of us,” Sobriquet sighed, heading back into the bedroom. “They invite you to all the hopeful meetings about rebuilding Daressa for the future; whenever I’m on the list of attendees it’s always proclamations of doom.”

“Yes, well,” Michael said. “As you’re so fond of reminding people, you are Sobriquet. If you didn’t want to be on the meeting roster where secrets and intrigue are concerned, you should have opted for a different soul.”

She stuck her head out from the bedroom to glare at Michael, half-into a more formal dress. “It wouldn’t kill anyone to invite me to one of the discussions about finding homes for orphans or fostering domestic business, though, would it? I’m an orphan! I ran a business!”

“You ran an armed resistance, I’m not sure that counts,” Vernon said. “And you have to admit that neither is what people think of first when they hear your name. It happens that once you shoot a few people, that tends to dominate the narrative.”

Sobriquet glared at him. “You and I worked together, and they found a place for you.”

“Yes, but I’m a horrible shot.” Vernon smiled blandly at her, then turned to Michael. “This meeting shouldn’t be anything too dire, though. As far as I know it’s entirely routine.”

“If I hear anything about threats from abroad, you owe me eggs,” Sobriquet said, stepping back into the bedroom. “At least half a dozen.”

Vernon frowned. “Those have been dear, but the Mendiko seem to have some supply of them despite the season. Emil thinks they’re keeping the hens indoors.”

Sobriquet emerged from the bedroom again, tucking her hair back; she was dressed in something more appropriate to a government meeting, a dark dress with a high collar. “I expect the chickens don’t enjoy that,” she said.

“I don’t imagine anyone thought to consult them.” Vernon looked at Sobriquet, then at Michael. “Shall we head over? I’ll fill you in on what I know as we walk.”

A short time later they were strolling towards the central district, surrounded by the bustle of a fully-awakened Imes. Nearly all of the main streets had needed to be repaired after the city’s siege, but Mendiko engineers had done exemplary work to ensure the main arteries of transport were clear. Bricks sat in neat piles as facades were reconstructed and walls repaired, and if more than a few windows were still broken, the holes were at least patched over with wood and sealed against the weather. It was not a city that had healed from the violence of war, not yet, but it was well on its way.

“We managed to complete a census,” Vernon said. “Only within the major cities for the time being, the countryside is another story. Imes is missing about half its residents. Rouns is doing slightly better - Leik, for all that it’s been shelled to rubble, actually has something close to its pre-war population.” He shook his head. “It’s going to be decades before Daressa’s people number anything close to what they were prior to the Safid invasion, though, and that’s only if we get the economy to a place where people can support a family again.”

Michael let his sight rise up to take in the sea of scaffolding that clung to the buildings. “It seems like it’s busy enough,” he said.

“Here, sure,” Vernon snorted. “But we’re going to have a problem if we get to spring and find that we have nobody sowing fields. Nobody can feed themselves on policy proposals alone.”

“Emil might try,” Michael chuckled, lofting his sight upward as they neared the city’s old town hall. Its battered facade had been mostly repaired, though he could spot the joints where surviving stonework met new artifex-shaped patches. The central square did much to distract from the building’s appearance, though, with colorful banners hung around its perimeter and a surprising number of market stalls crammed into one corner.

“Is it always this busy?” Michael asked, squinting. “I didn’t think there were this many people living in the government quarter.”

Vernon gave him a tolerant look. “New Year’s market,” he said. “We’ve been trying to make a point of festivities, as a way to cap off the War and head into whatever’s next.”

“…I had honestly not been paying attention to the date,” Michael admitted sheepishly.

“Last day of Waning,” Vernon confirmed. “Heading into six-ninety-four whether we’re ready or not, so we’d best be ready.” He gave a heavy sigh as they walked up the stone steps to the town hall; the building was much smaller than the Assembly, and they arrived at their destination in moments.

It was not Emil’s office; that room had long been consigned to its stacks of paper and moldering ledgers. This was a plain but dignified meeting room with a set of mostly-matched chairs around a table someone had scrounged up. Michael took it all in, then discarded it when he saw who was already seated there.

A smile split his face as he walked over to clasp hands with Antolin. “They let you come back east,” Michael said happily.

“Saf has been quiet, which makes people nervous,” the Mendiko grand marshal said, returning the handshake; his eyes twinkled. “But sometimes quiet is quiet, and Saf isn’t the only threat we must concern ourselves with.” He clapped Michael on the arm, then turned to greet Sobriquet.

“There it is,” she said, leaning in to kiss Antolin on the cheek. “I can hear the doom in his voice already.”

Lekubarri stepped closer to them, a smile twisting his face. “Not anything imminent,” he said. “We’ve collected - should I begin? Is everyone here?”

Emil nodded from the head of the table; he had not stood. He had lost weight since taking the post of chairman, and gained grey in his hair, but his eyes still shone with the same incisive focus. “This is everyone,” he said. “Let’s begin.”

“Straight to business,” Lekubarri said, smiling thinly. “We’ve collected the first intelligence packets from Ardalt since your return. The Institute’s reintegration into the Assembly power structure is far from complete, but it’s already made intelligence-gathering a much more hazardous operation than before. There have been loyalty tests, verifices; one of our agents was killed, and another handful were forced to extract themselves rapidly.”

He tapped one thin finger on a stack of papers. “Their reports are nothing too surprising at first glance. Assembly rhetoric continues to be harshly anti-Mendiko, and they’re not even bothering to ground their allegations in fact at this point. We are apparently holding a ruthless occupation from the Strait on down, banning the Gharic tongue in favor of Mendiko, puppeting local government and generally being a reprehensible lot of cultural imperialists.”

Michael frowned. “I suppose that’s to be expected, although I’m surprised that Mendian is such a focus for their attention.”

“Someone did invoke our name on the Assembly floor after some highly-public mayhem,” Lekubarri noted dryly. “But we’re not the prime target of their propaganda. We are at least cloaking ourselves in the veil of propriety, while Saf continues to be a horde of baby-eating savages who-” He glanced down at his papers, rifling through a few pages. “-drink Gharic blood, kidnap virgins for export to Khem, all sorts of entertaining exploits.”

He set the papers down, tapping the thick stack of reports. “It goes on in that vein. The picture it builds is fairly clear. Having enjoyed their brief respite from the War, our assessment is that Ardalt has found peace to be socially and politically untenable. Their economy is stagnant. The strife from the Institute’s rebellion is still present; the idea that force of arms is a valid means of political expression is not one that fades quickly, once demonstrated.”

“I did think it strange that my father would focus on the economic ramifications of the rebellion first,” Michael said; he quickly shook his head. “Not strange. Shortsighted, perhaps. But it makes sense; the Assembly exists first and foremost to maintain its own order. If it can’t do that, then its members will entertain alternatives.”

“And so they have.” Lekubarri flipped to the bottom of the stack, withdrawing a hastily-clipped scrap of newsprint. His eyes scanned through it for a moment; he began to read. “…the Assembly on Stonesday voted to deny the proposed Klingenfraktion budget for the new year, with many members of the chamber stating that it was not adequate to address the economic harms done to business in Ardalt. This was despite Rabensfraktion coalition support-”

Lekubarri dropped the scrap to the table with a resigned gesture. “Et cetera. The two majority factions are no longer the majority, at least not reliably so. That honor now belongs to a burgeoning group predominantly drawn from the relatively-poorer, younger families in the Assembly, the ones hardest-hit by the chaos of peace.” He looked up at Michael, his eyes grim. “They’ve taken to calling themselves the Sonnenfraktion.”

Michael felt a slow chill spread through him. “Luc’s not even a formal member,” he protested.

“That may be part of his appeal. They are, as you said, entertaining alternatives to the established order.” Lekubarri glanced down at the reports. “And I don’t have to tell you that political power in Ardalt derives first and foremost from the strength of a soul.”

“They have to know that they can’t attack Saf,” Michael protested. “Saleh was toying with them before, and that was with an army at something close to full strength.”

Lekubarri waggled his hand. “Yes and no. The War never really touched Ardalt proper. There was no deprivation, no rationing. With conditions deteriorating as they are, we expect that Ardalt will conscript rapidly and indiscriminately, using Institute obruors to maintain force cohesion.”

Antolin gave a disapproving grunt. “That would destroy them as a country,” he said. “Even in victory. We’ve seen the toll that mode of control takes on an army, and it’s too steep to be useful. You’re talking about the crippling or death of a country’s youth, its future.”

“That’s the idea,” Michael said. Heads turned to face him; he swallowed against a dry mouth. “No good men shall die. He means to lead Ardalt against Saf, to the destruction of both.”

There was silence in the room. Sobriquet leaned back in her chair. “I’ll be the one to say it,” she murmured. “It’s a catastrophe perpetrated by a madman, yes, but I’m strangely okay with the concept of those two parties removing each other from the balance. The only problem is-”

“Luc,” Michael said. “The war he’s proposing to inflict on the world would involve five of the Eight, and literal armies of souls beyond that. If he retains even a fraction of that, we would be trading Ardalt and Saf for an insane, unkillable force of nature, empowered to a degree that I couldn’t - would not match.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that the shape of human existence upon the world would have to change, and not for the better.”

He looked at Sobriquet, at Lekubarri - then, ultimately, at Antolin, meeting his inscrutable eyes. “There would be no Ardalt, no Saf - and no Mendian. No power but Luc, and whatever whim he would choose to impose upon the world.”

Lekubarri cleared his throat. “I happen to agree with your assessment,” he said. “But the lady’s case has its adherents as well. Problematically, it has its adherents in the Batzar.”

Antolin’s head came up, his eyes narrowing. “How can it?” he asked. “The Third Exception-”

“-states that none may restrain the Star from returning to Mendian,” Lekubarri said. “Pedantic, I know, but it’s undeniable that the usual enticement of safety for those around him holds rather less sway than it has with past bearers. And why do we need the Star, save to do what its current bearer already seems intent on doing, all without a single drop of Mendiko blood spilled?”

He raised his hands in response to Antolin’s incredulous look. “It’s not my opinion,” he said. “But it’s not an unpopular sentiment within the Batzar. Our recent military campaign was tainted with Leire’s death, and enjoyed little popularity with the masses. There are those who say that the Mendiko system of exceptions and guarantees is outmoded, delivering no benefit but broad international resentment of our meddling.”

“And when we fail to follow through on the most basic promise of our state,” Antolin growled, “what then? They will test the others. Traffic in the strait, the integrity of our homeland-”

“And now we reach the point of this meeting,” Lekubarri sighed, resignedly leafing through his stack of papers. “Because your fears are justified, Grand Marshal Errea. Our reluctance - or, some say, inability - to enforce the return of the Star has been noted. Our other lines will be tested, now, and we know which one will come first.”

He withdrew a map from the stack, showing a squat, squarish peninsula jutting southward from the coast. “In the tenure of the Tenth Star, two hundred and fifty years ago, the last emperor of Ghar came on his knees to his old enemy - Mendian. He was emperor in name only by then; their true empire had been lost for centuries, and now their last meager scraps of land were halfway down Saf’s gullet. He begged us to break the Safid siege of Gharon, and to protect his city from destruction. He offered gold, gems, tribute - but what the Tenth Star demanded was that the emperor kneel before the Batzar oak, proclaim that Ghar was a failed and broken land, beg our mercy for their arrogance, and slit his own throat above the tree’s roots.”

Lekubarri looked up from the map. “The emperor did these things, to the letter. Ghar ended that day, but the Tenth Star kept his piece of the bargain just as faithfully. The peninsula was choked with burning Safid corpses for months in his wake. Gharon remains a ruined shard of a once-proud empire, and a Mendiko protectorate purchased with blood.”

He turned the map so that it was oriented towards Michael, tracing his finger along the coastline.

“We have indications that Institute agents are already on the Gharic peninsula,” he said. “Saf has not seriously tested the boundaries of Ghar’s last territory for some time. Our garrison there is mostly symbolic. With Daressa lost to them, Ardalt will require a beachhead on the continent.” He tapped the largest mark on the map. “We believe they’ve found it.”

Michael slipped an arm around Sobriquet’s shoulders, looking out over the city once more. Night had long-since fallen, and the stars burned clear overhead. In years past there had been fireworks, great explosions of light and sound that marked momentous nights. The world had lost its taste for such fare, though.

Instead, candles burned from windows and balconies. There were only a few at first, and it seemed a sad reflection of the broken, depopulated city. But more came as the hour grew later, clustering in twos and threes until every window glowed with dim light, and every building was ringed with a halo of soft radiance. The city came alight in small moments, hands hidden by dark withdrawing to leave behind a mote of fire.

It remained quiet. No songs echoed through the city, no raucous parties disturbed the lambent glow. Imes was a landscape wrought from solemn fire, flaring against the black overhead until the lights overhead shrank away against those arrayed below.

A single bell, distant and atonal, rang out across the city.

“Happy new year,” Sobriquet said, turning to Michael.

He smiled, and bent down to kiss her. “Look what we did with half of the last one,” he said, nodding towards the sea of flame. “Next year will be brighter still.”

She smiled. “Let’s take it one day at a time,” she said. “It’s already setting up to be a long one.”

Michael shook his head. “I’m done with half-steps,” he said. “I want this. All of this, forever. Listening to Lekubarri talk, I thought about losing what we’ve built together, and - I can’t. I won’t. This is what I want.” He looked down at her; he could see in her eyes that his expression had slipped from the normal, but her face was rapt, present in that moment with him. “Ask me to make it brighter next year.”

Her lips parted slightly. “I want the city to shine,” she breathed.

“Like the sun,” Michael said. “And the people?”

“Daressans should want for nothing,” she said.

“They’ll be safe and happy,” Michael said. “Food on the shelves, glass in the windows, and the streets paved with gold.” He leaned closer to her. “Ask me for anything you want.”

She grabbed his collar and pulled him close, her breath fast and hot against his skin - then half-dragged Michael into the flat.

Thus began the six-hundred and ninety-fourth year following the dissolution of the Gharic Empire.