It was then, waking up in Unai’s quarters, that I realized the horrible truth: that I did not matter. None of us did. In the conflict that follows you, one small person’s desire to do good is meaningless. It may be wiped away without warning or recourse.

I cried. It wasn’t the first time, or the last, but I cried then because I realized that I had never left the cotton mill floor. I was still the same battered child, scavenging for discarded bits while the machines did their uncaring work around me. If I grew, it was to find a larger machine - and there would ALWAYS be a larger machine.

Yet men still have their will. The machine may deny the weight of choice, but it may not deny choice itself; one avenue always remains open. We may stand, heedless of the rushing metal, and throw ourselves upon its gears.

You may hate me for what follows; it’s a sentiment that I can sympathize with. But I learned over long years that one panicking child will knock others into the machinery; he is a danger to all those around him, including the children who would have otherwise been safe. The machine is immutable. The hazard we may grasp is the child who still believes, somewhere in an animal recess of his mind, that he might break free if he could only rise to his feet.

So I will go to those men who cannot bear a life on their knees, and show them their way forward.

- Annals of the Seventeenth Star, 693.

Michael was of two minds on his dwindling need for sleep. His mind rebelled at the thought of losing it entirely; the notion of never enjoying that rest again gave his skin an unpleasant prickle and sent his mind down long, dark corridors where he wondered if sleep was merely the first thing he’d lose.

The extra time was undeniably useful, though. He woke well before the dawn, taking the time to stow away the last of Vernon’s gifts - some where they should go, and others where he knew Sobriquet would not immediately find and devour them. It was a losing battle keeping secrets from her, but if he could stretch the chocolate for another day he’d consider it a good effort.

He snuck out of the house soundlessly; he seldom thought anymore about the grace that Stanza lent to his footsteps, but whenever it rose to his attention it summoned memories of Jeorg quietly padding around his garden, appearing without warning behind Michael to comment on his work or dispense some cryptic observation. It brought a smile to his face as he eased the door shut and slipped out onto the street.

The light of the celebration had died away by now, with only a few scattered candles guttering in windows. It made for a sparse, eerie light, and Michael felt compelled to maintain his silence as he walked across the cobbles. The last traces of the celebration had a solemnity to them that he was loath to break.

They disappeared of their own accord, though, as wax ran down and wicks burnt away, replaced by the wan daylight peeking across the rooftops. By the time the sky had gained some color Michael was almost at his destination.

Imes had not kept a formal garrison in some time, as the Safid had maintained their war camps outside of the city and the old Daressan garrison had been razed at the start of the occupation. Saf had built a grand temple on the site; the Daressans had simply resumed use of it as a garrison when the city was once again theirs. The building was simple in construction, conveying its grandeur through vast, unbroken planes of stone rather than any embellishment on the exterior. The grounds, once open, were now ringed by a rude fence and periodic sentries, who stood facing out into the quiet town.

Michael approached the pair of guards at the gatehouse, raising his hand in greeting. “Good morning,” he said. “Is it too early to enter?”

The guards had stiffened at his approach. One walked towards him, his rifle held down but ready. “We’re off-limits here,” he said. “If you want to worship, there’s a temple three blocks south.”

“Not here to worship,” Michael laughed. “I was hoping to talk to one of the instructors here. I can wait, if you’d pass on that Michael Baumgart is here for-”

“Oh, Ghar’s bloody bones,” the guard said, blanching; a moment later he came back to attention. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t see your face.”

Michael peered at him, not recognizing the man. He was young, younger than Michael, with a reedy build that made him look like a child dressing in his father’s overlarge uniform. “Have we met?” Michael asked.

“No, sir,” the guard responded, color rising to his cheeks. “I just - there’s drawings in some of the papers, sir.”

“Evidently a good likeness,” Michael muttered. “So I’m clear to enter? I don’t actually know where you’ve set up the training grounds, so if you can point me there…”

“To the right, along the fence until you reach those huts,” the soldier said, stepping aside to permit Michael passage. He stayed at attention, barely breathing as Michael walked past.

“My soul to the One,” the man murmured, quick and nervous.

The words froze Michael for a bare moment. He turned his sight to the man, not moving his head. Everyone rang with fear around him, a constant low drone that he had learned to put to the back of his mind, but now he troubled himself to focus on the feeling pulsing from the young, trembling soldier. It was still fear, certainly, but threaded through with something low and brassy that lent it a resonant quality, the echo of vastness rumbling back with every heartbeat.

He knew what it was. If anything, awe was more disturbing than fear; he knew why men feared him. Keeping his face steady, Michael turned his head to look at the soldier and gave him a sharp, solemn nod, meeting his eyes. Michael hated those words, in truth. He did not want what they promised - but, in the end, they did not say those words for him.

So he held the soldier’s gaze for more than a mere glance, then turned and began walking along the fence.

Men were already up, engaged in calisthenics. Sweat and dew marked them as they went about their exercise, faces serious and movements intent; nobody needed to impress upon these men the importance of their task when they slept in the shadow of a Safid temple.

One group moved with a particular precision, their movements tight and coordinated; Michael smiled and walked over to the man quietly watching them move through their forms. “Zabala,” Michael said. “Good morning.”

Zabala turned and looked at him, and Michael felt the smile even though no hint of it touched his face. He was still in front of his men, after all. Zabala turned back to the troops and raised his head. “Laps,” he said, not raising his voice. “Four extra, and you have your liberty until breakfast.”

The men raised their heads, smiling wearily as they began to jog towards the fenceline; one or two curious looks found Michael, but none of them lingered to stare. Moments later, Michael and Zabala stood alone.

“Michael,” Zabala said, smiling at last. He extended his hand; Michael shook it. “Imes seems to agree with you; you look well.”

“I was about to say that you look right at home,” Michael chuckled. “Although I was surprised to hear you were at the Daressan camp. I thought your plan was to return to your unit?”

“It was, but tagging along with you has made the prospect of returning to regular service seem somewhat dull.” Zabala shook his head. “Detached duty offered more variety, and there was a need for advisors. There are few people left who remember Daressa’s army; fewer still in any shape to serve. We’re standing in for that lack, until the first batch of capable officers and enlisted is ready to take over.”

Michael nodded. “It seems to be going well,” he noted.

“As well as could be expected,” Zabala sighed. “They’re enthusiastic, but they’re here because they’re angry. Angry men make good warriors; our goal is to make them good soldiers, since the army needs to serve in more than war.”

“That’s the hope,” Michael murmured, his mouth twisting. “But it seems less likely every day. I talked with Lekubarri yesterday. Ardalt has its eye on Saf, and they’re going to run through Ghar to do it.”

Zabala’s face slipped back into blank neutrality. “That’s madness,” he said. “They have to know we’d never stand for it.” He paused, a stormy look growing on his face. “But if Lekubarri is worried about it-”

“I was going to bring you up to speed, but I think you have the gist of it,” Michael sighed. “The Batzar may be content to watch Ardalt and Saf return to the War, so that they can keep their comfortable neutrality. A chance to reclaim the stable violence of the past century.”

“Cowards,” Zabala spat. “Tell me we’re at least doing something.”

Michael nodded. “The zuzendaritza is stepping up its operations there, but they don’t have the power needed to intervene on a grand scale - nor could they step in without provoking a response from the isolationist faction. Lekubarri asked me to travel there before the situation deteriorates, link up with their garrison so that I’m in-theater if an opportunity arises.” He looked at Zabala. “I came here to ask if you’d go, but if you’re needed here-”

Zabala looked out over the tents, his eyes going distant. After a moment, he looked back to Michael. “I’ve wondered,” he said, “whether my fate is already decided. We’ve fought together for long enough that I probably can’t escape your pull, in the end, but if I say yes - that removes all doubt, doesn’t it? Sooner or later, my path will end with you.”

Michael felt a pang of hurt. “I didn’t know it concerned you that much,” he said. “We’ve never spoken about it.”

“I was under the impression there’s little you could do about it, even if we did,” Zabala said. “And I’m not - concerned. But it is a choice, isn’t it? My last chance to strive for anything else. Even if it were the best thing in the world, it would be odd not to raise my head one last time and look out at all of the untraveled paths slipping into the distance.”

He took a breath, then let it out; his face relaxed. “Not that I plan on it becoming a relevant issue anytime soon,” he said. Zabala shook his head, then smiled and offered Michael his hand. “Let me know when we’re leaving.”

Michael clasped his hand gratefully, though he raised his eyebrow. “You can take some time to think about it, if you want.”

“Something can be a big decision without being a hard one,” Zabala said. “And in this case it’s not hard at all. You’re Mendian’s path forward, more so than any of those cowards in the Batzar. None of them are keeping the Tenth Star’s promise.”

“Technically, Lekubarri is,” Michael pointed out.

Zabala grimaced. “Technically,” he agreed. “But he’s not the man you turn to for matters of trust. Even when he’s keeping his word, it feels like you’re being swindled.”

“Emil said much the same thing.” Michael chuckled, lifting his head to look at the camp. All around him, men worked quietly, fiercely, struggling through the low morning haze. “It won’t be any trouble for you to leave?”

“My impression is that they’ve had to turn volunteers away,” Zabala said. “Plenty of us that think Mendian should be doing more on the continent. If the Batzar truly means to let Ardalt rampage through Ghar uncontested, it will drive the men halfway to mutiny. Helping the Daressans train is no substitute for taking the field ourselves, but it’s at least something. If they ordered us all home right now-” He sighed, trailing off. “The office of the Star is not meant to be vacant. The Batzar is too staid, too conservative.”

Zabala’s eyes drifted to Michael in a way that made him shiver. There was a man reflected in those eyes, someone that Michael was sure he had never seen. The two stood quietly for a moment.

“I haven’t given that part of it much thought, to be honest,” Michael admitted. “It’s been looming in the distance, but never so close that I’ve actually had to sit down and think about what I’d do once Stellar came to me. I suppose I assumed that I’d disappear behind glass and crystal until I found my bearings in Mendian.”

“It’s not so distant,” Zabala said. “What do you think Antolin was preparing you for? The role of the Star is to lead, to present the face of Mendian to its enemies and friends alike. To spread comfort and terror as needed. To force people forward.” He snorted, then gave Michael a flat look. “If you asked any soldier from the campaign who the Star is, they would know their answer.”

Michael’s mouth felt suddenly dry; he looked to the side. “I don’t know that I’ve earned that,” he muttered. “If not for me, they’d be right to name Leire still.”

“Arraio,” Zabala snorted. “They know who to blame for that, too.” He looked for a moment as though he wanted to say something else; he sighed and shook his head instead, his lips quirking into a smile. “So, are we leaving right away, or do I have a few days to set things in order?”

“End of the week,” Michael said. “The zuzendaritza agents want a chance to get the lay of things first, and I have a few more people to talk to.”

Zabala’s face fell. “Oh no,” he said. “You’re not thinking of inviting those buffoons along as well, are you?”

“Well,” Michael hedged. “Not just them.”

“You sure that I can’t talk you into it?” Michael asked, leaning back in his chair.

Vernon smiled and shook his head. “There are better men for the job,” he said. “Even if what you need is an auditor. I was only ever in the resistance as a quirk of circumstance. The work never stops - but it changes, and for me it has changed for the better.”

“I probably could ask any number of Mendiko auditors along,” Michael conceded. “But I wasn’t asking after an auditor, I was asking you.”

“Alas, I am a boring government official now,” Vernon sighed. “I take my lunches precisely at mid-day and only see people if they bother to register an appointment first. A sad, broken, shell of a man.” He gave Michael a sly grin, then toasted him with his cup of tea. “It’s rather wonderful.”

Michael laughed. “Ah, well,” he said. “At least our paths crossed this much. I’ve missed our talks in the mess. We haven’t sat down for lunch since-” His smile faded. “Not for a while.”

“Better atmosphere than on the airship,” Vernon said, taking a bite of the egg tart in front of him. “And much better food. I like Imes. I can survive in the roughs, sleeping under trees and in abandoned barns, but this is where I want to be. Surrounded by the voices of people, whispering, planning, living. Concerts, dinner parties. I bought another cello, I play with a quartet on Rimesdays.” He smiled, then shrugged. “We all build our paradise. Mine is here.”

“It does sound wonderful,” Michael agreed. “Although I’m surprised to hear you name the voices you hear as a comfort. What I feel from the city is - better than it was, certainly, but not relaxed or relaxing.”

“Ah, but that’s what they feel,” Vernon said. “The fear, the uncertainty. I know that’s there, of course. I feel it too, and I hear shades of it every time someone greets the postman. Every time they receive a telegraph, every time they meet someone coming back from abroad. They’re all afraid that this little ember of peace won’t catch, and that things will go back to how they were.” He shrugged, grinning slyly. “But that’s not what they say. When they speak it’s of happiness, and hope, and dreams of the future, because that’s what they want to show their neighbors. Their children. That’s what I love listening to.”

Michael nodded. “I hope they’re right,” he said. “But I fear the peace is due for its first test before long. Even if we keep Ardalt from starting the war in Ghar - that’s a delay, not a victory. It will appear somewhere else, again and again.”

“It’s true,” Vernon said, his mouth half-full. “It’s only ever a delay. But delay long enough, and you’ll find that it’s worthwhile. A generation of young Daressans may grow without the shade of terror looming over them. We may have the time to remember what it is to be ourselves. When war does come again - when, not if - we may find that the pleasant lies we’re telling each other have become a truth worth defending.”

Michael chewed his own tart contemplatively. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “I can’t help but feel it’s all spiraling out of control. Luc used to warn me that the world would push back against me at every turn, and now I fear that he’s ensuring the truth of those words. I tried in Ardalt, Vernon. I really did, but nothing changed the outcome. Men died - Unai died, and I couldn’t tell you for what. Everyone did what they wanted to do regardless. They chose fear, desire, pride - they chose Luc, in the end, because he told them they could have what they wanted.”

“Not everyone,” Vernon noted. “You gave some people a path clear of the chaos.”

“Ricard, Helene, Vera,” Michael said glumly. “Three lives from how many?”

Vernon pursed his lips, tracing a finger around the lip of his glass. “How many lives would have made it worthwhile?” he asked.

“Fair.” Michael pulled a face, then shook his head. “I still feel like I haven’t truly grasped the enormity of it.”

Vernon gave him a questioning look. “Of this new war?” he asked.

Michael shook his head. “Of what Luc plans to do. It’s not war, it’s - he’s going to kill them all, Vernon. He’s already decided. Every Ardan he can reach. It’s why he doesn’t care about the danger Stellar poses, why he’s justified pushing them towards war - because there is nothing of value to lose, in his mind.”

“You’re right,” Vernon admitted. “The mind slides off of it. It’s too big. Inhuman.” He picked up his tea and took a sip. “So I don’t see why one man alone could be expected to bear much responsibility for it.”

“Luc doesn’t bear responsibility?” Michael asked.

Vernon snorted. “Some. But it’s not as though he made your father listen to him, or any of the other Assemblymen grasping after profit and glory. They are all marching arm-in-arm, together, and all with the intent to heap misery on others for their own satisfaction. That the misery should find them as well is - not unjust.”

Michael gave him an incredulous look, leaning back in his chair. “You think they deserve to die?” he asked.

“I think they had the option to take another path, thanks to you,” Vernon said. “And they didn’t. There’s a limit to persuasion; past a certain point it’s compulsion. It becomes-”

“Violence,” Michael sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Shit.”

Vernon reached across the table and took the last bite of Michael’s tart. “Sorry about the apparent realization,” he said. “Entirely unintentional. Insight is one of those habits they discourage in government, but one I just can’t seem to break.”

Michael gave him a flat look. “You’re insufferable,” he said, stretching and rising from his chair. “Thank you, though. I had been moping a bit, or avoiding moping - it tends to feel the same.”

“I’ll take the credit, so long as it helps you clear your head.” Vernon stood to face Michael, then reached out to clasp Michael’s hand. “I want both of you back, safe and healthy. You deserve to see what we make here.”

His eyebrows went up as Michael pulled his arm, wrapping the auditor in a hug. “Thank you,” Michael said, releasing him; he stood at arm’s length, smiling. “Truly. It’s good that someone’s remembered to hope, with all that’s going on.”

“That wasn’t my doing,” Vernon chuckled. “Nobody has ever looked at their government and felt hope. They’re all looking at you.” He brushed off his vest, then looked happily up at the clean facades of the buildings around them. “I’m just trying to prove them right.”

Michael said his goodbyes to Vernon and walked south towards the city’s port. It was less tidy than the other districts; it had suffered greatly during the War, and was under extreme use in its aftermath. Great ships of Mendiko make were pulled up next to towering cargo cranes, plenty of both bearing Lekubarri’s ubiquitous mark. Michael sighed and turned farther down towards the fishing piers, where the city’s hodgepodge flotilla of merchant ships were tied up.

It wasn’t hard to locate the ship he sought. He had spent days on it as they crossed from Ardalt, living cheek to jowl with his men and the rescued Mendiko contingent. The battered freighter that Charles and Lars had commandeered looked much the same, though a careful eye would note the fresh, shining stretches of metal abovedecks.

Even as he approached, Michael saw the glitter of sunlight on steel; he lofted his sight up to see Charles, stripped to the waist and filthy, his hand guiding an amorphous mass of metal as it rippled across the decking. The slab settled over exposed beams until it lay flush. He withdrew his hand; the steel shimmered and lay completely flat.

It resonated a bare moment later as Michael cleared the rail, jumping up from the dock to land in front of the startled artifex.

“Ghar’s fucking-” Charles spat, taking a half-step backwards and scowling. “I just put that in, lordling! If you’ve knocked it out of true-”

“I have confidence in your work,” Michael grinned, bouncing on the new deck. “How’s she coming? It looks like you’ve refinished most of it by now.”

Charles turned his scowl down upon the deck. “The top, sure,” he muttered. “But the engine is a different matter. Fiddly, tiny parts, and it’s not a make I’m familiar with. The propellers are corroded enough that I need new metal, but nobody has the right alloy for sale.” He stomped a foot on the deck irritably. “This is why I never went in for honest work.”

“Seems like you’re doing well enough,” Michael laughed. “Is Lars around? I had hoped to talk to both of you together.”

“That idiot?” Charles sneered. “He’s around, all right, but the ship’s not what he’s-”

“Michael!” Lars said, emerging from the ship’s cabin; his usually-neat hair was mussed and dirty, his uniform jacket traded for a simple workman’s shirt. Warm exuberance radiated from him, though, and Michael found himself smiling in return.

Lars strode up to clap Michael heartily on both shoulders. “Good to see you!” he said. “What do you think? She’s beautiful, eh? I’ve been talking with your man Emil, here, and some of my family’s contacts in Esrou; there’s a fortune to be made helping Daressa back on its feet.”

“You’re not the first I’ve heard saying that,” Michael chuckled. “Charles was just telling me how - well everything is going.”

Lars laughed, impervious to the glower Charles was sending his way. “It’s really better than he makes it out to be,” he said. “She’s in rough shape, for sure, but the structure is solid. I managed to find some schematics for the engine class and a few ingots of that alloy you were looking for, by the way-”

“And you’ve been letting me lay decking all afternoon?” Charles shot back. “I’ve been waiting on those most of the week!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Lars said, holding his hands up; a touch of color reached his cheeks. “I meant to say something as soon as I got back, but you know how distractions crop up-”

“Michael?” Vera said, stepping out of the cabin door. She flashed a smile at him, walking over with her arms outstretched for a hug. Michael noted that her hair was likewise in disarray, and that she was wearing little more than an Ardan uniform jacket. “I was wondering when you’d stop by.”

Michael returned the hug while Lars reddened further still. “I’ve been wrapped up with my own distractions,” Michael said, disengaging himself carefully. “But they only last so long.”

Vera’s smile faded. “Oh,” she said. “It’s time, then.”

“Time?” Lars asked, a note of worry in his voice. “Time for what?”

“Ardalt seems likely to attack Saf through Gharon in the coming months,” Michael said. “Luc will be there, and so shall I.”

“Ha!” Charles said, clapping his hands. “You know how to talk to me, lordling! When do we leave?”

Lars looked at him, shock and confusion plain on his face. “Leave?” he asked. “But the ship-”

Charles snorted. “I’m not that sort of artifex,” he said. “If there’s a chance for me to exercise my true profession, I’m going to take it.”

“The Mendiko have bought up the contract of any other artifex worth a damn, you know that,” Lars shot back. “There’s no chance I’ll be able to get her seaworthy without you.”

“Then I guess your schedule is free too,” Charles said, grabbing his shirt from the rail. “Pretty convenient timing.”

Lars glared at the artifex as he walked towards the cabin, and Michael was surprised to see real anger behind it. The Ardan captain took a step forward, arms tensing - and then dropping to his sides as he let his breath out, slouching in defeat.

“If you don’t want to go, that’s fine,” Michael said hastily. “You wouldn’t be the first to say no. I was only here to offer, and to ask if you had contacts for some of the men.”

“No, no.” Lars sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “I’d probably never forgive myself if I walked away from this. I only wish-” He looked out across the ship, his eyes tracing past its dilapidated rails to the sea beyond, then continuing on to the port, the city, to Vera watching with concern. “It seems a tragedy that we only get one life, when there’s so many out there.”

Vera smiled, and laid a hand on his chest. “You’re being maudlin,” she said. “It’s just a delay. Everything you leave behind will be right here waiting for your return.”

Lars lifted his head slightly. “Everything?” he asked.

Vera smiled brightly at him; Michael chuckled and turned to Vera.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come as well?” Michael asked.

She shook her head slowly, her smile fading. “Not much use for me when you’re around,” she said. “And - I need to spend my hope somewhere else. Your path and Sofia’s will cross again, and when they do-” She looked to the side, then back up with her smile forced back upon her face. “It’s not my practice to wallow in failure.”

Michael nodded, feeling the swell of resonant emotion from her. “I understand,” he said, turning back to Lars. “And I do mean it; you can stay if you want. There’s good work to be done here, important work.”

“And plenty of willing hands to do it,” Lars said. “But Charles has the right of it, as much as I hate to admit it. We all have our profession.” There was a flicker of soul, barely noticeable; a thin sliver of metal sheared off of the railing to fall into the sea. Lars watched it fall.

When he raised his head again, his eyes were clear. “I know where Richter and Leo are, and between them we’ll find the others. I’ll pass on your offer.”

“Be sure to stress that it’s an offer,” Michael insisted as Lars turned back towards the cabin. “It’s not likely to be a sunny holiday down there, I expect a good deal of trouble.”

“They’ll intuit that when they hear it’s you who’s offering,” Vera said dryly. “And they’ll come all the same.”

“I don’t think they’re all drawn to their profession like these two,” Michael noted.

“And to think that I’m the blind one,” Vera murmured, patting him on the arm; her hand stilled to grab his sleeve gently. “People make their choices. Believe them when they say they’re for you. Believe them when they say they’re against you. And - do what you must.”

Michael did not need to look down to see her tears. He inclined his head. “I’m sorry, Vera,” he said. “I couldn’t find a path for her.”

She forced another smile. “Sometimes there isn’t one,” she rasped quietly. “Sometimes there’s nothing but darkness, and we must walk ahead in the direction we’ve chosen. It’s not your fault. It’s not even Sofia’s fault. People are - cascades of thought and whim, tumbling forward through time. We fall only where we may.”

There was a long moment of silence; the wind tugged at them across the bare deck of the ship. “Perhaps,” Michael said. “But I’m sorry all the same.”

Vera nodded tightly and said nothing.