I consider Saf’s defeat at Gharon in 442 to be a great tragedy. Militarily, it was a setback of minor importance. Indeed, by elevating Khalid the Blade to prominence, the aftereffects of the Abasement served to unite and strengthen Saf as it had never seen before.

But we knew Gharon was a task left unfinished, cruelly withheld. As a city, its buildings cast tall shadows over the Safid heart even as they crumbled in neglect. That it remained standing was an insult to us, that the insult bore no redress was worse still.

Even knowing this, I cannot say that Saf was harmed most by the Abasement. Ghar itself suffered the most cruel fate I can imagine for a people. To be held in stasis, neither free nor conquered, with the blood of their emperor fresh upon Mendiko soil, was more humiliation than Saf could have conceived to inflict on them in centuries of war. Our goal was ever redress; I will not claim that some did not wish Ghar to be laid low, but our intent was to heal ourselves through that suffering. The Abasement saw them humiliated as an end in itself.

What resulted was a nation of lost, impotent men, lacking even chains to strain against. For all that Ghar was a bloody nemesis against the Safid people, even at its worst the Empire was walking its path, sowing the seeds of our eventual rise. With the emperor’s death the nation no longer held to that path, nor any at all. They only stood, aimless, hopeless, waiting for death to find them.

- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

Only two men waited on the dock for their boat to arrive - potentes, both, by the way they caught the heavy mooring ropes like so much shoestring. Lights flickered on in windows as the ship was moored, though, and by the time they could disembark the narrow pier was crowded with sleepy, surly men. Michael felt the pulse of a fortimens; the men straightened up, letting out a relieved sigh as they waited for the cargo offload to begin.

“Ready?” Michael asked. “Everyone here?”

Zabala nodded, looking back. They were a mismatched assortment. Charles looked as disheveled as ever, while Lars was only slightly less foppish than usual in deference to the weather and locale. Leo, Stenger, Richter and Arn stood behind him, looming in borrowed Mendiko winter gear; of the soldiers that had returned from Ardalt, only these four had agreed to come south with him. Sobriquet rounded out the odd set, wearing a bulky overcoat that left her looking somewhat rotund. She glowered as she caught Michael smiling at her.

“Some of us still have to deal with the weather,” she muttered. “But by all means, rub it in.”

Michael chuckled and turned back to the boarding ramp as it clattered down to the dock; an icy blast of wind rushed in as the sailors cleared the hatch. He walked down. More than a few eyes tracked him from the assembled Mendiko soldiers, lingering on his face - but not only his. The rest of their party drew the same attention as they made their way down.

He frowned, confused; this wasn’t the awe or admiration that he had felt in Imes, nor was it bafflement at their presence. The soldiers radiated a rumbling, basso hostility, a wariness that prickled around them. They stood on the dock amid staring, unfriendly eyes.

“Come on,” Zabala said. “This way.”

He spoke in Gharic, as he always did with Michael; there was another pang of hostile sentiment from the Mendiko soldiers. Eyes turned to him as well - they had not been watching Zabala before, Michael realized. It was so uncomfortable an environment that he almost spoke, but Zabala turned an icy glare on them.

“Alde,” he snapped. “Orain.”

There was a mutter among the assembled men, but a moment later a path had cleared down the dock. Michael followed Zabala’s lead, stepping faster to walk beside him as they reached proper land.

“What was that about?” he muttered.

Zabala shook his head, not answering right away; he scratched at his cheek. “Mendian’s history with Ghar is not a friendly one,” he eventually said. “That history is felt more strongly here than anywhere else.”

“Okay,” Michael said, frowning. “And?”

There was a pause; Zabala gave him a flat look. “You’re all Gharic.”

“I’m Ardan,” Michael protested. “Maybe Sobriquet and Charles-”

Charles snorted. “May as well call us Esroun. We’re Daressan, there’s been nobody Gharic north of here for hundreds of years.”

“You are more Gharic than not,” Zabala said, exasperated. “You speak and look like the locals here. It won’t be an issue, these are Mendiko soldiers - they’ll be professional. Just don’t expect them to be friendly.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, but followed along without further comment; true to Zabala’s word, there were no more than a few glares as they walked through the harsh base lights towards the barracks complex. It was a series of four squat buildings, ugly and functional, though they all had electric lighting and glass windows in abundance. Zabala ushered them in and began talking in low tones with a soldier by the entryway - this time in Mendiko, Michael noted.

The man nodded, inspecting Zabala’s papers; he eventually waved them towards a stairwell. They had been assigned rooms on the top floor of the building. It wasn’t a long climb, short as the structure was, they couldn’t even see over the high wall to the city beyond. Michael suspected that it was no accident. He slumped down on one of the room’s narrow cots and sighed. “And here I was wishing people would be less deferential,” he muttered. “We seem to have overshot.”

Sobriquet snorted, kicking her own bag under another cot. “They’re just being Mendiko,” she said. “This is how they always are.”

“Is it?” Michael frowned. “These are the first I’ve met that are this - prickly.”

“And how many Mendiko did you meet before you were traveling in the Star’s company?” Sobriquet asked, deadpan. “Riding aboard the airship, seen by Antolin and Leire’s side, proclaimed as the heir of the Star-”

Michael held up his hands in surrender. “My experience may have been atypical,” he admitted.

She snorted. “Do you recall when we first met, and you asked why we couldn’t simply cross into Mendian at their border with Daressa? And I told you it was impossible because the Mendiko would shoot anyone they saw crossing by that route? If you’re looking for typical, that’s it. Mendian is not an open country, nor a friendly one - not unless you have something it wants.”

“I suppose.” Michael laid back on his cot. “Jeorg’s depiction of them didn’t touch on their foreign policy and border control.”

“It’s all most people ever see of the country,” Sobriquet muttered. She pushed Michael’s legs to the side and sat on the edge of his cot. “Or that’s how it was, before all this. I’m not even sure if Lekubarri is aware of what he’s doing; he’s chasing money and influence, but with every trade deal he’s giving Mendian its first real, permanent ties to a country on the continent.”

Michael raised his head. “Except for Ghar, you mean.”

“Ghar isn’t a country.” She laid down, half beside and half on-top of him. “It’s just people who used to have one, being reminded every day why they don’t.”

There was a deep, troubled wave of emotion that rippled out alongside those words; Michael frowned. “I can see why that might sit poorly with you,” he said.

“It does, and it doesn’t,” Sobriquet replied. “Ghar wasn’t conquered; that’s the whole point of the Mendiko being here. They would be Safid if not for the intervention, and there hasn’t been any point in the last several centuries where they could have stood alone.”

She let her head thunk back against the rail of the cot. “But this thing the Mendiko are doing with Daressa, that’s because of Leire and Antolin. Those two weren’t around centuries ago, so the occupation of Ghar is - an occupation, and not a rebuilding.” She pressed her lips together. “It’s two different faces of Mendian, two ways they could interact with the continent. It’s why Daressa’s fate is tied to our hunt for Luc; with a strong Star, a Gharic Star, Mendian might become a force for good on the continent.”

“And without one, they’ll have another grievance to tally against Gharics,” Michael muttered. “And another reason to withdraw back to the safety of their borders.” He closed his eyes. “Ghar’s-”

Michael paused, frowning.

“It feels strange to say it while we’re actually surrounded by Ghar’s ashes,” Sobriquet chuckled. “Ghar’s bones, Ghar’s blood. A dead country for living people. Maybe when you’re the Star you can do something about that.”

“When I’m the Star,” he repeated. Words jumbled half-said within him; nothing seemed quite right in the moment. Eventually, he closed his eyes. Sobriquet did the same, her breathing falling into a regular pattern, but sleep did not come for Michael that night. He spent the remaining hours of dark with his sight high above the base, looking out at the remains of a crumbling, ancient city.

When the first stirrings of activity ran through the base, Michael gently extricated himself from under Sobriquet and prepared to meet their contact. The base had one zuzendaritza office within its confines, though Lekubarri’s briefing had noted that it was “modest in scale” relative to most.

It was not an exaggeration. When he left the barracks with Zabala, they walked a short ways to another building, then up stairs to its top, down a hallway to its furthest extent, and through a door with peeling paint and a crack in the frosted glass of the door. Long ago someone had painted it with the words Batzarko Atzerri Zuzendaritza in thick, artless letters.

Michael wondered if Unai had ever been here.

He put the thought from his mind and rapped gently on the wood of the door, not trusting it to hold up to any strain without collapsing to splinters. When it opened, though, it moved soundlessly on oiled hinges to reveal a plain-looking man.

He looked at Michael for a long moment. Finally, he grunted. “Ze arraio. So it’s going to be that sort of day.”

Michael frowned at him, the man’s face tickling his memory oddly. “Do I know - wait, yes.” He smiled, extending his hand. “Bidarte, right? From the listening post back in Daressa.”

Bidarte looked down at Michael’s hand, then back up at his face; he made no move to reciprocate. “You understand that I’m not particularly pleased to have you show up at my doorstep,” he said. “Even less so than when Central advised me that it might happen. This is a new posting for me. I have things to do. Projects to look after. None of my business is likely to be simplified by your presence.”

“I see,” Michael said, letting his hand drop back to his side. “In that case, point me towards the Institute’s efforts in Ghar. I’ll leave, and go trouble them instead.”

The other man gave a low, unamused chuckle, stepping back to let the door swing wide. Michael stepped in at the silent invitation. The room beyond was expansive, much larger than he had expected from the outside. Rows of men and women labored at desks, sifting through reports or glaring through loupes at photographs.

Bidarte closed the door; Michael noted that the interior side had a fresh coat of paint and no wear to speak of. “Point you towards the Institute,” he muttered, walking towards another door set against the rear wall. “And what do you intend to do with that information? Charge in, throwing your soul around? Kick them all into the sea? This isn’t another War, not yet. It’s a quieter game. If you start making large moves, people are going to die.” He turned to Michael. “More people.”

Michael felt the pain rolling off the older man, leaking its acid shades into his voice; he stopped walking and fixed Bidarte with a look. “Hence my presence here,” he said, “asking for your guidance before I do anything substantial. Lekubarri told me you would get me oriented, and I’m willing to sit down and listen to whatever you have to say.”

He paused. “But you don’t want to talk about that,” Michael said. “You want to ask me about Unai.”

Bidarte hid his reaction well, but could not mask the electric jolt of anger and sorrow that rang through him as Michael spoke. He moved his arms slowly, deliberately, to lace his fingers behind his back; Bidarte looked at Michael with an utterly-calm expression. “Will you make me ask?” he murmured.

Michael nodded towards the door Bidarte had been leading them to. For a moment the Mendiko agent didn’t move. Eventually he resumed his walk, opening the door and ushering them into a modest office with no windows. He sat behind its lone desk; there were no other chairs. “I’m listening,” Bidarte said.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say,” Michael sighed. “You know he’s dead, and you know it happened on my trip to Ardalt; that much is clear.” He paused, letting a fresh wave of pain ripple through the room. Bidarte had shown no external reaction to his words thus far. “So what you want from me, I imagine, is the reason why he’s dead.” He paused. “I’m not sure I have a good reason to give you-”

“And yet here you stand,” Bidarte interjected. “Back in front of me, asking for another direction. Ready to charge off.” His eyes shifted, looking at Zabala. “With another Mendiko companion in tow. Perhaps you should consider your reason for leaving this time, so that when this one dies you have that explanation at hand.”

Michael’s brow furrowed; he knew Bidarte was not as placid as he appeared on the surface, but his last comment sparked a small flare of anger; his eyes narrowed. “You want a reason?” he asked. “Unai and I were trying to fix a mistake we made together. To discharge our obligations to Leire, and to set right part of a disaster we caused through our blindness and inaction. He died because he placed himself in danger rather than see it fall on others, and even after he was beyond hope he saw us through to the end.”

He took a step forward, so that he stood against the edge of the desk. “Unai made his choices. He died without regrets. If you want to ask Zabala what his reason is, he’s right here.” Michael leaned forward, just enough to set the wood of the desk creaking ominously. “I am painfully aware that I am not prepared to do what I’m doing, but there’s nobody else, and there’s no time to do anything but try.”

Bidarte held his gaze for a long moment. His eyes turned back to Zabala; the Mendiko soldier shrugged.

“Izarrarentzat,” he said. “You know it was the same for Unai.”

“Fanatics, every one of you,” Bidarte muttered, leaning heavily back into his chair. He let his breath out in a long, slow exhale, then breathed in. His eyes came up to Michael with a solidity they had lacked in the prior moment.

“Ardalt intends to make a landing on Ghar,” Bidarte said. “We’re not sure precisely where; most likely they have several sites plotted out. Their advance agents have been fomenting unrest across the peninsula, no doubt in an effort to disrupt any response we might make to their incursion - not that this garrison is adequate to defend anything but itself.” He inclined his head towards the door. “And I doubt they will do even that much. If Ardalt contests Ghar we will have a matter of days to decide if we shall try to hold them or evacuate. The Batzar is incapable of deciding what to have for lunch in that time, to say nothing of enforcing age-old guarantees; I expect we will be evacuated when the first Ardan boot touches Gharic soil.”

Zabala made a disgusted noise. “They’re not even going to try?” he asked.

“To contest an enemy who clearly doesn’t care about their losses, fighting on the doorstep of our greater enemy - when they could otherwise stand aside and watch the two fight?” Bidarte snorted. “Even you Star-worshiping hardliners have to concede that a major action in Ghar would leave us horribly vulnerable to a Safid counterblow; Taskin could catch us exhausted and scattered at any moment he chooses.”

“The Tenth Star made a promise,” Zabala growled. “On everyone's behalf.”

Bidarte gave a derisive laugh. “And they appreciate it so much, these Gharics.” He pulled out a sheet of paper from a drawer and began to write on it in a neat, blocky hand. “We have some ears within the Institute’s cells. Tomorrow there’s a demonstration at one of the city’s old granaries. I can guarantee that the Institute will have a presence there.” He finished writing, then quickly sketched a map of streets.

The last addition to the map was a large black dot, which he tapped with his finger. “This is the location. If you manage to find anything about the landing sites, there’s a telegraph on base. There’s a chance that with more specific information we can convince the Batzar to act, or at least that the military can conveniently have some forces on exercise nearby.”

Michael frowned, leaning down to inspect the map; it showed the river as a primary landmark, with a few major roads sketched around it. The building itself was close to the city’s southwest quarter, on the far side from the Mendiko garrison.

“Anything else I should know?” he asked.

“Only that the plan is not a good one,” Bidarte said. “If Lekubarri wants you to act directly now, though, then this is the only solid avenue we have to put you in touch with the Institute’s agents. I can’t guarantee that they’re not cutouts, or that anyone in the structure actually knows the invasion plans. It relies too much on luck, and you’ll be isolated in a sea of hostiles if anything goes wrong.”

Michael’s mouth twisted. “Sounds about right,” he muttered, reaching down to take the map; he folded the sheet and tucked it into his pocket. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Bidarte said. “I’m not helping you. This errand you’re on will only lead to bloodshed.” He pressed his lips together. “But as you’re determined to do something regardless of your chance for success, it’s my duty to point you in the direction where you’re least likely to cause a disaster.”

“The disaster is going to happen regardless of what I do,” Michael sighed, straightening up. “He’s going to sail here with the Ardans and land somewhere on Ghar. There’s no way that it ends cleanly, or painlessly. But if I do enough, there’s a chance that it will end.” The air in the room shivered, a light spray of dust trickling down from the ceiling.

Bidarte looked up, then back at Michael. “And that’s desirable?” he asked.

“I don’t see how anything will manage to hold together if it continues,” Michael replied. “We all need a point to stop sliding forward into a terrible future; to catch our breath and come up with a real plan. So, yes. We do need an end. To war, to games of power, and most especially to the man who is inciting both.”

“Some might point out that all sides are seeking to end conflict,” Bidarte observed. “But they’re trying to end it in their favor; hence, the conflict.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Michael said. “And I’ve been told more than once that when I push, the world pushes back. I’m going to try this like you said, working through the Institute to try and find something that will force the Batzar’s hand.” He frowned. “But failing that, I suppose I’m going to find out who can push harder.”

Michael set out into the city early the following morning, alone. He had taken Bidarte’s warning to heart; if it came to violence, he would be better-able to escape by himself.

And, he thought, it wasn’t as though he was truly alone.

“I’m surprised half of this is still standing,” Sobriquet observed, her disembodied voice talking idly as Michael ran through crumbling alleys and arcades, his feet pounding on cobbles laid when Ardalt was an unexplored frontier. “There’s some artifex patchwork here and there, I can tell, but it’s hardly enough to offset a few centuries of neglect.”

“The Gharics knew their architecture,” Michael grunted, taking a turn as he sighted the river through a gap in the buildings. He raced down a narrow, crooked street, vaulting over collapsed stone and mounds of shambling ivy until he stood on the banks of the river.

It was broad and shallow, with a few rotting bridge piles poking up at intervals. Only one of the bridges fully crossed the span, though, a decrepit stone monstrosity that had half-fallen into the water. It had four great stone arcs, supported by three pillars of artificed stone that had worn down from whatever proud stature they once carried; the bridge of today teetered on silt-smoothed rock riven through with great cracks. The farthest pylon had entirely collapsed, and the span was supported on a mound of loose detritus hastily artificed into some semblance of stability.

Michael sighed and began to jog towards the crossing. “Any sign of people?” he asked. “I don’t see any, but I know they’re here. There were fires all across the city.”

“They’re keeping to themselves,” Sobriquet said. “I asked around. The real city is across the river. The part on this side of the bridge is too close to the garrison for their taste.”

“I saw buildings right up against the garrison walls, though,” Michael frowned. “Quite a few of them.”

There was a pause. “There are always those in an occupation who enjoy the taste of boot,” she said. “The Mendiko offer safety, but not much more than that. I don’t imagine the ones who choose that offer are highly regarded here.”

Michael listened to the sound of his feet against the wet river silt for a few beats, considering. “So the lack of bridges is probably intentional,” he said.

“Almost certainly. Look at it, which parts are repaired and which parts are falling.” A shimmering hand appeared, sweeping along the bridge’s length. “The intact spans are on the Mendiko side. The one that could collapse at any moment is the one closest to the Gharic remnant. They want control over the river access, so they can shut the door on the Mendiko if they need to.”

Michael grunted. “Definitely not the friendliest relations.” He was drawing up close with the foot of the bridge now, and he slowed his run - partially to make Sobriquet’s job of veiling him easier, and partially to take in the bridge itself. There was a building on the far side, a hut and fence that blocked off free transit across the river. He saw a few men talking outside; they all had rifles propped against the wall beside them.

“I’m going to cross,” he said. He jogged closer to the hut, taking care not to raise dust or disturb the bridge in his crossing. As he drew closer, he heard the conversation by the guard hut.

“-poking around, they’ve stepped up patrols all along the north bank,” one man said. His accent was harsh and clipped, a distillation of continental Gharic into its purest form. “They’re on edge.”

“When are they not?” snorted another man. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

A third man raised his head. “They’ve been stopping carts in from the northlands,” he said. “Inspecting them.”

“Stealing?” asked the second.

The third shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard, but a few men have had their loads spoil in impound while the Luxes took their time. Food’s not so plentiful this time of year that we can afford to waste it.”

“Not to worry,” the first man said, clapping the other two on the shoulders. “Plenty for the needy, thanks to the shipments from the south coast. If you know anyone that’s hurting, tell them to come to the meeting tonight. We’ve got grain, a little meat and cheese, a couple of sacks of potatoes - enough to tide them over. Ghar looks after Ghar.”

The other two nodded. “Ghar looks after Ghar,” the second one repeated. The group lapsed into silence; Michael lingered for a moment to see if they would say more, but when they did not he tensed and leapt over the barricade. There was a slight puff of dust as he landed, but no alarm was raised.

He let his breath out in a rush, rolling his shoulders, then set out into Gharon.