No man ever turns against another in truth. In the uttermost depths of their heart, the divine whispers to them. It says: he is like you, this man you hate. He holds the divine within him as well.

Yet it is true that men do contend with each other in life, and that in so doing they are consumed by anger and by hatred. That hatred is not for their adversary, though. It is for the man their adversary shows them to be.

How righteous would I be, men say, were I allowed to walk my path as I should! I should serve nothing but virtue to my neighbor, love to my family and kindness to the stranger. How righteous would I be, save for this man who vexes me with challenge, who forces me down a path of conflict!

And so might all men, it is true. But struggle does not degrade man. Its purpose is rather to reveal man. Cruelty and hatred do not appear in hardship save that they lurked unseen in better times. Were virtue, love and kindness ever there, they would be still.

- The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Truth. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)

Gharon was a cold city. Ghar itself was the same dry chaparral that Michael remembered from Daressa; it was still winter, but it was mild compared to the snowy mountains of Ardalt. Within the city things were different, however. A wealth of ancient stone held tenaciously to the overnight chill, leaching heat from everything around it. Wind funneled through mazelike alleys and broad dusty boulevards alike.

The chill did not affect him, of course. But it made itself felt nevertheless, whispering cold thoughts in his ears as he passed invisibly through its warrens, a quiet protest against the warm body intruding on its domain.

There were people on this bank of the river, though they did not look happy about it. The crumbling facades of buildings had been patched with mortar, windows boarded up and gaps stuffed with rotten, faded rags. Some of the alleys had been walled off as well, with doors cut into the barricades for access. Michael found himself weaving back and forth between a few main streets in search of a clear path to his destination. Eventually, though, he found himself facing a broad plaza that had been barricaded entirely from the surrounding streets. Lifting his sight, he saw that it extended far in either direction across his path; he braced himself, found a clear area and jumped lightly over the wall.

He landed in an odd facsimile of a village, a ramshackle assortment of structures made from castoff stone and scrap that stood upon the cracked stone of the plaza. Unlike the empty streets outside, the area within the barricades was free of debris and swept clean to the cobbles - and full of people. Michael was momentarily dazed by the sight and sound of them after spending so long in the cold, quiet city outside.

To the west there was a sort of market, with vendors calling out to passers-by; children laughed and screamed as they ran in between the stalls. East of him was quieter, with rows of houses standing free in the plaza or melting back into some of the buildings that formed the plaza’s original boundary. Their windows were still boarded, the plaster still cracked and crumbling, but they bore more signs of life than the buildings outside. A few had been whitewashed within the current century; one had been painted a vivid, inadvisable shade of red.

“Careful,” Sobriquet said, sounding strained. “It’s harder for me to veil you, I can barely see whatever’s in there. Lots of people, lots of chaos.”

Michael walked slowly towards the market, being careful not to step anywhere he’d leave a footprint. “It’s like a different city,” he said. “One within the larger city, with walls up to keep the wilderness out. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It makes sense. There’s not enough people left in Ghar to fill it out,” she said. “They could live scattered throughout, but that’s unsafe, and we’ve already seen that they’re concerned about the Mendiko. Besides, people like to live next to each other. Only a few strange hermits prefer isolation when there are better options available.”

“Jeorg would be the first to name himself a strange hermit, so that’s probably fair,” Michael chuckled. He was close enough now to smell cooking food from the stalls, thick and oily on the wind. There were sacks of grain and tubers on offer, and a few pitiful cuts of meat glistening with salt. A normal market, for all that its surrounds were not. The contrast gave it a magnetism, though, the appeal of a light flaring in a dark place; here the city’s chill held no domain.

Reluctantly, he looked away towards the far wall. The granary was still some distance to the south, and he had a purpose in coming here. He took a breath of heady, spiced air - and jumped again, sailing over the barricade to another deserted street.

“I wonder if that’s the main concentration of people here?” Michael mused. “It doesn’t seem large enough to account for all the lights we saw at night, and the city sprawls a bit.”

“It’s not,” Sobriquet confirmed. “They’re hard to see clearly, but there are more - fuzzy spots like that one, areas where the chaos of the city collects and muddles my sight. Around a dozen, though I wouldn’t bet against there being smaller ones that I’m just not seeing clearly.”

Michael nodded, reaching his pace again; the buildings began to blur by. “Interesting. More like a country than a city, with its own ‘cities’ within. The people we’re passing out here are the - woodsmen, the rangers living rough outside the bounds of society.”

“Or they’re dead,” she snorted. “Some of these buildings are lived-in, yes, but there are very few people in between. If there’s ten thousand people in all of Gharon, I’d be surprised.”

Indeed, there was no sign of life on the streets as he ran further from the river, slowly ascending the broad, sloping hill that dominated the city’s southwest quarter. He could see the granary now, or at least the building he assumed must be it: a gargantuan, domed building that still appeared miraculously intact. A thin stream of smoke issued from somewhere nearby, tugged away by the wind as it rose above the rooftops.

He slowed his pace as he drew closer to it. There was another large barricade a few blocks distant from the granary itself. Michael vaulted it and found himself in another microcosm of a city, this one built within a vast open structure of stone columns. There was no roof remaining, if there ever had been one, but the residents had made do with vast stretches of cloth and canvas. Some were waxed, or were made of heavy oilcloth; these ran into barrels and cisterns below. It gave the impression of a forest canopy wrought from billowing, mismatched cloth, with stone trees and scrap house underbrush.

He could tell immediately that this was larger than the village he had passed through before. The sheer mass of people moving through the forest of columns made him reconsider Sobriquet’s estimate for the city’s population; he would not be surprised if there were ten thousand people here. They walked down streets, sat outside of their mismatched houses - and, predominantly, walked in the direction of the granary.

“Drop the veil,” Michael murmured. “There’s too many people here, it’ll be easier to walk among them if I’m visible.”

Sobriquet made a buzzing noise of dissent. “You’ll stand out; your clothing is far too nice,” she protested. “Look at what they’re wearing.”

Michael looked. She had a fair point; the clothing of Gharon’s residents was eclectic and varied, with a heavy emphasis on cloaks made from rough, thick cloth. There were a few people he could see sporting well-tailored garments made from homespun or leather, but none boasted anything close to the fine, light Mendiko cloth of Michael’s shirt and trousers.

He made a face and ducked into a less-crowded path between buildings, casting his sight around. Amid the jumbled chaos of the columns he soon found what he was looking for - one of the ubiquitous swatches of cloth that made up the city’s “roof” that had torn free, hanging low enough that he could hop up and grab it. Moments later his fine clothing was concealed under the sun-bleached canvas. Michael mussed his hair a bit for good measure, then tore a few strips from the hem of his makeshift cloak to wind around his boots, disguising their make.

“There,” he said. “Do I pass inspection?”

“As long as nobody pays you any mind, sure,” Sobriquet muttered. “But you’re not particularly convincing. It’s that telltale smell of money that follows you around.”

Michael snorted and pulled a fold of cloth up to form a makeshift hood. “I don’t have to live here, just stay unnoticed for a few hours,” he muttered. “Let them see me.”

There was a faint sensation as her veil dropped; Michael began to thread his way through the crowd. Most of those around him pressed in the same direction, towards the massive stone dome peeking through gaps in the fluttering cloth overhead. The columns stopped abruptly at a set of stone steps, and Michael found himself standing at the edge of the largest plaza he had ever seen. Huge slabs of stone spread out over an area that beggared most farms, ringed by ornate stone facades.

It reminded him of the government plaza in Imes, though that now seemed a pale imitation of the original; Michael reflected a moment later that calling it an imitation was likely a literal truth. Some of the buildings had fallen, but their monolithic facades had weathered the centuries better. Great columns and arches towered around him, carved with handsome figures in poses of triumph and struggle.

A sense of weight hit him as he walked slowly by, the same that had pressed upon him when viewing the oldest parts of Mendian. These stone faces and towering columns had been here for the better part of a millennium, but it was not mere age that lent them their significance. This was the bedrock that everything he knew was built upon. For all that people like Friedrich liked to hearken back to their Ardan roots, Ghar formed the basis for nearly everything about Ardan culture - and here was where it had carved its memories into cold stone.

He longed to comment to Sobriquet about it, but kept quiet; there were people close around him in every direction, and he did not want to rely solely on the covering noise of the crowd. It was a raucous crowd, indeed; Michael felt the buzz of their excitement, their exhilaration. He frowned, focusing his attention on it as the scale became apparent. It was too much for a simple demonstration. The crowd was vibrant, alive, and unified in a way that Michael had seldom felt before.

Their momentum carried him to a spot not far from the granary’s front steps. Someone had erected a crude stage there, with a wooden platform and a flapping banner of deep green cloth. Michael saw a flash of silver on it, an eight-pointed star picked out in the center. His skin prickled with gooseflesh as he watched a dead empire’s flag snap in the wind.

Michael found himself alone in a sea of people, the only one who did not know precisely what he had come to see. More people filed in around the edges of the plaza, streaming from between the columns or emerging from other streets on the far side. There were vendors roaming the periphery with food and drink, and a hearty buzz of conversation over top of all. He stood and drank it in, letting himself experience the emotion.

The sun moved slowly across the sky, shadows shifted. By the time it had risen to its winter height, the plaza was teeming with people. Their noise quieted, their attention sharpening towards the old granary; Michael turned to see a man slowly ascending the stage. He reached the lectern, and the conversation stilled to a low hiss.

Michael shifted his sight closer, taking in the man’s face. He was clearly Gharic, with short dark hair and sun-weathered skin; his face had a hawkish aspect to it that his gaunt stature reinforced. He raised his arms to the crowd, then turned to grab a battered handset. Michael blinked as he recognized a loudspeaker of Mendiko make beside him, its casing torn away to expose the electrical innards, patched with scrap metal and lengths of wire.

It whined loudly as he lifted the handset; he winced and held it to the side, turning to smile at a man behind him. The two laughed; the second man adjusted something within the loudspeaker. The first raised the handset again, squeezing it with one hand, and began to speak.

“Good afternoon, people of Ghar,” he said. The crowd fell utterly silent for the space of a collective inhalation, followed by a roar so intense that Michael felt it resonate through his bones. The speaker smiled tolerantly, waiting for the noise to subside.

“It’s been a while,” he said, his voice quelling the last of the cheers. “It’s been a long while, and not just since I spoke here last. But this city has a memory that’s longer still. It remembers itself, and what it used to be. It remembers green banners and white stone. It remembers art and music, literature, poetry. But it does not have to reach far to remember a strong, proud people - for that, it never had a chance to forget.”

The crowd shouted joyfully back, but it was a short, coordinated burst of acclaim rather than a sustained cheer; the man resumed speaking without a significant pause. “But it has been long years since our city has been home to a free people,” he said. “We are told to be grateful for our iron cage, for it keeps out the Safid hordes - but a cage is a cage!” The crowd gave another shout of agreement.

Michael was beginning to understand the arrangement; there was an order to the call-and-response that was well-rehearsed among the attendees. This was not the first such speech the man had given here, and certainly not the first the crowd had heard.

The speaker held up his hand, palm up. “So what shall we do, people of Ghar? Shall we rot in our cage?” An angry shout of negation came in response, and the man smiled. “I thought not. I know you’ve come here today to hear about another path forward, one that sees us stand free upon our own land once more. I can’t share too much now-”

A grumbling noise came from the crowd; the speaker laughed delightedly. “You know I can’t!” he admonished them. “There are probably a few of our benevolent overlords in the crowd right now, there always are.” The man waved mockingly, panning his eyes over the crowd; Michael felt a chill as the people around him blurred with quick and violent thoughts.

“And we welcome them!” he said, waving down the irritated response that rippled through the crowd. “We do! It makes no difference if they know we have our eyes fixed on a free future for Ghar, because such a future is inevitable! Our freedom will roll in like the tide, overwhelming any walls built to constrain it. That is not to say that there is nothing we must do to help it along, though, and that is why I’m here today.”

Now the people fell utterly silent, expectant; this is what they had come to hear. Michael let his own attention sharpen on the speaker. “I suggest,” the man said, enunciating his words carefully, “that everyone here maintain at least two weeks of food and water for your families in a secure place. Be prepared for access outside of the city to be cut off at any time, and to remain cut off.” He leaned forward. “During this time, you should remain at home. Do not take up arms. Do not give the Mendiko an excuse.”

There were more angry grumbles; this time the speaker did not wait for them to subside. “I will repeat myself once,” he said, his voice hardening to granite. “None of you will fight. In so doing, you will risk not only your own safety, but that of your neighbors. Safeguard your home, and keep what is most precious to you from harm. Trust in us. When you walk outside once more, there will be no roof between you and the sky, no walls between you and the horizon. Ghar will once again be whole, inviolate and free - will once again be Ghar! Populus Gharis!”

Michael nearly staggered as the crowd seized upon his words, shouting back with a single voice: “Princeps Gharis! Princeps!” They repeated the call, falling into a steady chant of “Princeps! Princeps!” that lasted until the man raised his closed fist to the masses. He strode off the stage to raucous applause, and the crowd began to dissolve, its manic energy released into the plaza. It had the feeling of an incipient party, but Michael only had eyes for the speaker as he turned back towards the interior of the granary.

Slowly, he worked his way forward towards the platform. The crowd was pressed up against the base of it, with men on top watching the edge - not warily, as they knew the crowd was a friendly one, but watching nonetheless. Michael frowned, wavering for a moment before he changed course to move to the side. Once he had put distance between him and the crowd, he ducked behind a fallen pillar. “Okay,” he said. “I need a veil again.”

“Be careful,” Sobriquet cautioned. She had been silent during the speech, and even now Michael thought he heard a distracted quality behind the distortion. “Don’t let his manner fool you. There are a lot of men lurking behind the stage, and likely more than a few ensouled.”

He paused. “Can you eavesdrop?” he asked.

“In this mess?” she snorted. “I can’t hear anyone unless they’re loud.”

“You can hear me,” Michael pointed out. “I’m barely whispering.”

There was a slight pause. “Not what I meant. Whispering has nothing to do with it. You’re loud.”

He frowned, but chose not to press the point; it had been several long moments since the speaker had slipped back inside the temple, and he did not know if there was a back way.

Michael stood up, feeling the prickling sensation of Sobriquet’s veil masking his presence; he stayed to the side of the plaza, approaching the stage once more; all of the man’s entourage had left for the interior of the granary already. Michael jumped lightly up to the stage, trusting Stanza to guide his feet; he landed with only the barest creak of wood, and quickly walked back into the yawning doorway behind.

The interior of the granary was vast and open, ringed with the collapsed remnants of stone grain bins; others remained intact, though the doors at their base had long since rusted away or been torn free. In the center was a clear space that had been swept free from dirt and debris; it currently hosted piles of crates stacked precariously high, with desks and even a few tents laid out haphazardly around them. Michael sent his sight through the disorganized ramble until he found the speaker, who was conversing with a few men in quiet tones.

Most were like the speaker; they were Gharic in appearance and tone. One man, however, caught Michael’s eye. Even if he had not been pale and sandy-haired, even if he had not worn his cloak like an ill-fitting costume - Michael could not fail to recognize an Institute man when he saw one. The Ardan was part of the circle talking closely with the man who had spoken; Michael crept closer.

“...a bit ahead of schedule, actually,” the speaker said happily. “We’ll have twenty percent in excess of our target for grains and cheese by the time this week’s shipments are in. We can set up distribution points for the surplus, since inevitably there will be those who failed to plan well for the period of disruption.”

The Institute man nodded. “We have some leeway for additional shipments if more are necessary,” he said. “Contingent on our own schedule, of course.”

“Of course,” the speaker said. “We’ll keep you apprised of any changes through the usual channels.” He smiled brightly. “And now I expect you’ll be wanting to brief your compatriots on today’s events? Paolo can show you today’s cleared routes out.” He extended his hand; the Institute man shook it tentatively, nodded, then followed another man who led him into one of the disused grain bins.

The two did not emerge. Michael sent his sight over just in time to see a cleverly-concealed door in the floor sliding closed, blending neatly with the broken stone. He frowned and pulled his sight back. They had departed on the far side of the room from where he was. He began to walk slowly around the perimeter of the lit center, keeping his ears open for more conversation from the speaker.

There was little to hear, however. A man handed him some papers, which he read briefly before nodding and handing them back. Another handed him a waterskin, a third came over to whisper in his ear. The whispering man went on at length, and the speaker asked him a question. The newcomer hesitated for a bare moment, then raised his head - and pointed directly at Michael.

Michael froze. Several of the men in the center of the camp had risen to look warily into the darkened portion of the granary where he stood, rifles held low at their sides. “Shit,” he said. “They can see through your veil?”

“Likely noticed a blind spot,” Sobriquet replied. “Don’t worry. It’ll be difficult for them to track you if you’re moving. Get out to the plaza and they’ll lose you entirely.”

“I don’t want to go to the plaza,” Michael frowned. “The Institute man followed one of them into some sort of hidden passage, it’s him I need to follow.”

“You’ll be easier to locate in a confined space,” she warned. “And it’ll be hard to mask a door opening. They’ll find you, and you’ll have to kill some of them. Maybe a lot of them.”

Michael paused, wavering. “If we let him slip away-”

“Maybe this isn’t the time,” Sobriquet said. “You can catch him, but that doesn’t mean that you should, right now.”

“Doesn’t mean that-” He blinked, straightening up. “Who are you, and what have you done with Sobriquet?”

“I just don’t think we should make an enemy of the Gharics,” she said. “They’re working with the Institute, yes, but they’re desperate. We worked with Saf. It hardly placed us under Saleh’s thumb.”

“A fair point,” Michael said. “But they’ll all die, Sera. That’s what’s different here. The only reason they’re in this predicament is because I stopped short before, again and again.” He resumed his walk towards the grain bin. “They live today, but die in their thousands tomorrow. Then Ardans die. Safid die, Mendiko die. It’s always worse.”

Sobriquet’s voice was an irritated buzz. “You can’t-”

“Hello, my sneaky Mendiko friend!” the speaker said, waving in Michael’s general direction. “Why don’t you come over here? I give my word that no harm will come to you; I’d just like to ask you a few questions.” His eyes strayed wide of Michael, but it did nothing to lessen his broad, friendly smile.

“Please, Michael,” Sobriquet said. “You’re not wrong, but - not these people. Not like this.”

There was a tone to her voice that cut through the masking buzz; for a moment Michael could almost see her standing in front of him. “Back in Ardalt,” he said quietly, “Luc sent people against me that he knew I’d have trouble fighting. He used them as a screen to shield himself from me.” He paused. “It worked.”

Sobriquet said nothing; in the expectant silence Michael looked at the grain bin - then turned back towards the smiling speaker. He paused a moment, then let his head drop. “You can let the veil go.”

“…thank you,” she said, the relief in her voice washing over him as the veil departed; the Gharic party swiveled their eyes to him in alarm.

The speaker gave a short, nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Do you know,” he said. “Titus here has told me more times than I can remember that there was someone skulking about in the shadows. More than a few times I’ve called out to them and made the same offer I made to you. I confess that I was entirely unprepared for the Mendiko spy in question to actually take me up on it.”

Michael took a few steps forward, showing empty hands. “Ardan, actually,” he said. “Although matters of my nationality are a bit complex at the moment. Was the offer made in earnest?”

The man blinked, then laughed again. “I suppose it was,” he said. A moment later, he extended a hand to Michael.

Michael looked at it, then back up at the speaker’s face. He closed the remaining distance and shook the proffered hand carefully, not wanting to alarm the guards crowding close around him any more than he already had. The man’s skin was warm and dry; his grip lacked the strength of a potens. He was fairly confident there was no soul at all lurking behind those hawkish features. Only a man, one humming with the low buzz of fear, expectation - and excitement.

Despite himself, Michael smiled. “So what should I call you?” he asked.

The man blinked, looking momentarily baffled. “You don’t know?” he asked. Amusement crinkled his eyes. “Presumptuous of me, but I had assumed - you weren’t here for me?”

Michael shrugged. “I heard there was a speech going on, but nothing about who was giving it. Should I know you?”

“Apparently not,” the man chuckled. “I go by a few names, but you may call me Marcus.”

“Marcus,” Michael repeated, nodding. “I’m Michael.” He paused, noting the brief ripple of alarm that percolated through some of the guards; Marcus narrowed his eyes fractionally.

Michael gave him an amicable smile. “I can see that you have the advantage of me.”

“Our fair homeland is somewhat more isolated than it used to be,” Marcus said. “But not that isolated. Michael Baumgart.” His eyes flicked up and down. “I’m always prepared for people to appear unsuited for their names, but you do look very much like a Michael Baumgart.”

“I’ve been practicing for a number of years,” Michael said. “I’m wondering if you’ve heard the name Luc Flament as well.”

Marcus gave him a piercing look, then slowly nodded his head. “I have,” he said. “Though he’s another one with more than a few names.”

“More than a few that don’t suit him at all.” Michael walked slowly over to a nearby crate and sat down on it. “He’s the reason I’m here.”

“To reclaim the vaunted Star of Mendian,” Marcus said; there was a subtle, ugly shift in the mood of his guards as he spoke. “To return it to its place in the north.” There was a long, uncomfortable pause. “I trust I don’t need to explain that many here would prefer that it stay lost to Mendian. The northern sun is always a cold light, at these latitudes. The idea of a warm sun, rising from the east - it has an appeal.”

Michael shook his head. “Luc will kill you all,” he said. “He intends to start a bloody conflict on your soil with the express goal of causing death. Ardan and Safid, mostly, but he wouldn’t be troubled in the least if your people were swept up in it. If you do not have a verifex here, then I will wait while you fetch one and say the words again.” He looked Marcus directly in the eyes. “Reclaiming his soul is incidental. He has to die, or many more will.”

“More,” Marcus said quietly, looking aside. “Tell me, Michael - do you know how many Gharic children have starved to death in the city since this year began? How many closed their eyes, clutching at their swollen, aching bellies, and never woke? How many tiny graves we’ve dug for bodies that were little more than bones already?”

He raised his head to look at Michael, his eyes blazing. “None. And I would rather that this year remain so wonderfully different from those that have come before. Your countrymen bring food. They bring hope. And if they bring death as well, then we are still richer by the first two.”

“Food can come from anywhere,” Michael said. “As can hope.”

The smile returned to Marcus’s face, though in a different shape than before. “Yet so seldom from Mendian, in my experience. Will you promise me that might change? Tell me that you will make the Batzar bend their leaden spines?” He shook his head. “I’d probably believe you, to be honest. But even if you could, and those murderous old bastards sent in one year the bounty they might have sent for one hundred - Goitxea is a city far distant from here.”

Marcus reached into a bag atop one of the crates and pulled out a handful of grain. “This is right here. Children can eat this. They can eat it tomorrow, and next week. If I turn on the Ardans now, we have food for three weeks. After that, I think we both know how many children your promise would feed.”

“So give me three weeks,” Michael said. “Daressa is closer than Mendian, and I have contacts there. I can get shipments into the Mendiko port.”

“They’ll be so happy to cooperate,” one of Marcus’s men jeered.

Michael looked at him. “I will be the Star,” he said. “When Luc dies. I’m not sure if that’s widely known, but I’ll tell you regardless. His soul will come to me, and I will have the office that was Leire’s. So, no, they will not cooperate. They’ll obey.”

There was silence around their little group after Michael spoke, seeming greater still under the looming bulk of the granary dome. Marcus broke it with a tired sigh.

“I am no verifex,” he said. “But I pride myself on being a good judge of character. I find myself convinced of your sincerity, your - candor, despite the magnitude of your claims.” His eyes came up, tired and sunken. “So in return I will share a secret of my own.”

Michael met his eyes.

“You don’t have three weeks,” Marcus said. “You don’t even have one.”