CYRDEL SONASSON IS AFRAID. When cannons and flintlocks open-fired on the pacifist territory, Alkara, signaling an invasion by Synketros, he is left with no choice but to watch destruction grip more than he is ready to let go. With his fiance and her...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It never occurred to him how calming Samiri and Murco's sky was—an insult to what Cyrdel was about to do tonight. Without a timeteller, it's impossible to know which hour of the fourth quarter they're in. Nevertheless, they should have a few minutes left before the next patrol arrived.
He had never been out of the converted stable since he woke up inside it, but judging from the gaps in the sentry shifts, they lived in a shed a few distances away. His hands froze around the muzzle of the rifle. It was his last project; he owed it to himself to reward his hard work with it.
No one had noticed him slink away from his desk some hours after lights out. Most nights were like that—the sentries would switch the rods off at random hours when the sky darkened and the moons showed themselves. They thought it'd help in confusing the captives, but Cyrdel had long ago figured out how to keep time with the number of projects he finished. That's how he knew their tactic anyway.
Now, he's taking advantage of it. He risked one last glance to the inventors slumped over their desk spaces, snoring away in exhaustion and a whole day of sweating even while sitting down. The rations never came, and Cyrdel had grown tired of minding the angry demands of his stomach. If he's going to keel over like that girl, he would.
But for as long as his legs held him up and brought him to where he needed to go, he would crawl out of this place and figure out a way where the people he loved were. Airene? He thought to the wind, throwing it out there in case the older woman was listening. After hearing her voice earlier and concluding he wasn't growing delirious, he checked for her presence every now and then.
I'm out here, Airene answered. There's a group of sentries coming out. Stay put.
Cyrdel scanned the interior of the stable. The sentries who remained had fallen asleep over their half-consumed meals. Something about it struck a flint in his mind. Did you put something on the guards' food? He asked.
A pause. Possibly a nod of confirmation even though he couldn't see it. Poured too much oshella, it seems, she said. A hint of amusement laced around her mental tone. These guys would have a blast upon waking up.
Too much oshella could also kill, inducing a sleep so deep there's no getting out of it. This was one of the many times he questioned whether Airene was really a brownie or if her race had somehow changed overnight. Shouldn't she be feeling nauseous at the mere thought of inflicting harm on other souls, like how Cyrdel was now?
And this fear and aversion was unfounded, especially after everything Cyrdel had gone through. But he couldn't help it. Just the mere notion of raising his rifle and hooking a finger on the trigger sent chills down his spine and threatened to freeze him in place. Even though his gut was as empty as a dry well, he felt like throwing up.
Where's the next shift? He asked.
Is that what they're called? Airene's answer was instant. This time, apprehension colored her voice. They're almost to the door.
