A man grows to love the ground he stands on. Many phrase this as a blessing, but it is a sickness of the worst sort. It is the human impulse to accept stagnation, a comfortable lack of progress that works against the path of the divine within us all.

Land is divine, as everything is. Unlike men, however, land may only crumble and wear. It is always lesser than what it was, even if the progress is too slow to reveal itself over the life of a man. Crops leach their life from the soil, rains bring the hillsides tumbling down, and ice breaks the mightiest rocks.

To tie yourself to this decaying edifice is folly. Men are meant to reach, to strive and explore. Travel broadens the mind and throws it into contact with new challenges. War seeks challenge directly, refining those within its maw into purer men than those who entered.

What then of those who do not reach beyond their borders? Who sit, year after year, content in their homes without knowing the broader world? It would seem a kindness to end such a squalid life, if one can even term it that - to end it, and free the stifled divinity within to seek a better path.

- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

The tantalizing smells of breakfast were already heavy in the air by the time Michael wandered into the common area, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Vernon and Charles had intercepted the food cart, this time, arraying its contents across the table. Michael sat and poured himself a cup of steaming, bitter coffee from a carafe; the taste was not his favorite, but he was increasingly coming to appreciate the benefits of the beverage.

“Morning,” Vernon grunted.

Michael mumbled an acknowledgment back around a sip of coffee, wincing at the temperature. He nodded to Charles next. The artifex looked him over and raised an eyebrow.

“You look tired, lordling,” he said. “Didn’t sleep well?”

Michael kept his expression carefully neutral. “Well enough,” he replied.

A small smile crept onto Charles’s face. “Me too,” he said. “It was a nice, quiet night. Isn’t that right, Vernon?”

Vernon nodded. “Very quiet. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think someone had a veil up.”

Heat crept over Michael’s cheeks; he took another sip of coffee. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Maybe you should ask Sera about it.”

Charles snorted. “I’m not that tired of living,” he muttered.

“Could have fooled me,” Sobriquet said, walking in from the sleeping quarters. She smiled at the men, then sat down. “Morning, Michael. Vernon.” She smiled wider, baring her teeth. “Charles.”

“Morning, boss,” Charles said. “Breakfast?”

“Why, yes please,” she said, nodding her head at a few platters. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you slept particularly well last night.”

“I did, in point of fact,” Charles said. He twitched his hand; slivers of metal extended from his wrist to slide the plates over. “I appreciate you paying such good attention to our health. Making sure everyone has a restful night.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sobriquet said. She took her fill from the plates, then turned to Michael. “Is that the coffee?”

Michael lifted the carafe and held it towards her; she let her fingers brush over his own as she took it. A moment later, he realized his hand was still extended and withdrew it, turning his attention back to his own coffee.

“You sure you slept all right, lordling?” Charles said, grinning around a mouthful of toast. “You seem a little distracted.”

Sobriquet turned her pleasant smile on the artifex, picking up the knife from beside her plate.

Charles paused chewing for a moment, then swallowed. “Just concerned about his health, is all. Even a durens can overexert themselves.” He looked at Michael. “How’s your stamina been, lately?”

Michael choked on his coffee. Sobriquet began to chop a sausage on her plate, her eyes fixed on Charles.

Charles drank down the rest of his coffee and stood from the table. “Well, good breakfast,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.” He waggled his eyebrows at Michael, then strode quickly out of the common area just as Luc emerged from his room.

The younger man hastily stifled his yawn to murmur a greeting to the artifex, who brushed past him without pause. Luc turned to watch him go, then directed a confused look to Michael.

“What’s wrong with him?” Luc asked. “Did he not sleep well?”

The door to Leire’s office swung wide; Michael followed Sobriquet in. Leire was already on her side of the barrier, deep in conversation with a man Michael hadn’t seen before. The man said something quiet and rapid in Mendiko as they entered, then rose to face them. He was older, with iron-grey hair and a shaved jaw. Although shorter than Michael, he boasted broad shoulders and well-muscled arms under a uniform jacket.

“Ah, excellent,” Leire said, rising from her own seat. “I don’t plan to detain you too long, but I wanted to make some early introductions. Sera, Michael, this is Antolin Errea - Grand Marshal of Mendian.”

Antolin raised a thick eyebrow, walking over to greet them. “My pleasure,” he said, sketching a short bow to Sobriquet and extending a hand to Michael; he shook it, watching as the marshal’s grip enveloped his own entirely. He did not grip with crushing strength, however, only a brisk, firm clasp while his eyes burned dark and clear between them.

“Leire has been rather mysterious about her guests,” Antolin rumbled; unlike Leire and Unai he had the trace of an accent, though it was not pronounced. “I suppose now is when you’ll let me in on the secret?”

“I always do,” Leire said reproachfully. “When the time is right. You’re already familiar with Sera, here; she’s more commonly-known as Sobriquet.”

“Ah!” Antolin said, his face lighting up. He turned to face Sera and extended his hand with an apologetic smile. “She’s correct, I’ve followed the accounts of your work in Daressa with great interest over the years. You seem to have a talent for constructive havoc.”

Sobriquet returned the smile and handshake. “I believe that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me,” she replied. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The marshal’s eyes turned to Michael, questioning; Michael felt a pulse of anticipation as they waited for Leire to speak.

“This is Michael Baumgart,” Leire said. “His circumstances are the subject of the rest of this meeting.”

Antolin’s look turned evaluative, his eyes darting across Michael’s face. “Baumgart,” he said. “I see it, now that you say the name. Karl’s son?”

“He might deny it, as I’d like to,” Michael said, his mouth twisting. “But yes.”

“Hm,” Antolin said, looking him up and down. “I’ve never met your father in person, but I know of his - work.”

Michael grimaced; Leire motioned for them to sit before he could think of a proper reply. Antolin moved back to the opposite side of the table, while Michael and Sobriquet took nearer seats.

“Now, Antolin,” Leire said, her mouth quirking into a smile that robbed twenty years from her face. “I plan to bring these two to the Batzar when it next meets.”

Antolin went very still. “You do,” he said. “I imagine your presence there will cause a stir. Half the members weren’t seated the last time you made an address.”

“They should be sufficiently entertained,” Leire said, her eyes twinkling. “I plan to declare that the situation in Daressa is a humanitarian crisis under article five.”

“You what.” Antolin tensed, as if about to rise; he calmed himself a moment later. It was like watching a tempest rage behind one of Leire’s crystal barriers, a contained maelstrom. “Leire, if you invoke the charter you’re calling for military intervention. It would be war.”

“I suppose it would be, at that,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Shall we skip past the part where you question my sanity? There is more you don’t know, and I can assure you that I am in earnest.”

Antolin’s eyes sharpened on her, but he gave no answer past a nod.

Leire smiled at him. “I do love working with professionals,” she said. “Now, let’s go over your objections. I am old as the Batzar oak and likely to topple far sooner. This would be a horrible time to commit to war - save that this young man has a rather unique talent.” She turned her eyes to him; Michael kept steady as Antolin did the same, steeling himself against whatever reaction the marshal might have. He had the distinct feeling that he was in danger, in this moment, and Sobriquet’s tension showed that she felt the same.

“Let me save a moment of time,” Leire said. “I have verified what I am about to tell you with a variety of methods, so please spare me any objections regarding its plausibility: Michael carries multiple souls.”

There was no objection from Antolin, per Leire’s request, but Michael could see the impossibility of the statement written in his face. He sympathized; he rather felt that way himself some days. Instead, the marshal furrowed his brow. His thoughts shifted to a rapid clockwork murmur that reminded him of Sobriquet.

“Which?” he asked. “And - how?”

Leire held up a finger. “The how is easiest; it operates via affinity. As for which - a spector, durens and a calorigens are the minor three. More of interest is that he bears the Gardener.”

Antolin drew in his breath sharply, looking first at Michael - then at Leire. “Are you-?” he asked, trailing off; Michael could feel his concern tight and sharp against his senses.

“I’m fine,” Leire said, waving her hand dismissively, though Michael heard differently from behind the radiant cloak of her soul. She paused and took a breath before affecting a nonchalant look of remembrance. “Oh, and he bears the Sculptor as well.”

At this, Antolin did rise from his seat, glaring down in shock at Michael as though he had suddenly sprouted fangs. A moment later, his eyes narrowed; the emotions he had sensed from the marshal before vanished.

Michael blinked in surprise, which only darkened Antolin’s expression. The marshal hissed something clipped and angry in the Mendiko tongue at Leire. She laughed and shook her head.

“No, I’ve not gone mad,” she said. “Relax, Antolin. He’s stable. As ever, you have more to fear from me.”

Antolin’s teeth ground together. “How can I trust that?” he hissed. “I’m compromised, as are you. We’ll have to undergo decontamination, screening-”

“Shall we?” Leire asked. “I’m confident it will yield nothing. Give your mind a few moments to breathe. I know the precautions. This is not the monster that killed Jeorg; this is the man who killed the monster. Gizon berria, arima berria.”

The marshal nodded tightly, his shoulders relaxing - but his glare did not relent. “He could kill us both, right now.”

“So could I,” Leire said mildly, jerking her chin towards Sobriquet. “So could she, for that matter, and you greeted her readily enough. It’s a hazard of working with the prime souls. Step past fear into opportunity, old friend. I have not lived this long by luck alone.”

Another tense silence flowed between them; Antolin’s jaw clenched - and then loosened. “So José is dead,” Antolin sighed. “We had suspected, given what we’ve seen of the Institute’s movements.” His brow furrowed. “And you want - no.” His eyes widened in realization, his head turning to Leire.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He solves the problem of inheritance. It’s not possible to study, of course, but his record so far shows that he has a far better chance of affinity-based retention than the standard. Possibly enough that chance is removed from the equation altogether.”

“You want to make Karl Baumgart’s son the protector of Mendian,” Antolin said, his voice flat. “After embroiling us in a war on the continent. And the Sculptor of Hearts - eromena, Leire, you’re talking about the destruction of Mendian as we know it.”

She nodded, no longer smiling. “I am,” she said. “And the survival of Mendian in any form at all. I’m talking about ensuring that my soul does not go to Saf. That alone should be merit enough, but-” She pursed her lips, then looked at Michael. “Frankly, I fear that mine is no longer the soul that must drive Mendian’s path into the future.”

Antolin’s eyes darted to Michael, then back to Leire. “You said ‘multiple,’ before,” he muttered. “You were trying to break it to me softly.”

“He has had the soul in question for no more than four months,” Leire said. “And he has made no effort to draw souls to him. What is our other course? To toss him into the War and see what emerges, hm?” She shook her head, then looked up at Michael. “Step past fear. Talk to him.”

Antolin turned to glare down at Michael; Leire clicked her tongue against her teeth.

“Not the soul,” she chided. “The man.”

“The man,” Antolin muttered. “And what does the man have to say? Is this demand for intervention in Daressa your doing?”

Michael nodded, forcing himself to look directly at the other man’s glowering eyes. “Not mine alone,” he said. “But yes, I set that condition.”

“You’re not Daressan,” Antolin said. “Why, then?”

“I’m human,” Michael said, regretting the unintended bite in his words until he saw Leire’s mouth quirk into a smile. “More than that, though, the deception at Leik was my father’s doing. I thought that telling Mendian the truth would be enough to secure justice for his victims, so I came here to do that.” He narrowed his eyes at Antolin and saw the barb land, a minute tightening of the marshal’s lips.

“So you came with the intent of using Mendian as your weapon,” Antolin said. “Like father, like son.”

Michael felt Sobriquet brim with vicarious irritation beside him; he stood to face Antolin directly. “I came here because I thought it was the right thing to do. Because a man I respected spoke highly of your country. Because you’re one of the few nations left that might effect some change in the War.”

“It’s not our war to change,” Antolin retorted.

“Isn’t it?” Sobriquet rasped, looking up. “How long ago would it have ended, but for you?”

The marshal looked to Leire, his features hardening. “What did you tell them?” he asked.

She shrugged. “What they deserved to know,” Leire replied. “They’re not wrong. Our actions have extended the War greatly, and the price has been paid in lives - Ardan, Daressan and Safid.”

Antolin turned back to Michael, frowning. “You’re not incorrect,” he said. “The War would have ended long before this - with a Safid victory. You would have been born into a world where Safid ships menaced Ardan shores, and Daressa was a footnote in the history of Saf’s newest pashaluk.”

“You could have fought,” Sobriquet said. “You could have helped us.”

“We did help you,” Antolin said, terse and clipped. “We’ve been tipping the scales against the Safid for decades now.”

“But only enough that you don’t get drawn in,” Michael said, clenching his fists. “Otherwise you were content to watch the dogs fight in the pit, is that it? To watch millions die while you stayed safe in the north?”

“We deserve no less than safety,” Antolin growled. “What has Mendian to do with centuries-old grievances between the squabbling brats of Ghar? Your ancestors tormented us as much as they did the Safid; unlike them, we’ve forgiven those crimes and ask only to be left alone.”

“But the Safid won’t leave you alone,” Michael shot back. “Not if they win, not if the rest of the world fails to hold them back. One of those dogs you’ve been playing against each other is beyond your control, and the fault for that lies with the master. The one with the power to prevent the harm.”

Antolin’s face went stony. “And you wish that to be you?” he asked.

“No,” Michael said, with more conviction than he had thought he could muster. “With all my heart, no. The opportunity is mine, though, and if I let it pass me by then I am responsible for what follows.”

The marshal regarded him for a long moment, then turned back to Leire. “You realize that you can’t bring him into the Batzar,” he said. “Debekatuta dago, the same as José. The batzarkideak will refuse to convene if you try.”

“They’ll have to eventually,” Leire said. “As old as the prohibition against the Sculptor is, the Star’s privilege of address is older.” She shrugged. “I’m sure nobody thought the two would come into conflict, but such is the world we live in.”

Antolin looked down at her, the hard lines of his face softening. “Is there truly no other way?” he asked. “This will cause pain. Death. Some will choose to fight you rather than the War.”

“I am the Sixteenth Star of Mendian,” Leire said, standing from her seat. “I will not be the last. I will not. We’re too close to ridding ourselves of these shackles and grasping the world with our own hands, human hands.” She pressed her hand against the glass, fingers splayed. “Mendian will rise into the future on wings of its own creation. Michael can ensure that we’re given the chance.”

She sat heavily back in her chair. “It would be easier if he had someone to count on, when I’m gone.”

“You plan to vex me even in death,” Antolin muttered, giving her a quietly-exasperated look. “Emakume izugarria. But if you say this is the way forward, then that is the way I go.”

Leire smiled. “Thank you, old friend,” she said. “Now, if you’re done being obstinate-”

“Tch!” Antolin grunted. “Ingrate.” He looked at Sobriquet and Michael, then shook his head. “So you plan to bring these two before the Batzar. Mendoza will object.”

Leire snorted. “Let him. He can’t deny me, and we will be under the oak before he knows why he should object.”

“But the problem of the Sculptor? I trust you, Leire, but I must be screened after this meeting. You must as well, before the address.” Antolin sat back in his seat. “The soul makes him a pariah, and you can’t keep this a secret.”

“True,” Leire said, the corners of her mouth twitching. “But he didn’t come here alone.” Her eyes shifted to Sobriquet, as did Antolin’s.

Michael blinked. It was the first time he had seen Sobriquet visibly nervous.

“I don’t think you want me to use my soul on the Batzar,” she said, her voice steady despite the trilling nerves Michael felt rolling from her. “Not unless you want them unconscious and vomiting.”

“Tempting,” Leire chuckled. “But no. You’ve done admirable things with your soul, but I daresay we have some things to teach you.” She stood and walked stiffly to a bookshelf behind her, sliding a thin book from it. “The Dreamer, the Storyteller.” She sat, opening the book. “The Whisperer. Your soul is in many ways one of the most versatile we know, though its bearers are infamously difficult to study.”

“I view that as an advantage,” Sobriquet said. Her hand dropped down to her side, clenching and unclenching with restless energy; as surreptitiously as he could, Michael brought his own up to clasp it. He felt her tense, then relax.

Leire’s eyes twinkled. “It is an advantage to be unseen,” she said. “But that is only half of what you can do.” She paused, then looked to Antolin. “This could take some time,” she said. “I’m sure you have preparations to make.”

“If you mean that I must have one of my men confirm that my mind is still my own, then yes - I have some,” Antolin scowled. “Past that I’m sure I merely have to wait for things to catch fire in your wake.”

“As ever,” Leire said, her lips twitching. “Michael, why don’t you walk the marshal out?”

Michael blinked. “But I don’t know where-”

“I do,” Antolin sighed, rising from his seat once more. “Just accept it and move forward. It’s how I’ve lived my life for years.” He waved a hand at Leire without looking in her direction. “Agur. Let me know before the session if I’m needed.”

He looked down at Michael, still seated, and twitched his chin towards the door. Michael gave Sobriquet’s hand a hurried squeeze and rose to follow him out, looking back one last time to see Leire leaning in conspiratorially towards her glass barrier.

The door cut off his view, and Michael reluctantly turned to follow Antolin as he strode down the hall. “Let them scheme,” he said. “Better if you’re not involved. People will distrust you enough.” He grimaced. “I shouldn’t even be in the same room with you.”

“Believe me, I understand,” Michael muttered. “I met Spark. He pulled my head apart more than a little.”

Antolin made a strangled noise. “Never tell anyone that,” he said. “It’s grounds for confinement - usually, but apparently not for you. Leire knows this?” He grimaced at Michael’s nod. “Of course she does. Who pieced you back together?”

Michael paused. “I did?” he said. “I wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice at the time.”

It was Antolin’s turn to blink. “You - of course. The Gardener.” He sighed and shook his head. “This will take some getting used to.”

“Let me know if you figure it out.” Michael raised an eyebrow at the marshal, and the older man’s lips briefly turned up at the corners - before pressing together.

“You were there when José died, I take it?” Antolin asked.

Michael grimaced. “With my hand around his neck,” he said. “My memory of that day is a bit scattered, that part stands out.”

Antolin’s eyes widened fractionally. “I didn’t think she was speaking literally,” he said. “I can tell you’re not a fighting man, despite what you said.”

“I’m really not,” Michael sighed. “I know what I told you in there, and I meant every word - but I’d take any other option first. I just don’t see that there are any to be had.”

“Against Saf, there seldom are,” Antolin grunted. “If a man wants a contest to the death dearly enough, then you may be obliged to give it to him. The same is true for nations. I expect you faced a similar lack of options with José.”

“He didn’t want to kill me,” Michael said. “Quite the opposite. He wanted to feed me souls, fatten me up into some sort of monster.” His feet stuttered, and Michael looked down for a moment. “I killed him to escape, but it looks like he won in the end.”

Antolin paused; they had arrived at the building’s elevator. He pressed a control on the wall, then turned to Michael. “Are you doing this for his sake?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Michael said.

The marshal shrugged. “There you have it,” he said. “His power was drawn from the same source as Leire - that of an existence so great and terrible that men have no choice but to act with it in mind. Put it from your mind, and there is no power. It is why the role of the Star is so important - why you will be important, if this scheme of Leire’s works.”

Michael grimaced. “That isn’t terribly reassuring,” he said.

“It’s not meant to be.” Antolin crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “It’s no mean feat to impress yourself upon the mind of a man like Saleh Taskin or Friedrich Kolbe. They’re men who resist the authority of others, seek their own path at any cost. To deter them, you must assert yourself as a force they cannot help but acknowledge.”

“I’m not sure it’s possible to deter Saleh,” Michael said. “He’d view it as a challenge if you tried. Same with Amira. They’re impossibly focused on what they think is their correct path forward.”

Antolin’s eyes narrowed. “You talk as if you’ve met them,” he said.

“We did,” Michael replied. “They helped us get across Rul and Esrou from Daressa. We spoke with Saleh a bit at the beginning, mostly over breakfast, but Amira ran with us for several days.” He shook his head. “She’s an alarming woman. More than Saleh, I’d say - he’s at least personable.”

Michael straightened up, a thought occurring to him. “Oh, that reminds me. I have a book he gave me, his personal copy of the Book of Eight Verses. He annotated it rather heavily, Sera said it would probably be of interest to a military commander. Would you like to take a look?”

There was a slight twitch by Antolin’s left eye. “That would be very interesting,” he said, somewhat woodenly. “Thank you. Perhaps you could bring it when you attend the Batzar.”

Michael nodded. “I will. Unfortunately, Amira and Friedrich weren’t so courteous as to leave a gift - and I think you already know from others that they’re terrifying, so I don’t know that I can give you much additional insight there.”

Another tremor disturbed Antolin’s face. “Leire didn’t mention that you had met Kolbe as well,” he said.

“On the front between Daressa and Rul, most recently,” Michael said. “He and Sofia - ah, Sibyl. They caught us out at the Ardan lines, he tried to stop us escaping.”

“Sib-” Antolin coughed. “That was you? When Kolbe was injured?”

“I really wish it hadn’t been,” Michael sighed. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard, but he nearly killed me - Sibyl’s men did kill Sera’s sister, Clair.”

“I had heard that he was injured in an explosion,” Antolin said. “Among other things.” The elevator door chimed softly, the doors sliding open to reveal the interior. Antolin reached in somewhat jerkily to touch a control; the doors chimed again, staying open.

Michael waggled his hand. “Lightning,” he said, trying not to make a face at the memory. “I suppose it’s similar enough. Not something I’ll be trying again soon, it came closer to killing me than Friedrich did.”

Antolin’s eye shuddered again, and Michael frowned. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

“It never is, when Leire’s involved,” Antolin grated, stepping into the elevator and turning to level a flat look at Michael. “Please stay inside until it’s time to attend the Batzar. Don’t leave the facility. Try not to talk to - anyone. Or interact with anything.” He pressed the control, and the doors began to slide shut. “But do bring that book!”

Michael stared at the doors as they shut. “How in Ghar’s ashes am I supposed to leave?” he muttered. “I don’t-” He twisted to look down one hallway, then the other. “I don’t even know how to get back to the room.”

He sighed, picked a direction, and began to walk.