Footsteps of leather scraped across stone.

Luke’s eyes snapped open.

“I thought you were asleep,” said a youthful voice behind him. “What are you doing?”

Oh, right. That kid from before. Come to think of it, he must be…

Luke sat thoughtfully against the fence, head back, gazing up. No clouds, just a vast canvas of blue stretching in either direction. Boring.

“Waiting,” he answered. He broke his stare from the empty blue sky and stood. He eyed the boy and yawned, stretching his arms. The white fence gate’s hinges creaked as the boy in the pine green sweater pushed it closed. “I was asleep. Is your dad back?”

“Not yet,” the boy said. He started. “How’d you know we’re related?”

“Guessed,” Luke said. “Can’t be that many redheads around.”

The boy’s father was Orcus Alder, the last in a long line of people Luke was to meet with on his journey to Mirastelle. He had been described to Luke before he left home. Apparently, everything of relevance in this village— what was it called again?— was done by its mayor. Including sneaking people across Altair. Visiting Mirastelle was legal, provided you left the Empire through the proper procedures, but you were expected to return. That was something Luke had no intention of doing, not for a long while.

“You’d be surprised,” the mayor’s son said. “This close to Proxima, this hair color is more common than you’d think.”

Luke grunted. Proxima, once a proud nation. Just another Province of Terra Daeva, now. He had seen the transformation firsthand, crossing through it twice in his life. Once to the south, now to the north.

Silence fell, and the songbirds took over. This really was a quiet, tranquil place. The air smelled fresh as it passed by in a soft gust, a pleasant, indescribable country scent. Not of animals or barns, just… nature. Some of the roads he could see were cobblestone, others packed earth. A woman on the other end of the street tended to a clothesline, shirts of swirlsheep wool swaying in the breeze.

“Where you from, traveler?”

“Aetas Origo,” he said truthfully, stretching his legs. Luke glanced down unconsciously to ensure his bag was still there, then turned toward the mayor’s son, who was still staring at him with interest. “Did you need something?”

“Ah.” The ginger-haired boy glanced away awkwardly. “I was wondering if you wanted a tour guide or something.”

“What? For Ulciscor?” Luke asked, tilting his head in confusion.

“No.” He almost seemed embarrassed. Softly, he added, “For here.”

Oh. It was probably quite a shock to this simple village boy to learn that he came from the bustling capital city of Sirius. Naming the Province probably would have sufficed, but to this boy, someone journeying from one capital to another probably seemed like an adventurer out of a story. And all he had wanted to do was show Luke around this little village.

Luke could take or leave a comfortable bed, so he didn’t mind staying in this spot, but the prospect of turning down this boy— he didn’t seem like a bad person— dug at him.

On the other hand, his mind protested, tired. He was tired, exhausted, and, frankly, had no interest in seeing the sights. What could there possibly be around to see? Was the annual village paint drying contest happening today? Flocks Above, don’t say it. Just go back to sleep.

“Yeah,” he said instead. He hefted his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Sure.”

———

Typhos often did not think himself partner— Ace— to one of the most powerful men in Terra Daeva. It never felt quite right, bearing that title while wearing these filthy, patched-together rags. The Left Hand’s Ace? No, he was nothing more than a tool. His clothes were a constant, omnipresent reminder of that fact. They sheathed the thing he truly was.

“…I see,” Levian Vega said beside him. “We’ll be there shortly.”

The man with combed-back hair striding ahead of Typhos flipped a switch on his radio transceiver and dropped it into a deep charcoal pocket. That sunlit crimson diamond on his back was stark, now. Neither spoke as they trekked through the streets of the nameless Proximan town. Words did not cross between Typhos and his master, unless the latter willed it.

The air stank of urbanity, haphazard bags and bins of trash spaced out for collection on every paved sidewalk. The smell was as familiar to Typhos as the blade at his waist. There were very few people about, most often the homeless, late-night drunkards, or both. Buildings rose all around at varying sizes, some as high as four or five stories. Most were brick-and-mortar businesses of the same general rectangular shape, windows yet dark. It was a modestly sized town.

Turning down a side street, they approached a sight that would still be rather unique to some— that of a dark automobile, large and box-like with four thick wheels made of rubber. The light was still too faint, but he knew the box-like body was painted brown with a slight tint of red. Levian had been one of the first in Asundria to abandon the horse. It was not a privilege of his status— the moving machines had been around for decades at this point, slow to catch on. No, it was just… Levian found animals difficult to control. Not so easily as humans, at least.

This was the final leg of their long journey from Vega into Proxima. They would be driving north into the dead country of Altair to meet with the Emperor’s Shield in a place called Castitas. He had never heard of it.

Typhos opened the door built into the side of the automobile for his master, and the hair on the beck of his neck stood on end. Levian seated himself calmly. How could his master not notice? He did not let his surprise show, or react in any other way. He had already stilled his pulse before it could even think of racing.

It was here again. That something, that presence he could sometimes sense. He dared not speak of it. He had given it a name, in his mind only. The Shadow. It was the way nothing looked out of place, perfectly as it had been left, yet the automobile’s interior smelled. It smelled not of Vega’s tobacco, nor of the leather seats, but of… nothing. The Shadow was near, that nothingness meant. He would have smelled cleaning chemicals if another subordinate had excessively erased the pungent fresh scent of the thickly padded leather seats that had been replaced recently, and if his nose were simply broken today, he’d have ways of noticing that as well. For one, the blood from earlier wouldn’t have smelled nearly as strong. No. It had to be the Shadow.

It must have been years since he had first put the word to that presence, after the way it seemed to shadow his master. Like a watchful ghost, or some kind of spiritual guardian. Perhaps the feeling was only his imagination, but his training told him otherwise. Something was here, in the automobile. He suspected if he checked the trunk he would find nothing, though. He had made such efforts in the past, never to avail. Perhaps he was simply insane. Everyone leaves a trace of something. But a trace of nothing? Was that possible?

He seated himself, and his master began to drive. In moments, they were in motion, nameless town behind them and treelines passing by in a blur of greens and browns. The Shadow’s presence no longer unsettled him as it had in days past. If it was real, it was not a threat, else it’d have struck years ago. He had to concentrate on his task: ensuring his master’s safety. They were far from home and venturing deep into dangerous territory. All of their allies had gone ahead, leaving only Typhos to defend his master. It was more vital now than ever that his focus remain razor-sharp. That task was his purpose, his reason for being. Everything else was immaterial.

Perhaps the young boy who believed in the Shadow was only his imagination as well. His true self slept beneath tattered rags, awaiting the next order, resolved to fulfill that important task.

It would be hours until his master addressed him for longer than one or two words at a time, asking after his well-being and offering him the opportunity to doze off. It was extremely unlikely anything could happen in here to his master that he could control. True, there was the Shadow, but he often felt its presence throughout the years, and had learned to ignore it. It was when he lifted his head to watch the trees past outside that his master had noticed he was awake again.

“Are you excited to meet a fellow Ace, Ty?” Levian asked.

“Indifferent,” Typhos said. His own voice was as cold and empty as the thing they rode in, this metal box that left tire tracks through dirt and weeds instead of hoofprints. Part of his training was to suppress his emotions. Showing emotion allowed others insight into what you were thinking, a major disadvantage.

The view had never really changed in all that time, treelines gradually shifting their hue of green and tightening their grip on the land, drawing upon the roads until they were driving on this narrow path through a thick forest. The Great Asundrian Pines were such a place in the north: broad, oppressive and unchanging.

“But it’s the first time,” Levian said. “Two Aces have never met outside Munitio. Did you know that?”

“No.”

Levian laughed. It was a subtle joke. Typhos only knew what he had been taught by his master, so he could not possibly have known such a fact. Levian simply wanted him to admit that. Yes, funny. He did not laugh, though. He filed the historical trivia away inside his head. Perhaps the knowledge would be required by his master in a serious context someday.

He glanced out the window. The trees had begun to thin out into a tiny pocket of civilization, and he knew from the map folded beneath his rags that this time they would be stopping. They began to bump along a cobblestone road not suited for the vehicle.

Castitas was a drab place, like all hastily rebuilt towns and villages in former Altair. It bore the usual signs of post-war reconstruction— one-floor houses of flat roofs, flimsy wood and thatch. Only a few were painted, this lot were more concerned with keeping out the wind and rain than making it pretty. Two or three streets were dotted with stands and carts of food and basic supplies. A tiny market for a tiny village. Castitas seemed so frail, one bad crop season might wipe the whole place out.

It wouldn’t have the chance.

The automobile lurched to a stop. Flocks Above, he hated that feeling in his gut, as if he were suddenly airborne. Typhos offered the Flocks a quiet apology for the swear and prayed that his master would never discover how much he loathed the moment these machines halted. The man was fascinated with finding weaknesses, even those of his subordinates.

Typhos stepped out of the thing, joining his master on the cobblestones. They stood before a dark blue building, squat like the rest of Castitas— but much wider and elevated off the ground by stone foundations. It seemed a mix of stone and log, only partially surviving the war. It was the tallest place in Castitas, save for one building near the center, a three-storied stone structure surrounded by a white fence towering over the rest of the village like a Pruinan man.

This dark blue building was the Castitas constable office. In such a small village, it likely had many other roles, but peacekeeping was the primary purpose, back when it was more than a flyspeck village. Small as it was now, Castitas likely did not have much crime, if any.

Thick double doors ahead were ajar, creaking in the breeze and revealing only darkness. Levian motioned to Typhos, and they climbed up a small set of stairs leading to those front doors.

They went inside.

———

Dark alley. The pervasive stench of a dumpster opened wide. Two whole days lying in a heap of assembled trash. Then the storm came.

Nothing to drink but rainwater out of a grimy gourd. Half-empty, at that. Pitifully quick, that storm was. Stuck around just long enough to drench his worn-down oversized shirt and ruin a fresh stack of newspapers. And those were comfortable newspapers. Not the crummy material Origo Times used. No, those were clipping Origo Daily.

The memory vanished.

“And Mr. West here,” the mayor’s son gestured to a burly man standing behind a wide array of fresh-smelling fruits and vegetables, green and yellow and red of various shapes and sizes, gourds with swirling patterns. “He’s got the black peppers.” True, there was a single patch of black in there. Those must be the black peppers. How exciting.

No, Luke decided. No. Today was the worse of the two. Had to be. There were some nice clouds after that storm. No such thing as a bad day with good clouds.

“And these are…” he began, and Luke stopped listening.

He just keeps going and going, he thought exasperatedly. This is what I get for trying to be courteous.

To the side, feet shuffled and something clacked off the ground. Luke reflexively stuck his hands inside his trouser pockets to ward off pickpockets that almost certainly didn’t exist in a village like this and spun toward the noise. The source of the sound turned out to be a wrinkled, kindly-looking woman with short white hair, hobbling along with a cane. She smiled as she approached. Slowly.

“Is that you, Cyrus?” the woman said.

The mayor’s son turned and beamed. “Good to see you, Mrs. Delphy.”

Great. Another acquaintance. How many is that, now? Five? Six?

She pulled a brown paper bag off a rack and hobbled over to the tomatoes and began to stuff the thing.

“Oh, that’s rare,” Cyrus— apparently— said. “Tomato soup?”

“Special occasion,” she answered and winked. “It’s my husband’s birthday. His favorite, you see.”

“Special occasions only,” Cyrus nodded. “Good, good. Restraint is a powerful tool in the culinary arts.”

Save me.

“Did your father teach you that?” she giggled. Luke had never heard a frog laugh, but imagined it sounded about the same. And… Flocks, was that old couple going to eat all of those? What restraint?

“Of course,” Cyrus said. “Didn’t spend all my time washing dishes and waiting on tables! I’ll be running the restaurant one day, you know.”

“That would be wonderful,” she said, fishing for a coin in her pouch. Took forever. Old people. She paid the burly man behind the stand, then hobbled and clacked off, bidding goodbyes to both Cyrus and the stand owner.

“I thought your father’s the mayor.” Luke frowned.

“Wasn’t always,” Cyrus explained, paying for some oranges. “Used to run a restaurant, you see. Started it up himself.” The burly stand owner proffered some coins as he turned. “Oh, thanks.”

Almost forgot his change. Try something like that in Aetas Origo, and ninety-nine shopkeeps out of a hundred will pocket the extra. Ah, to be rich and careless in the middle of nowhere. Relatively rich, anyway. Luke had spent a large portion of his youth thieving to survive. This boy probably earned only a few coins a month working a gourd farm or something— not like there’s anything else to do around here— but a few coins were a lot more than no coins.

“Take care of yourself, boy,” the burly man said in a deep, kindly voice. All Luke knew was that he’d never be robbing this guy, middle of nowhere or not. Getting swatted at with a broom by wealthy old ladies in the city was preferable to being thrown.

“You too, Mr. West,” Cyrus said lightly and tossed the oranges into his bag.

Just then, he heard a gravelly, rumbling sound. Luke turned toward it, sliding his hands into his pockets. Empty as they were, it was a good habit to keep. Even if it was impossible to be robbed from behind by a loud, rumbling thing.

An automobile rolled down the street, painted brown and tinted red. The moving machine was large and box-shaped. Looked like a… well, like a metal carriage without a horse. There was one driver and one passenger, but Luke couldn’t see through the glass well enough to make out their faces.

“Huh. That’s… rare,” Cyrus said. He stepped up beside Luke, bag in hand. “No one here drives one of those. I haven’t even seen one in… in months, I think.”

“Passing through?” Luke wondered. “To Ulciscor?”

Ulciscor. Thinking of it staved off the boredom. It was Luke’s last destination, after all these weeks of traveling. A fortified city within the borders of Mirastelle, now close. Another nation, so very close. Just a little while longer.

“Can’t,” Cyrus said. “Forest trail isn’t wide enough in most places. Odd.”

“Huh.”

“Have you ever been in one?”

“Only a few times. Aetas Origo has a service for getting around the city. I don’t like them.”

“Really?” His eyes shone with curiosity. “That’s amazing. They seem so cool!”

Luke shrugged as it passed.

“Ah, well. Come on.” Cyrus grinned. “More to see, more to see!”