Luke sat against the Ulciscor Wall, looking up at the clouds. They were particularly high and feathery today, laid out in rows like a white wing stretched across solid blue. Not bad. Much better than yesterday. Of course, someone had already tried to kill him today, so perhaps the clouds were not good enough. The gate was still open, but they were not allowed entry.

Cyrus stood speaking with that insufferable Captain Deen Daniels. Unfortunately, the Castitas villager did not know much of his home’s takeover. Luke was the one with the details, to the captain’s chagrin. The spearwoman had gone away— back to the Southwest Wall. Major Alexis Cade was ranked one notch above captain, one below general. She was one of a small group second only to Vander Wolf himself. Apparently, she had noticed them from one of the watchtowers during morning inspection.

“You do that every morning?” Luke had asked.

The bell he had tried to ring ended up being pointless, but who was he to complain when help arrived a moment ahead of schedule? Major Cade stood idly, leaning lightly into the butt of her spear. She had fair skin and wore a relaxed expression, but did her eyes show a bit of tightness? It couldn’t be an easy job, to hold such responsibility. Her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail and the short golden mantle trailing down her back shifted in the breeze. The mantle was emblazoned in black with a wolf’s head inside the shape of a tower, vaguely reminiscent of the Wall’s watchtowers.

“Not every,” she said. “But often unannounced.” She raised an eyebrow at Daniels. “You were going to turn these two boys away?”

“You should have seen this one,” Daniels muttered, pointing.

The image of the captain pointing vanished as Luke brushed the memory aside and closed his eyes, throwing his arms behind his head. Not a moment later, the butt of a spear poked him in the gut, eliciting an involuntary grunt and a wince.

“Get up,” Daniels growled. As Luke stifled an angry response and stood up, he heard a smooth, unfamiliar voice.

“No need to be so rough, captain.” Whose voice was that…?

“Those two Ahrarans were chasing them, general. They brought danger to the Walls,” Daniels protested. “More than once, perhaps. All of the recent brewings, maybe.”

“All of Ulciscor’s problems, caused by two lads?”

Luke opened his eyes and met an unsettling face set in a permanent frown that did not match the smooth voice lightly arguing with the Wall captain. General Vander Wolf had gaunt cheeks and sunken, shadowed eyes that took Luke in and seemed to analyze every part of him. His head held little hair, as if the thick trimmed beard on his chin had stolen it all away. Wolf wore no armor, instead dressed in an embroidered spiralsilk uniform of silver and black buttoned to the neck that wrapped a tall, bony figure tightly. Buteo of the Twelve Flocks— Hawk of Fury— was stitched across his left breast in a minimalist style.

Some said Buteo was a false Flock; that Aquila, Eagle of Wrath, was the true Flock between the two. The centuries-old quarrel didn’t mean much to Luke. Why not just call them the Thirteen Flocks and be done with it?

He’s old now, Luke noted. The famous Vander Wolf looks nothing like the man in the history books anymore. Though, most of those photographs were older than Luke himself. It was to be expected.

Luke blinked, and in the next breath, he realized the living legend, General Vander Wolf, was staring directly at him. He beamed, bowed, and saluted with a chest tap, all at the same time. Luke blinked again, and felt horribly awkward immediately.

“I–It’s an honor, General Wolf,” Luke said. He bowed again to hide his flushed face. “I’m a big fan of yours. Sir.” He had come here to meet this man, and already he had botched everything.

“Tacticians have fans?” Cyrus wondered, and Luke noticed the villager was standing next to him. When did he get there? Cyrus grinned and whispered, “So you can smile.”

Daniels cleared his throat. The four of them stood, two facing two, before the iron gate of the South Wall.

Luke took a moment to compose himself. He was not a child anymore. He hadn’t been one for a long time. So what if he met his hero? He noticed the flick of a lighter, and saw that there was a fifth person. So quiet, he did not notice her at first. A woman in neither armor nor uniform— a shoulder-strapped shirt and buckled trousers— standing behind General Wolf with a cigarette in her mouth. Mature eyes met Luke’s as she exhaled smoke through the chill air.

“Right,” Wolf said. “I have some questions for you lads. What are your names?” Luke and Cyrus answered simply. “And where do you come from?”

“Castitas.”

“Aetas Origo.”

“You’re a long way from home,” Wolf said, eyeing Luke.

“I want to enlist,” Luke said seriously.

Wolf said nothing to that. “What trouble brings you to Ulciscor?” he asked instead.

“General Wolf, is there somewhere we can speak to you in private?” Cyrus asked instead.

“Here will do,” Wolf said flatly. “The Walls do not spread secrets, nor do the men of the Walls.”

Luke and Cyrus exchanged concerned looks. Luke shrugged and said it plainly. “Terra Daeva is a few miles that way,”—he pointed—“Ace, soldiers, and all.” Daniels snorted a laugh, but a sharp glance from the general set him straight-faced in an eyeblink.

“Fourth question. The last,” Wolf said. He moved his threatening glare from the captain to the two boys. “Do you mean harm to my city?”

“No.” It was Cyrus who answered. Luke swallowed what he had been about to say and followed it with the same one-word answer.

Wolf nodded to Daniels. “For your sake, I hope you are not lying,” Wolf said. There was an edge to his smooth voice, Luke realized. It seemed there would not be much trust. “Welcome to Ulciscor.”

———

As it turned out, if given the choice between being interrogated by his idol for hours on end or watching the annual Castitas paint drying contest before the village was taken over, Luke probably would have chosen the latter.

“Vassago Rixator, you said?”

“Yes,” Luke said. For the third time.

A gourd sat before Luke on a gray, featureless table stretching off to his left and right. The gourd itself was decorated in the natural silvery white and golden swirls of Mintaka. Cyrus seemed interested in that sort of thing, but it was nothing Luke hadn’t seen before. He was no stranger to this country. Luke raised the gourd to his mouth and gulped down water.

The walls were stone gray bricks. Gray and stone. Just like the ceiling. And the floor. And Vander Wolf’s face. Luke snorted into his gourd at the thought and hastily covered it up as if he were choking on water and clearing his throat. Daniels glared at him from afar, standing straight-backed at the only exit, a sturdy dark iron door. It made the room feel like a prison cafeteria, and them the general’s prisoners.

He glanced at Cyrus. The ginger-haired villager looked how Luke felt. Worn down and tired. They were still in their forest-stained clothes, the general had wanted to speak with them immediately. His questions were thorough and often repetitious. Luke had opened his sky blue jacket an hour or so ago, feeling hot. Sealed in a room for hours, trapped beneath one of those… things. What was it called? It hung from the ceiling above, radiating a warm yellow glow, pressing the darkness to the furthest edges of the room.

Light bulb, Luke remembered. Another stupid bamboo thing. A candle works just as well. Better, even.

“Luke?” General Wolf asked. It did not feel like the first time.

Luke started. “Sorry,” he said. “I spaced out. What was the question?”

“A man with broad shoulders, dark brown skin, a light scar running down the side of his face, and a flute in his left hand. Correct?” Wolf emphasized the word, referring to the flute that was not a flute. The strange device that could kill a person from afar, like the crossbow reinvented. Somehow, Luke had the impression that the thing was not new to the general, and he was merely surprised that Luke knew of it. The memory of a nameless woman flashed through Luke’s mind. Louder than a crossbow, he remembered. Much louder. And faster.

“That’s right,” Luke said. He glanced at the woman, flicking a lighter for a cigarette. Evidently, she was the general’s right hand woman. But who is she?

“Ah. Aisha, introduce yourself,” Wolf said, as if reading Luke’s mind. “I need a moment to think about this.”

The woman eyed the general with an orange-eyed gaze that seemed to linger before she finally exhaled smoke and spoke. “Aisha.” She nodded once and returned to silence.

Wolf tilted his head toward the woman— Aisha— and she shrugged indifferently. Not very talkative, then. Her name, stark white hair cut short, and caramel skin likely meant…

“You’re Ahraran?” Cyrus finished the thought. Clip me, can everyone tell what I’m thinking today?

“Yes,” she said coolly. “An interesting coincidence for the two of you, to be sure.”

Luke frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The man and woman who attacked you at the South Wall,” Aisha said, “They were Ahraran, as well.”

“How do you know?” Luke asked. “Did you capture them?”

“No, they managed to escape,” she said, thin arms folded. She pointed her chin back at Daniels. “This one spotted the marking. Good eye, captain.”

Daniels nodded to her, seeming to tense under her watch. He relaxed from very straight-backed to regular straight-backed as she turned her face to Luke and Cyrus again.

“Marking?” Luke asked, interested.

Aisha tapped underneath her left eye, and Luke finally noticed a subtle line below the bottom eyelid running across. Tinier lines branched off in various directions, never more than a quarter inch.

“The marking of one’s Ahraran clan,” Aisha explained. “I am not surprised to hear you do not know of it. It is not a thing of Asundria. When the South Wall captain clashed with the woman, he spotted it.”

“That was not their only marking,” Wolf muttered. All eyes in the room turned to him.

“You are telling them, then?” Aisha asked.

Vander Wolf stared into space for a moment. He seemed… resigned.

“Yes,” he finally said. “There is no mistaking this boy’s account. To know Vassago Rixator’s handedness is one thing, but to know of the thunderflute… That is proof. You did meet him.”

Thunder. An apt description.

Cyrus breathed, incredulous. Even Luke felt that, somewhat, despite seeing those things with his own eyes. In that moment, it seemed to sink in. He met the Third Ace of Terra Daeva.

“The Ace of Asmari Capella,” Wolf said, raising a familiar dagger. Daniels had confiscated it from Luke shortly after he had picked it up. “And on the hilt of this— a carving of Cathartes. The Vulture of Death. Symbol of the assassins of Levian Vega.”

The hair on the back of Luke’s neck stood on end. What?

Cyrus bolted upright, breathing hard. “Two? You are saying…” He couldn’t get the words out. “You are saying my village, my home… is housing two Elites?” Wolf nodded gravely. Cyrus sat back down with a thud and a stunned expression. “Phaethon’s Honor…” he whispered, pale with horror. Even stone-faced Daniels seemed shocked by Wolf’s words. Perhaps he did not believe, or had been holding onto a small hope. Luke had felt that, too, he realized. That was over.

“That means…” Luke trailed off. Two Elites, right outside the gates of Mirastelle. What else could it mean? Two Elites have never done anything together in the brief history of the Empire. Rumor had it, they were an unruly lot that did not get along. Only one man could rein them in.

“Amon Munitio means to continue the war,” Wolf said, almost a growl. “He discarded the truces he drafted sitting beside Mus Ranboc and snuck right up to our doorstep.”

Remember the difference between you and I, the past whispered. Remember Elite. Someday, you will learn what it means. Luke felt his teeth grinding in anger. The moment blinked through Luke’s mind, and he broke the silence of the room with a sudden voice. “Thunderflutes. They are called that because they sound like firecrackers.” He instantly regretted saying it with Cyrus in the room, even moreso because it seemed so obvious. It wasn’t worth blurting out at all.

“What’s this about?” Wolf asked. “Rixator fired at you?”

“Fired? As in used?” Luke asked. Wolf nodded, and he went on. “No,” he said softly, a hint of regret seeping through his voice. Still, there was no use hiding the truth. “I heard it in the morning, several times from far away. I thought some people in the village were celebrating the First Day for some reason. It seemed strange because I was so close to here, to Ulciscor.”

The general leaned back in his chair, contemplative. His eyebrows twitched, the thought must have crossed his mind then. “Hold on,” Wolf said, frowning. “How could you make the connection? That weapon is handled with the utmost secrecy by the Empire.”

“I heard it, once,” Luke said, voice steadier than his mind. A nameless woman. Eyes of frost and a coat black as night. A bang like burning bamboo. “In the Purge.”

That seemed to be sufficient. The general breathed out and did not prod further.

Cyrus dropped his elbows to the table and held his head. “The constable’s office,” he said grimly. “That’s what it was. You are right, Luke. Phaethon, you are right…”

That was it, then. Blood had already been shed. The war had begun, right by Luke’s bedside in a tiny village named Castitas. A name he would never forget again.

Vander Wolf rose. “I must confer with my majors. Luke Nixus, Cyrus Alder.” Sunken eyes, shadowed by the bulb hanging overhead, passed over the two teenagers. He curtly nodded, once each. “I thank you. Your account has been most helpful. I would like for you to stay with Captain Daniels at his home for the night.” Daniels grimaced and made a soft sound, as if choking. Wolf continued, paying it no mind. “There is much to be done, and I may call on you for more information.”

Wolf saluted, pressing a fist to his chest, and motioned for Daniels to step aside. The captain was whispering something frantically. It grew to a normal volume as Wolf departed, Aisha trailing close behind. “—surely there must be someone else who can—” His words fell away with an abrupt sigh, and he turned back to Luke and Cyrus, glaring.

“So,” Luke began casually, “What now?”

Daniels measured them as they stood. His eyes passed over the two boys, wearied and filthy. Their jacket and sweater had both been torn and stained with the dirt and grime of a night in the forest. “First, you’re cleaning yourselves up. You aren’t meeting my wife like that.”

———

“Vega.” The name buzzed through the radio transceiver’s speaker in a distorted monotone.

That’s me, he thought, amused. So formal.

Levian Vega sat with transceiver in hand, leaning back on a straight-backed wooden chair with black boots up on the desk of the former Castitas mayor. The desk was devoid of content— documents, ledgers, and writings all stolen away by the Shield’s Ace. The room felt darker by the movement of the bookshelf across the empty window frame, though it was well-lit. A candle burned diligently near the Elite’s boots, and a fire crackled in the hearth to combat the chill creeping through gaps in the bookshelf. Opposite the bookshelf, Typhos stood equally diligent at the closed door. He was instructed to stand guard, to listen for prying ears and signal if they drew near, and he would obey. He would always obey.

Levian glanced at Typhos. He held down a button on the transceiver, then released it a second later and started snickering to himself. He forced himself to stop, then pressed the button again.

“Rigel,” Levian said in chilling monotone. Grim, serious. Then he let go of the button and burst out laughing again, louder. He nearly missed what the man on the other end said next.

“I was not aware of your intentions,” Mammon Rigel said. “The two have crossed into the city. I could not stop them from talking. Expect a scouting party.”

“Very well. Your orders?” Levian replied, tone deep, dark. He started snickering as soon as he let go out of the button. “Tapera,” he said conversationally to Typhos, wiping a tear from his eye and pointing at the transceiver. “Tapera, I swear. It’s the brooding Flock, but not that kind of brooding. Someone should tell them.”

Typhos sighed. Levian laughed.

“What was that?” Levian asked the transceiver casually after missing most of the response.

“Patrol the forest,” Rigel repeated. “You are authorized to wipe out anyone sent beyond view of the Wall.”

You are authorized to, was all Levian managed to mouth at Typhos with his best serious face before the snickering took him again.

“Understood,” Levian said deeply. He nodded several times to himself as if it were the most important order ever, grinning.

“What of Rhea?” Rigel asked. The Elite’s joyous expression fell.

“Rhea is here,” Levian answered seriously. “I am sure of it.”

“I will leave that matter to you,” Rigel said. Static noise hung for a moment. He was not finished. “I have chosen a date.”

Levian’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Before the shipment, even? The trickster Mammon Rigel was a confident one, it seemed. Comes with being an Elite, I suppose, Levian thought idly. I should know.

“Listening,” Levian said.

“The twenty-second. Twenty days from today. In the early hours, before sunrise. Boreag will deliver the shipment by then. That is when we will execute the plan. The Wall shall open to all. The day of Jester.”

You will support Mammon’s plan, Emperor Munitio had said to he and Asmari Capella both. The plan to crush the infernal gatekeep from inside and out. The soldiers of the Shield. The assassins of the Left Hand. The infiltrators of the Silhouette. A threefold attack. Jester.

“Prepare accordingly,” Rigel said. “No more communications unless there is a dire emergency. Rigel, out.”

“Vega, out.”

The candle flame danced across Levian’s blue stare until he stood. He paced toward the hearth, deep in thought. Neither small nor large flame could not melt that icy stare.

The hearth’s mantel was empty, save for a gourd too small to be of any real use other than perhaps as an old-fashioned coingourd. It had a pattern unlike those he had seen in Vega or Munitio or anywhere else he had visited, naturally decorated with tendrils of bright and dark violet coiling out from the top in random directions. That cap’s carving… was it the tropicbird, Phaethon? The trinket of a long-dead nobleman, then. In any case, the gourd could not hold his attention, and so he turned back to his thoughts.

Too long. Too long Mirastelle existed. The country born to oppose the Empire, the country that traded desperate blows to score an undeserved truce nine years past.

Finally, it would all fall. And it would begin with that traitor’s haven.