Northern Izod Desert.

The battle was all but won.

The Heilong Patriarch stood with his lieutenants around a hidebound roundtable. One grimy lantern hung above them, swaying gently in the humid air. It threw sickly yellow light on a mess of maps, all littered with flags marking out the battlefield ahead.

Outside, there were three divisions of archers. There were two fleets of Azcan’s most fearsome airships, monstrosities of plates and smoke which dwarfed the clouds in the sky. There were thousands of men bearing Azcan steels which gleamed like slicked blood in the ruddy dusk sun.

All waiting at the ready. Waiting for the Patriarch’s orders.

The Patriarch squinted out the tent flaps. In the far distance, a curl of pale smoke rose above the camps of his enemy. Even from here, the Patriarch made out torn-up tents and burnt-down stables, courtesy of the last Azcan artillery shelling.

This Ugoc army had less than half their number left. Their air forces, little more than a ragtag bunch of Vordor riders, were crushed by the Azcan fleet. Their foot soldiers rode on beasts—Wyrms and Sandwolves—which broke against the well-oiled machine of the Azcan Army.

This horde of loose tribes, banded together, had wiped out two Oases? The Patriarch could scarcely believe it. Theirs was a savage way of combat and an inferior one, a relic of a cruder time. No match for modern weaponry.

First he’d beaten them back with fire and steel, then chased them hundreds of miles, picking off their squadrons, butchering their beasts in a grueling, moons-long campaign. Now he had them pressed up against a high plateau. He’d run them down at last. And they knew it, too. They’d halted their flight and formed up. It could mean only one thing: they were preparing for one last stand.

The Patriarch had to admit he was pleased. He dared not let down his guard—this was only the Ugoc Fourth Army, after all—but first blood in any war was critical. And first blood was about to go decisively, brutally, to the Azcan.

The true test of the Azcan defenses would be the First Army. They were busy carving a bloody trail across the other Oases.

When they come, thought the Patriarch, mouth twisting in a grim shadow of a smile, we shall be ready for them. We know how to fight them. And more—we know how to destroy them.

“First Leiutenant,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. “Are the preparations done?”

“Aye, sire,” said the Lieutenant. He was bald, and a thick scar cutting across his mouth lent him a perpetual frown. But right now, he was smiling as much as he ever did. “We’re ready. Let us at the savages!”

Patriarch Heilong nodded. “Then sound the first horn. We march when the sun meets the horizon.”

“Aye!” The man gave a salute.

He made his way to the entrance in military march. But as he loosened the strings threw open the leather flaps a blur barreled past him, collapsing to the sands. They all froze. The Patriarch frowned.

It was a messenger—young, grimy, wild-eyed.

This was most unusual. He should’ve announced his presence before entering. And how had he gotten past the guards?

“Sir!” the boy cried, looking up. “You need to see this!”

“Now?” said the Patriarch. “You’ve chosen a most inopportune time, courrier.”

“We think—we think they’ve chosen to surrender!”

That gave them all pause.

“They’ve sent a man—a boy—not sure—very strange,” gasped the messenger. “He’s in between our camps. He came alone—and he’s—he’s—well, we’re not sure what it is he’s doing. We, ah, we think they’ve sent him to negotiate the terms.”

“Hmm.” The Patriarch blinked. “Very well. Take me to him.”

***

The messenger had spoken truly. There, smack-dab between two war camps, was a lone boy. He was not their general. That much was obvious. But he was not even in emissary’s robes—he was dressed in rags.

The Patriarch scratched at his beard. What was this child doing in an army? The army did not admit orphans, or urchins, or stragglers. There were no civilians here. Was this some local, somehow stumbled into conflict? But as far as he knew this zone was uninhabited.

Strange. Very strange.

“To me, my honor guard!” he called. Eight grizzled Earth-Realm warriors decked in full, gem-studded Artifice armors answered his call.

They marched out, silent except for the ringing clanking of metal.

From out here, the Patriarch couldn’t quite make out what it was the boy was up to. But as he got close, as he crested a dune, he saw. And it only perturbed him more.

The boy knelt at a grave.

He must’ve been at it for a while. It was almost complete. A loose ditch, small enough to fit a child. At its head stood a single flower, its stem vibrant green, its silvery petals brushed with snow-white flecks. The Patriarch had never seen such a thing in his life.

To his side, the First Leiutenant’s brow squinted.

“Don’t,” grunted the man. “Could be a trap.”

But the Patriarch couldn’t tear his eyes from the scene. There was something so arresting, so immediate, so peculiar. It called to him. He took another step, almost trancelike.

“Milord?” said his First Leiutenant.

“Your paranoia clouds your reason, Etho,” muttered Patriarch Heilong. “Do you think a child on his knees can threaten me? Truly?”

The man jerked his head. “Just a precaution. Why even bother with this? Can’t we just wipe them out? A few well-placed airstrikes should do it.”

“Because we need not be savages,” sighed the Patriarch. “Perhaps they do intend to surrender. Let us hear what the boy has to say.”

***

The boy was small, thin, plain-faced, with short black hair like trimmed grass. There was not a single memorable feature on him except his eyes. They were big, and round, and full of tears, and under them were circles so dark they nearly seemed to be bands of rotted skin. He was kneeling by the grave, wracked with gasping sobs, tears trickling down his cheeks. He must’ve been here a while. Hours, maybe.

And the Patriarch didn't know what to do. His lieutenants looked to one another, baffled. Here they were, decked in full plate—but where was the battle? Where were the negotiators? Where was the trap? The Patriarch had half-expected the ground to erupt under his feet, or perhaps a volley of hidden archers might pepper them with bolts. Nothing of the sort happened. They were alone: nine of the Desert’s finest warriors, and one sobbing boy.

Not a Ugoc warrior. Not a shaman. Not a negotiator. Just, inexplicably, a boy in the middle of no-where.

It made no sense. And yet there it was.

"Ho, Ugoc warrior! What have you got for us?" roared the First Lieutenant. The Patriarch almost yanked the man's hair out.

"What are you doing?" he hissed. "Were you recently struck on the head with a blunt object?!"

The boy's head jerked up. Tears still stained his eyes. He looked slowly about him, soaking in the sight of the eight armored men. "W-What?" he croaked, swallowing. It was clear he hadn't a clue what was happening.

The First Lieutenant's grimaced. His hand drifted to the hilt of his battle-ax. It never got there. The Patriarch’s grip held it firmly in place. A back-and-forth shot between them in a glance:

Have you gone mad? Put that thing away! Ugoc Warrior, my behind! It’s a child, for Saint’s sake! A confused, grieving child!

The Lieutenant wrinkled his nose. It’s a distraction, is what it is. I don't trust it. I say chop him down and be done with it.

Absolutely not. Stand down. I will handle this.

His Lieutenant rolled his eyes, but backed off. Floor’s yours.

Feeling silly, the Patriarch knelt down by the boy. Their eyes met.

“I’ve felt it too, you know,” said the Patriarch softly.

“Huh?” croaked the boy.

“My first was my father. A champion duelist. Chouzu of Steel, they said, for his enemies could not so much as scratch him.” The Patriarch was happy to see he’d snagged the boy’s attention. At least the child had stopped crying—for now. He stared up with those big, watery, curious eyes.

“He was a big man. Laughed big, lived big, loved big. Then one duel, he got caught clean.”

The Patriarch shook his head. “Spear through the eye. Gone. Like that. Probably didn’t even feel it. I still remember his face, frozen in that moment—the look of utter shock to him. And I remember feeling that way, too, as I knelt by his grave…” He felt a lump in his throat. “He was the first of many. What I’m saying is, child—I know. Truly, I know. And I’m sorry.”

The boy sniffled. “D-did it get any easier?”

The Patriarch thought about lying. Then he sighed. “No. But you do become better at bearing it.”

The boy went back to crying. The rest of them stood there, awkward, baffled, waiting.

The First Lieutenant threw up his hands. So? What now?

The Patriarch held up a hand. One minute. He mouthed his next words. The Ugoc are trapped. We've got time to spare.

The Lieutenant rolled his eyes, but he still went back to his place. The rest of the honor guard glanced at one another, shrugging. The Patriarch’s off on one of his whims again, said their looks. But Heilong didn’t care. They were army men, but they could still have a damned heart, couldn’t they?

It took another few minutes for the boy’s sobbing to stop.

“You know, it isn’t the first time for me, either,” the boy said at last, looking up at the Patriarch. His laugh was shaky, choked-up. “But each time seems as hard as the first.”

The Patriarch shook his head. He didn’t know what to say. He settled on, “I…yes. But there is nothing for it, I fear…” He sighed. “Why did you come here, child?”

If he didn’t ask it, the First Lieutenant might strangle him. He could feel the man’s gaze boring a hole in his back.

The boy blinked. He seemed befuddled. “I came to mourn.”

The Patriarch looked back to his exasperated Lieutenants, and shrugged. The First Lieutenant pinched his nose. “We’re done here. It’s smoke and nothing. Just some dumb, lost kid. Saints! And to think we’d geared up for a Ugoc surrender!”

He barked a laugh. Then he squinted. “Hey, kid—if you want to live, you have less than an hour to get the hells out of here! Can’t you see this is a battlefield?”

“What my friend means is,” said the Patriarch, shooting the Lieutenant a glare, “this is no place to grieve. Let’s get you back to your family. From where do you hail? A nomadic tribe? Or do you dwell on the plateau?”

The child’s gaze met the sands.“My family’s all dead,” he said in a whisper.

The Patriarch stilled. Hells. “All?”

“Yes,” sniffed the boy. “Ma, Pa, little Maia…I miss them.” Somehow the boy still hadn’t seemed to grasp the severity of the situation. His lips trembled as he spoke. “I see them. I see Pa’s big smile drawn in the stars. I see Ma’s face in the crags of the moon. Sis loved to splash about in mountain springs. Sometimes I pretend every sinkhole is a spring pond. If I close my eyes, and wish hard enough, maybe she’ll come out, and throw water in my face, and laugh that tinkling laugh of hers, and … ” He swallowed. “Well. It doesn’t help any, does it?’

“By Jani’s ashes!” The First Lieutenant threw up his hands. “Must we put up with this wyrmshit sob story any longer? We ought to be prepping for war!”

“Etho,” said the Patriarch, rounding on his Lieutenant. “Shut the fuck up.”

Something in his face must’ve gotten through to the man. Etho shut the fuck up.

Sighing, the Patriarch turned back to the boy. He laid a hand on the boy’s bony shoulder.

“No, child,” he said, in as tender a voice as he could muster. “Don’t scratch at the wound. Let the passing of time bind it up. It is the only way to stop the bleeding. It hurts, true enough, but it is the only way forward. We do what we must.”

A silence.

Then the boy sniveled. “Yes. Yes, I suppose so.” With the back of his hand, he wiped at his cheek; it left a smudge of thick grime where the tears had been. “I think…I think I’m okay, now. Thank you.”

“Good.” The Patriarch stood. He held out his hand, smiling. “What is your name, child?”

And the boy smiled back. It was a sad smile, true. But it was also lighter, somehow. There was a hint of whimsy in it. It was the sort of smile you give when you're asked about a secret.

"I go by many names," he said softly. "Which would you prefer?"