Prince Among Paupers

Sentinel Lieutenant Walter Otarion loved cake. He knew he shouldn’t since health and fitness were paramount to his job, but he really loved cake. When he saw the little tin of chocolate cupcakes Sergeant Ironsi and Senior Scout Velds procured for him, he lifted his eyes to the ceiling in a silent prayer of thanks.

Returning from two years of patrol was a lot of work. First, the unit had to check in with their legion’s office. Once they were accounted for and the master file submitted, there was a medical examination (an extensive one in his case), weapon and equipment checks, and a debriefing. Every unit was part of a company, a company part of a task force, and a task force part of a legion. The captain of their company should’ve debriefed him on the two-year mission log, even the last three months of Major Regis’ command, but the summons never came.

When he inquired with his captain and the woman saw him standing in the doorway of her office, she looked ready to order him out and slam the door in his face. “Uh, ma’am? The debriefing?”

“Colonel Stackhouse signed off on your unit’s mission log.”

Otarion stared at her, uncomprehending. “But he’s not our colonel.”

The captain shot up from her desk and waved him out. “I don’t know what you did out there,” she said in a tight whisper. “It’s beyond my rank and clearance level. I shouldn’t even be talking to you about it. Just go home. You look like you were on the wrong side of a bullfight.”

Then she really did slam the door in his face.

Within that same hour, a message from Regis appeared on his communicator as a missive to the entire unit.

As a reminder, our operations in the field are to remain strictly confidential. Do not discuss anything with friends, family, or spouses. If you are asked about your time on patrol, your answer must be general, succinct, and non-descriptive. Do not even mention my attachment to the unit. If any Sentinel fails to adhere to these parameters, it will result in their transfer out of the unit and potential dismissal from the corps. If higher-ranking personnel request information, direct them to me or Colonel Stackhouse.

With nothing further to do, Otarion returned home.

Home was a loose term for the tiny apartment. It was only two rooms, the living space and a bedroom. There was a couch against the far wall with a bookshelf and radio, and in the corner was a kitchen the size of a thimble. His bedroom was just as small with barely enough room to fit a bed and lamp table. Through his time on patrol, his parents kept the place up and used it as a pseudo vacation destination. There was even a note on his bed from their most recent visit.

Hey sweetheart! We know you must be coming home soon. Give us a call as soon as you can. We can’t wait to hear from you!

Love, Mom & Dad.

“Oh, boy,” he muttered. He put away the groceries his comrades brought him, then took a cupcake and icepack, then gingerly lowered himself onto the couch beside the landline. His body was still in immense pain from the beating he’d taken at the hands of the Black-Market thugs, the two cracked ribs being the most excruciating. He set the icepack against his side, wincing from the added pressure, and picked up the phone. His parents didn’t have a phone of their own at the plantation, so he called the estate itself. The connection failed on the first attempt, but the second rang successfully.

“Hello?”

“Madam? It’s Walt Otarion.” The woman’s exclamation was so loud he jerked the receiver away from his ear. “Walt! Are you well? I’ve heard Sentinels lose at least twenty pounds on patrol and you’re already pretty skinny, but how are you?!”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I only lost ten pounds. Are my parents around at all?”

“I’ve already rung for them. I can’t believe it’s been two years since you were sent off on patrol. You know you are more than welcome to come visit any time. Everyone misses you terribly.”

“I hope to make it out for the holidays. How have my parents been? If I ask them, they’ll just tell me everything’s fine even if one of them is dying.”

The Madam hesitated. “They haven’t told you anything?”

The cupcake in his hand was immediately forgotten. He set it aside. “No. Is something wrong?”

“Oh dear… your father has been very unwell over the last couple of months. He’s easily exhausted and fainted twice out in the fields. We hoped a couple weeks at your apartment would help him get some rest, but his condition hasn’t improved. My physician came out yesterday to see to him, and he believes it’s his heart.”

Otarion pitched the bridge of his nose and swallowed hard. His family had a history of weak hearts, and the kind of surgery needed to replace valves and arteries was well outside the capabilities of any hospital in Oras. Not that his family was in any position to afford such intensive surgery. He would have to submit leave time immediately, but he was a mess of bruises and fractured bones. If he returned to Oras like this, there would only be questions he couldn’t answer.

“T-thank you, Madam, I don’t know what to say. I’ll pay for the appointment myself. Just send me the bill. Did the physician say how long he might have?”

“Don’t even think about it. Your family has served this estate for over twenty years, and your parents are some of my best workers. I’ll be damned if I don’t help, but,” her tone grew somber, “he’s not expected to last very long. His blood pressure was over one-sixty at the appointment.”

Otarion’s throat tightened. Leave was never guaranteed. Some things made it extremely likely, family crisis being one of them, but with the sensitive nature of their assignment and the uncertainty of the last three months, hope was a dangerous thing. “Thank you for telling me. Will you keep me updated? I don’t know when I’ll be reassigned, but you can always reach me through the legion’s office.”

“I will. I think I hear your mother now, and don’t tell her I told you. She’ll get upset.”

There was a long pause, then she said a quick goodbye and handed the phone off. “Sweetheart?”

“Hi, mom.”

“Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice! How are you? I hope you didn’t lose too much weight.”

“No, just ten pounds.”

“Good! Now, I want to hear everything. It’s been six months since we’ve talked and that is far too long.”

It was not an easy conversation. Otarion fumbled through the last six months and did his best to fudge through the last three. Normally, he wouldn’t mention girls, but the date with Yulia was the best distraction he had to cover up his hazy account.

“Of course, she took a shine to you. You’re a handsome young Sentinel Lieutenant! I hope you got her number before you were shipped to the Dark Harbor.”

“Yes, mom.”

“What happens now that you’ve finished patrol?”

“Well, there’s some training we need to catch up on. A couple of my Sentinels are due for promotion and will probably be transferred out. I’m going to submit some leave time to see you guys. Is dad there too?”

“He’s resting. He wasn’t feeling so well this last week, but I’ll make sure to tell him everything.”

Otarion clenched his teeth. His father wasn’t even strong enough to come to the phone. “Okay, I’ll call again soon.”

“I love you, honey. Keep us posted!”

The line broke. Otarion hung up the phone and dropped his face in his hands. “Oh, God, just let me see him one more time.”

Too anxious to eat, he returned the cupcake to the tin and went to bed.

The next few days were brutal. The bruises were beginning to fade, but sleep was difficult with his chest in such pain. Technically, he had work to do, mostly administrative, but Major Regis insisted on doing the work himself.

“Just have your communicator close at hand in case I need something from you.”

“Are you sure, sir? I’m fine.”

“I’ve had broken ribs before, Otarion. I’ll take care of the paperwork. Stay home and rest.”

By the seventh day, the bruises were on their way to fading, and that Friday, Otarion felt well enough to report for duty. He showered, washing as gently as he could, changed into uniform, and slipped on his officer’s cap.

The city of Capolio was something of a paradox. It was sleek with high-rises and cars, wide-open parks, and pedestrian promenades. It was the only place of its kind in all of the Dark Harbor. This was the home of the Sentinels. The academy was here, training facilities, the Triumvirate Factions’ Ministry of Defense, and further up the coast was the most heavily defended citadel in all the Factions worlds—Secra Torre. It was the seat of the high command and back when the Azerie were still in active service, it was where they dealt out judgment from their courtrooms.

What made the city a paradox was fifty miles away from the metropolis and the world was as wild and dangerous as the deepest frontier. It was a running joke that of the two worlds Eldrin colonized for themselves, they happened to pick the most hostile. Otarion figured it had more to do with nature. An Azerie’s authority as a judge was powerful and important, but their command over the elements was what lent to their legendary status. As Elementists, it made sense they handpicked the two worlds with the most dramatic natural wonders.

Otarion paused at the gatehouse of the legion’s complex and presented his ID. The Sentinel guard took it. “One moment, sir.” He disappeared back inside the gatehouse and returned with a message card. “This is for you, sir. We were instructed to present it to you when you returned to duty.”

Otarion frowned as he tore open the missive. It was from Colonel Lambert, the legion’s commanding officer. Do not report to your captain upon your return. Come directly to my office.

A sense of dread settled over him. This didn’t sound good. He made his way to the legion’s office. The legion’s complex was toward the outskirts of the city. Each legion had its own complex which consisted of barracks, both for officers and enlisted, a mess hall, commissary, training facilities, chapel, and parade grounds. It was the home base of eight thousand Sentinels, and it was so huge it added another twenty minutes to his commute to walk from the gate to the offices.

Along the walkway, he spotted several of his Sentinels in the middle of a run. Sergeant Ironsi caught sight of him and issued a sharp command. The group halted and saluted.

Otarion saluted back. “Morning, Ironsi.”

“Sir,” Ironsi lowered his hand. “Did you get your orders?”

“Yes. I’m headed over now.”

Ironsi glanced around and said in a lowered voice, “Did Major Regis tell you anything?”

Otarion’s eyes narrowed. “No?”

“Okay, on paper you are still our commanding officer. The only ones who know about Regis are those of us in the unit and Colonel Lambert. Everyone else thinks we were recalled from Anaconda three months early for training.”

Otarion stared at the sergeant in disbelief. “How…? Wait, how did Regis sign the unit’s paperwork?”

“With numbers. I have no idea what they mean, but the colonel must’ve because he accepted it.”

“Where’s Regis?”

“The citadel. The high command called him there this morning.”

Otarion ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “Okay. What’s on the schedule then?”

“Training. I’ve been keeping up pretenses by taking the unit on training exercises. We’re doing drowning rescues today.”

That kind of exercise was out of the question with broken ribs. “I’ll watch from the shore. Let me report in and I’ll meet up with you.”

He quickened his pace for the legion’s office. It was nothing elaborate. The lobby was empty but for the administrative staff. Otarion climbed the steps to the top floor which led to a deserted hallway. Colonel Lambert’s office was at the very end guarded by an aide scribbling through a stack of paperwork at her desk. Otarion presented the message card.

“Wait here,” she said, and she quietly entered the colonel’s office. A moment later, the door was opened, and she waved him inside. He stepped before the colonel’s desk and saluted. “Lieutenant Walter Otarion reporting as ordered, sir.”

The colonel stood and returned the gesture. “Welcome back, Lieutenant Otarion. Have a seat.”

Otarion took the chair across from him. “Sir, I met my sergeant on the way in. He said Major Regis signed all the paperwork with numbers?”

The colonel sat forward with an inscrutable look. “When it comes to Major Regis, don’t ask questions. Just assume everything he does is permissible.”

Otarion’s mouth dropped a few centimeters. Never in all his time as a Sentinel had those words been uttered about anyone. It felt inherently wrong. Corrupt. “…Sir?”

“You heard me. Now, about your unit, I’ve gone through your Sentinels and interviewed them these last few days. They’re an excellent team, the best in the legion. Regis and I have made a few adjustments and I’ve signed off on the promotions of most of them. You’ve been promoted to captain per Regis’ request.”

Otarion balked. “Captain? Regis made me a captain? How is that possible?”

“Remember, don’t ask,” the colonel warned. “You did an outstanding job on your patrol even before he joined your unit. Plus, by promoting you to captain you are eligible for a higher-level clearance. This dossier,” he tapped a file on his desk, “is everything we have on Santos and his operations. You’re to memorize it.” He pulled out another file from his desk. “This is the unit’s new master file with every Sentinel under your command. Both of these are to be kept in a locked cabinet when you are not using them. Your new office is three doors down on the left. If you have questions, it’s best to direct them to Regis.”

Sensing dismissal was imminent, Otarion sat forward. “Sir, a question?”

His eyes narrowed. “Is it about Regis?”

“No.”

“Then go ahead.”

“I submitted a request for leave a few days ago. My father is sick, and the physician thinks it’s his heart. They’re not sure how much longer he’ll have. Do you know if it’s been processed at all?”

Colonel Lambert’s expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that. I would bring it up with Regis. He’s been signing off on leave requests. Do you have any other questions?”

Oh, he had plenty, but questions on Regis were barred. He would have to wait until he could confront the major himself. “No, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Otarion saluted his superior, accepted the files, and retreated to his new office. There were two desks, one for himself and one for Regis. Otarion set the files on the unused desk and pulled out his communicator to message Ironsi to proceed without him. Otarion eased himself into the chair, grimacing from the pain in his side, and flipped open Santos’ file.

His criminal record was immense. Three times he’d been charged with poaching, the first account before he reached sixteen. On the third occasion, he’d served four years in jail and another two on parole. His time in jail was extended thanks to two counts of assault. The report only got darker from there. He was suspected of murder, and there was an open arrest warrant for a laundry list of other crimes, collusion being the most prominent after poaching. Colonel Stackhouse’s agents had positively identified him on the scene of three separate markets. From what anyone could tell, the man had no regular haunts, and no one was sure what city or even world he called home.

He was only halfway through the file when Regis returned. The major smiled at the sight of him. “Otarion, I’m glad to see you're recovering. You spoke with Colonel Lambert?”

“Yes, sir. You promoted me?”

“I did.” He set a file on his own desk and removed a small box from the top drawer. “It’s better that you’re a captain. Here, this is for you.”

Otarion swiveled his chair around and accepted the box. When he opened it, he gasped in astonishment. Inside was a small black pouch, and next to it nestled in a foam mold was a blue storage gem. The notecard with it listed its contents.

Sapphire

• Communicator (Level of Clearance—Secret)

• All-terrain wilderness equipment set (Crates-4)

• Paramedic kit (1)

• Saber (1)

• Combat knife (1)

• Light mail set (1)

• Heavy armor (Half set)

• Duty utility belt (1)

Regis placed a hand on his shoulder. “Think of it as an apology gift for the trouble you ran into with the Black Market.”

“Sir, I… there is no way I’m high enough rank to carry this.”

“You’re not, but I pulled some strings to see to it you received your own. Are you familiar with the rules of storage gems?”

“No, sir, I’ve never been trained on them.”

Regis took out the notecard. “Storage gems are finite in size. Each one has approximately sixteen hundred available cubic feet. If you put more than that in the gem, it will break and anything inside will be lost. Nothing living can go inside that gem, no animals, not even plants. It will simply fail to accept them.” Regis withdrew his own storage gem. “Now, hold yours up to the light. In the center, you should see a black dot.” Otarion removed the sapphire and did as he asked. The gem was of perfect purity, so much so the single black dot in the center was all the more obvious. “That is the indicator something is inside the gem. When the gem is empty, the dot will turn milky white. To remove something from it, you simply have to hold it out in front of you, picture very clearly what you’re trying to draw out, and wave your hand over the top.”

Otarion watched as Regis did exactly that. Yellow smoke oozed from the gem and Regis’ saber appeared on the desk in front of him. Otarion looked down at his notecard and settled on the communicator. Picturing it in his mind, he waved his hand over the sapphire. Blue smoke materialized from the stone and the communicator appeared on the desk.

“That’s not so hard,” Otarion said.

“No. Just keep it quiet you have one. They are extremely valuable. The pouch is designed to be hidden on the inside of your belt, but if you are in a position where enemy forces may take you captive, there is a hidden compartment in the heel of your new boots. Don’t mention it to anyone, this method has so far gone undiscovered by our enemies.”

He nodded. Regis took his place at his desk. Otarion turned back to Santos’ dossier and worried the bottom of his lip. He wanted very badly to ask Regis about Colonel Lambert’s comment and just how he’d managed to get him promoted to captain. It just didn’t sit right with him. Then, in a flash, remembered his leave request. It was safer territory to launch into such a discussion. He swiveled back around. “Sir, I don’t know if you saw, but I submitted a request for leave. My father’s heart is failing, and they don’t know how much longer he might have.”

Regis looked up in surprise. “When was it submitted?”

“The day after we got back.”

He pulled a file from his desk drawer. “What kind of heart trouble is he having?”

“I wasn’t told very much, but his blood pressure was over one sixty when the physician saw him the other day. He fainted twice in the fields, and he’s very low on energy. He… couldn’t come to the phone when I talked with my mother.”

He removed a paper from the file and stood. “I can’t grant leave of absence right now, but there is something else I can do. Continue analyzing Santos’ dossier.”

Otarion opened his mouth to ask what he intended to do, but Regis was already gone. Frustrated, he returned to his work. He didn’t know what else Regis could do, but at this point, he knew better than to hazard a guess. It would most likely be wrong.

When he finished with Santos’ dossier, he pulled out the unit’s new master file. He flipped to the first page and scanned through the roster. The unit was cut to twenty-six enlisted Sentinels and all of them had been promoted to the next rank up. Their medic was replaced by Senior Medic Ian Helmar. Otarion brows crept further up his forehead as he read through the rest. Archmage McCrain was now listed as a full and permanent member of the unit. Their equipment allotment was doubled, and the funds available to them were tripled. In the top left corner, the unit’s company, task force, and legion designations were blacked out. The unit was completely and totally detached. On the signature page was the series of numbers Ironsi mentioned.

The sense of unease returned with a vengeance.

“What the hell,” he muttered.

There was a knock on the doorframe, and Otarion stirred from his thoughts. Archmage McCrain was in the doorway. “Ah, Captain Otarion, I was told you’d come back. How are you feeling?”

“Better. McCrain, I didn’t think Archmages were ever made full members of units, but the file lists you as one.”

McCrain glanced down the hall, then shut the door behind him. “It’s a favor to my king but keep quiet about that.”

Otarion stared. “Wait, your king assigned you to us?”

A bitter smile crossed the Archmage’s expression. “Yes. He has a deep desire to see the Auctioneer swing from the gallows. Imagine what it’s like for my people. Since I was a child, two of my cousins have gone missing, either sold into slavery or killed, we don’t know. Archmages should technically live to be one-hundred and fifty, but our average life expectancy is in the seventies. As a Sentinel Archmage, I fully expect to be cut down before I reach retirement. Azerie have it worse. Their power over the elements gives them life spans close to three hundred, but their life expectancy is a third of that. The Black Market exacerbates these odds. So yes, this operation means a great deal to my king and all the Triumvirs.”

Otarion sat back in thought. He knew life spans and life expectancies were vastly different for the Archmages and the Azerie Order, but he’d never heard the actual numbers before. It was a bleak statistic. “I’m sorry, McCrain.”

He waved it aside. “It’s life. Listen, I was hoping to talk to the major about a resupply. I need more reagents if I’m going to be with the unit full time.”

Otarion took a pen and notepad. “Write them down. I’ll get them for you.”

“It’s appreciated.” McCrain stooped over the desk as he scribbled out the shopping list. “You know, in my experience, it’s best to leave the games of triumvirs, generals, and Auctioneers well enough alone.”

Otarion scoffed. “Yet you’re king stuck you here with us in a direct attempt to get at the Auctioneer.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m good at avoiding those games,” the Archmage added with a wry smile. “My point is sometimes ignorance is bliss. I wouldn’t dig so much or ask so many questions if I were you.”

“McCrain, doesn’t any of this bother you?”

The Archmage backed away with his hands raised, and a glint of humor was in his eyes. “It’s better just to let the players play their game. We’re pawns, rooks, knights, bishops, even kings and queens, but we’re not the ones moving the pieces. I have my sovereign’s support. That’s good enough for me.”

Major Regis did not return to the office, and by end of the workday, Otarion was in too much pain to care. He was just glad it was the weekend. Most of Saturday was spent laying on the couch listening to the radio, sleeping, and drawing in his sketchbook. Ironsi, Velds, and even McCrain came over for dinner, and Otarion was glad of their company. As battered as he was, it was a lonely existence to not join his Sentinels on the training courses or the practice mats.

Sunday morning, before dawn, his phone rang. He ignored it and attempted to go back to sleep. If it were Sentinel business, it would come through his communicator. The phone rang a second time. Then a third. Otarion swore and gingerly eased himself out of bed. He caught it on the last ring. “Yes?”

“Oh sweetheart,” were the only words he could make out from his mother’s tearful greeting.

“Mom? What’s wrong! Is it Dad?!”

“Oh, he’s amazing, love! He’s doing great, I-I can’t believe it. How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“The Sentinel doctor you sent. He was amazing. The procedure only took a couple of hours yesterday, and this morning, your father was just—Oh honey, you saved his life!”

Otarion dropped onto the couch as a terrible chill ran down his spine. This was what Regis had meant? “My God….”

“Sweetheart?”

“I have to go, mom. I’ll call you later today, I promise.” He hung up.

Otarion stared at the wall in shock. All of the last three months, everything Regis had done and said, spun through his mind. He was connected with Colonel Stackhouse and General Jericho, two very powerful and influential Sentinels among the high command. Regis’ attachment to their unit was not punishment but rather a special assignment to gain access to the Black Market’s inner circle. He secured them an in-unit Archmage at the drop of a hat, an Archmage sent by the King of Aeronis himself. Promotions within the corps were based on time and only rarely merit outside of war, and Regis got the entire unit promoted less than a week upon their return home. Now, barely a day after he told Regis about his father, a Sentinel surgeon was portaled to Oras to operate on him.

Major Lambert’s words echoed in his head; when it comes to Major Regis, don’t ask questions. Just assume everything he does is permissible. What kind of major had that kind of power? The answer was so obvious he choked. They didn’t. Regis wasn’t a major.

He was too young to be a colonel or general, but that was assuming he was even a Sentinel. All twelve Azerie were in Eldrin, but that didn’t mean they left the Factions unattended. Was it possible Regis was an agent from the Azerie themselves? Maybe it was higher than even that. Perhaps he was a special assistant or staff member from one of the Triumvirs. He thought back on his conversation with McCrain. The King of Aeronis was extremely invested in their operation.

Otarion blanched at the thought.

There was no higher authority than the Triumvirs. For Soluna, and the majority of the Factions worlds, their Triumvir was Chief Director Darren Ferrante of the Directors’ Assembly. For the Aeronies and the Archmages, it was King Angus IV. For Eldrin and the Sentinel Corps, it was a little more complicated. Technically, their Triumvir was the head of the Azerie Order, but since Eldrin’s civil war that position was split between two, Azerie Alexander of Light and Azerie Ramses of Light. How they struck such a fine-tuned balance of power was a wonder, but they had for the last thirty years.

These Triumvirs were the heads of state, and Regis could easily be one of their agents. It would explain his immense authority and the nature of his special assignment. The Triumvirs hated the Black Market. It was a persistent, gruesome stain on their otherwise strong confederacy. The Archmages suffered from abduction and slavery, the Azerie Order was horrifically scarred from the assassinations during the April Murders and later the failed Salikoth Raid, and the Directors’ Assembly was left to shore up the wounded confederacy. They wanted the Auctioneer and Black Market destroyed, and who better to trust with such a crucial assignment than their own agents?

Otarion stood. It was time to get some answers. He took a few painkillers and threw on his uniform. He knew Regis’ habits well enough to know he would be awake. Despite the pain in his chest, he hurried to the legion’s complex. One the way, he called Velds. His Senior Scout answered with a groggy, “Yes, sir?”

“Velds, where is Regis normally at this hour?”

“In bed,” she muttered. “Sir, it’s not even seven, and it’s a Sunday.”

“Where will he be at seven?”

“Why would I know?”

“Because I know you’ve been keeping tabs on him even though I told you not to,” he snapped. “Where is he?”

There was a long pause, then Velds sighed in defeat. “He’ll be at the chapel. He likes to go on Sunday morning right around sunrise. What’s wrong?”

Quickly, he explained his father’s miraculous recovery and his resulting conclusions. Velds listened intently through the account. Once he was finished, she said very seriously, “Otarion, stop what you’re doing. If he’s a Triumvir’s agent, do not unmask him if you care about your career.”

“Velds, in the week I’ve been away the unit’s been promoted, detached from the legion, McCrain has been assigned to us indefinitely, Regis practically has carte blanche. Colonel Lambert told me point-blank not to question it, but this has corruption written all over it. I’m not about to stand by and let our unit be disgraced this way.”

“He just saved your dad’s life. Is that really corruption?”

“Yes! Well…,” he rolled his eyes. “Velds, transparency matters. If Regis isn’t a major, but he’s making decisions as an officer and influencing other Sentinels, that’s unacceptable and a huge problem.”

“Sir, if it gets the Auctioneer and his lieutenants strung up from the gallows, does it matter?”

“Yes.”

She swore under her breath. “Alright, what if I told you he really does have the authority to do everything he’s done? That he hasn’t broken a single law or protocol except for being improperly uniformed?”

Otarion stopped dead in his tracks. “You know who he is?”

“Yes, and he made me swear not to say a word to anyone, so you’re not getting any more from me. Just, sir, it’s your head if you choose to confront him, but he’s the furthest thing from corrupt. Please just leave it alone. He’ll tell you in his own time.”

Otarion hung up on her. That time was now.

The sun was just beginning to rise when Otarion reach the legion’s complex. Every legion had its own chapel. Theirs was on the far corner of the complex. It was made of chiseled white stone and pinewood with massive windows offering unbroken views of the east and west with a latticed skylight overhead. It was a design adopted from their Azerie commanders. For them, there was no better way to connect with God than through nature.

Otarion slipped inside with a handful of other Sentinels and scanned the sanctuary. The pews were positioned with benches facing the windows as well as the front alter. At this hour, only a few were occupied as Sentinels spoke with chaplains or privately meditated. Regis was seated toward the front looking out the eastern windows. His eyes were closed and head bowed, and Otarion felt a twinge of guilt for intruding on his solitude. Silently, he wove through the pews and approached.

“Sir?”

Regis started and his hand dropped to the knife on his belt before. Anxiety and anger flashed across his face, and in the same second his expression turned rigidly guarded. “Otarion, don’t ever do that again,” he quietly warned. “What is it?”

“I got a call from home.”

He glanced to the Sentinels nearest them and, assured they were too far away to hear, gestured for him to sit. Otarion joined him. “How was your father’s surgery?”

“Sir, you saved his life. My mother was in tears when she called.” Otarion stifled a laughed and shook his head. “Permission to speak freely?”

The barest hint of apprehension lit behind his eyes. “Only if you don’t ask how I did it.”

“Agreed.”

“You may speak freely.”

Otarion braced himself. “I don’t think you’re a major or a Sentinel. In the last week alone you’ve done things no major would have any authority to do. I spoke with one of our Sentinels and they begged that I not call it out, but, sir, the last three months, especially the last week, have the hallmarks of corrupt practices. These things just shouldn’t be possible.”

“You mean Velds.”

“One of our Sentinels.”

“Velds,” he confirmed. “Otarion, if there is one rule I’ve broken, it’s being improperly uniformed. If it bothers you that much, I will organize a call with General Jericho this morning to confirm that everything I’ve done and will do are entirely legitimate. He won’t like you wasting his time, but he’ll do it if I ask.”

Otarion gaped at him in incredulity. “Do you see what I mean? No major should be able to make General Jericho, the head of the Sentinel Corps, do anything.”

“And if I said my cover is a matter of national security interests?”

“You told Velds.”

“She discovered it on her own.”

Otarion scowled. “Sir, we’re facing the Black Market itself, the Auctioneer. I won’t be the last Sentinel in our unit to suffer at its hands. Help me trust you, because someday soon I might have to order my Sentinels to die for this assignment. I’ll do it, so help me, but only if you have the authority to ask that of me.”

“Loyalty demanded is useless to me.”

Otarion straightened. “You saved my father. You have my loyalty. All I’m asking is for proof of authority.”

Regis sat back against the pew with his arms crossed and stared out the window. The view was blinding with the sun shining directly in their eyes though the major didn’t seem to mind. “Let me tell you a story. There was once a young boy unloved by his mother and was given away to a powerful man, a Triumvir. This Triumvir mentored him in the ways of statecraft, strategies and tactics, law, even foreign relations, but more than anything he taught him love, mercy, valor,” Regis’ expression darkened with a bitter frown, “and the cold realities of what it meant to serve the confederacy. And this young man served, year in and year out. Sometimes with the Sentinels, sometimes with our agents on foreign soil, and sometimes on the other end of a negotiation table with ambassadors. In everything he did he followed one key principle; is what I am doing right by God and right for those I serve?”

Regis stared at the sun without blinking. Otarion sat stock still, his sense of triumph at being right smothered by the equal trepidation of it. He’d expected Regis to be a staff member or personal assistant, not a Triumvir’s adoptive son. “…And?” he pressed.

Regis turned to him with an earnest smile. “Otarion, if that man were to groom a selected group of Sentinels for an operation so difficult and so dangerous the Triumvirs would trust it to no one but one of their own choosing, would you follow him?”

Otarion averted his gaze as he considered the question. It was a terrible gray area. As a Sentinel, few outside the corps could order him or his unit to do anything. Regis was not a Sentinel. He was a government official, a bureaucrat. Yet, if the Triumvirs themselves placed him here with General Jericho and the high command’s blessing, then perhaps that was enough. A thin smile touched his lips as a familiar thought crossed his mind; there were worse men to serve. This bureaucrat earned the unit’s loyalty and respect, dismantled a terrorist cell, was as honest with his failings as he was with his victories, and had given Otarion’s father a second lease on life. That and the promise to the end of the Black Market was on the table. Regis wasn’t a Sentinel, he never would be, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a worthy man to serve under.

“Yes, sir.”

Regis turned to face the sun again and seemed to relax a little. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like wearing this uniform. I feel like a fraud. You wear it much better than I do.”

Otarion cocked his head to the side. “Sir, what you said about your key principle. It’s flawed. It focuses on everyone but yourself, and that isn’t healthy.”

“No, it’s not,” Regis said, and he stood to leave. “On that note, unless it’s an emergency, the first hour of the day is my time. Don’t interrupt it again.”

Otarion shot to his feet. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”

Regis’ expression turned sardonic. “No, but it was foolish to confront me so rashly. Others might’ve seen you dismissed from service or moved to prison duty on some forgotten outpost for your brashness.”

“You’re not that kind of person. Actually, I don’t think there’s a vindictive bone in your body.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

Regis turned to leave, and Otarion was struck with a thought. He couldn’t quite put his disorganized thoughts and emotions into words, but Regis wasn’t just his commanding officer anymore; he was a friend. Only friends would go out of their way to send a heart surgeon to a rural plantation in Oras. That deserved some measure of repayment.

“Sir?” Regis paused and looked back. “I know it’s your day off, but would you let me take you out to breakfast? You saved my father’s life after all.”

The major’s brows shot up in genuine surprise, and Otarion wonder just what kind of life he had led for such a common courtesy to be so remarkable. A touch of pity crept into his heart at the thought.

“That’s very kind of you, Otarion. I would like that very much.”

He smiled. “My pleasure, sir. Where would you like to go?”