The Core of Love and Lies

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

Many are too young to remember living there, and those born after the evacuation never knew it at all. Parents, grandparents, and great grandparents keep the stories alive, stories from the times before the mountain erupted and the dragons emerged.

For thirty-five years the border has not broken and the fort has not fallen, and for twelve of those years, Marit has ventured into the hills to scavenge, hunt, and explore. Through her monocular, she has watched trees in the Valley grow warped and fast around the bones of those first winged giants, and every year she marks the day that Shrouded Mountain glows a sickly green beneath the corpse of the Colossus that portends the Dragoncoming.

An Imperial Inquest has shaken the council’s confidence and spread doubt among the Paravalley people faster than any disease. The Scale Scarred survivors of the Valley, many Elders among the community, have fallen sick; first a fever, confusion and then a bloody cough. None questioned the need for self-isolation and quarantine measures after the first few deaths, but the relief that came when most stabilized under concentrated care was short-lived when two caretakers from the hospital contracted a fever. The Imperials don’t think it is enough.

Marit casts a glance at her neighbour’s home as she returns from her outing in the hills, sunkissed and sweaty. Five Vanguards stand behind a closed horse-drawn wagon, its driver fidgeting in his seat. The door of the home is open, and as she passes Marit spots the colours of Imperial uniforms just beyond the threshold.

It’s quiet enough that she can hear the murmuring of tense conversation from the road, and as she approaches one of the Vanguard turns in her direction. Under their helmets, she cannot see their faces, but Marit holds an impassive and discerning gaze on them as she cuts through the garden to get to her house.

Marit places her basket, full of fruit and berries, next to the back door and knocks, gathering her bundle of branch cuttings. The door opens.

“Nice haul,” says Reyna, Marit’s older sister by ten years and one of the first babies born after the evacuation. “Did you see the Imperials outside?”

“Hard to miss,” Marit replies, “Heard anything?”

“No, but I saw Father Cyrus and Adem among them.” Reyna takes the basket.

Marit scowls. The venerated Father Cyrus, beekeeper’s son turned dragon slayer, and recently self-appointed intermediary to the Imperial envoys is ever-riding the coattails of his life’s one heroic act, and ever-working to continue living up to it.

“Help me with the grafting?” Marit asks.

“If I’m done packing the healer’s order in time.”

Marit gives her a wave as she heads to the potting shed.

Once inside, she drops her cuttings on the workbench and slips off her pack, leaving it on the shelf by the door before pulling up her stool. The work is automatic in a pleasant way, but Marit doesn’t get to fall into the near-meditative quality of it before sudden screams break the quiet and drive Marit from her seat.

Plying her hatchet from a stump, Marit rushes through the garden, rounding the house to find the source of the disturbance.

The screams belong to Mother Detra, who is angrily weeping before the Imperial envoys who seem only inclined to prevent her from getting by. Father Cyrus and his son Adem are by her side and Marit grips her hatchet tighter when the older man reaches out to restrain her when she tries again to pass the envoys.

Her sister’s hurried footsteps approach from behind her.

“What’s going on?” Reyna asks in a hushed tone.

“Nothing good,” Marit replies.

“He is not sick!” Detra cries, near to pleading. “You cannot do this, he’s not sick!”

Marit feels her face grow hot as Patron Eira is escorted from his home. He is dressed in quarantine shrouds, held tightly by the arms by two Vanguards who barely let the Elder’s feet touch the stairs as they take him to the waiting wagon.

Reyna stifles a gasp. “I can’t watch.”

“So go back inside,” Marit says. She goes.

Detra cries out, breaking away from Father Cyrus and bolting past the envoys toward her grandfather. A waiting Vanguard steps out of formation and Marit flinches as his baton strikes Detra’s face with a crack that sends her sprawling into the dirt.

He raises his arm to strike Detra again.

“Leave her!” Patron Eira begs tearfully, resisting the two guards forcing him along.

“Hey!” Marit hollers stalking forward. Everyone looks over at her.

“How dare you treat this Elder with such indignity!” Marit yells, cheeks flushed and knuckles white on her hatchet. “How dare you strike this woman down!”

Father Cyrus hauls Detra up under the shoulders, finding her mouth and nose bloodied, and quickly passes her off to Adem.

“Weapon!” a Vanguard shouts, hand on his sword, others go for their batons.

Marit scoffs, throwing down her hatchet, stepping closer still.

“What cowards!” she laughs. “Is your armour so weak against the grief of this woman? Weren’t you trained to only strike at someone armed and compelled!”

“Easy, sister, peace!” says Father Cyrus, placatingly, hands outstretched between Marit and the Imperials. “There is no need for extremes.”

“This sickness must be contained!” an envoy barks.

“It is being contained,” growls Marit. “The Scale Scarred have been in isolation for months, families voluntarily report symptoms.”

“Sister, peace,” Father Cyrus says again. “We have kept our community safe for some time, but the Chancellor wants to see stricter protocols in the wake of the caretakers falling sick.”

“If the sickness is worsening, that is a matter for the council and public advisory.” Marit points an accusatory finger at the guard. “Not for soldiers to beat the heads of weeping family!”

“I hear you, sister,” he says, tone soft.

Father Cyrus turns to the Imperials. “Our community understands evolving circumstances and difficult situations, when well informed we acquiesce.”

Marit glares daggers at the offending Vanguard. None move.

Father Cyrus sighs. “Please proceed with Patron Eira’s transfer to Quarantine, I insist that he is made as comfortable as possible.”

They get back to work immediately, moving the old man to the wagon and securing him inside. Marit trudges away to retrieve her hatchet, looking over at Adem who is speaking calmly to Detra, holding a handkerchief to her bleeding nose as she clings to his shirt, still sobbing.

“Roach of a man,” Reyna curses, whipping past Marit with a bowl and rags in hand.

Her sister approaches Adem and Detra, speaking to them both with composed urgency. Reyna hands the bowl to Adem, cradling Detra’s face in one hand and using the other to wipe away the blood with a cold wet rag. Reyna glowers at the Vanguards as the wagon departs before returning her focus to Detra, whom she, along with Adem, brings inside the long way around the house.

Marit stays at the edge of her property until the wagon, Vanguard, and envoys have left, leaving Father Cyrus alone in the quiet street. He straightens out his jacket, brushing off the dust and scowling when he finds smears of blood on it. The older man takes a kerchief from his pocket and wipes his hands, looking over and finding Marit’s scalding glare. She sees a flash of something near derision, ever so briefly, before pride takes over in holding her gaze.

It doesn’t last, he breaks it first, looking up and above Marit’s head.

She looks too, finding Mater Betrys in the window above, staring down at Cyrus with an impassive expression. Marit watches him hold her great-grandmother’s gaze for several long seconds until he turns and walks briskly away toward the town center.

Mater Betrys taps the glass, and the old woman signs to Marit.

“Come up once you finish your tasks.”

She steps away from the window.

—

The stairs are heavy and hollow underfoot as Marit climbs them to the third floor sometime later, clutching her leather field sketchkit in one hand and an apple in the other. Marit knocks when she reaches the landing.

“Come in,” Mater Betrys replies.

She is seated in her easy chair next to the open window, an embroidery project weeks in the making draped over her lap. Her hair went silver just after Reyna was born, merely three weeks after the dragons attacked and the Valley was evacuated. A scar cuts across her face from her right brow, over her nose to the middle of her left cheek, pearly with the soft scales it healed with.

“I brought you an apple,” Marit says, putting her sketchkit on the small table next to Mater Betrys’s chair. “Shall I cut it into slices?”

“Yes, thank you.” Mater Betrys puts her embroidery aside and takes up Marit’s sketchkit, opening it.

“You were successful today,” she says, looking over the page.

“Yes, you were right about following the rock face more closely.” After a moment, Marit brings over a little bowl of apple slices.

“Have some if you want.” She flips a page.

“I ate two while I was out.”

Mater Betrys hums a laugh, glancing up at her great-granddaughter. She taps the page with her index finger, amused by the hastily sketched map littered with shorthand notes and symbols here and there.

“I can’t start a good map without notes and a draft. You know the quality of my work,” Marit says, smiling. It was Mater Betrys who taught her how to draw maps in the first place, seeing how Marit liked to sneak off and go exploring through the town before she was even ten. That needed to be nurtured into something practical, so she’d been taught about plant identification and surveying.

“I do. You have a better eye for these things than me, I think.”

“I don’t see how.”

Mater Betrys chuckles. “I was most motivated by the satisfaction of a complete and thorough map. Not by just love for my people and the land I was surveying.”

“Love?” Marit asks.

“What else motivates someone to challenge an Imperial Vanguardsman?”

“A healthy sense of justice,” Marit replies.

“You like exploring for the chance to discover things that help the community,” Mater Betrys says knowingly. “You found that medicinal root plant up in the hills, from that vagabond’s book you pored over when you were sixteen. You took notes. You remembered it grew in a similar climate in the Northwest.”

“It wasn’t that much of a stretch,” Marit says, blushing.

“My point being: You care, Marit, deeply.” Mater Betrys sighs. “Compared to those whose care is as shallow as the Valley’s blighted river.”

Marit gives her a look. “I knew you’d want to talk about Father Cyrus.”

“I’ve heard whispers the last few weeks that have me worried, Marit,” she says. “Cyrus is up to something.”

A twitch of a smile plays at Marit’s lip. Her great-grandmother has never called the man by his title when she didn’t have to.

She leans forward. “Go on.”

“He visited Patron Eira thrice in the last fortnight, and when I last saw him leave they were arguing.” Mater Betrys sets Marit’s sketchkit aside. “Now Patron Eira has been taken to Quarantine and he is not sick.”

Marit’s skin prickles. “That’s what Detra kept repeating.”

Mater Betrys nods.

“Last week Mother Anis was taken to Quarantine, her father sought counsel with me soon after, expressing his concerns about the situation.”

“She’s the youngest to be quarantined in months,” Marit says.

“Despite not spending much time with her since she began self-isolating, Patron Olin was adamant that Anis was well leading up to her Quarantine.” Mater Betrys’s gaze is heavy as she turns back to the window. “Cyrus spoke to her privately at least twice the week preceding.”

“No way that’s a coincidence,” Marit scoffs.

“I don’t think it is.” A sigh. “With so many of us in isolation, the council is already depleted, and those who remain… they’re afraid. And with how quickly Cyrus fell in with the Imperials…”

Marit shakes her head. “I may not have the ear you do, but I hear the way they whisper. They want to go into the Valley.”

Mater Betrys chuckles. “You don’t have the ear I do,” she says affectionately. “Or at least you kept such observations to yourself. I’ve been piecing this together for a month.”

“You could have mentioned it sooner,” Marit grumbles.

She hums thoughtfully. “I thought we’d have more time. And I didn’t want you distracted.”

“With what?”

“The truth.”

Marit frowns.

“I think I may be Quarantined next,” Mater Betrys says calmly. “The look on Cyrus’s face earlier today, that is a man who is losing his grip on something. I have not stopped giving counsel to our people since we began self-isolating, and I know he doesn’t like that.”

“Why would he care?” Marit asks.

She smiles wryly. “I have not made my disdain for him a secret, and he has never known why.”

“He is an arrogant blowhard who can’t live up to his one act of heroism,” Marit says all in a rush.

Mater Betrys laughs, a warm and hearty chuckle. “An act of heroism that never happened.”

Marit’s mouth drops open.

“You’ll catch flies,” Mater Betrys scolds, reaching over to tap Marit’s chin.

Marit pouts.

“He didn’t kill the Colossus?”

Mater Betrys shakes her head.

“So he’s a fraud, took credit for, wait— did you kill the Colossus?”

A smile. “No. But I was there.”

Marit sighs. “What then?”

“It killed itself,” she says. “The bolt Cyrus fired from the ballista had no part in it.”

Marit jumps up from her chair and begins to pace, expression knit in an anxious frown with her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Surely someone else would’ve seen that,” Marit counters.

Mater Betrys holds out her hand to Marit.

“Let me tell you what I saw.”

Marit takes her great-grandmother’s hand, a tear slipping down her cheek. She never revered Father Cyrus as some did, and she could look past personality flaws when it meant the greater good for their people, but she could not look past their entire recent history being founded on a lie. Marit kneels dejectedly in front of Mater Betrys, who gives her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I left Perrin and Ruben with the other evacuees, we were visiting midland for the day, and I’d never run the distance back to our home so quickly in my life.”

“Why go back?”

“I couldn’t lose my maps,” she says gravely. “I gathered what I could but the way I’d come was swarmed with dragons. So I hid inside the wreck of the old Inland mayor’s house, at the edge of the hill, and crawled to where the wall had been brought down. I could see the battlement from there, the ballista and the fighting in the fields below.”

She pauses and sighs.

“The Colossus had climbed to the mountain peak, its belly was glowing and there was a great rumbling. The smaller dragons were rushing all toward it. I saw one kill the artillerist, swipe him from his post, and saw Cyrus climb up.”

Marit watches Mater Betrys’s gaze grow distant, the stories bringing her back to that day.

“At the searing bright center of the Colossus’s belly was a brilliant blue-green light. And it exploded, just as Cyrus fired the bolt.”

How many times had Marit heard this story? Versions from every survivor, from the plainest to most devastating. Possibly hundreds.

“The burst of energy that followed knocked anyone and anything down all the way to the edge of midland. It threw Cyrus from the platform. Something crashed near him, and another near me. I saw him digging where the thing had landed when a soldier came over to help him— one of Mater Leland’s sons. My ears were ringing and I was very dizzy… I didn’t hear what they said, but I know what I saw. Cyrus stuck his dagger in that man’s belly.”

Marit sucks in a sharp breath. “He didn’t see you?” she asks smally.

Mater Betrys shakes her head. “He was focused on what he’d dug out of the ground beside him. I know we both saw another crash somewhere up on the mountain.”

“What was it?” Marit looks up at her, curiosity piqued despite her woe.

“Once he dug it out he ran away. I didn’t see him again for many days. But I wasn’t thinking about him so much by then.”

The old woman sighs, patting Marit’s hand. “Help me up.”

Marit rises and gives Mater Betrys her arm, helping her across the room to a heavy chest nestled beneath a built-in bookshelf. She opens it and removes a padded leather pouch, clutching it in her hands for a moment before passing it to Marit.

“That is what I found. Go on, open it.”

The slim cord comes undone easily, and out slides a large crystal shard, as dark as moss and a midnight sky. Marit feels over its rough outer curve, unable to fully wrap her fingers around its wedge-like shape.

“The light you saw,” Marit says.

“The old stories say the dragons come from the earth’s core, maybe such creatures have cores of their own,” Mater Betrys says, and shrugs. “Cyrus has one as well, it’s what he killed that soldier to retrieve.”

“What does this mean?” Marit slips the shard back into the leather pouch, handing it back to Mater Betrys. She gently refuses, pushing it back into Marit’s grasp.

“I think making it whole will heal the Valley and the rest of us.”

“What about the piece Cyrus has?”

Mater Betrys returns to her easy chair.

“If you retrieved the remaining piece and brought it back here, we could force his hand; make him reveal his shard and his lies.”

“Retrieve it?” Marit exclaims, “Go into the Valley? How could I get through? The border Marshals have not budged in letting the Inquisitor and the Vanguard through, especially so close to Dragoncoming, the risks would be too high—” Marit freezes, and continues in a whisper. “Cyrus wants Imperial backing to enter the Valley himself to retrieve the core.”

Mater Betrys nods. “And by removing certain obstacles, he can more easily accomplish that. With no Elders to consult, he will be able to convince the council.”

“How do I do it?” Marit asks.

“With this, I hope,” says Mater Betrys, holding up her embroidery.

It’s a map.

Marit puts the pouch down, coming to stand in front of her great-grandmother with a look of awe on her face.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, eyes flickering over the intricate detail. It’s longer than her arm, with use of dyes and different coloured threads to denote different areas of the Valley.

“I will have Reyna apply a beeswax finish and fold it down to a fraction of its size. Though I’m afraid I’ve only been able to include two kilometers worth of knowledge about the Valley’s current terrain into this map. Everything else is thirty-five years out of date.”

“This is incredibly valuable,” Marit says. “And proof yours will always be the better ear. I could never retain such detail from people’s accounts, nor would I have known what to retain.”

Mater Betrys smiles, lowering the map. “I believe the shard aided me in some ways.”

“Oh?”

“The dragon that wounded me was as dazed as I was, swiped me with such a force I’m surprised I had no broken bones. Thankfully I was able to crawl into a small cave while it struggled through the trees after me. I lay bleeding for some time, curled up against the rocks with only my maps and the shard, hours it must have been until night fell. And in that time I was calm, listening to the trickle of water that eventually let me clean the crusted blood from my eyes and led me to a glowing tunnel. I followed it and found my way to the outlands where then I caught up with the other evacuees.”

“You think the shard healed you?”

“I know it did,” Mater Betrys says. “Because those who have sought counsel with me in the years since have had their minds eased, no longer haunted by memories of those early days.”

“It must have kept you safe all these years, kept the sickness at bay,” Marit says, an urgent edge to her tone. “What if parting from it exposes you?”

“I do not think this task will take you longer than a week, and even so, that is a risk I have made peace with and prepared for.”

Marit bites at her knuckle, letting it all sink in.

“I should speak to Lansra at the Chancellor’s office,” Marit says. “She has ears for rumours and strange news. I need to know how soon we’ll need to act.”

“Take the shard with you.”

Marit picks up the pouch and starts for the door.

“Tell mama and Reyna, please. They must know,” she says, looking back at her great-grandmother with a firm gaze.

Mater Betrys nods. “I will.”

Marit sighs. “See you soon.”

—

Reyna’s lively voice reaches Marit’s ears as she slips through the back hallway to the kitchen. She pushes open the swinging door and steps into the room, still clutching the leather pouch, and spots Adem by the door. Marit bristles, noticing several small packages lying half prepared on the table, along with Adem’s satchel.

“Nana needs to see you and Mama, right away,” Marit says, schooling her tone into something impassive.

“This won’t take long,” Reyna replies, reading her sister’s mood.

Marit goes over to her, holding out the leather pouch.

“Will you put this with the vervain?” Marit asks.

“Can’t you get the stool?”

Marit smiles. “Your reach is higher.”

Reyna takes the pouch, slipping it into the deep pocket of her smock. Marit moves to the rear entryway, taking her utility belt off the hook.

“Are you going out again?” Reyna asks.

“Yes, an errand,” Marit replies. “Is Detra alright?”

Reyna sighs and resumes wrapping bundles of herbs. “We calmed her down and cleaned her up,” she says dejectedly. “She’ll have an awful bruise.”

“Luckily her nose shouldn’t be broken,” Adem adds.

Marit levels an impatient glare at him as she fastens her belt.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” she says bitterly. “You have the skilled eye of a healer, brother, but I think it fails where your father's deeds are concerned.”

“Now, Marit!” Reyna protests, but Marit is already out the door.

“What are you saying?” Adem calls after her. “Apologies, Mother Reyna, I will come back for these.”

Marit sets a determined pace toward the town center, making it several meters before Adem’s hastened steps catch up to her.

“My father was there as a buffer,” Adem says, voice hard.

Marit doesn’t spare him her look of disdain, nor does she slow her pace.

“He let her get by him, he wasn’t really restraining her.”

Adem lets out a huff. “He couldn’t know she would bolt!”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Marit bites back.

He grabs her arm to make her stop.

“Imperial methods are much harsher than ours, he stayed them as best he could.”

“He has them right where he wants them, Adem,” Marit says, shaking him off. “You heard Detra, Patron Eira wasn’t sick. None of our community would lie about that.”

She resumes walking.

“Patron Eira was growing confused and agitated,” Adem insists, falling into step with her. “My father will attest that he had begun to deteriorate!”

“That is just the problem, isn’t it?” Marit scoffs. “Since those caretakers at the hospital fell sick, who else has been Quarantined?”

He shrugs.

“The voices most firm against entering the Valley.”

Adem stops, losing pace with Marit, and for a few minutes, all she hears are his footsteps behind her on the road.

As she heads toward the Chancellor’s office, he catches up with her again.

“You think we’ll ever shake the Imperials if we don’t indulge their inquest?” Adem asks, voice hushed.

Marit sighs. “This is only the fourth time they’ve come in thirty-five years. The marshals wouldn’t fire on them if they broke into the Valley, but they’d certainly be dead quick since they think the dragons are a hoax.”

“Sending them away and letting them in to die would both result in the empire sending a war party to our lands. Do you think our people can handle that?”

Marit stops. “They threaten us?”

Adem crosses his arms over his chest. “It was heavily implied through indirect bureaucratic language.”

She laughs and turns left, the Chancellor’s office in view a few decameters away.

“I suppose he’ll have them prepare a contract to ensure that no punitive action will be taken against us should any of the Imperial party be maimed or killed in the Valley.”

He hesitates. “Why would that be bad?”

Marit doesn’t answer, going around to the back of the building. She glowers at Adem as she stops by a lamp pole and whistles a bird call. Warden Lansra appears at the window.

“What flowers need you?” Marit signs.

“False Goat’s Beard and windflower,” Warden Lansra returns.

Adem huffs impatiently. “Marit. Why would it be bad for us to take the expedition to appease the Imperials?”

She gives him a suspicious look. “You would not go with them.”

“Two healers is protocol. I have certified.”

Marit shakes her head. “He would deny you.”

“You are still not telling me why.”

“Why would your father push for an expedition? They need only follow a Ranger for a few hundred meters until they encounter some dragons to have their proof. Going to the mountain serves nothing, and if that’s the intention, then I am certain none of their party would make it back out.”

Adem pinches his brow. “If they die for their ignorance it is because they did not heed our warnings.”

Marit gives an impatient grunt. “The Imperials are a means to an end. He told you he can save us and stop the sickness, didn’t he?”

Adem falters. “If there is a means to keep us safe, and to heal the Valley and our sick why not pursue it?” His expression is almost pleading. “To save my mother… to save Mater Betrys…?”

“Tell me what you know, Adem,” she snarls.

“Little more than you’ve already heard!” he exclaims.

She puts her hands on her hips. “He found something in the valley, during the evacuation.”

“An artifact… That came from the Colossus itself when he killed it.”

“And you’ve seen it?”

Adem shakes his head.

“If what I am about to say is right,” says Marit, pointing at Adem’s chest. “Then you’d better start accepting that your father is not the hero you think he is.”

“Go on.”

“Your father was thrown from the ballista platform after he fired the bolt, two artifacts crashed down from where the dragon exploded at the top of the mountain. One by him and one still further up.”

Adem swallows thickly. “That is what he told me.”

“You swear you haven’t seen the artifact?”

“He wouldn’t show me.”

“It is a dragon’s core crystal. And three pieces crashed down from the mountain when the dragon exploded,” Marit says.

“There was a witness?” he asks smally.

Marit nods. “A witness who saw your father fire that ballista mere seconds too late.”

Adem blanches, screwing his eyes shut.

“Your father wants to keep his secret,” Marit says, a little gentler. “And he will put people at risk to do it.”

“I don’t understand,” Adem says, looking at her again.

“Your mother, Adem. The shard might have kept her well with it nearby. What happens when he goes into the Valley with it?”

“What other option is there?”

“I retrieve the last piece and bring it back, and your father faces only one lie and not a tribunal.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t mean…”

Marit nods. “He killed a soldier who saw him miss the shot, Mater Leland’s son.”

Adem takes a shaky breath. “I don’t believe you, all you’ve got is hearsay.”

“The artifact— the dragon core shard— has a rough curved exterior and a blue and green interior like dark ink. It will likely appear to fit into a larger whole.” She cups her hands to demonstrate the shape. “See for yourself. I am not bluffing.”

“I… Even if this is true, the Imperials would have us kill our sick! He is doing the best he can to ensure they do not force our hand.”

Marit takes a deep breath. “Then he retains some morals yet. But you heard him earlier, we are a people known to acquiesce in the face of difficult decisions. With the fear that the sickness can pass to the unscarred, the council is far more likely to agree to this endeavour.”

Adem hangs his head.

The back door of the Chancellor’s office bursts open, making Adem start.

“Marit! What are you doing here?” Warden Lansra steps from the threshold, a thick wrap around her shoulders.

“I came to talk to you,” Marit replies, clutching the other woman’s forearm in greeting.

Lansra turns to Adem. “Brother, your father just finished a meeting with the Inquisitor and the Vanguard Captain.”

Marit and Adem exchange looks.

“Were you stalling?”

“I— I have to go.” He shakes his head, breaking into a run.

Lansra clutches Marit’s arm. “They were speaking of an expedition into the Valley,” she whispers.

Marit nods, watching Adem’s departure. “I had suspicions.”

“That’s not what concerns me, sister,” Warden Lansra says gravely. “Father Cyrus means to call an assembly.”

Marit looks at her. “As is standard protocol.”

“That’s just it,” Lansra says. “He means to bar access to all but Valley survivors.”

Thank you so much for reading! It is a privilege to share my work this way, and I am always curious which details make impressions on my readers. Please feel free to leave a comment. If you enjoyed this piece, and would like to support me, please consider leaving a tip.

— Rooney