Falsi

Adjutant Falsi always stood ramrod straight behind Fulvis, her hands clasped at her back. It was her appointed place, the perfect vantage point from which to catch the slightest disturbance and carry out his orders without delay. She would neither speak nor stir without a command from Fulvis. She was his shadow, silent, unobtrusive, and always ready to strike.

Falsi served as Colonel Fulvis's adjutant. Most of the time, she handled routine matters on his behalf. At Fulvis's command, she also dealt with matters that were never meant to come to light. She might "amend" a personnel file, "redirect" a deployment order, "deal with" a troublesome individual, or "reconcile" an after-action report. A report, an order, a personnel file, things that weighed almost nothing in the hand could do their work faster than any blade or bullet, and leave far less blood behind. To the rest of the 13th Legion, Falsi scarcely seemed a person in her own right. She was Fulvis's eyes, his ears, and the hand through which he acted.

"You are not like the other Charons."

Fulvis had said those words to her, and they kindled in Falsi a quiet sense that fortune had favoured her. With it came a private thrill: the pleasure of being singled out, of being set above the rest of her kind. From then on, the belief that Fulvis saw her as "different" became something she could cling to. Through grief and pain, through wounds and brushes with death, she needed only to remember those words to find a reason to keep going. And she did.

Water dripped from the ceiling of the interrogation cell, each drop unnaturally sharp in the silence. Blindfold a prisoner and leave them alone with that sound long enough, and even dripping water could become torture.

Some interrogators came to regard the work as a punishment in itself. They dreaded the cells and seized on any excuse to hand the duty to someone else. Falsi saw interrogation differently. It was a tool like any other, governed by rules. Follow those rules, and it would never turn against its wielder.

The lock clanked. Falsi turned the key and pushed open the heavy cell door.

"Back again?"

The man sat against the wall with one knee drawn up. Dark stubble covered his face, yet he seemed to be holding up surprisingly well. Falsi frowned. She had not expected that.

She had seen many prisoners awaiting death in this room. Some had died here. Others had talked after torture left them barely alive, surrendering their secrets for the chance to survive.

In a cell, no secret remained sacred. Faced with death, everyone yielded eventually.

Solarian or Charon, it made no difference. All obeyed the same iron law: cling to life, recoil from death. No one defied it.

And yet this man seemed to be an exception.

Falsi lowered her gaze to the file in her hands and reviewed the case once more.

Patrick Aedric was one of Fulvis's political rivals. In the photograph, he smiled confidently at the camera. He had been young then, full of promise; given time, he might have become a rising star among the Imperial nobility. A fellow noble, Patrick had nevertheless become one of Fulvis's most persistent critics. He had publicly challenged Fulvis's decisions and questioned the legality of certain Narwhal operations. He had even infiltrated the unit's encampment and stolen confidential correspondence between Fulvis and the Senate.

Falsi had been ordered to use whatever means necessary to learn whom Patrick had given the letters to. She had expected to break him within fifteen days.

For the first time, a prisoner had broken a rule she had set for herself.

"Still unwilling to talk?" Falsi asked coldly. "Do you want to die in here?"

"Of course I don't want to die." The man smiled at her. "But I want even less to go on living like this. Why not kill me now?"

A tough nut. Falsi closed the file and turned away.

"We'll see whether you still feel that way next time."

26 November: Interrogation unsuccessful.

27 November: Interrogation unsuccessful.

30 November: Interrogation unsuccessful.

Every entry in her report on Patrick ended with the same word: unsuccessful. She could not imagine Colonel Fulvis's expression when she placed it before him. Yet she had exhausted every method at her disposal, and still Patrick would not yield.

For the first time in years, she felt the full weight of failure.

This was Patrick's thirty-fifth day in custody.

As always, Falsi opened the cell and began the routine questioning. A lack of results was no excuse to neglect her duty, and Patrick had paid dearly for her diligence.

She came every three days; each time, he looked worse than before. This time, she thought, would be the last.

"We never found your associates. It changes nothing. You're going to die anyway."

"Good... good." The hollow-cheeked man was still smiling, though every word came on a broken breath.

What had kept him from breaking? Why had he never betrayed his associates?

No one had come for him. No one had tried to free him. Even now, on the day of his death, Falsi was the only person there to see him off.

Why was he still protecting them? For some lofty ideal? Some principle he refused to betray?

It had to be hypocrisy. Falsi had seen plenty of self-proclaimed idealists in this room, men whose convictions had always proved easy to crush. Fulvis had once told her that such criminals draped their crimes in noble words so they could sleep at night. Falsi had nothing but contempt for their kind. Yet none of them had endured as Patrick had. However brutal the torture, he had not surrendered a single name.

Their ideals had never mattered more than their lives.

But Patrick was different.

Falsi could not understand him.

She rarely wasted words on a prisoner, but this time she made an exception.

"Why?"

The word echoed softly through the cramped cell.

No answer came.

A faint, contented smile rested on Patrick's lips. His head had fallen to one side, the tension gone from his brow, as though he had simply drifted to sleep.

Patrick Aedric, once regarded as a promising young nobleman, had died without a sound.

The Narwhals rarely worried that a mission would be left unfinished. Fulvis reserved the hardest assignments for Falsi, and whatever the task, diplomacy, assassination, intelligence work or open combat, she carried it out flawlessly. She sought no recognition. An order was enough. Fulvis prized her fearlessness and unquestioning obedience, seeing her as a blade honed to perfection. He even lent her out to other officers as casually as he might hand over a weapon. To him, that was what she was, not a person with a will of her own.

Falsi grew up in an underground fighting arena. For as long as she could remember, it had been her entire world. To the owner, she was merchandise, one more child he had bought for the ring. The arena kept its young fighters fed and clothed; in return, they trained and performed whatever menial work they were assigned. One such task was carrying away the bodies of those who died in the ring.

Falsi was seven the first time she saw the owner punish a fighter for defying him.

The curtain drew back. In the centre of the ring lay a fighter condemned to die. An ornate carriage thundered into the arena, its horses' hooves hammering the ground. Even his execution had been turned into a special "performance", allowing the owner to extract one final profit from him. The carriage drove straight over the Charon. He thrashed like a fish flung onto dry land, then went still. The audience erupted in applause.

Falsi was terrified. Would she be next?

"Falsi."

The owner called her name, and she looked up. His expression was so gentle that it might almost have passed for a father's affection.

"He died because he disobeyed me. He broke the rules of the arena. But you have nothing to fear. Behave yourself, and nothing will happen to you. You're a good girl, aren't you?"

As he spoke, he placed a piece of fresh bread and a new set of clothes in her arms.

Falsi froze. Slowly, the fear inside her began to ebb. The owner continued in the same patient, coaxing tone. "You've been such a good girl lately. This is your reward."

She clutched the bread and clothes to her chest. To her, they were proof that she was safe. She looked at the dead fighter, then down at the gifts in her arms.

He was dead. She was still alive.

A secret flicker of joy stirred inside her.

Most cadets were more proficient with firearms. Guns were fast, efficient, and precise, and firearms proficiency was a compulsory component of every cadet's assessment. They also embodied the kind of violence many soldiers admired and craved.

Falsi trained with all manner of firearms after entering the Military College, yet she still preferred a blade, a knife or sword, something whose hilt she could close her hand around. Its weight, the feel of the grip, the unmistakable resistance when the edge bit home: these things quieted the turmoil in her mind, just as they had in the fighting arena. Falsi knew blades intimately. For most of her life, a dagger had been a familiar weight in her hand. When the ridges of its hilt pressed into her palm, she felt safe.

Blades were also the weapons most commonly used in the arena.

There, every advantage of a firearm became a flaw. The fighters might have been expendable, but most had been raised and trained from childhood. Losing one in every bout would have been poor business. Nor did spectators pay exorbitant prices to watch a fight end in five minutes.

They wanted something fiercer, bloodier, and more spectacular, steel against steel, flesh against flesh.

"Welcome to the arena."

They called it a "performance".

Every seat surrounding the circular stage would be filled. When a performance began, two fighters stepped into the centre of the vast arena. They were usually Charons. From the highest seats, they looked like insects, their raised weapons no more than feelers. So small. So inconsequential. Here, polished and urbane spectators cast off the trappings of civilisation. Secure in a grey corner of the world where the law seldom reached, they turned the suffering and deaths of their own kind into entertainment. They watched as one might watch fighting insects or wager on racehorses, cheering and gambling away fortunes for the thrill of it.

They called the spectacle a "gladiatorial performance".

Falsi had grown up in that world and remembered no life before it. Perhaps, after so many years, the arena owner had come to trust her, if only a little. Perhaps unrest elsewhere in the Empire had left him too busy to manage everything himself, and he needed someone to ease the burden. Or perhaps Falsi's perfect obedience, her refusal ever to break a rule, simply gratified his vanity. Whatever the reason, one day he announced that eleven-year-old Falsi would become his assistant and oversee the younger trainees. She was to supervise their lessons and daily routines, discipline those who broke the rules, and hunt down anyone who tried to escape.

Falsi taught them everything she knew, holding nothing back: combat, reading and writing, and, most important of all, obedience to the rules of the arena.

"The rules are simple. You must remember them."

"Rule one."

"No one may leave the arena without permission. Anyone who helps an escapee will receive the same punishment."

Falsi could no longer remember exactly what had happened that day.

But she remembered the tears in the child's eyes. She remembered the little girl clutching the hem of her clothes and begging for help to escape.

Falsi let her go.

For the first and only time in her life, she broke a rule.

It was less a decision than a moment of madness.

The girl did not get far. The arena owner's men caught her and dragged her back.

The punishment was carried out before the entire arena. Every fighter and trainee was forced to attend. No one with a conscience could have watched without flinching, yet looking away was forbidden. They had to remain where they stood and witness the punishment to the very end.

Falsi stood among them. She knew she would be next.

The arena owner was incandescent with rage at her betrayal. Falsi's punishment was even harsher and lasted far longer. Any one of the blows might have killed her, yet she survived. When she was finally released from the punishment cell, she could barely stand. Only sheer force of will kept her upright. The girl had not been so fortunate. Falsi later learned that she had died from her injuries before the day was out.

If I had stopped her, would she still be alive?

If I had stopped her...

If I had only been stricter. Harsher in the way I spoke to her...

But what-ifs changed nothing. That fragile life had ended before them all.

"She broke the rules. She brought it on herself."

Slowly, the owner's voice became indistinguishable from Falsi's own.

"As long as you obey the rules, nothing will happen to you."

Now it was Falsi standing where the owner once had. This time, she was the one who caught a boy trying to escape.

And she punished him with the same brutality.

Those memories again.

Falsi sat with her back against a wooden training dummy, wiping splinters from her blade with a handkerchief. Its polished surface caught the light, reflecting her cool eyes and severe expression.

Simply taking up a blade seemed enough to summon the past. The arena had been shut down years ago for its brutal treatment of Charons. Its owner had been arrested and sentenced to death, and the fighters once held there had been set free. Under the Edict of Tolerance, Falsi had entered the Military College and begun a new life. But more than a decade in the arena could not be erased overnight. At times like this, she saw with painful clarity how little she had changed. Some part of her remained trapped inside that circular arena, holding her breath and obeying every rule, every order.

Some memories could never be erased. Each carried the same warning:

The rules were what kept her alive.

They were a rope stretched above roaring flames and a mountain of blades. It bound anyone who clung to it, restraining them, imprisoning them, but it also kept them from falling. To break a rule was to cut the rope. Death was the inevitable price. All she had to do was preserve it and accept its restraints. So long as she held on, she could survive year after year without becoming another corpse carried from the arena.

Those who broke the rules were fools. Utter fools.

Anyone who disobeyed would pay a terrible price.

Falsi rose. From the corner of her eye, she saw someone approaching. She did not need to look up to recognise the figure: Mors, the College's top-ranked cadet, and the rival she had never managed to surpass.

"How much longer will you be using the training dummy?" Mors asked.

"I'm finished."

Her allotted time was nearly over in any case. Bracing one hand against her knee, Falsi pushed herself upright and turned to leave.

"You have damaged it so badly that it is no longer usable. Please show more restraint next time."

The voice behind her remained calm and even.

Falsi did not turn around.

"No College rule forbids damaging a training dummy. Submit a request for a replacement. Your training is no concern of mine."

The Hyperborean Imperial Military College had no shortage of diligent cadets, but none worked harder than Falsi. Even so, she rarely came first. The same untouchable prodigy dominated almost every ranking, an exceptional all-rounder no one else could dislodge. Falsi topped the class in only two subjects: Discipline and Cryptography. Discipline came naturally to someone who obeyed every order without question and always gave exactly the textbook answer. Cryptography was a different story: the College's star cadet was simply hopeless at it.

That the second-ranked cadet at the Hyperborean Imperial Military College was a Charon caused quite a stir. The Edict of Tolerance had been introduced to improve the standing of Charon citizens, but had since been repealed. The Charon cadets admitted under it understood exactly what that meant. Despite their physical advantages, most kept their heads down, scarcely daring to compete with their Solarian peers for anything. Falsi was different. She seemed oblivious to the danger of standing out. She made no effort to conceal her exceptional combat ability and never held back during an assessment. Without intending to, she became a figure of admiration among Charon cadets, and an object of resentment among the Solarians. Those who tried to provoke her rarely spoke of what followed. They did, however, stop mocking her in public. Behind her back, they muttered among themselves and waited for the day when the arrogant Charon would finally be put in her place.

People liked to cast the two highest-ranked cadets in their year as destined rivals, convinced that they must clash whenever their paths crossed. Few realised that, far from being bitter enemies, the two shared a quiet understanding. They sometimes trained at the same hour or found themselves in the same class, yet rarely exchanged more than a glance. Only when no one else was present did they speak, and even then, their conversations never strayed beyond tactics and combat technique. Most of the time, they trained at opposite ends of the grounds or occupied themselves in silence, neither feeling any need to intrude on the other's solitude.

Falsi never took days off.

The Hyperborean Imperial Military College did permit them. Days off were subject to strict restrictions, but taking one was entirely within the rules.

Falsi simply chose not to. She was an oddity among the cadets. When the underground fighting arena where she had grown up was shut down, she gained her freedom but lost the only security she had ever known. To her, a day off was no different from any other day. She trained, studied, and followed her usual schedule, filling every hour without ever stepping outside College regulations.

She knew the purpose and proper use of every facility. She knew every corner of the campus. In her mind, the grounds existed as a clean, precise map.

On rest days, the training facilities were almost deserted. She could use whichever she pleased and train for hours without anyone waiting for her to finish.

In truth, Falsi liked rest days. She simply did not spend them resting.

As always, Falsi trained alone, ate alone, and spent even her breaks and walks by herself. She did not feel lonely. A full schedule left her exhausted and satisfied, and she had assumed she would live that way forever. Then, one day, the College revised its regulations. Under the new rules, every training room was to remain closed on rest days for cleaning and equipment maintenance. For the first time since enrolling, Falsi found herself with nothing to do.

She was at a loss. What were people supposed to do when they rested?

There had been no days off in the arena. Its owner had often complained that he was exhausted and needed time to rest, but his idea of rest amounted to sleeping for hours or spending lavishly on food that, in Falsi's view, was hardly worth the price. Falsi needed little sleep. She always seemed to have energy to spare. Nor did she care much what she ate. Food only needed to fill her stomach.

Maybe I should do something I enjoy.

But I don't have any other hobbies...

Her thoughts drifted. Suppressing the unease brought on by idleness, Falsi wandered along the College paths and looked around properly for the first time. Training grounds. Sturdy classroom buildings. A circular running track. There was little that anyone would have called beautiful. The campus was built largely of brick and metal, designed for function rather than appearance and steeped in military austerity.

Falsi looked up at the Imperial flag in the distance, the pride and symbol of the Empire. It flew high above the College grounds, beyond the reach of any hand, as though it answered to no one below.

The sight of it made her think of first place, something else that always seemed beyond her reach.

The College's top-ranked cadet was Mors, easy to recognise by her short white hair. From the day Mors enrolled, she had held first place without interruption. Whether in academics, combat, theory, or tactics, Mors excelled. Falsi trained until her fingers cramped. She slept only four hours a night, never relaxed, and never took a day off. Yet the harder she tried, the farther ahead Mors seemed to pull. At times, the thought that she might never catch up left her numb. No matter how hard she pushed herself, first place remained out of reach. As long as Mors was there, Falsi would never be anything but second.

How does she do it?

Am I still not working hard enough?

Restless, Falsi mentally reviewed every book she had studied in recent weeks and every drill she had completed. She searched for anything she might have overlooked, any way to push herself even harder.

Then she noticed someone moving beneath the flag: short white hair, a crisp uniform, a familiar silhouette.

A rare flicker of curiosity drew Falsi to the edge of the corridor for a better look.

That was...

Mors?

She was training. Falsi recognised the weighted marching pack strapped to her back; she often used one herself. She disliked being watched, however, and rarely trained on the circular track, preferring the machines, where she could train under load without an audience. She liked those machines. They were tangible proof that she belonged at the Military College. Whenever she placed her hands on them, she could almost imagine the College itself acknowledging her presence, urging her to continue. That was why losing access to them had left her feeling so lost.

Yet with every training room locked and every piece of equipment out of reach, Mors had still found a way to train.

Falsi, by contrast, had been brought to a standstill by the first disruption to her routine. While she remained rooted to the spot, Mors kept running with the weighted pack on her back, lap after lap, step after step, always moving forwards.

Falsi pressed her lips into a thin line.

So that was the difference.

That was what set the top-ranked cadet apart from her, from everyone else.

Falsi (Charon): Comprehensive Graduation Assessment

Assessors: Instructors Maria Ceri and Fiona Jean

[Personal Details and Service Record]

Place of birth: Unknown

Known relatives: None

Service record: Admitted under the amnesty provisions of the Edict of Tolerance; took no medical leave during her time at the College.

[Military Training Skills]

Foot drill: Excellent

Marksmanship: Good

Throwing: Average

Strength training: Good

Individual tactics: Excellent

Tactical planning: Excellent

Weapons handling: Proficient with a wide range of weapons and skilled in dismantling and troubleshooting standard-issue equipment. Field-stripped and reassembled a standard-issue rifle blindfolded in 84 seconds.

Fieldcraft: Highly proficient in cartography and map reading; excels in cross-country navigation and reconnaissance.

[Discipline]

Demonstrates unwavering adherence to the Imperial Army's code of discipline. Shows exceptional enthusiasm for instruction in military regulations and readily internalises the principles taught. Obeys orders without question.

[Temperament and Command Potential]

No combat command experience.

Calm and reserved. Adheres strictly to established plans. Excels in individual combat and performs well in unit operations.

[Awards and Disciplinary Record]

While still a cadet, served in an auxiliary role during Operation Owl. Followed all orders exactly as issued, crossed hazardous terrain, and secured the designated high ground within the allotted time. Received one commendation.

[Comments and Recommendations]

Obedience beyond reproach. Sound military skills. Well suited to repetitive duties requiring sustained concentration. Emotionally stable. Recommended for independent combat assignments.

Shows little initiative or creativity. Displays limited ability to inspire others or foster unit cohesion. Although scrupulous in following orders herself, she lacks the leadership and adaptability expected of an officer and is often unduly strict with subordinates.

Recommend assignment to a command staff for continued evaluation, with a view to developing her for service as an adjutant in field operations.

A new class of cadets at the Hyperborean Imperial Military College was nearing graduation. The air hung hot and heavy over the College, and as they waited to learn where they would be posted, the cadets grew more restless by the day. Then the orders arrived: several of them had been assigned to the Narwhals.

A stern-faced female officer summoned them, a sheaf of papers in hand, their futures already laid out in ink. Every movement she made was brisk and precise. She raised one hand and made a sharp downward motion. The wide-eyed cadets fell silent at once.

"You are fortunate to have been assigned to the Narwhals. Congratulations. You will gain valuable combat experience there. Now follow me. Your commanding officer has your first mission ready."

The cadets exchanged uneasy glances. At last, one of them ventured, "Ma'am... are we going to die?"

The officer's cold gaze moved from one anxious face to the next.

"Carry out every mission assigned to you and never violate the Imperial Military Code. Do that, and you will not die. Fail, and you will learn that there are worse things than death."

"Ma'am, how should we address you?"

"Falsi. Colonel Fulvis's new adjutant."

She was second. Always second.

Falsi stood before the board where the results had been posted, staring up at the name in first place. She kept her face tilted towards it until the glare made her eyes ache.

Throughout her time at the Military College, she had tried to overtake two things: the name at the top of every ranking, and the cadet behind it. Yet that person never seemed to notice the contest at all. Falsi regarded Mors as her rival. To Mors, however, she was merely one of the many cadets ranked below her. Not a rival. Not an enemy. Not a friend either. Just another classmate glimpsed in passing, one face among many. Mors kept moving forwards, unaware of how relentlessly Falsi followed and blind to everything she had poured into the pursuit. Perhaps graduation would come and go without Mors ever learning her name.

A thread of resentment began to wind itself around Falsi's heart. Jealousy drew it tighter and tighter, wrapping it around her layer by layer until it formed a cocoon of bitterness, one she could neither see beyond nor break free from.

After graduating from the Military College and being posted to one of the Legions, most cadets were given time to adjust. They began with low-risk support duties, gaining experience under live combat conditions before taking on missions of their own. Fulvis allowed no such period of adjustment. He believed that real combat was the finest training a soldier could receive. New recruits to the Narwhals learned their commander's methods and adapted to the unit's way of fighting as quickly as possible, or they did not survive. Falsi had been no exception.

She had learned early that it was safer to rely on herself than on the soldiers fighting beside her.

One mission had taught her that lesson beyond doubt.

She had been sent behind enemy lines to retrieve vital intelligence. Her squadmates were to meet her at a rendezvous point along the extraction route, and she had expected the mission to be straightforward. At first, everything went according to plan. Then the enemy reacted faster than anticipated and spotted her as she withdrew. When she reached the rendezvous point, the soldiers assigned to meet her were nowhere to be seen. The situation must have changed, she reasoned, her composure intact. She tried the radio. Static answered her.

Her speed and reflexes carried her through the first clash. She broke through the enemy's rear lines and shook off her pursuers for a time. But no lone soldier could outrun an entire force forever. Before long, they were closing in again.

Not knowing how much longer she could hold out, Falsi clutched the envelope of classified documents to her chest.

I'm useful. I'm not like the other Charons... Colonel Fulvis needs me. He won't leave me here to die. I only have to hold on until the Narwhals reach me...

She collapsed near the mouth of a cave, two kilometres from the objective.

A campfire crackled softly. Falsi opened her eyes to unfamiliar faces in its warm glow. Still half-conscious, she wondered whether she was awake or dreaming.

As her vision cleared, the faces began to look familiar.

She had seen some of them in passing around the 13th Legion's camps.

The Snow Wolves.

They had saved her.

Falsi regarded them with open suspicion. Fulvis had warned her about Avar, the Snow Wolves' commanding officer. Avar was his enemy, and therefore hers. She began to calculate what they stood to gain.

No one goes to this much trouble for nothing.

The units of the 13th Legion were far from united; their interests often conflicted. Taking her with them meant carrying another wounded soldier and dividing supplies that were already running low. With the enemy still in pursuit, even the Narwhals appeared to have withdrawn. Yet the Snow Wolves had risked themselves to save her. Did they want the classified intelligence she carried? Had Avar ordered them to recover her for the documents, or had they acted on their own?

Falsi sat apart from the others, clutching the manila envelope more tightly. Her gaze moved from face to face as she waited for someone to name a price, or demand that she hand it over.

Whatever happens, I will not betray Colonel Fulvis.

Fulvis had told her that she was not like the other Charons. She was his soldier. His adjutant. She had to survive and place the intelligence in his hands.

To her surprise, no one asked about the intelligence. The Snow Wolves were scattered around the cave, resting and speaking quietly as they tended one another's wounds. Dust and gunsmoke hung in the air, mingling with the faint tang of antiseptic and blood. Falsi looked down. Blood had seeped through her bandages and was darkening the fabric of her heavy uniform. Instinctively, she shifted the envelope farther from the wound to keep it clean.

"You should see to that."

Someone set a medical kit down in front of her. Falsi recognised the short white hair at once.

It was Mors.

"No need." Her voice came out hoarse; she had not had water in hours.

The rasp in her voice made Mors pause.

"There's water in the kit."

"I can manage. I'll be leaving shortly."

Falsi pressed herself against the rock wall, tightening her grip on the envelope. If they tried to take it from her, badly wounded and outnumbered as she was, she would have little chance of stopping them.

Mors looked at her for a moment, then at the blood soaking through her uniform.

Without another word, Mors left the medical kit where it was and returned to the others.

Falsi wrapped her arms around herself and clenched her teeth.

Of course she understood that the Snow Wolves could have harmed her while she was unconscious. Everything they had done so far had been to help her. The rational course was obvious: treat the wound, remain with them until the operation ended, and return to the Legion together. Trying to strike out alone in her condition, merely because she distrusted them, would be reckless. It could cost the Narwhals the intelligence and jeopardise the mission. The sensible thing was to take the kit and dress the wound. She knew all of that. Of course she did.

But Mors had said nothing.

That was precisely the problem.

The silence left Falsi feeling exposed, as though Mors had seen the absurdity of her suspicion and chosen not to say so. Worse, she imagined that the silence concealed the same distant contempt with which Mors, the College's top cadet, had always seemed to regard her.

In the end, Falsi picked up the medical kit and withdrew into a corner without a word, little more than a shadow against the cave wall.

She and the Snow Wolves now shared the same cramped shelter. Only a few paces separated them, yet the gulf between them felt absolute.

The campfire's warmth barely reached Falsi where she sat at the edge of the light. From there, she watched the Snow Wolves quietly discuss their tactics and next move. They were disciplined without being rigid, serious without making the atmosphere oppressive. They were nothing like the Narwhals, where everyone remained tense and silent.

Mors was not especially sociable, yet even she seemed perfectly at ease among them.

So this is what the Snow Wolves are like...

Watching them, Falsi found herself thinking of the Narwhals.

Fulvis was mercilessly strict with his soldiers. Even when they halted to rest on the march, absolute discipline was expected. Falsi had once assumed that this was simply how soldiers lived. Under Fulvis, the rules were clear. Silence was a soldier's first duty. Vigilance was never to lapse. No one was to be trusted. Regulations came before everything else, and a soldier's worth lay in how completely they obeyed.

By those standards, the Snow Wolves were far too lax. Soldiers were supposed to be fearsome, to inspire dread in those who saw them.

Falsi lowered her gaze as she watched their easy camaraderie.

"This isn't right," she murmured. "You don't seem like fellow soldiers. You seem more like..."

"More like what?" one of the Snow Wolves asked, having overheard her.

"Friends," Falsi said stiffly. "You look more like friends than soldiers."

The soldier gave her a small, friendly smile. "That's a strange distinction. We're comrades. Aren't comrades simply friends in wartime? Isn't it like that in your unit?"

Falsi did not answer.

Over the next few days, she fought alongside the Snow Wolves. Together, they severed the Forsakens' supply line. After surviving repeated ambushes and a natural disaster, they turned the tables under Mors's command and ambushed the Forsakens in turn. With the Snow Wolves beside her, Falsi saw the mission through. Mors led them safely back to the 13th Legion's lines, and Falsi returned to the Narwhals. She presented Fulvis with the manila envelope she had guarded more fiercely than her own life. After everything it had endured, its edges were slightly creased.

Fulvis showed no sign of pleasure.

"Good work," he said flatly.

Falsi pressed her lips together, puzzled despite herself. Then she saluted.

"The mission is complete, sir. I have not failed you."

Elsewhere in the corridor, two soldiers were talking. "Where have my cigarettes gone?" one of them groaned.

"Have one of mine," said the other.

"You're a lifesaver. Got a light?" Grinning, the first soldier bumped fists with him, lit the cigarette, and took a long, grateful drag. "That's the stuff."

"The Narwhals covered themselves in glory again," said the soldier who had offered him the cigarette. "All that firepower bearing down on the front, and the main force still made it back in one piece."

The smoker narrowed his eyes.

"Some idiot must have drawn half the enemy away so the rest of them could get home."

Falsi clamped both hands over her wound and staggered on, with no destination in mind. The explosion at Lonza Fortress had nearly killed her. In a single instant, it had torn apart everything on which she had built her life: discipline, obedience, and the promise that she was different. The pursuit that followed had stripped away whatever remained. Blood loss made every step harder. She no longer knew where she was going, or what she meant to do if she ever got there. At last, she reached a river. She looked down and saw her battered reflection staring back at her, her face streaked with blood and ash, her eyes dark with despair and hatred. For an instant, the faces of the Charons she had killed on Fulvis's orders flickered across her reflection, one after another. Those who had begged. Those who had not been ready to die. Those who had done nothing to deserve it.

At last, Falsi understood. She was not different. She bore the same horns and the same blood, the blood the Solarian despised as sinful and impure.

No degree of obedience could ever have spared her from the fate imposed on every other Charon. Some people were condemned not for anything they had done, but simply because someone with power had chosen to condemn them. That was what had happened to the Charons she had killed. Now it was happening to her.

"You are not like the other Charons."

Was that what she had believed?

It was nothing but a lie.

As the blood drained from her body, the world began to dim. Before she knew it, she had waded into the river. The current swept her feet out from under her and dragged her under.

Good. Let it end here.

She closed her eyes. Let the river scour the tainted blood from her body. Let it carry every one of her sins away. She would sink into the darkness, her bones buried beneath the silt, and all she had ever done, good or evil, would be buried with her and forgotten.

Then her hand closed around a branch jutting from the bank. Her body had chosen before her mind could. Falsi dragged herself out of the current and collapsed on the riverbank, gasping. The icy water had shocked her back to clarity. She covered her face with both hands and let out a bitter laugh.

At length, she planted her dagger in the earth and forced herself upright. Kneeling at the water's edge, she washed the blood and grime from her face and hands. Then she looked down once more. Facing her reflection in the water, Falsi clenched her fist until her nails bit into her palm and made her reflection a vow.

I can die. But not before I kill Fulvis.

Fulvis sent agents out to find someone. Portraits of their target in hand, they scoured every district where their quarry might surface. By the following day, however, many of them had vanished. Then the downpour came. It washed their bodies out of the alleys where they had lain unseen and into the open. The wounds left no doubt: every one of them had been killed with a blade. Blood and grime streamed from the corpses, turning the water around the constables' boots a muddy red.

"What do we do now?" The young constable's voice was close to breaking.

"S, Sir... why are they lying dead in our streets? Who did this?"

"I don't know."

The older constable put a cigarette between his lips and pulled out his lighter.

Click. Click.

His hand shook as he tried again and again, but the rain-soaked cigarette would not catch. With a sigh, he wiped the rain from his face, as if his fear might come away with it. He took the unlit cigarette from his lips, but it slipped from his fingers. He ground it beneath his heel, then looked around at the frightened faces of his men.

He drew a slow breath, then made his decision.

"Listen carefully. None of you saw these agents here today."

He lowered his voice until it was barely audible beneath the downpour.

"They withdrew from the city. We don't know where they went..."

The rain swallowed the constables' murmured assent. Blood mingled with the muddy rainwater and streamed into the sewers, carrying traces of the massacre into the darkness below.

Falsi staggered through the inferno, raking aside clumps of burning grass with her scorched hands.

Where is it? Where? The recorder... where is it?

Nothing beneath this patch either. Perhaps its silver casing had blackened in the fire. Perhaps the smoke and ash had blurred her vision. Whatever the reason, she had to find it. Without that evidence, she would have no chance to make amends. Step by step, she forced herself onwards through thorns and flame as the last of her strength ebbed away. A strange weightlessness came over her. The world tilted, then rolled beneath her. She knew she was going to pass out. She could not pass out. She drew her dagger. Pressing the blade to her palm, she cut deep. Blood welled at once. The pain jolted her back to full awareness, and she forced her smoke-stung eyes open.

Not here. Not yet. I still have to atone.

If I make it out alive... If I can place the evidence in Mors's hands and make amends for even a fraction of what I've done...

A faint hope stirred within her.

Then I'll apologise to Mors. For letting my obsession get the better of me. For hurting Mors. For losing my way without ever realising it. For everything I've done.

There are moments when a person can feel the road of fate divide beneath their feet. Two paths disappear into the mist, neither revealing where it leads, and the future shifting with every passing moment.

The moment one is chosen, the other is lost.

That was how it happened in Falsi's dream.

She knew perfectly well that she was dreaming.

Then wake up.

None of it was real. There was no reason to remain, much less allow the dream to weaken her. The command rose cold and clear from somewhere within. Reason had always governed her emotions, keeping every impulse within the bounds of order.

But this is another chance, a fainter voice answered.

I want to choose again.

This time, the words came with certainty.

The first voice fell silent. Some part of her already knew that no argument would make her turn back.

Falsi watched herself take the other path without a backward glance.

At graduation, Falsi's exceptional marks, exemplary performance, and spotless record of discipline earned her a posting to the Snow Wolves.

The dream had the impossible beauty of a lie. Time quickened, carrying her farther down the path she had never taken. Little by little, the life she had left behind receded from memory. She forgot that this was only a dream. She forgot that another life had ever been hers. Falsi gave herself over to it. She left the ruined world behind and ran into the wind, joy swelling in her chest until it seemed too vast to contain. Ahead waited the person she might have become.

She joined the Snow Wolves.

She earned her first Emperor's Signet Ring.

Alongside her comrades, she helped avert a crisis.

She distinguished herself within the 13th Legion. In time, she came to be known as the Blueflame Wraith, one of the 13th Legion's twin stars alongside Mors, the Pale Reaper. When the Griffins were formed from the Snow Wolves, she and Mors were appointed joint commanders.

Wherever she turned, she found kindness and recognition. The friendships she formed with her comrades gradually opened the heart she had kept closed for so long. She was no longer a marionette bound by rules, nor a spare weapon waiting for someone else to wield. She had become a person with a will of her own, free to choose how she lived.

That life held a warmth and happiness she had never known.

Today was 2 December, Falsi's birthday.

Her squadmates had prepared a surprise. The moment she stepped into the room, party poppers cracked and bright streamers spilled over her hair and shoulders.

Expressionless, Falsi plucked one from her hair. "You should not waste time on things like this."

The soldier holding the party popper grinned. "Waste of time? You're smiling."

Falsi had not realised it. She touched the corner of her mouth.

I'm smiling...

She had grown up in the arena. She remembered the dates on which people had died, but not the days they had been born. Birthdays had never seemed important, and she had never imagined anyone might celebrate hers.

The feeling was unfamiliar. But it was not unpleasant.

Under their expectant gazes, Falsi found herself unable to refuse them. Somewhere along the way, she had softened. The person she had once been would have despised that softness.

Falsi had never imagined that she might one day become someone like this.

She stepped farther into the warmth of the room. Festive balloons lined the walls, and an enormous cake waited on the table. Someone placed a cake knife in her hand. The others gathered around, nudging her forwards.

"Falsi, cut the cake!"

A warm hand settled on her shoulder. Their voices reached her through a strange haze, softened and indistinct. Falsi shook her head to clear it. She had been exhausted lately. That had to be all.

"Fine. I'll cut it. That was what you were all waiting for, wasn't it?"

A cheer went up. Someone threw their arms around her from behind.

"That's our Falsi!"

Falsi closed her fingers around the knife. It was too heavy for a cake knife. The weight was deeply familiar, and the familiarity steadied her.

She raised her hand and brought the blade down. It passed cleanly through cream and sponge. Red strawberry jam streaked the steel, gathering at the tip before dripping onto the table.

Once, Falsi had believed she would walk alone until the day she died, defying everyone who doubted her, clinging to the certainty that she was different, sustained by a single promise:

"You are not like the other Charons."

Now, surrounded by her comrades, she was no different from any of them. She was simply a person celebrating her birthday. They shared the same cake and the same uncomplicated happiness. No missions. No blood or bullets. No resentful eyes. No dying hand clutching at the hem of her clothes. She had climbed out of hell and found solid ground beyond the mire. Even Mors, with whom she had once been at odds, stood nearby with folded arms and the faintest smile, watching her in quiet approval, as though, even now, Falsi was someone worth noticing.

At the thought, her expression softened.

"You are not like the other Charons."

Who had said that to her?

Falsi's eyes flew open.

She jerked upright, wrenched from the dream, then folded forwards and slowly covered her face with both hands.

If only it had been real.

Flames crept through the dry grass, reducing everything around her to ash. Falsi sat amid the scorched earth beneath a sky choked grey with smoke. The colours of the dream lingered for a moment, then slowly drained away, leaving only the ruined world before her. For a long time, she did not move. At last, she planted one hand against the ground and forced herself to her feet. Only when she wiped her face with the back of her hand did she realise that she was crying. More tears followed, cutting pale tracks through the soot on her cheeks. Falsi tightened her grip on the audio recorder and staggered onwards.