The vehicle was completely silent on the inside, although the engines clunked noisily in the front as the crystals powered the energy core. Grim silence hung thick and tangible, provoking anxiety and fear. Maksha sat in the back, exuding the ominous aura. His lips were stretched to a thin line, almost white with rage, and his eyes seemed to spark as he glared towards the windshield.

    The car slowed to a halt before settling. He tugged at the door and pushed abruptly, stepping out before the car fully stopped. With one motion he pulled his staff and fired a bolt of lightning. Around, the civilians screamed, covering their heads as if that would shield them from the spell.

    He would like to shoot at every one of them at the moment, but he only had so many spells in him, and their main targets were the running Ihari fiends. The men in the car with him and the cars behind him assembled nearby, taking their positions. They gazed upon the tall building that seemed conspicuously quiet and empty compared to the rest of the town. A temple that looked much older than it really was, with statues extending their hands out in false reassurance.

    "Come out come out, Diar," the Commander hissed, his features distorting into something terrible to look at. "You have nowhere to hide. I promise, if you come with us nicely, we will leave the rest of your pathetic kind in this building alone. Otherwise…" he tilted his head to the sergeant next to him, who waved at his men, "we will blast this entire building into the rubble that it is."

    The temple seemed rather empty actually, which was unusual, for in such times when unrest coiled the air and every coming day brought news of loss and despair, most people tend to turn to anything that looked like comfort. The Ihari were primitive like that, depending on delusions and false ideals to maintain morale. On days like today, there were always a few that could be found praying to whatever higher force there was that they be rescued from whatever indecencies they thought they were going through.

    Inside the temple, Yidin Diar crouched down to check her scepter. It was a single-crystal scepter, which meant it could enhance her basic powers by…double, maybe?

    "That bastard," she whispered, tearing a piece of her sleeve off as she turned to her comrade. This mission had depended entirely on their ability to read the documents undetected. If the Igul Commander knew they were here, the plans were forfeit. "Good thing no one else is actually here. Here, let me look at that."

    "Get off, woman!" Her companion, Cavta, scowled at her while clutching his bloodied bicep. "I am fine!"

    "If you keep bleeding, you will bleed out!" Diar spat back. "Now cooperate before you die from blood loss!”

    "I will count to three, Diar," Maksha called from outside. It was such a nice day, he reflected. He was eager, actually, to see dust in the air, but the Ihari tended to have such an abominable sense of honor, and he was willing to bet these anarchist rats would surrender just to save their poor, pitiful civilian-fellows. "If you do not come out by then…" He turned to look at his men assembling the weapon. It was almost done. "This building will be the new test subject."

    Adri, who was pressed next to the window to track the outdoors, hissed out an oath. "They have the Golden Arrow!"

    Yidin froze at this. The rebel group had caught wind of plans to make such a weapon, which used the ourol crystals to both power and enhance at the same time. If the engineers were correct, this Golden Arrow could do more than demolish a building.

    "We will never make it out in time!"

    "One!" Maksha's voice echoed outside.

    "Here, aid me," Yidin ordered, yanking Cavta up. He bit his lip as Adri jostled his wounded arm, his forehead dotted with sweat, but did not scream.

    "What are you doing?" Adri asked as Yidin raised her scepter.

    "What do they teach you these days? Have you never heard of a decoy? You go take him back to headquarters while I distract them."

    "What, are you serious? They will do worse than kill you! And what are we supposed to do without you?! You are the one who memorized all the documents!"

    "Two!"

    The young woman met Adri’s eyes squarely. “Well, we needed to do this without anyone knowing. The mission was a failure as soon as he was notified. No reason for you to go down with me."

    Maksha’s false sigh, despite being quiet, resonated throughout the terror-stricken street so that they could hear it through the window.

    “You asked for this, Diar.”

    Yidin scowled. “It is me they want. Take Cavta and go!"

    And with that, she burst to the side.

    Adri swore, but he pulled at Cavta, who gasped in agony. " Hurry up!"

    Outside, Yidin first searched for the weapon. It was easy to spot, of portable size, just as reports said. A heavy base supported a round body that contained the crystal core, and a barrel funneled the magic to aim at targets. It almost looked too small to cause the damage she knew it could.

    Before Maksha could shout “Three!” Yidin lifted her scepter and fired six spells in such quick succession the soldiers barely had time to realize where the spells were coming from before she took out the two men managing the weapon, the two men flanking Maksha, another random soldier—who cared who they were, as long as they were dead—and Maksha’s hat. Unfortunately, she apparently missed his head.

    A rain of spells—fire and ice and sparks of electricity, blasted just as she ducked back against the wall, flying past where she had been, striking at the wall to her side and leaving charred dents in the stone.

    Should not have missed, Yidin thought with regret, though she did not allow herself to dwell on it. She was cornered, and through the open windows, she could hear them bursting into the temple from the front entrance, which meant she could not go back inside to check to make sure Cavta and Adri made it out. She could only hope they did.

    She checked her options. The temple was on a block, with a high wall encircling the sides and the back separating it from other houses. There was no real way for her to scale the walls—they were all too high. By this time, she imagined, the soldiers would have had the place surrounded. Yidin was only kept safe, for the moment, because of the strange shape of the wall, which made it difficult for the soldiers to aim at her, but made it easy for her to snipe them. The odds, though, were not in her favor.

    Restless, Yidin ducked out, cast more spells again, bringing down three men, before yanking herself back again. An ice shard, sharp and lethal as an arrow, whizzed by her ear—a very close call, but not one she was stranger to.

    She looked up. Soldiers had a tendency to ignore what was above their heads, something the rebel militia took advantage of. There was a ledge, sure enough, but she could not see what was above it. Sensing that they thought she might be out of power, she darted out and shot a few more times, just to keep them back and earn herself some extra precious seconds. She got one soldier in the head, with some satisfaction—the said soldier instantly collapsed, blood exploding from his head like a fountain.

    By the Golden Arrow, Maksha swore, eyes blazing. He aimed his staff, but the Diar wench had gone out of range yet again. Oh he had heard stories of this harlot alright; it was said that she had the eyes of a hawk and her aim was as true as the Ihari were filth. Her earlier spell had nearly taken his head off—he supposed he only had the spirits to thank for that.

    "I want her head!" he cried, his wrath unfolding like a tidal wave. "I want her—oh I want her screaming!"

    “Yes sir!" his men cried.

    Behind the temple wall, Yidin was trying to gauge how many more spells she had left. Twelve spells, all high-intensity, added to the ones she had cast earlier in the day—that meant she had about four more good ones before she could not even levitate a feather,

    Wonderful. She had no spare crystals, which would have enhanced her spells a little more and saved her some energy. It probably did not matter, however; if the soldiers decided to come to her, no amount of spells would defend her in the end. The issue with these scepters was she could only fire one spell at a time. She could choose physical combat, but that was not useful against soldiers who still had energy reserves to cast spells.

    She could scale the wall to the ledge, the young woman decided as she looked up. She could scale the distance to the ledge, whatever it led to. She just hoped it was not a window; if it was, the people inside could see her shadow against the wall across, or even herself, if they were looking straight out. Though… she was probably going to die anyway, so what did she have to lose?

    With a flurry of her skirts and sleeves that were far too lose for the situation, Yidin jumped and caught the ledge, pulling herself up with an effort. She raised her face and came face to face with…

    A statue.

    “Spirits preserve me," The young woman exclaimed, because her heart had probably stopped when she first saw the colorless face. That terrifying moment when she thought that she was as good as dead, despite her earlier acceptance. Yidin intended to live as long as possible, even if she had to fight to the bone. She bowed briefly to the statue, hoping that if there was some higher entity out there, that she might win its favor by being respectful.

    There was another ledge above her, a smaller one, upon which sat a statue of yet another figure of lore. She could get up there too.

    Wasting no time, she climbed, swinging her body over. There was an audible scuttle as movement swarmed below. The soldiers, realizing there were no more spells being fired, were checking her hideout,

    She was losing time. She glanced up again. Window. Is there… Unfortunately, yes, there were footsteps resonating inside, which meant she could not risk going in.

    Not an option, then. She was stuck here. They did not have a good shot at her from below, but if they did decide to release the Golden Arrow, she had no chance.

    Wait—the Golden Arrow!

    Perfect, Yidin thought with some relish when she looked over to note that the ignorant soldiers had left their precious weapon completely unattended in favor of pursuing her. And their vehicles, too! What luck— this bunch was not that smart after all! She could see the shadows of soldiers through the glass. Apparently, they were hoping she had gone inside the temple.

    Well, their downfall.

    With a jump, Yidin landed on the ground and rolled to relieve the shock of the impact on her body.

    She darted to the weapon. It was already assembled nicely for her; all that was needed was whatever button or lever—switch. She flicked it, which caused it to hum, but nothing happened at first. Panicking, she pulled the lever, and it rocked as it started vibrating.

    Mentally swearing, Yidin darted to one of the cars as the rocket went airborne. The vehicles were still turned on, crystals humming in the engines.

    The mouth of the Golden Arrow’s barrel began glowing bright white, and the humming grew higher pitched. Around them, the air began to suck in, pulling at the dirt on the street like a vacuum. Yidin felt her own life force starting to waver—the Golden Arrow could suck life energies?

    There was no time to lose. She did not bother closing the doors. With a shove, she slammed the lever to hover the car and pushed it to accelerate forward just as the world flashed bright white—

    With a thunderous boom, the temple exploded. Heat wafted precariously close as the vehicle zipped just out of range. Yidin ducked her head down and kept her grip on the steers, piloting blind as the blast lit up the world.

~

    Ten minutes later, a dust-covered Maksha rose from the rubble with the help of his men. His nose was broken and his uniform was torn and bloody. Blind rage fought to expel from his chest, but he swallowed it—there was something ridiculous about one woman outsmarting all of them, and after a moment of simmering, he calmed to reconsider what had happened.

    One of the men offered to patch his nose. He allowed this without comment, and it was done promptly. Once his nose was realigned, he waved at the sergeant.

    "Have some of your men stationed here," he said. If that Diar wench thinks she is going to get away with this, she has another thing coming. "The anarchists never learn—teach them the consequences of their rebellion. I want every of these savages within seeing-distance from this temple shot until nightfall. Report to me when this is done.

    He walked calmly to the cars, and did not react much when it was obvious his own car was missing—really, this was almost expected, given everything else that transpired. Instead, he slid into the seat of another vehicle and flew off, as the streets echoed with the screams of young Ihari couples, groans of elderly Ihari men, and gurgling young Ihari infants while blood began pooling the streets.

    This should help his men hone their skills; they obviously needed to, anyway, and what better practice targets than the useless Ihari bystanders?

~

            The invasion was launched mainly over ourols.

            Everyone always knew the crystals contained a lot of life essence, but it took many centuries of study and research to unlock that potential. Some uses, such as powering cars, could not be unveiled until the proper technology was invented, and as with any civilization, war and conflict interfered with productivity as much as they promoted innovation. In addition, the use of ourols themselves was controversial. Some cultures believed it would lead to sloth and weakness, as people depended more on enhancements rather than their own strength. Others believed that their use could not possibly come without health risks.

            The main trouble, however, was that like all things that carried life essences, ourols had a lifespan, and there were a limited number of them. The crystals only formed in certain deposits scattered in deserts and mountains, with different potencies depending on where they were found, and they formed more slowly than they were mined. As technology advanced, so did their usage, so that eventually they were used for everything, from communication to transportation to healing and agriculture. Access became a point of competition. Those with better technology, like Igul, had the advantage, while those that did not but had numerous deposits, like the Ihari, could only be conquered and watch their mines be occupied by invaders.

            Resistance was inevitable, especially since mining for the ourols was perilous, which meant the Igul often sent their conquered slaves to do the work. Deep under the earth the infrastructure was rocky at best, and other beings dwelt within—underground creatures that never emerged above ground, but were ferociously territorial. Children were sent for their small size, elderly sent to be bait and lure attention away from the mining efforts, and all of the crystals transported to the Igul homeland, where the ourols were so plentiful, people threw ugly ones away. Ihari rage was profound, and not as impotent as the Igul would like. Yidin Diar was only one of the main nuisances; there were others, all capable given the rebellion’s lack of resources, and the Ihari knew their native land better than the invaders. In addition, they had their own talented individuals, who twisted situations against Igul’s favor with cleverness defying their weaker technology.

            After all, people, not technology, determine the outcomes of war.

~

            The more Maksha learned about Diar, the more impressed he became.

            Captured images of her were few and of poor quality, because as the leader of the Ihari Resistance, she actually rarely conducted her own missions, but she did come out for those where her incredible memory would be of use, and was the kind of person who radiated beyond the confines of her physical form. Had circumstances been different, she might have become an Oleander—a medicine woman who gave and maintained life, rather than waged battle. She still might; so long as she did not suffer the touch of a man, her life essence would not go to procreation and she would have enough to fulfill her obligations as a healer. Even the Ihari were useful in that regard, and Diar was one of a kind.

    It was a tough choice, however; the life of an Oleander was as dull to them as it was interesting to others, and besides, Diar shone much more as the leader of the Ihari anarchists. Women knew how to work outside the rules, being as frail as they were, and Diar was a master of taking advantage of human nature. Starting three years into the invasion, she led a string of mischief that nearly placed Igul at a standstill, from stealing plans to sabotaging bases and cutting off vital supply routes. Not all leaders were sharp on the field, but Diar melded to whichever role she took, like a changeling.

    Her beauty was certainly no deterrent.

    “If I did not know better,” said Medic Gyda, “I would claim you are a touch obsessed.”

    Medics were not as good as Oleanders in medicine, but they were more common. Oleanders had strict criteria for accepting members to their sisterhood; they only allowed virgin women, for one, and these women had to have a startling amount of life essence to begin with. Society tended to prefer these women take the role of mothers, naturally, because the same life essence that made them fit to become Oleanders also gave them enough vitality to withstand confinement. They could not be both—supposedly no amount of life essence can sustain both child-bearing and life-giving, so between the many countries the number of Oleanders were few indeed. Medics made for adequate supplements anyhow, to cure those minor wounds and ills that needed only a dexterous hand and a keen mind. They were also more comprehensible, in Maksha’s opinion; Oleanders tended to be strange and cryptic in their ways.

    “I will concede,” Gyda told him, “the Ihari produce some fine female specimens. Just the other day I was working on a female carrying a six-month-old fetus. The shape of her!” He gestured. “I had her torso preserved and intend to ship it back to the Academy. Few students have the opportunity to see such a dissection. “

    Maksha honestly thought living specimens were more interesting than dead ones. “You could have cut her open back home instead.”

    “Ah, but the fetus does not stop growing just because I tell it to. That would be the talent of an Oleander, which we are lacking, unfortunately. In any case, we were talking about you, and your fondness for this anarchist woman. How many images have you viewed of her? I find it hard to imagine seeing her would provide any insight into her future movements.”

    “One can never tell.” Maksha just enjoyed looking at them. She really was quite nice to look at. Large eyes on a doll-like face that seemed far too innocent and naïve for a woman of her intellect and capabilities. “It pays to know one’s foe, and she has a lot to know. She should have been Igul.”

    Twenty-six years old, the daughter of a mechanic and a seamstress, unmarried and with no records of any romantic interest, though that could just be lapses in the intelligence they were able to gather. She had a mostly unremarkable childhood that escalated in her adolescent years when her parents died in a fire. She was adopted by a more learned couple that nurtured her education. Apparently, some Igul officer killed the two of them when the invasion first launched. How Diar escaped was unknown, but Maksha guessed it might have gone along the same lengths as the rest of her escapades: a mix of luck, audacity, and quick wit.

    “Careful, or else one might believe you have soft feelings toward Ihari women,” Gyda pointed out.

    He struck closer to the target than he might know, but Maksha was hardly going to admit to preferring an anarchist over an true-bred Igul.

    “Over Igul women?” He raised an eyebrow for additional effect.

    “Haha, a pale comparison indeed!” Gyda laughed, and the subject was dropped.

~

            Two more years, but the Ihari were fighting a losing battle. For all the competent men and women they threw to the field, the Igul could still match them wit for wit, and the Ihari had no significant weapons of their own. After the Golden Arrow came the Solar Nova and the Silent Wraith, and not even Diar could withstand the sheer brute force in the end.

            She made a critical mistake, which was bound to happen sooner or later. After studying her for so long, Maksha learned to recognize her style somewhat, and the issue with spies was that they must balance sniffing smells and remaining undetected, which hinged on a very thin line. Some spies were good at sensing their detection. Others were good at finding information. Few were equally good at both.

            She chose the wrong hand, though the boy was textbook quality; stupid-looking, good at feigning ignorance, and a very analytical mind. He looked like an Igul too, and Maksha had to give Diar credit for managing to forge his background so well that for a year or so, Maksha had no idea.

            He found out eventually, because the boy had to report to the anarchists, and eventually Maksha noticed. It was a simple matter of spying on the potential spy, and things were always easier to see if one knew to look for them. Rather than arrest him, however, Maksha fed him false information, which he took dutifully to his superiors.

            It was as General Maksha that he greeted Diar in person.

~

            Fear wrestled with acceptance. Yidin knew she was not going to walk out. War was a gamble against Death itself, and the Ihari were losing ground for a while. She sensed her doom some time ago, had prayed it would not come to pass, because there was so much to do, so much at stake, so much love still in the world despite the atrocities unfurling around them. Past and future coalesced into this moment, and never in her life had Diar felt as present as she was right then, staring into the eyes of the General Maksha, who kept getting promoted despite having done nothing substantial.

            Perhaps they promote based on the number of people killed. Head counts did seem to be Igul’s style, and Maksha was as ruthless as they came. Every mission the rebels conducted had to take into account the number of innocent Ihari casualties that would likely result. They tried to take him out personally, but the man was infuriating hard to kill.

            There was a bit of pride there, that she should fall to this excuse of a human being, be outsmarted by him, of all people. She might have been getting old; war aged people, and the sleepless nights and stress had turned some of her hair prematurely gray. It still smarted, however, to be in this position, her fate in his hands even though he was in the wrong.

            Life was not fair.

            “You played the game well,” Maksha effected grace. He was tall and sharp, with facial features far too charismatic to belong on such a monster. Dressed in the finery paid with the blood and tears of Ihari slaves, the sight of him made her physically sick, and it was a struggle to keep her back straight and her eyes level against his.

            She was terrified, but so long as she was breathing, she would not let him know.

            “It is a challenging game to begin with, especially for your side. However, it would have been wiser to just give in.”

            She managed a smirk, despite the numbness to her bruised face, swollen from the violent struggle that ultimately placed her here. Her nerves stretched taught in frozen, weary muscles, and her life essence, thready and faint as it was, coiled in desperate futile preparation.

            “You tally the score before the game is over,” she murmured in a steady voice. “This world has never rewarded cruelty. Igul will fall, and its descendants will wallow in the grime of its failures. You think capturing me will somehow change a law that has been reinforced throughout history?”

            “Oh! Of course not. I would never imagine that.” Maksha gestured, and into the room stepped another Igul man—a medic. “But it is a start, you see,” he went on, as the Medic lifted a suitcase onto the table. “There are plenty of things you know, and plenty of ways we know of learning what you know. Do you follow?”

            The medic opened the suitcase, revealing the glimmering contents. Despite herself, Yidin felt blood drain from her face, perhaps her very heart, and she felt as close to swooning as she ever did.

            “You can make it easy for yourself and just give us everything. I would prefer not to mar that pretty face of yours.” Maksha reached out to grab her chin, and it was only instinct that had Yidin yanking her face away from his vile touch. Undeterred, he laughed and pinched her breast. The Igul soldiers flanking her kept her from avoiding him, and Yidin felt close to tears.

            “Of course, even if you choose the hard way, maybe your face does not have to be marred. Medic Gyda is very good at what he does, you know.” He leaned to the medic.

            He slipped out before Yidin could gather her wits.

            The medic sputtered as the door closed behind the General. “Not mar her face! Well that just takes the fun out of things!” He lifted his first utensil and turned to her. “Well, I am obligated to give you a choice. You can just answer the questions and spare yourself all of this. I do hope you choose not to, however. I have a lot of students back at the Academy that can benefit from our work here.”

            Yidin’s heart pounded like the drum of destiny. A nice play on her pride, she noted; either way, they win, but she had her priorities.

            “You are just a lackey,” Some part of her even found this humorous, for she started laughing, “What do I care about what pleases you? You are not worth defying. Do your worst.”

            The blow struck. She saw the medic’s face grow cold. In her hopeless plight, the victory seemed enormous.

            The Igul inclined his head. “As the fair lady wishes.”

~

            Pain filled her world.

            The life essence that distinguished her gender served to work against her this time. Rather than letting her die and escape the torment, it allowed her to persist. It did not help that the medic used crystals to enhance her life essence just enough to keep her alive, but not enough to allow her to withstand him.

            Bastard.

            She held her tongue and gave them nothing, a point of pride for her, the only point of pride she had left. Her body was theirs to play with, and the medic did his work well.

            Days and nights passed in a blur. Yidin no longer felt like a human being. She was a lump of flesh and bone, waiting to die. Her only victory was her continued silence. It was so tempting to give in, to end it all, especially when she started forgetting why she was so obstinate in the first place. Maksha came back and whispered into her ear, “Would your colleagues be like you, if they were in your place? Come, you know their nature better than I. Name me a few cowards. The ones you do not like so much, but tolerated anyway. What do you care what happens to them? You would hardly be around when we annihilate them. Look, it has been two weeks and no one has come for you. These are the people you suffer so much to protect…”

            He treated her body a battering ram, and at first Yidin fought back, despite her torn muscles and battered bones. When she realized he enjoyed that resistance, she stopped and let him do what he wished, because while he was rutting he could not interrogate her and she could cover the words with her screams. The medic kept her face intact and he would kiss her like he loved her, press his forehead against hers as fire ripped around her.

            “You are making this hard for yourself, you know,” Maksha told her at last, and she had enough of herself left to feel a sense of glee at his expression of ill-contained frustration. “None of this is necessary. You are being foolish.”

            Her lips were split, and she was sure her teeth were broken towards the molars. Her tongue felt swollen in her mouth, and her vocal cords raw from screaming. As such she could only whisper, but the room echoed well, and she knew he could hear him.

            “Not as hard for me as it is for you…” And this was something worthy of being proud of, because it embodied the essence of what was still right in this world. “No matter what you do with us, you cannot take our will and mind.”

            The Ihari will prevail.

~

            “Maybe her face is her weakest point,” Maksha remarked with disappointment. “Maybe we were wrong to avoid it. I mean, there is an artistic beauty to her now; intact face, ruined body.”

            It was an enjoyable episode at first, but Maksha had duties and his government had expectations of him. They knew she was in his custody for weeks now. He knew she would put up a fight, but at this point her silence was starting to become truly problematic.

            “Do you suppose women are particularly sensitive there?” he asked Gyda, feeling a bit torn; he really liked this woman, and did not want her face ruined. On the other hand, no woman was worth his career…

            The medic shook his head, however. “You picked a tough blossom to pick, my friend. No, I doubt disfiguring her would do the trick.”

            Maksha sighed. “She is far too strong-willed for that. Had her mind been just a bit weaker, we could have gotten this over with.” He would not have respected her as much, granted, but as interesting as Diar had been, he could not tolerate such an obstacle in his progress or that of his country.

            Gyda suddenly slammed the table. “That is it!”

            Startled, the General stared at him. “What is it?”

            “Her mind! We have been working with her body, but the human mind is a curious thing,” Gyda shot to his feet, “I will be right back!”

            Later that day, the medic presented him with a palm of unassuming pills.

            “Anti-psychotics?”

            “Sometimes fixing what is not broken is more devastating than simply breaking it.” Gyda lifted the pills to eye-level. “Supposedly, when these get administered to healthy mind, it does the opposite of what it would to a sick one, though that is just theory, for obvious reasons”—he winked—“nothing that requires fancy ourols this time around, and fairly simple, really.”

            “What if she forgets what she is supposed to know?”

            “Ach,” Gyda shook his head. “Not how these things work. Might be slow to recall, forget some details here and there, but honestly? After what she has been through, she was bound to forget them anyway, and the big picture is really what you need. Nothing lowers one’s will than a broken mind, and these will shatter her like glass.”

            It was actually difficult for Maksha to make the decision. He was fond of Diar for her mind. Breaking it seemed as bad as disfiguring her face. If he wanted a mere puppet, he would have married a woman from Igul by this time.

            But country came first, whatever his personal affection for the Ihari woman. Gyda dosed the pills and stuffed them down her bloodied throat.

            Then they waited.

            They did not have to wait long.

~

            At first nothing happened, and Yidin dared to believe that maybe whatever they forced into her did not work on her.

            Then she started having vivid dreams. She would be a little girl, running after her parents down a field of flowers. They would remain just out of reach, calling for her to catch up, to hurry or she would miss it, and she would strain her little legs and strive and yet the gap remained ever-present, even extending.

            Nightmares were nothing new, but these were odd, different from the usual dreams she had. Usually she would relive the day her parents died, or the faces of her many loved ones forged among the rebels through ubiquitous loneliness and loss. The dreams now felt even more twisted than the horrors of real life. They depicted strange world with strange rules, and voices whispering sickening things, people changing forms and the landscape morphing before her eyes.

            Then, in the cold of her cell, wide-awake and restless, Yidin saw the floor in front of her melt. Out stretched a tiny hand, bloodied and burned, with little black stumps in the place of missing fingers. An infant crawled right out of the concrete, its face barely a face, rotting limbs heaving as it dragged itself from the ground.

            Yidin stared in horror. You are hallucinating.

            That was the drug. It was a hallucinogen. Just keep track of what is real. You can do this. Say nothing. Remember who and where you are.

            But the hallucination persisted, and when spiders began crawling along her body, no amount of willful rejection banished them from her perception.

            Old comrades lurked in the shadows, watching at first in silent condemnation, then coming out with their scepters and staves and sometimes the raw crystals themselves to slice at her form.

            “You sent us to our deaths,” They spat, “Why should you live any longer than we did? You value your petty missions more than us.”

            “What were they?”

            She held on tight, but the weight was too heavy and she could no longer remember…what was she supposed to remember? Where she was…she had no idea where she was. She was everywhere and nowhere. She was alone and surrounded by voices and—

~

            “Fascinating how a couple of pills can change a person so dramatically,” Medic Gyda observed. “I can publish a paper on this.”

            Yidin was a screamer when she was schizophrenic, and Maksha actually felt a little sad when he saw her cowering within her restraints, eyes wide and tearful as she beheld something visible only to her. She hummed and shouted to ward away the voices in her head and her limbs, previously uncoordinated because of weakness, now seemed to completely disregard what higher function was left in her brain.

            “Sorry…sorry…I will be good—no—no I did not do it! Leave them alone! No stay away from me—“

            Gyda, true to his character, recorded the episodes with relish, intending to take them back to Igul for demonstrations.

            “The students will love it,” he exclaimed, “mental conditions are always a favorite. Give me a few more days before you kill her, will you? Even better, give me until she asphyxiates on herself. I should have recorded more of her prior to administering the drugs…I will do that with the next one.”

            “Is there any way to reverse the effects?”

            “Pfft,” Gyda scoffed. “Even with Oleanders, I doubt it. Minds are things even they cannot fix, and your woman? Gone for good, I am afraid. Though she did give us everything in short time! I am torn between being glad we did not do this first and kind of wishing we did.”

            She gave them everything inadvertently, because she did not even know who they were after the first two doses. Gyda stopped to see if the effects persisted and was delighted to realize that they did.

            After a while, Yidin Diar was so out of her mind that she could no longer scream or move, instead staring blankly up or ahead at whatever direction her head happened to rest in, completely catatonic. Gyda found this relatively uninteresting, and so told Maksha that if he wanted to dispose of her, now was a good time.

            Maksha went to bid her farewell. He found it highly dissatisfying; he missed when she fought back, even if it was by pretending he did not exist. There were no twitches of disgust, tensing of pain, or huddling of shame. Yet in the end he held her close and mused that she was as small as when he first met her, that doll-like face now matched to an equally empty head. Fitting, really, but tragic enough that even though she was a mere Ihari, Maksha felt a sense of regret. Had she been born the right race, what a figure she would have been!

            Something snapped within her. Her life essence. Maksha blinked, wondering just how much of it this crazy woman had—but it was not hers. Fairly new and small, but it had been in her for a while…

            He called for Gyda.

~

            “Amazing,” the medic announced, “Somehow, despite the stress and weakness she still had enough to carry it. I guess those crystals were more potent than I thought!”

            Once Maksha recovered from the shock, he asked, “Can she carry it to term?”

            “Not without the help of the ourols, and lots of them! Why?”

            The General grabbed the medic’s arm. He did not speak, but the medic blinked, his jolly expression dimming to severity.

            “What do you intend to do with the child?”

            “She should have been Igul,” Maksha reminded him. “This is as close as she can get.”

            “…A half-Igul-half-Ihari? That—“ the medic swallowed his words, which was probably a wise decision. “Are you sure you want to tolerate that?”

            “Can you keep her alive and carry it to term?”

            “Well, I mean, that would require a lot of crystals, and she would probably not survive the labor—“

            “This could be good for your research.” Maksha really had no idea what sort of ‘research’ Gyda did, he tended to humor the medic because Gyda always seemed so excited about his own discoveries. This seemed to be the right thing to say, however.

            Gyda considered this for several long seconds. “Well, let us try, then.” He glanced down at the catatonic woman. “That certainly would be an interesting project!”

~

            The months stretched. The Resistance was beaten back. At first, the officers were in denial. They knew Diar would die before betraying them, and attributed their losses to bad luck, and the trend those times.

            Then the undercover Ihari agents were discovered, one by one, almost methodically, as if the Igul knew exactly what to look for and who to look at.

            A cold winter froze some rebels to death and starved others. Even the tenacity of the enslaved had to give out at some point. The few remaining free Ihari huddled in despair and misery as they watched Igul systematically occupy their home.

            Spring brought along a new hope, however. An Oleander, by virtue of her sisterhood’s diplomatic immunity and political apathy, crossed paths with some Resistance members and agreed to come tend to those still sick from the frost.

            Oleanders carried a cleansing aura to them, one that energized and uplifted just by their very presence. They did not even need ourols to do their work, though most carried one in a scepter or staff nonetheless. Most began life rather normally, if stronger than average, but upon induction to the sisterhood, their full powers awaken. The women often restrict their activities to healing, but it was often rumored that if they so chose, they could turn the tides of battle as easily as Fortune.

            They approached her, asking, perhaps…?

            “I will do so once, under one condition,” She told them. “You will not mention the aid of an Oleander. My sisterhood serves all people in need, no matter their background. We do not choose between who is right or wrong, who has the moral high ground and who deserves the wrath of fate. I will help you for one battle, because as a healing woman, my duty is to fight that which brings harm to us, and the Igul are that force. However, they are people as well; no better and no worse, and as consistent with the laws of my sisterhood, I will not be partial against any particular race.”

~

            Maksha left the base to see to defenses of a new promising ourol mine. Yidin Diar had gone to labor the day before he left, giving birth to a tiny baby girl. It was a perfect little thing, with all the right reflexes according to Gyda, and had he not been wary of appearing too sentimental, he would have taken the little one along with him, just to keep her close.

The General returned to find the whole area overturned, as if the earth itself had surged up to consume what was upon it. Barracks and walls were cracked and broken, clusters of debris crowded the previously crisp courtyards. The Igul soldiers were deeply shaken from the onslaught, barely coordinating their efforts properly to search through the wreckage.

            “What happened here?” he demanded, astounded by this turn of events.

            “The rebels have something!” one of the officers reported. “Not sure if it is a weapon or…but whatever it was, it turned the very earth against us!”

            Medic Gyda was ranting about all his lost specimens.

            “Months of work!” he exclaimed. “Blasted Ihari filth! Now I have to do all of this all over again! And here I thought I could return to Igul next week!”

            Maksha ran up to him, grabbing his shoulder.

            “Where is she?” he demanded. Did she perish?

            “Diar is gone. The rats took her,” Gyda huffed, surprisingly unattuned to Maksha’s interests.

            Maksha spat out a curse. Not that there was anything that could be done for Diar—she was completely beyond hope. The child, however—

            “And the baby?” he inquired.

            Gyda looked at him, and Maksha felt his blood grow cold.

2: Twenty-Two Years Later

    Morning found the Fire Girl dancing in the camp square. She made good income because she was a pretty specimen, with fair skin and short dark hair that curled as it framed her face. Two piercingly violet eyes peered from velvet lashes, almost glowing in their intensity so that even the individuals towards the back could see their color. Even more, though, her costume was provocative: two broad red streamers wrapped many times around her body and tied down with black leather, showing hints of skin here and there and everywhere except the most vital areas, extending from her wrists so she could ribbon dance.

    The campfolk knew her because she was a traveling artist and had been to other parts of the country nearby, so she had a vast audience to watch her. The more conservative individuals ducked their eyes to look away, but she was very talented and people began forgetting how scandalous she was and focused on her dancing. She had a fine figure, lithe and graceful, and the streaming red ribbons made for a delightful show. Despite the scathing remarks, the inhabitants were staring, entranced. Ihari miners were the best audience. Somehow, being destitute made them more appreciative of everything around them, and eager to reward talent, perhaps in the hopes of being rewarded in return for their generosity.

    She rarely bought food from stores. She preferred stealing. Most stores would not serve someone like her anyway; the Ihari had none, with their rations heavily supervised by the Igul military, and of course the Igul thought she was a rabid ragamuffin; she looked too much like an imp, and dressed far too scandalously for any respectable Igul establishment to accept her in public. She had her ways of finding room and shelter, and would often steal from those as well. She danced not for money but more to feel good about herself; she liked how people’s eyes widen in horror at her, before they become irresistibly drawn. “Seductress,” they whispered to each other, and that was just fine with Blaze. She was a seductress. Why not? Why should she not revel in her beauty and youth, just because other people were weak-willed?

    She loved how she could play her audience like a harp. They try so hard not to love her, and yet they do. It was actually her talent: to make people fall in love with whomever she wished. Their struggles were futile, and oh, how conflicted they become!

    Of course, many could love Blaze, but Blaze’s heart was her own. She was a wanderer, and thus wild and free, free from attachments and the limits that lock others down, free from the weakness and weariness that encourage others to settle, stay in one place, stand by one person. She was never in one place for long, and her true home was in the wilderness away from the intricacies of civilization, where everything around her was as wild as she was.

    It was a delightful lifestyle.

    She also liked causing trouble for the Igul guards.

     “Girl,” called one, when the show was over and the square was dispersing. The afternoon sun was still high in the sky as Blaze collected her earnings, each one an indication of appreciation from her fans. She turned to behold five soldiers from the patrol, each carrying several ourol weapons either in their hand, over their shoulder, or on their belts.

    “What say you give us a private dance?” the one who called her remarked, flicking a bit of ration in her direction. She caught it with a laugh.

    “Private dance! Only this much?” she grinned cheekily at him before gesturing at her slender young body. “Won’t you say this is worth a little extra?”

    “Hoho! Chit knows her own worth, does she?” said his colleague. “We will pitch that bit from each of us once the dance is over, eh?”

    As he spoke, another Igul patrol marched along the edge of the square. Blaze did not see what sparked the confrontation, but she suddenly heard a woman begging, pleading. One soldier aimed his weapon and fired a red hot fire beam with a loud crack.

    The woman froze in mid-cry. Blaze sensed her life essence puff away like smoke.

    There was another crack, and her child died with her.

    The five soldiers accosting her turned at the commotion.

    “Idiot Ihari,” the fire soldier spat, “This country is composed of utter imbeciles. When are these people going to learn? Keep your damn brats under control, damn it!”

    Blaze had witnessed enough of these incidents that she hardly even batted an eyelash. She was practically counting on something like this happening to draw attention away from her ever since the soldiers came up to her. Igul soldiers were very trigger-happy and they liked killing anyone who so much as looked too ugly to them, and of course, to the Igul, all Ihari looked ugly because the Igul people were the fairest people in the world. There was plenty of shooting to go around anywhere that was unfortunate enough to have a military base overlooking it.

    The five soldiers were still watching as other civilians ran to the scene; the mother’s sister, it seemed, and another daughter, but other soldiers of the patrol raised their weapons and these two were promptly killed as well.

    There were ways to take advantage of men who were eager to shoot at things. Blaze grabbed her earnings in one hand and deftly adjusted one of the soldier’s smaller weapons with the other to aim at the soldier who shot the mother and child. She sent a burst of life essence through it.

    With a loud pop, a beam fired.

    Grinning, Blaze stepped back as the other patrol fired back without thinking and ducked behind a low cover to avoid getting hit. Live like a scoundrel, die like a scoundrel, turds.

    The townspeople were hurrying away from the square. She heard the thud of bodies and smothered a snicker. One could argue she was doing a service to the Ihari slaves while getting rid of unwanted attention.

    “What are you doing?!” the surviving soldiers shouted, and the two groups marched towards each other in fury.

    Blaze looked over her cover, made sure they were not paying attention to her, and darted away from the square, unseen.

~

            The car sounded loudly outside as the pilot tried to summon whoever the group was looking for. Chik-chik lifted its head from Anvalan’s belly to look at the window and twitched a dainty sniff.

            Anvalan laughed at this. “You are a little lady,” she declared to the snow deer, rubbing its fair head. “You are such a little lady.”

            “Get your rear end out already!” one of the young men yelled.

            “I am I am, Spirits…”

            Anvalan would have gone out with them, and her father, the minister, had tried to encourage her to be more social with those her own age.

            “Have you met people my own age?” she had inquired, during her adolescence and whenever she had holidays from the Academy. “Pretentious, arrogant lot! And lately they water down to sycophants whenever I am near!”

            “Is it so wrong that they want your approval?”

            “It is if it is for the wrong reasons. And that is easy to tell, based on how they treat each other. I will have none of that.”

            The minister had been displeased. “You will not always have the option of interacting with only people you like, Anvalan.”

            “I can summon a fake smile as easily as they can,” Anvalan had replied, “Until then, why force myself to deal with them any more than necessary?”

            The trouble was, everyone at the Academy came from wealthy families, except for those select few who came on scholarship—but even they could be intolerable. Some were obnoxiously proud of their intelligence, and it was just substituting one pride for another. Some were so obsessed with their coursework, they had no time for people like Anvalan who were there mainly for appearances. If they were not cowed by the fact that Anvalan was the daughter of the Minister of Igul, they were derisive because they thought she was just an empty-headed child of a rich man.

            Ultimately, it was easier to be by herself, with Chik-chik for company.

            The engines rattled, and Anvalan twisted the ourol pendant around her neck as she watched the car full of her classmates hover above the ground before whisking past the dormitories. She looked down at her notes.

    4.         Obscure spell

   Method: Must maintain calm mental state. Twist alternating wrists to front, beginning with left wrist in opposite directions. End with palms together, left palm up, right palm down, fingers in opposite directions. Rise on left foot, lift right leg. Lift arms above head, separate arms out and down, left palm down, right palm up. Bring arms forward while stepping back to right foot, cross hands in and down.

            Chik-chik turned its head back around and sniffed at her notes in Advanced Arcane Arts.

            “No Chik-chik…” Anvalan gently pushed it away, “you cannot eat these.”

            Arcane arts had become almost irrelevant ever since the Igul expansion. Ourols made old techniques superfluous, especially since crystal enhancement made spells much easier than any ancient method could. Anvalan always thought the disinterest would be their failing, however. Ourols had a life-span, and no matter how many mines there were, they were still mining faster than ourols were growing back. The Igul population was growing, which meant the deficit would become more and more pronounced, until finally there would have to be rationing, assuming people stopped mining before all of the ourols were gone. Certainly, there was research being done to either extend ourol lifespans or synthesize the crystals in labs, to some success—but she believed that it paid to remember the tricks their ancestors used, so they were not so dependent on the crystals.

            And besides, to a certain extent, she was at the Academy just for appearances. She did not have to learn anything immediately useful, and she found the Arcane arts interesting. People in the old days used a lot of essence-building exercises and movement series to ease the flow of energy. They also conducted a lot of cooperative spells, where multiple people performed parts of the same spell, or performed the same parts of the same spell, which allowed them to accomplish what individuals could not. These days, group spells were unheard of in civil settings. They were probably only used by soldiers and patrols, and even then, Anvalan doubted they were used much. With the crystals and the new technology accessing their powers, an average person could cast multiple spells that use to require cooperation. There was no need for anyone to conduct group-castings, and such group-work was difficult as well, requiring close trust and thorough planning. A member of a group could easily be hurt during the casting of a group-spell. Why chance it when they no longer needed to?

             Chik-chik stared at the papers as if agreeing with this sentiment. Dubious about their safety, Anvalan moved to shield them from her pet. She was sure paper did not taste very good, especially compared to the things she usually fed the impish doe, but Chik-chik looked like it was in the mood to try something new.

            “These notes can be of some use, you know,” Anvalan chastised, “if I am ever stranded on a highway and my ourols are out of life, I can possibly use this to survive in the wild.”

            Chik-chik stared at her, twitching its ears. The snow deer probably would not care even if she knew what Anvalan was saying.

            The communicator glowed, letting out a stream of musical notes. With a mental impulse, she telekinetically waved it over. Another impulse summoned the image of one of her classmates.

            “Dehani, how goes?”

            “Anva,” He called cheerfully, “You would never guess—you know the raft debate down at center-city? Guess who is showing up!”

            Anvalan pushed at Chik-chik, who was trying to get to her notes again. “Muwana.” The singer was the most random person she could think of.

            “No, I would not be calling you if it were him. No, an Oleander is showing up! Or showed up, rather. Last night. We are going down to take a look. Want to come with us?”

            Anvalan glanced at her notes. She had intended to study them today. Dehani was one of those students who was here on partial scholarship—his family was not quite poor enough to warrant full coverage, but he had been intelligent enough to matriculate on merit. In the beginning, he had actually been unpleasant to her; Anvalan suspected this was because he assumed she would be no better to him and moved to protect his pride before she could injure it. After the first year at the Academy, he started becoming progressively kinder, which Anvalan had taken in a stride. Nowadays, however, he was acting thoroughly bemusing, going to great lengths to convince Anvalan to join him and his friends on one adventure or another. Anvalan was reasonably certain of the cause, but his reluctance to be open about it made her equally reluctant to confront the issue.

            “Well…what are we looking at, exactly? I mean, the Oleander would hardly do tricks for our amusement.” Oleanders were said to have a lot of power, even more so than most people with ourols, but if they did, they used it mainly for healing purposes. Which, while impressive, was not something she imagined the order members would display to entertain.

            “Oh come, Oura. Not like you see one of them every day. I heard even being near them gives you a sense of peace. Are you not curious at all?”

            Anvalan considered. She was not that pressed for studying, and this could very well be a once-in-a-lifetime experience—having a noble background was completely irrelevant when it came to the attentions of Oleanders; they went whenever they felt they were needed and abided by no class or political rules.

            “Alright, fine. When and where are we meeting?”

~

            “On your feet!”

            Adaré rose with the rest of the Ihari women. They were waiting at the camp gates. Around them, the Igul soldiers brandished their weapons, bulky ourols glittering.

            “Ready?” She whispered to those around her. She dared not raise her voice further. Speaking was forbidden when they were about to march, and she did not want to draw attention.

            They all kept their eyes down. There was a snapping sound, and a death gurgle. At this point, not even the children flinched at the sound. Igul guards were free to kill whenever they liked, as long as it did not interfere with the whole of the miner operations. Likely whoever it was had coughed, or sniffled, or displayed some general sign that he or she was no longer quite at the peak.

            Illness was especially lethal around here.

            “Group one: march!”

            The first group went, thankfully without incident. They were being cycled to the mines; in the early years, Adaré was told, the Igul wanted all of them at all of the mines, but the conditions were so horrendous that the Ihari started dying out. The Igul developed the rotation system to maintain their slave supply. Every two weeks, they alternated with another camp, though for women who were of age, there was an additional rotation where some of them were taken to the fertilization centers. Women and men were kept in separate camps, to avoid any “fraternizing”.

    After twenty-two years, almost no one remembered what a normal life was like. Anyone over the age of thirty-five was executed. Adaré never knew what became of her own parents, who were gone when she was but an infant, but her parent figures at the camp were all killed seven or more years ago.

    “Group two: march!”

     Eventually, it was their group, and Adaré went between the rows of women. They did lighter work than the men, but it was still enough to scrub their flesh raw, and the Igul only fed enough to keep them alive. Mining was grueling and dangerous. There was always a chance for a cave-in, and then there were the ground-dwelling creatures, desirijes, that get disturbed when miners dug too far down into the ground. There were casualties from the majority of the rotations, either directly or from executions if the victim was too injured to work.

    Still, actively mining was the only time when Adaré could conduct her work.

    The Resistance had been largely squashed many years ago, withdrawing their base to somewhere in the outskirts of civilization. Too weak to confront the Igul directly as they had before the war ended—some say the war never ended—the rebels instead worked on stealing as many ourols from the Igul as possible. They did this on several fronts, sometimes by intercepting shipments, and other times by stealing directly from the source. Adaré was in charge of managing this particular camp.

    They could not steal too much. Too low of a yield, and the guards would choose to send them all to the fertilization centers where they would be forcibly impregnated and be completely useless to the resistance effort. They might even decide to just kill all the women in this camp. However, ourols made all the difference in the world these days, and with Igul hoarding the crystals for themselves, the Ihari had no chance of fighting back without obtaining some of their own. Intercepting shipments was safer for the slaves, but difficult for the rebels to do. The Igul used different paths back to their capital, and it was more covert to steal crystals the Igul never knew they had.

    The rebels had dug an alternate path into the mines, one that was more dangerous, but smaller. The women of the camp assembled a cache for the rebels. Usually, they were crystals of poor quality and potency, but anything was better than nothing.

    The journey was five hours long. They reached the caves when the sun reached its peak. The men had already arrived, and the women mingled under the close scrutiny of the guards, disappearing into the dark maze.

    It was too dangerous for the Igul to send their own down here, so despite their peril, the Ihari were often more free and at ease in the depths of the caves.

    A rebel was already there.

    “Took you long enough,” said the man, as gaunt and dry as any slave, though the harsh light in his eyes was brighter. “Been waiting here for two hours.”

    “They marched us later than usual,” Adaré replied. “What are you doing here? You realize you are stuck here until we distract the guards as we are leaving?”

    “Too important.” He waved, taking Adaré’s pickaxe. “Besides, might not matter. Higher-ups wanted to let you know: they are striking either tonight or tomorrow, depending on the weather.”

    Adaré froze for a moment. It was a good thing they kept their voices low; no one else appeared to have heard. The last thing they needed was a commotion in the caves; if she heard right, she did not want the Igul suspicious.

    “Why?” She asked.

    “Several reasons: The ourol stock here is bigger down below, but the Igul do not know—they think they are running out, planning on clearing the camps in a month.” A lump of ice formed in her stomach, which she quickly disregarded. At least the Resistance was looking out for them. “Memi said he cannot keep going, and Jif said we needed your mind among the central group, instead of in the camps, so consider this an extraction.”

    Adaré blinked. She had not expected that one.

    “And, finally, we have reached the point where we can launch the next stage in our plan.”

    “What is that?”

    “Taking back our people.”

    Her heart was suddenly almost vibrating in her.

    “Alright. What do we have to do?”

    “New moon tonight, supposed to be cloudy, which makes it extra dark. You need to get everyone out of the way so the Igul do not use you against us. Got some gifts for all of you too. Come here.”

    Next to where the miners often disposed of ourol shards for the rebels, was another cache. Small, ill-made amulets, with poor-quality crystals imbued, but that was still more enhancement than any of the slaves ever had.

    “Carry this. Not much, but enough to negate the implants.”

    She sensed hers go out as soon as she touched one amulet. Her life essence erupted back, almost with a pop.

    “Not everyone should use these,” the rebel warned. “If people get all excited the plan is ruined.”

    “I know.” Adaré could barely contain her own excitement. She used an impulse to telekinetically lift another amulet. Her control was shaky from lack of use, but it came, and for a moment she was overcome.

    The rebel allowed her to revel in it for a while. “Best hide these somewhere they cannot see and do not touch them until the time comes. The life essences should be too weak, compared to yours, for them to sense, but if too many touch them they might sense the implants go out. We want this hit to be as quick and clean as possible.”

            “Yes, of course.” She swallowed, amassing an effort to assume calm, control. “Any signal?”

            “From me. Sonar device, here,” the rebel held it out for her to see. A simple disc, imbued with two ourol crystals. “They will assemble at four locations around the mine. I will send sound impulses through the earth to their sites when it is time. They will plant echo devices when they arrive, I will get the echo, and then I will signal them to strike once you get the miners ready.”

            “Alright,” Adaré nodded.

            “In the meantime, go about business as usual.”

            Business as usual meant digging, bringing crystals out so the Igul did not suspect. Her heart raced with adrenaline, and it was unbearable how long time stretched. By the time the rebels were to strike, the miners would be out of the mines, and who knew if all of them would survive the day? She kept her head down and eyes down. Inconspicuous, so that the guards did not target her. Freedom was so near she could taste it.

            But not near enough, for some.

            Crack! “What do you think you are doing?”

            “S-s-sorry—“

            “I will show you what sorry is!” Crack!

            The other miners scooted away. Adaré looked up to see a young girl, thin to the bone and shivering, bleeding from the face where the whip had struck. She was holding one eye protectively as the Igul guard advanced.

            “You want to know what ‘sorry’ is, wench?” Another crack, one that had Adaré flinching. “Well?”

            “P-p-please…I did not mean—“

            “I do not care what you meant, you filthy“—the whip came down again—“infested“—again— “worthless piece of vermin!”

            Her life force swirled in her, and one of the guards who was snickering at the scene looked up curiously. Adaré hurriedly brought up her basket, pretending it was the ourols that caught his senses. She looked away hurriedly.

            The implant is deactivated. I can help. I should help.

            Power coursed through her, rusty but solid. She could launch an impulse, grab the soldier, grab his whip and whip him back. She could throw spell after spell. Who knew how many spells she had in her? She might have enough to be an Oleander.

            Crack! A sob. The girl was kneeling on the ground, covering her head. The whip glowed with an impulse, and this time when the soldier lashed, the girl screamed.

            The other miners ignored the scene with steadfast will. Adaré continued to try to justify taking action. They had the stash. If she could just get everyone to touch the amulets, take off the impulse, then they could storm the base, and maybe the refugees would not even need to fight, the miners would just fight for themselves…

            “What are you looking at?!”

            A sudden spell rushed behind her. Adaré whirled around in alarm, certain it was coming for her—but the spell knocked into another miner, a youth no older than twenty. The basket he carried in his arms dropped as he collapsed, crystals scattering. His life force snuffed out almost instantly.

            The Igul muttered something uncouth, then gestured at Adaré. “Go move that somewhere where we do not have to see it. And get the crystals when you are done. Consider them part of your count.” He smirked, as if he had just done her a favor, and then turned to his colleague whipping the girl. “Aim for the bum!”

            Hands trembling, Adaré placed her own basket down. The boy’s name was Yantus, she remembered numbly, as she dug her hands under his still-warm underarms to drag him through the tunnel. The girl’s screams were already fading and the smell of blood soaked the air. Adaré pulled Yantus’s corpse like an obedient slave and did not try to help her.

    Ultimately her instinct had agreed with her mind—and this was perhaps why she had been selected as leader for her camp: she could not risk the freedom of all of the miners over the rash urge to save only one or two of her kin.

~

            The rebel mingled with the miners when they exited the caves for the night. Adaré’s amulet was warm against her skin as she waited. It was dark, as promised, and the Igul soldiers kicked around, stones and dirt and people, occasionally shooting spells to get the Ihari jumping for their amusement.

            He gave her the signal.

            Adaré readied the miners.

            The Resistance attacked.