Chapter 13: Bonds

  The Cycles of War: History, Politics and Destiny – Fragment from Chapter 10 – Saphira Don

  For millennia, humanity looked at the stars with the arrogance of those who believe themselves destined to conquer them. From the first orbital settlements to interstellar expeditions, every step in expansion was accompanied by the same belief: adaptation would be a matter of technology, and nature would be nothing more than an obstacle to overcome.

  Reality was less generous with that vision.

  Of the thousands of planets explored in the first cycles of expansion, less than 2% presented habitable conditions without extreme technological intervention. The equation was simple: human biology is a fragile design, built for a narrow atmospheric range and a very specific gravitational pressure. Every new world discovered represented an implicit threat.

  The solution, as in every survival crisis, was architecture.

  Thus was born the concept of the Dome.

  Not as a structure, but as an ideology: adaptation had to be internal, not external. Instead of modifying entire planets to make them habitable, humanity would lock itself inside self-sufficient bubbles, maintaining ideal conditions within a hermetic shell.

  The Dome was a renunciation of the idea of total conquest of the cosmos. It was the admission that humanity was not made for the stars, but for small fragments of reality it could control.

  The initial concept of the Dome was simple: a containment barrier capable of replicating Earth’s atmosphere and withstanding the blows of a hostile environment. However, the problem was never the structure, but the internal balance.

  Each dome is a closed system, where the resource equation must be solved with absolute precision. In a natural ecosystem, balance is chaotic yet self-sustaining; in a dome, every variable is controlled to the point of paranoia.

  The first models failed due to miscalculations. Oxygen regulation had to be constant, but without the margin of error that exists on Earth, where oceans and forests can absorb excesses without the population collapsing in asphyxiation. CO?, on the other hand, accumulated at an alarmingly fast rate. The solution came in the form of bioengineering: synthetic organisms designed to fulfill the role of terrestrial flora, adjusting gas levels with mathematical precision.

  But the atmosphere was only one of the problems.

  Gravity on many of these worlds was insufficient, causing bone deterioration in the colonists. Induced magnetism systems were used, simulating weight at the cellular level. It worked in theory, but the long-term effects remain unknown.

  Water, a fundamental element for any settlement, had to be recycled in closed cycles, where every drop was purified, reused, and returned to the system. Over time, it was discovered that some settlements dependent on this closed cycle began to show neurological disorders. The cause: accumulation of trace minerals in the recycled water. The water itself was becoming incompatible with human biology.

  Every solution brought a new problem. Every advance encountered unexpected resistance.

  The worst mistake of the initial colonization was the belief that the dome could sustain a society without psychological changes.

  The first generations born under the dome never felt real wind, never saw the sun without a protective filter. They did not know rain beyond the automated systems that replicated the phenomenon in programmed cycles. They did not know what it was to breathe without the supervision of an algorithm.

  And that was the greatest failure of all.

  The first psychiatric records in the dome colonies revealed an unexpected phenomenon: environmental dissociation. Isolated from a real world, with no connection to a natural ecosystem, the inhabitants of the dome began developing thought patterns that distanced them from the rest of humanity. They became more rigid in their logic, more dependent on the social structures imposed within the dome. Creativity decreased. The ability to conceptualize possibilities outside their immediate environment shrank with each generation.

  For those born inside the dome, the idea of an open world was not fascinating. It was terrifying.

  Over time, domes became more than environmental shelters. They turned into conceptual prisons, places where humanity existed in a simulation of its own world, but without the margin of error that allows life to evolve.

  Colonization did not fail in terms of infrastructure. It failed in its most fundamental purpose: to expand humanity.

  The domes did nothing but contain it.

  History does not move in a straight line. Its cycles repeat, disguised with new technologies and different names. Humanity thought that by leaving Earth it would conquer new horizons. Instead, it replicated the cage in which it was born.

  The domes were not a step toward freedom. They were a reminder that no matter how far we travel, we still do not know how to inhabit the universe without destroying ourselves in the process.

  Because the truth is that we did not conquer the cosmos.

  We only learned to survive within it.

  But survival is not the same as life.

  And as long as humanity remains locked inside its own creations, the question remains unanswered:

  Did we ever truly leave our first world?

  The sun hammered the tent canvas like a relentless mallet. Heat seeped through the folds of fabric, making the air heavy, stifling, almost unbreathable. Kael shifted on the cot, feeling the sticky sensation of sweat on his back. His muscles protested when he tried to sit up, his neck tight from a night of broken sleep.

  He blinked several times, letting his eyes adjust to the light filtering through the tent’s openings. A dull ache pounded at his temples. He hadn’t slept enough, but that was nothing new.

  He ran a hand over his face and spat to the side before standing up. Outside, the camp was already awake. The sound of boots on dry ground, the rough murmur of voices exchanging orders, and the sporadic roar of old engines announced the routine of the day.

  He pulled on his jacket, half-buttoned, and stepped out of the tent.

  The midday heat hit him like a wall. The air smelled of hot dust and rusted metal. In the clear sky, the buzz of reconnaissance drones barely stood out above the camp’s bustle.

  Then he saw him.

  Nuka.

  The short Balmorean stood beside a group of separatist soldiers, his posture relaxed, his crooked smile as if he were enjoying a private joke. His collection of bone necklaces clinked with every movement of his neck. The soldiers around him kept their eyes down, uncomfortable, as if the Balmorean’s mere presence made them aware of their own fragility.

  Kael approached, frowning. Nuka noticed him at once, and his smile widened with that careless malice that made Kael’s blood boil.

  “Durnan,” the Balmorean said, raising his arms as if he were a host welcoming an expected guest. “Right on time.”

  Kael folded his arms and glanced at the soldiers around. Lenar Tidus and Hack Tenneris, two Hands, had been listening to Rudolph, but now all three were watching the exchange between the Balmorean and Durnan.

  “For what?” Kael asked bluntly.

  Nuka inhaled deeply, as if savoring the camp’s dry air.

  “To receive good news.” His voice dragged the words out in an almost amused tone. “There was a battle last night. A glorious clash, so I’ve been told. Tau Ceti IV bled.”

  Kael felt his stomach tighten.

  “Where?”

  “The capitol. Some of ours held the position…” Nuka tilted his head, watching him with sharp eyes, like a predator sizing up its prey. “But many paid with blood.”

  Kael felt a spike of tension along his back.

  “How many?”

  Nuka squinted, his smile never shifting.

  “Enough. And Bagdur…” He ran his tongue along his teeth before continuing. “Is hungry.”

  Kael felt a knot in his throat. He already knew where this was going.

  “Jackie is on his way with the prisoners.” His voice came out sharper than he intended. “Isn’t that enough?”

  Nuka laughed low, a guttural vibration that felt like an echo in the throat.

  “You always ask that, Durnan.” He shook his head with feigned disappointment. “Bagdur does not know satiety. And neither do we.”

  Kael clenched his jaw.

  “We’re not a breeding ground for sacrifices.”

  “No, of course not.” Nuka’s eyes gleamed with something dangerous. “But we’re not a bloodless army either. Every life they give us is one more reason to keep fighting.”

  Rudolph stepped forward, probably noticing the rage simmering in Kael.

  “I assume you’re not saying that if we don’t give you what you want, you’ll leave us stranded, right? We’re all looking for the best deal here, Nuka. We’re ready to cooperate and want to work together peacefully, but we also have our limitations.”

  Nuka leaned slightly toward him, like a teacher explaining something to a stubborn child.

  “Whoever you are, little soldier, I don’t like your complacency. What I’m saying is that if the war goes on, Bagdur must be fed. If not with prisoners, then with…” He tilted his head. “Alternatives.”

  Rudolph’s jaw tensed, and Kael felt the urgency to cut that conversation off before it ended worse than necessary.

  “Jackie will bring enough prisoners,” he repeated, his tone unyielding.

  Nuka shrugged, his smile never fading.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  The Balmorean turned away with exasperating calm, taking a few steps before stopping. Then, without looking back, he added in a low voice:

  “A few days ago we found the bodies of a family, shot to pieces. Two adults and a girl.” Kael felt his chest tighten even before Nuka finished the sentence. “Turns out I’d noticed a man heading that way when the sweep began, with a younger boy. Every time I see you, you look more like him. But of course, I must be wrong. The noble Kael Durnan would never kill an innocent, unarmed family. Right?”

  Kael felt his pulse hammering at his temples.

  The air around him seemed to freeze under the blazing sun. He didn’t move. He didn’t react. But something inside him pulled taut to the breaking point.

  Nuka gave a brief laugh, savoring his own provocation, and walked away with an easy stride, leaving only the echo of his words hanging in the air like invisible poison.

  Kael closed his eyes for a second, his breathing heavy, his jaw tight. He felt Rudolph’s gaze at his side.

  “Hands,” Rudolph said, turning to Tidus and Tenneris. “You’re dismissed.”

  They obeyed and left immediately. Kael perceived it by the sound of their steps, because he didn’t look back at either of them.

  Rudolph waited a few seconds before speaking.

  “My trust in you won’t budge an inch, Kael, we’re friends, and you’re my superior, but I have to ask… is it true?”

  Kael avoided meeting his eyes directly. Rudolph was judging him, and that angered him even more. He could judge himself—

  but the rest?

  “I don’t think that’s a pertinent question to ask your superior, Spokesman Tant.”

  Rudolph stared at him for a few seconds, his mouth half open. Kael expected him to say something, to point at him, to blame him, something.

  But he didn’t. He gave a military salute and walked away quickly. That angered Kael even more.

  Kael watched his soldiers as they trained.

  Jackie had to arrive soon. With enough prisoners.

  Because if he didn’t…

  Kael didn’t want to imagine what Nuka would suggest next.

  The next two hours passed in a suffocating normality: training with the soldiers, combat drills under the merciless sun, constant interruptions due to lack of supplies. One of the recruits collapsed from dehydration and Roq went to inspect, but Kael barely paid attention.

  His mind was elsewhere.

  His mind was on the vehicle that had to appear at any moment.

  Jackie was on his way.

  When the first round of training ended, Kael dismissed the squad and leaned against a corroded metal structure. From there, he watched the dusty horizon with a neutral expression, his body still covered in sweat and dry dirt. But his mind remained trapped in memories of other worlds. Other wars. Decisions that had led entire civilizations to vanish beneath clouds of fire.

  And in his brother.

  The first sign was a low vibration, not in the air but in the ground itself. A dull tremor that spread through boot heels and the poorly welded metal of the camp. Then the sound: an old, furious engine, too powerful for its chassis. It came from the west. A heavy ground transport.

  A dense cloud rose in the distance, advancing with the clumsy gait of a rusted beast. The vehicle was large, with uneven armor and wheels that spat dust in every direction. It bore the faded emblem of the Separatist Union, almost invisible beneath the grime of the road.

  Kael recognized it instantly.

  Too fast in the turns, too much noise for no reason. Only Jackie drove like that. Or let anyone drive like that.

  The transport slowed with a metallic bellow, and when it finally stopped in front of the camp, the dust had yet to settle. The side hatch opened with a long screech, revealing the dark interior of the cargo bay.

  And there Jackie Durnan appeared.

  He jumped down with the familiar nonchalance of someone who had never learned to be afraid of anything. His jacket hung open, his Union uniform slightly askew, as if he’d been forced to put it on after a nap. Slung loosely over his shoulder was a sidearm marked with the rust of old fights.

  His gaze swept the place like that of a tourist. No awe, no urgency. Only that vague, almost mocking air of someone who recognizes nothing as authority. Beside him, a tall, dark-skinned man accompanied him with a much more sober posture.

  “Look at this, war’s treating us well,” Jackie said with a grin, adjusting the strap of his holster. “If I’d known the climate was this shitty, I’d have brought sunscreen.”

  Kael allowed himself the faintest smile. He watched him in silence, the way you watch an old shadow that’s crossed your path again.

  Jackie climbed down the last steps of the transport and approached, calm, as if Tau Ceti IV were just another stop on a long list of voluntary exiles.

  “What’s wrong, Kaelito? Didn’t you miss me?”

  Kael glanced away for a moment and nodded toward the cargo bay with his chin.

  “How many unlucky souls are you bringing in there?”

  Jackie clicked his tongue.

  “Seventeen. There were twenty, but they tried to escape and I had to sacrifice a couple.”

  “An escape?” Kael asked, skeptical.

  The dark-skinned man stepped forward and gave a military salute.

  “Excuse me, Captain Durnan, but Jaqcues is telling the truth. It was a dangerous escape that had to be stopped.”

  Kael raised his eyebrows.

  “You seem very disciplined, soldier. I hope my brother’s company doesn’t wipe that out. Your name?”

  “Tessio Skixinov, Captain Durnan.”

  “At ease, soldier. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Jackie gestured to the guards still inside the vehicle, and they began unloading the cargo.

  The first group of prisoners was dragged out of the transport.

  Kael watched them. Some were on their feet, though their movements were clumsy, almost mechanical. Others could hardly stand and leaned on each other like badly assembled rag dolls. Their uniforms were torn, their wrists chafed red from bindings, their faces marked by defeat.

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  Kael recognized that look. He had seen it in prisoners before. It was the kind of look that didn’t fade with time or hunger.

  Jackie leaned slightly toward him, lowering his voice just enough for only Kael to hear.

  “Between us, why the hell do we bend over backwards so much for the Balmoreans?”

  Kael drew a long breath, his gaze fixed on the prisoners as they were escorted toward the holding area.

  “Because we have to win the war, brother.”

  “I know that already, that’s not exactly what I’m asking, and you know it.”

  Jackie waited for an answer, but when he didn’t get one, he turned his eyes toward Roq, who was watching the scene with his arms crossed.

  “Here are the prisoners, sir,” Kael broke the silence, his voice tense but controlled. “Enough for our allies?”

  Roq nodded slowly, his dark eyes assessing the cargo.

  “They’ll be pleased.”

  Kael felt the phrase stab him in the chest.

  These were not captured soldiers to be exchanged in negotiations. They were not hostages to be used for political leverage.

  They were meat for the altar. Poor bastards condemned to the worst acts of violence before dying.

  Jackie ran a hand through his hair, his smile more relaxed now that the job was done.

  “Is that it?” he asked, with his usual mocking tone. “No one’s going to congratulate me on my brilliant work? I wouldn’t complain about a bonus or a raise for the amount of meat I brought in.”

  Roq didn’t even look at him when he replied.

  “Mind your stance, Mister Durnan. We’re representing multiple planets, multiple soldiers and multiple fallen. Show some respect.” Then he turned to Tessio. “I ask you, Mister Skixinov, to remain on standby for further orders, you and your companion.”

  Tessio saluted again.

  “We will, sir.”

  Roq walked away. Jackie glanced at his companion with a playful grin.

  “You really love kissing asses, my friend.”

  Tessio snorted and shook his head. Jackie spread his arms, and when he didn’t get a reaction, he turned to his brother.

  “So? Aren’t you going to at least invite me for a drink? I’m wrecked. More than a day on the road.”

  Kael gave him a half-smile, dry.

  “There’s rationed water and warm beer. Your choice.”

  Jackie sighed as if he had just been given the best answer of his life.

  “I always knew you were an excellent host.”

  They walked together for a few steps, without speaking. Tessio followed. The transport’s shadow stretched out behind them.

  As they passed the prisoners, Jackie stopped to look at one in particular: a skinny boy with a split lip and wide eyes, halfway between lost and innocent.

  “You think any of these are going to see the sun again?” he asked quietly.

  Kael didn’t answer.

  Jackie didn’t insist. He gave him a light shove on the arm, the same way he had when they were kids.

  “Well, brother. At least we’re not dying today. That’s something.”

  And they kept walking.

  The dust wasn’t dust.

  It was something thicker, like damp ash. It clung to ankles, stuck to the fabric of pants, and crawled up in a thin film along the skin until it slipped into the nose. It didn’t come out even if you spat or coughed. Harlan had tried. His tongue was dry, and every attempt to swallow felt like chewing a mouthful of dirt. The air scraped his throat with a metallic taste, as if the entire crater were a diseased lung and they were breathing its exhale.

  They walked in a line. Hands tied, one behind the other, guided by Balmoreans with ritual spears and incomplete armor. Some of them went barefoot, others dragged broken sandals; all of them had the same unsettling calm on their faces. They didn’t shout orders. They didn’t need to. Only their eyes—those huge, reddened eyes—moved from one prisoner to another, pinning the group down as if they could see through each of them, as if they already knew who would die first and who would last a little longer.

  The caravan descended along a natural slope, worn down over time, that ended in a crater of black rock turned into an artificial pit. At the bottom, shadows formed an irregular circle of misshapen structures. They weren’t buildings: they were giant cages, rubble welded together by force, fallen crosses, skeletons of old machines repurposed as altars. Between the metallic bones of that wreckage, ropes hung, chain fragments, pieces of cloth hardened by filth. From the center of the pit ran a deep trench, a gash in the rock, full of motionless shadows. From there came a low hum, an almost imperceptible chant someone murmured from the depths, as if the crater itself were praying in a muffled language.

  The ground trembled faintly with every step. It wasn’t a violent tremor; it was a thin, insistent vibration that climbed from the soles of their feet up to their knees. Harlan had the sensation of walking inside something alive, as if the crater walls were ribs and they were entering a chest that still breathed.

  He stumbled. His knees buckled for a second and his body pitched forward. A Balmorean shoved him back upright with the butt of his spear, a sharp blow at shoulder height that pushed him vertical again without even drawing a curse from him. The guard didn’t insult him. Didn’t laugh. He did it with the same indifference with which one presses down a leaf so it stays in the current.

  Harlan straightened with a short gasp. His ribs felt tight, tense from the escape attempt. The stab of pain in his back was a reminder of every meter run, every badly placed step, every second he’d believed they might get out. The one who died had been two steps away when the bullet tore through his head. The image came back whether he wanted it to or not: the crack, the body falling sideways, the blood mixing with that dust that wasn’t dust. No one had said anything afterward. No one had spoken since. Silence had stuck to the line like another chain.

  The caravan finally stopped.

  They were ordered to sit at the bottom of the crater, in a circle, like wood stacked before a fire. They were pushed toward the center, where the ground was flatter, and released one by one, but without removing the bindings from their wrists. Harlan let himself drop clumsily, his muscles too tired to cushion anything. Vela was a few meters away, curled in on herself.

  “Got any water?” he asked, without looking directly at her. His voice came out rough, drier than his own throat.

  She didn’t answer. Her knees were pulled to her chest, head bowed, lips split, the skin around her mouth cracked in white lines. It looked like any word she tried to say would fall apart before it left her.

  “We tried,” Harlan said after a moment. “That’s what matters.”

  The sentence sounded hollow the moment it left his mouth, as if it had already been spoken by a hundred men before him, in other craters, in other wars that had ended the same way.

  Vela looked at him at last. Not with fury. Not with pain.

  With something worse: resignation.

  “No one’s watching us, Harlan,” she murmured. “No one’s up there waiting for us to do something heroic.”

  Harlan swallowed, even though it hurt.

  “Maybe someone is,” he insisted, in a thread of breath that cracked halfway through. “I hope someone is.”

  He didn’t add anything else. Neither did she. Silence stretched around the circle like a second rope, much harder to cut.

  A light wind grazed the lip of the crater and spiraled down, carrying with it the smell of dried blood and old smoke. From a nearby rusted cage, a rope hung and slowly turned, as if dancing alone, marking a rhythm with no music. No screams could be heard. Only the steps of the guards, the scrape of spears against rock, and the hum. Always that hum, sunk in the bottom of the trench like a slow heart.

  A Balmorean passed near the circle. He wore a mask carved from bone, with grooves imitating wrinkles and teeth filed down to points. He didn’t look at them. He didn’t need to see them to know they were there. He set down a bowl of dark liquid in the center with a mechanical gesture and moved on. No one touched it. The bowl remained there in the middle of everyone, still, reflecting a tiny patch of dirty sky.

  Harlan closed his eyes.

  For an instant, he imagined the wind taking everything away: the cages, the Balmoreans, the entire crater. He imagined the ground opening under their feet like a giant mouth, devouring masks and spears. He imagined a voice, not human, breaking the trench’s chant, tearing the hum apart as if plucking a string. He saw it so clearly that for a second he thought he felt the ground give way.

  But nothing happened.

  Only the trembling.

  Only the hum.

  Only the dust that wasn’t dust, stuck to his skin like a sentence.

  The descent had been forced, but the real fall began now that they were still. They had been pushed, one by one, into that eerily symmetrical hollow that looked carved by the fury of a sick deity and then reshaped by human hands. There were no tents. No walls. No mercy. Only rough stone, twisted structures and a sky that grew more distant the more they sank toward the floor. The smaller they made themselves, the larger the crater’s edge seemed.

  Harlan let himself drop near a shadow he recognized by the way it sat. His wrists were marked by the ropes, skin flushed red, violet patches where the bindings had bitten deeper. But that wasn’t what hurt. It was the silence inside him. The silence after Ebran’s fall. The silence of having believed. Of having had faith in Nolan.

  Nolan, who now walked slowly among the prisoners, eyes sunken, cheeks gaunt, his step measured as if he were thinking through every meter. He didn’t say anything at first. He only watched. Every face, every movement, every tremor. As if he needed to register every part of that hell to convince himself he was still alive. Or worse: to confirm that he no longer entirely was.

  He passed by Mikael. The soldier muttered words no one could make out, a broken whisper that fell apart against the hum from below. His lips were cracked and peeling, but his eyes were steady. He clenched his teeth. He watched. He held Nolan’s gaze like someone bracing a wall.

  “Feel any better?” Nolan asked, his voice hoarse, kneeling down to his level. His throat sounded worn from too many attempts to comfort others when he couldn’t find comfort himself.

  “Even my shadow hurts,” Mikael replied, letting out a grimace that never quite became a smile. “But if there’s another plan… tell me. I’ve always got more to give.”

  Nolan nodded faintly. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, as if the gesture were more for himself than for the other man; a way to remind himself that something like will still existed.

  He kept walking.

  Karr was hunched over, hands on the ground, his knuckles peeled and bloody. Filthy dust had lodged in the wounds, forming a grayish paste. Nolan knelt at his side, feeling the pull in his own tired muscles.

  “Can you talk?” he asked.

  “I don’t regret it,” Karr murmured without looking at him. He stared at the ground as if there were some answer there.

  “I know,” Nolan said, and for an instant his voice broke at the edge. “It wasn’t in vain.” He forced himself to add, “We just have to keep pushing.”

  He wasn’t saying it for Karr. He was saying it for himself. Because he didn’t regret it either and, at the same time, he was starting to suspect that certainty wasn’t enough anymore. That it wasn’t enough not to regret it when everything ahead of them was stone, cages and a hum that never stopped.

  Then he went to Vela. She didn’t move. Her knees were still drawn up, hands around her shins, back resting against a section of rusted metal. But she looked at him. That look was all Nolan needed to know she was still there.

  “Vela…” he began.

  “You still thinking about escaping?” she asked, without circling around it.

  Nolan inhaled slowly. The crater’s air filled his lungs with a dirty cold.

  “I still think Harlan can get out alive,” he answered. “That one of you can get out alive.” He paused briefly, weighing his words. “We have to wait for the right moment.”

  “And you?” she asked.

  Nolan didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t have one, but because it had been days since he’d thought about himself. All his thoughts had narrowed to a single point: a broken boy who looked too much like him when he started.

  “I’m not going to ask anything of you,” he said at last, after a pause heavier than the sentence. “But if there’s another chance… I want to know who’s still willing when it comes.”

  Vela stayed silent for a moment. The hum filled the space between them.

  “I’m with you,” she said finally. “But if you screw it up again… I’ll do what I have to do to survive.”

  Nolan didn’t argue. He couldn’t. Because he knew that was the only truth that still made sense at the bottom of that crater: any loyalty was valid right up to the exact point where it separated you from staying alive.

  He moved on.

  Finally, he sat down beside Harlan. The boy didn’t look at him right away. His eyes were fixed on some undefined point on the ground, as if he were trying to see, between the grains of dust, the exact moment when everything had gone wrong. Nolan didn’t force the conversation at first. He simply stayed there, next to him, knees bent and hands resting on his thighs.

  “Sorry about the escape,” Harlan muttered, still not turning his head. “I hesitated and fucked it up.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Nolan said. “It was everyone’s. We all tried and we all failed.”

  The silence that followed was different from the other silences in that crater. It wasn’t the silence imposed by fear, nor the silence of the hum covering everything. It was a fragile silence, held together halfway by the gaze Nolan kept on the boy. He didn’t look at him like a soldier. He looked at him like a mirror.

  “Why are you helping me?” Harlan asked, barely audible. “Why are you so obsessed with saving me specifically?”

  Nolan swallowed. His fingers trembled slightly, but he didn’t let it show. He clicked his tongue, as if pushing aside a thought he would have liked to say out loud.

  “What are you talking about?” he shot back, with a smile that had no strength. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  The word “friends” hung in the thick air, loaded with everything he didn’t say: debts, similarities, shared guilt. Nolan stayed there for a long time, seated beside the one human being who, without knowing it, had reminded him who he’d been before becoming just another prisoner, before his name blurred together with all those who were going to die in an anonymous crater.

  Then he stood up.

  The sky remained high, distant, a pale circle they couldn’t reach. But something in him was moving again. Not faith. Not hope. Nothing that clean was left. Only an idea, dry and stubborn. A coarse, desperate will, clinging to a single phrase.

  He had to save Harlan.

  While the hum kept rising from the trench, while the bone masks patrolled the perimeter like tireless shadows, Nolan felt that this thought was the only thing keeping him from turning into another stone in the crater. A perfectly motionless stone.

  A figure approached.

  He made no noise as he walked. His steps were sure but not aggressive; calm yet precise. His body wasn’t pitched forward like someone ready to strike, nor hunched like someone braced for another blow. It was the silent prisoner, the only one who hadn’t joined the escape attempt. Thelonopios—was that his name? He stopped a couple of meters from Nolan, measured the distance with a brief look, and for the first time let his voice rise above the common murmur.

  “Nolan Ryen…” he said. “I need to speak with you.”

  Nolan didn’t fully stand; he merely straightened his posture, making no effort to hide the tension in his shoulders.

  “I recognize you. I saw you among the prisoners,” he replied. “Always apart. Always silent.”

  The figure nodded once, like someone confirming a fact, not an impression.

  “My name is Thelonopios,” he said.

  Nolan narrowed his eyes.

  “You already know my name, Thelonopios, so I won’t waste our time introducing myself. How can I help you?”

  Thelonopios sat down in front of him with measured slowness, resting his hands on his knees. He didn’t seem worried about the guards’ proximity or the constant hum that rose from the trench. It was as if this place couldn’t touch him.

  “I’m here to offer you my support,” he said.

  Nolan let out a short, humorless laugh.

  “Support?” He spat the word, careful not to raise his voice too much. “When we tried to revolt, you didn’t move a finger. I don’t see why this time would be any different.”

  Thelonopios held his gaze without leaning back or clenching his jaw. Nothing in him seemed affected.

  “It wasn’t the right moment yet,” he answered, calm. “If I’d intervened then, we would all have died the same way. Or worse: we would have died for nothing. Now it is.”

  A chill ran down Nolan’s spine. Not because of the words, but because of the way they were spoken: without arrogance, without mysticism… as if he were stating the weather.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” Nolan growled.

  Thelonopios lowered his eyes for a second, as if hesitating between several possible phrases. When he looked up again, his gaze seemed darker.

  “I can read time,” he said. “I can see what’s coming.”

  There was an abrupt silence. Not the crater’s silence, but one so firm it seemed to slice the hum in two.

  Nolan blinked.

  “You’re insane,” he said, flatly. “Time as a prisoner broke your mind. Read time? The future?” He leaned in, brow furrowed. “You do realize what you’re saying is madness, right?”

  Thelonopios didn’t move. Not even his expression changed.

  “If that were delusion,” he said, “how do you think I know you’re from Gelboria?”

  Nolan went still. Very still. As if the mention of the planet had hit him as hard as a rifle butt.

  Thelonopios went on, softly:

  “Gelboria, separatist world absorbed by the Universal Government for three and a half years. The same one that regained its independence in the eighth offensive and now forms part of the Union. I know you were a child when they abducted you. I know no one asked for you when they became independent again. You stayed behind, alone, in the Universal Government.”

  Nolan clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. No one knew that. Absolutely no one.

  “What are you?” he asked through his teeth. “A spy? Did they send you to watch me? To shut me up?”

  Thelonopios shook his head slightly, with a gesture so small it almost got lost in the half-light.

  “I know you don’t want anyone to know,” he said. “Especially Harlan.”

  The boy’s name hit Nolan like an unexpected blow. Not because he doubted his affection for him, but because someone else had seen it. More than that: because someone else had understood it.

  “If you tell Harlan…” Nolan warned, in a thread of voice loaded with contained fury.

  “I won’t,” Thelonopios promised, without backing away. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  He paused for a moment, and his voice dropped even lower.

  “But you’re going to need allies when the time comes to escape. And I want you to count on me.”

  Nolan watched him for several seconds, looking for any crack in the man’s calm. Some sign that betrayed a lie, fear, or true madness. But he found nothing. Thelonopios was as unchanging as the stone of the crater.

  That enraged him more than any words.

  Without a word, Nolan got to his feet. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. He didn’t even pretend to be polite. He simply turned around and walked off into the darkness, toward the edge where the guards’ shadows stretched out like fingers.

  Thelonopios didn’t follow him.

  He remained seated, still, watching Nolan’s figure fade among the twisted structures, while the crater’s hum rose again to cover everything like a rough blanket.

  He seemed to be waiting for something.

  Or someone.

  Or for a moment which, according to him, was already decided.

  The camp stretched out before them like an old, exhausted organism, breathing through its low campfires and restless shadows. The sky, murky with smoke from Balmorean rituals, seemed lower than usual, pressing the air down against the ground. There was a smell of rusted iron, stale sweat and charred wood mixed with dust—that thick, opaque dust that turned every step into a small groan from the earth.

  Kael and Jackie walked between the improvised structures with the ease of two people who had traveled too many roads together to be surprised by anything anymore. Around them, the Balmoreans moved with an almost ritual purpose: they led prisoners with thick ropes, reinforced barricades that looked more like sculptures than defenses, and arranged masks and ceremonial blades for the coming night. But for a moment—just an instant, almost imperceptible—the brothers walked as if they were somewhere else, in another time where the war hadn’t yet worn away their voices or their gaze.

  Jackie rubbed his neck, as if he wanted to get rid of the dust and, at the same time, something deeper.

  “How are you?” he asked, glancing sideways at him.

  Kael raised an eyebrow, without slowing his pace.

  “What are you asking me, brother?”

  Jackie shrugged, using that lazy gesture he’d always used to hide what he really cared about.

  “Come on, Kaelito,” he said in a casual tone that fooled no one. “Tell me what the hell you’re still doing in this dump. Or have you gotten used to breathing dust that reeks of Balmorean?”

  Kael clenched his jaw before answering. His jaw hurt from holding back things he no longer knew how to say.

  “We’re not here for them,” he said at last. “This is bigger than them and bigger than us. And there’s still work to be done.”

  Jackie tilted his head, amused, as if the words were part of an inside joke.

  “Nice phrase,” he commented. “Did you get that from Dad? Let’s be honest, Kael… work? You mean playing in the trenches with these lunatics? From where I stand, I just see more filth and fewer bullets.”

  Kael didn’t answer. He stared ahead, but he wasn’t seeing fires or masks or prisoners. He was seeing the weight. Jackie watched him intently, waiting for a reaction; when he didn’t get one, he let out a loud, almost theatrical sigh.

  “Seriously,” he insisted. “How are you?”

  Kael hesitated. For a second, he seemed to weigh whether it was worth telling the truth. Then he drew a deep breath.

  “I haven’t slept well in weeks,” he began, his voice low, measured. “We don’t have enough supplies. Morale’s shot to hell. And now you show up with a bunch of prisoners who are going to end up on these fanatics’ altar. And I’m the one who has to bring them the news. How do you think I am, Jacques?”

  Jackie kicked a stone with the tip of his boot. The small gesture said enough.

  “Yeah, well…” he muttered. “I figured you weren’t going to be thrilled I brought prisoners.”

  Kael snorted, tired.

  “And you? How are you?”

  Jackie’s crooked smile appeared—the one that always preceded a confession that might be either a joke or the truth.

  “Besides all this shit?” he said. “Last week I took apart a hyperluminal engine with a rusty screwdriver. Nearly blew up in my face.”

  Kael let out a dry laugh.

  “You were always terrible with tools.”

  Jackie laughed too, more genuinely this time.

  “Yeah, well… Mom used to say I had hands for stealing, not for building.”

  The name fell between them like a small stone. Kael felt a sudden stab in his chest, a sharp edge that caught him off guard. Jackie didn’t talk about the past. Not like this. And yet, he’d mentioned their parents twice in a matter of seconds.

  For a moment, there was a strange silence. Not uncomfortable. Just… charged.

  “Mom would be proud,” Kael said, glancing at him.

  Jackie lowered his head and kicked another stone, but a faint, trembling smile remained on his lips.

  “Don’t kid yourself, Kaelito. Mom would be yelling at me till I went deaf.”

  Kael let out a short chuckle.

  “Yeah. That, for sure.”

  Jackie nudged him lightly in the shoulder, like when they were kids and wanted to test if the other was still standing.

  “How long are you staying?” Kael asked, changing the subject.

  Jackie ran a hand over the back of his neck, thinking.

  “A couple of days, at most. Enough to drop off the prisoners and see if these crazies pay me anything decent. Then I’m gone.”

  Kael nodded slowly.

  “And then what?”

  Jackie smiled. A smile that wouldn’t have convinced anyone.

  “Wherever the ship takes me.”

  Kael sighed. He was trapped in the war. His brother wasn’t. Jackie could still go home if he chose to. He still had a way out.

  “Jackie…”

  Jackie raised a hand, cutting him off before the sentence took shape.

  “Let’s not start, Kael. Not now.”

  Kael closed his eyes for a moment. He forced himself not to push. He knew he wouldn’t change him with a single conversation. Jackie had chosen his path. A path Kael hated, but couldn’t tear him away from.

  “You’re staying in my tent,” he said finally.

  Jackie smiled.

  “Is that code for ‘I’ve got alcohol hidden somewhere’?”

  Kael shook his head, amused.

  “It means I’ve got a bed and hot food. You’re not sleeping among Balmoreans.”

  Jackie made an exaggerated gesture of relief.

  “For a second I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

  Kael slung an arm over his shoulders and squeezed hard. It was a brief hug, an exact mix of affection and warning.

  “If I ever forget you,” he said, “have me executed.”

  Jackie laughed and gave him a friendly punch on the arm.

  “Deal.”

  The air was beginning to cool when Roq approached them, the dust on his boots forming an opaque line with every step.

  “The final prisoner count is done,” he announced, without enthusiasm. “Despite the missing ones, it’s an acceptable number. Good work, Durnan Junior.”

  He held out a hand to Jackie. Jackie, a little surprised, accepted it with an ambiguous smile.

  “I see a lot of excitement in you, Roq,” Jackie replied. “I thought you wouldn’t resist the urge to kick me out of camp.”

  “There’s always time for that,” Roq said, turning to Kael. “Durnan, take the news to the Balmorean camp. Let them know the prisoners have arrived.”

  Kael looked at him a second too long. Then he exchanged a glance with Jackie. His brother dipped his head just slightly, a small but clear gesture. Kael nodded.

  “Understood, sir” he said.

  And the dust rose under his steps once more as he walked away.