Darkness folds around me as sleep takes hold—then deepens into the sightless void I can somehow see through. Not simple slumber. Swart’s realm.

  “Great. Great. How did I die this time?” I snap at the emptiness. “I was in the capital—inside headquarters. Did those sneering nobles smother me in my sleep? An assassin marquis,maybe? Wonderful—I’m marching to my grave anywa—”

  “Holy yap,” Swart drawls, materializing a step away. “Do you ever stop flapping those gums?”

  I cut off mid-rant. “You know what happened, right? Who killed me, when, how—”

  “You’re not dead.” Swart flicks a shadowy hand. “Calm down, Empty.”

  “Don’t call me that, and what do you mean I’m not dead? I’m here.”

  “I can drop in whenever I like,” he says, as though discussing the weather. “So stop the rambling.”

  I exhale, shoulders sagging. “Fine. What do you want—and why’d you vanish after the third loop?”

  A pause. “Busy,” he answers, as if that explains it entirely. Then he grins, teeth catching nonexistent light. “Still, swatting that little fly was entertaining. Keep it up, Empty, and maybe you’ll be… full.”

  I blink. The void has a schedule? Stranger things.

  “Why call me empty? And what’s this full business?”

  He taps his temple. “Empty—you truly are. Double meaning. Hilarious, no?” His grin widens. “Think about your head.”

  I follow his gesture, half-understanding dawning. Empty-headed to him, and full when I finally start thinking for myself. Eccentric.

  I sigh at his theatrics. Fine—play it his way.

  “Well then, to what do I owe the pleasure of your illustrious company?”

  His grin stretches, knife-sharp.

  “Funny. I only dropped by to chat about this little ‘New Alysia’ venture of yours. But if you’re going to be such a meanie…”—he flicks imaginary dust from his sleeve—“perhaps I shouldn’t bother.”

  I grunt rubbing my temple he’s giving me a damm headache.

  “Fine— sorry, what about it?”

  He studies me sidelong. My irritation spikes; he bursts into hearty laughter—rich enough to echo in the void.

  “You always crack me up. Ah, the memories…” He wipes an imaginary tear, then sobers. “Anyway— you’re headed somewhere nasty, you know. I’d suggest digging back into that little manual I gifted you. Reach the third step before landfall.”

  He leans closer, voice dropping to almost-kind. “And remember the wish—the promise.”

  Memories? Wish? Promise? A dozen questions crowd my tongue, but his eyes harden, warning me off—as if he’s already read them—he did of course.

  “That’s enough, jester. Good luck.”

  Snap!

  ***

  The next morning I try to steal a few extra hours of sleep—exhaustion still kneading my weary soul—but someone has other plans.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Perfect. First a midnight drop-in from Swart, now a dawn bombardment on my door.

  I fling the blankets aside, stomp across the room, and yank the handle hard enough to rattle the hinges. The reprimand is already half-formed on my tongue:

  “Can’t a man sle—”

  I stop cold. Hein stands at rigid attention, and beside him looms Field Marshal Krieg in full dress blues, expression unreadable.

  ‘…Shit.’

  I snap upright, saluting so fast my shoulder cracks. Court-martial before breakfast—perfect.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Sir!”

  A twitch of amusement tugs at Krieg’s mouth. “At ease, soldier. Pardon the early intrusion.”

  Still rattled, I blurt, “No intrusion, sir—just a brief episode of insanity, sir.”

  Brilliant. Shoot me now.

  “Good,” he says, as though that explanation suffices. Then he turns on his heel. “Walk with us.”

  Hein raises an apologetic eyebrow. I throw on uniform trousers, tug my coat half-buttoned, and jog to catch up, wondering what business is important enough for the Union’s top dog to knock on a major’s door at dawn.

  We leave the brick barracks and cross the dew-silvered courtyard, trailing the Marshal past the main marble palace. Instead of entering, he guides us around to the rear grounds—a garden that could swallow a city block. Paths of white gravel coil through beds of towering lilies, glassy orchids, and ferns taller than a man, the whole place breathing out a heady, predawn perfume. At this hour the garden is empty; the three of us move in near-perfect silence, boots crunching in slow unison.

  A widening of the path delivers us to a small lake ringed by willow trees. Swans drift among geese and speckled ducks; now and then a koi breaks the surface in a flash of bronze. Beneath one of the willows the Marshal finally stops, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Soldiers,” he says, voice low but carrying over the still water, “Operation Zenith may well be a trap. Your task is to turn it into an opportunity.”

  Hein and I answer together. “Sir.”

  A dry chuckle rumbles under his mustache. “I have confidence you’ll succeed—and become integral to my larger plans.” He shifts his gaze to me. “Especially you, Major Kaizer.”

  “I know your earlier exploits,” the Marshal continues, “and—though you may not recall—your father served as a trusted confidant of mine. If you possess even half his mettle, Major, you’ll prevail.”

  Earlier exploits? Father? The words land like stones in water—ripples of a past I still can’t grasp.

  Krieg withdraws a white-sealed envelope from his breast pocket and offers it between two fingers.

  “Here. Study it once you’re aboard ship.”

  I accept, murmuring, “Thank you, sir,” unable to keep the curiosity from my voice. The seal bears a stylized sunrise—same crest as Operation Zenith—but the wax is tinted midnight blue rather than brass.

  For a heartbeat the Marshal’s granite fa?ade softens; warmth flickers in his eyes. Then he glances at Hein, and the expression turns layered—part suspicion, part recognition, part warning, part plea—too quick to parse before his features lock back into stone.

  “Make ready,” he says, stepping away. “The Union’s future rides on your success.”

  He turns, boots crunching on gravel, and disappears into the maze of lilies, leaving us alone beneath the willow—one cryptic envelope heavier and a dozen new questions burning.

  I glance at Hein; he mirrors my confusion—though something in his eyes suggests he’s hiding an extra layer. Paranoia? Or that uncanny look the Marshal just threw him?

  Might as well ask.

  “What was that about—the way he looked at you?”

  Hein’s mask flickers, a hairline crack. “I… have no idea.” He clears his throat, then shifts the focus. “More importantly, you never said your father was close to the Marshal.”

  My brow knits. “I never said because I never knew. Until two minutes ago I didn’t even know I had a father in the picture.”

  Hein studies me a second longer, then exhales. “Well, add it to our growing stack of mysteries.”

  We start back toward the barracks, the envelope tucked safe inside my coat and both of us wondering whose secrets weigh more—the Union’s, or our own.

  But I shake off the paranoia—time’s better spent on facts than on suspecting the one man who’s saved my skin in every loop. Hein trusted me without hesitation; he’s the closest thing I have to solid ground in this world.

  So I focus on answers: How did the Marshal know my father? What were the exploits this body once pulled off?

  We reach our adjoining doors. Before Hein can slip inside, I clear my throat.

  “This is embarrassing, but… some memories are just gone—maybe for good. Could you fill me in on those ‘earlier endeavors’ the Marshal mentioned?”

  Hein’s brows knit, then he remembers the shelling and the mage’s blast. “Because of the concussions, right?”

  I force a sheepish cough—mostly theater. “Yeah. Guess I picked up a bit of brain damage along the way.”

  He laughs at my “brain-damage” line.

  “Well—our exploits, really. Not that I’m angling for extra glory,” he says, throwing up mock-innocent hands. I let the bit slide; curiosity trumps banter.

  He rubs the back of his neck, real embarrassment this time.

  “Tough crowd. All right—remember how we first met? We were rebels, deep inside Anreik. Hit-and-run raids on supply convoys, blowing rail lines, all that good fun.” His eyes glaze for a moment, replaying it. “Rag-tag outfit, but effective—until it wasn’t. By the time the Free States pushed in to reclaim the region, it was just you and me left to welcome their return.”

  So the body I’m wearing fought a guerrilla war—and my father was tight with the Union’s top general. The mystery only deepens, but at least the puzzle pieces are starting to appear

  Hein’s shoulders sag a fraction. I reach out, resting a hand on his sleeve.

  “Hey—don’t worry. I won’t forget again.”

  He musters a thin, grateful smile. “Best if you do,” he says. “Ghosts belong in the past. Besides, we’ve probably signed up for a fresh grave out west.” With that bleak little joke he slips into his room, door clicking shut.

  I stand alone in the corridor, the blue-wax envelope suddenly heavy in my pocket. Tempting to crack it open right now…but orders were to read it aboard ship, and I’ve managed to avoid outright insubordination—well, discounting the time I laid out that hound of a officer. No sense adding another strike before breakfast.

  Bed, then. I quickly fell back to sleep—this time not whisked away to be made fun of.

  ***

  I’d swear those handful of hours were the best sleep of my life. Noon light slants through the window—the same angle it had when I first stepped into this room yesterday. After a quick wash and a hasty uniform check, I swing the door open—

  —only to find Hein standing there, déjà vu in the flesh. Unlike last time, though, his arms are folded and one brow is arched.

  “Morning, sunshine,” he drawls. “I was just about to fetch you.”

  “You slept well, did ya?”

  Uh-oh. Admin duty, the thing we were supposed to tackle first thing. I’d slept right through it.

  Hein shakes his head, half-amused, half-put-out. “I came knocking, but you just kept snoring like a babe. Must be nice. Meanwhile I handled our paperwork alone. Let the major get his beauty sleep, I guess.”

  “Hein, I’m—really sorry. With the Marshal’s visit and everything else, I thought I could grab a quick nap… didn’t mean to dump the work on you.”

  He laughs at my flustered babble. “Relax. I’m a stellar actor—but it wasn’t all for show.” Then he sobers just enough. “But next time, at least show your face. You should’ve seen the clerks when they heard a senior officer was ‘sleeping in.’”

  “My bad,” I mutter, sheepish.

  I square my shoulders—time to look like a major, not a lay-about bound for the gallows.

  Hein jerks his chin down the corridor. “Come on. We’ve got interviews to run for the squad we’ll be commanding together. Bit odd, but I guess details don’t matter when everyone assumes we’re headed into the meat-grinder. Your judgment’s always been sharper, so you take point.”

  Guilt twitches in my gut. Hein still thinks I’m the same comrade who earned his trust on midnight raids—yet that Kaizer is half-memory, half-stranger to me. How do I tell him his reliable friend got swapped out for a time-loop castaway?

  I push the thought aside, manage a determined nod, and fall in beside him. Whatever face I once wore, I’ll have to inhabit it—for Hein’s sake, and for the soldiers about to follow us into the unknown.

  We cross the courtyard and head into an old brick administration hall. A line of uniformed men already spills down the steps and onto the path—volunteers for what most are calling a one-way venture. As we pass, heads swivel; eyes linger on the purple-ribboned medals at our chests.

  Halfway along, a corporal steps out of the queue and salutes.

  “Sirs, it’s an honor to meet the Wish-slayers.”

  I glance at Hein, lost. He leans in and murmurs, “Anreik’s attack-mages are nicknamed after their capital—Wishers.”

  I turn back to the corporal. “Appreciate it.” The man beams and snaps back into line, and we have to shoulder through more well-wishers eager to recount our ‘triumph.’

  “Why so many applicants?” I mutter once we’re clear.

  “Glory seekers,” Hein says, shaking his head. “They hear ‘New World’ and think legend, not meat-grinder.”

  “Fools,” I echo—though I can’t pretend my own pulse isn’t thrumming at the prospect.

  At last we reach the office Hein reserved. Two plain chairs, a desk, and a stack of blank forms await. We take our seats, square our shoulders, and call for the first candidate.