“Let there be order in the court of the Lord Commander!” General Zamaro Vinid of the interim council said for the umpteenth time.

  “Silence!” another commanded.

  Araan found it intriguing—almost amusing how much difference there was between the meetings in the Trigad military and the one being held. In the Trigad, what was said was said, the High Generals gave the orders and the Commanders relayed it to their subordinates. No arguments of any kind. Here not a single motion was made without vehement rejection.

  He didn't miss this.

  Great-uncle Zamaro was visibly seething with rage. He was the second child, the next sibling after his eldfather. In the past, Araan often heard, from the gossip of the guards and workers, how his eldfather silenced him in court, putting him in his place whenever General Zamaro challenged him.

  He was dead now but the court still remembered it, so much so that even General Nomik, the third and last sibling, with no greater accomplishments, commanded more respect here. They both donned blue and silver versions of the traditional armor Araan wore, askoras rich and full even at their age.

  Saonim Tuik was absent. She was busy 'Overseeing the matters concerning the Lord Commander's burial.' Araan expected to find out how true that was after Dirakh returned.

  Finram Targund looked the least like a noble let alone a council member, quite unlike his father in grace or looks. It wasn't so much the unorthodox dark brown Life Armour he wore but how frightened he looked. What kind of councilor had he been? His father was the late Lord Commander's most trusted councilor but history was not going to repeat itself with Finram. Truthfully, Araan wasn't surprised that he wasn't included in the list of permanent councilors despite the position being almost hereditary for his family.

  Two aging cyperans and a frightened youngling—it fit that the council's orders weren't helping matters. The nobles continued clamouring.

  Tisiryk lifted his hand and the gathering shifted, quieting.

  “The heir-designate speaks,” said the announcer. There was silence afterwards.

  “The Delacite fields grow wildly in the west and what we concern ourselves with are rumors of a scavenger uprising?” Tisiryk asked, sounding least impressed.

  That had been the argument for the last half micro-seikan. Matters of security came up. There had been raids in the Thirteenth Sector in the last Dark Half, fifteen outer cities were affected. Unlike most of the world, many cities in the Thirteenth Sector did not have dome protections, leaving them more susceptible to dangers. Guard Towers were destroyed, settlements ravaged. The loss was great and more would happen if the raids were true.

  The problem was the lack of proof that the cities were actually raided by Scavengers. No stolen supplies, no reports of missing younglings taken to swell their ranks. Hurson gas was the only sustenance cyperans ever needed and when the gas is cooled, it was pleasurable just breathing it in; those tanks weren't stolen either. For all they knew, a case of severe winds could have caused the damage. Tisiryk seemed to think that; the nobles, not so much.

  “There is some proof that it may be more than just a rumor,” an old, dull green baron said. His voice was grim yet respectful. Everyone knew that the attack on Kolvak was the proof he spoke of and the foundation of his argument, nigh baseless as it was. It was well known that the bodies of the killers didn't have the scarification all Scavengers bore on their backs.

  “I lived in Pomia,” came Tisiryk's reply, “where the Scavengers move in hordes of hundreds. Rumors don't fly when the Scavengers raid. It just happens.”

  “What are you saying then,” the noble questioned hastily, barely respectful this time. “To the rulers of your cities, what do you ask us to do?”

  “Do your 'more than rumors' have any physical evidence that shows even a single Scavenger outside their normal area?”

  There was no response.

  “Leave them be, focus on repairs. That is what I say to my rulers,” He added with a note of finality.

  Then it happened.

  The old noble shifted his focus to Araan and the others followed suit. It was as though all that Tisiryk had just said didn't matter unless he seconded it. Tisiryk noticed and turned to face him as well. He looked more curious than bothered.

  Araan recalled what Burvan had told him before he entered and how he needed to show the seat of Alpha-Redinan had not been weakened by the split. This wasn't the Trigad, he wouldn't be silent.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Besides, he wasn't content with Tisiryk's decision. He spoke his mind.

  “When Scavengers raided Pomia, how did Baroness Karatini handle the issue?” he asked Tisiryk.

  If it disturbed Tisiryk that Araan mentioned his mother, the heir-designate didn't show it. He gestured towards the ruler in question and she spoke. “Till Pomia city was domed, I fortified and armed the Guard Towers in a manner not so different from Kolvak.”

  “Did the Towers hold during those raids?”

  “Most times,” her tone sounded like it was strange asking that question.

  “Then I propose we do the same with the damaged cities. And if resources allow, make them solid walls around the cities till they can be domed.”

  It was a solid plan from a soldier's eye. Better than putting cities and numerous lives at risk by ignoring a potentially dangerous issue and blaming a bad climate. He had been careful in wording too, he made sure he showed strength without overstepping or challenging Tisiryk.

  So why are they looking at me like I've lost my mind? He thought.

  The realization hit even as Baroness Karatini spoke. “The outer cities wouldn't survive the drastic heat changes caused by an all out plasma fight because of the permanent delacite fields in the surrounding areas. Pomia isn't an outer city, that's why that solution worked.”

  How did he forget that? That question echoed quietly in varying forms around the hall. Some spoke among themselves while others pelted him with looks of disappointment or disdain. In truth, given his time away, Araan had forgotten about the situation of the outer cities, and without much thought, he leapt at a chance to establish himself. He earned the stairs.

  As Tisiryk quieted the hall and resumed the delegations, Araan remained silent, trying to ignore the still glaring nobles.

  Here's to hoping Dirakh is doing better than this, He thought.

  ■

  The heat felt too close for comfort and the collapsing building was an even bigger threat.

  Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse. Dirakh had crouched behind the building in the heat of the attack. He was still in the High-rim market, trapped with Barimi and many others by the armed masked cyperans stationed at every exit.

  Barimi and he had been separated by a layer of rubble and burning metal to his left. Roaring flames and plasma bombardments was all around, the only thing keeping him safe from it all was the metal building behind him and that was crumbling too.

  “Barimi get to the hill!” Dirakh shouted and left his hiding spot, just in time to avoid getting crushed by a wall of the crumbling building.

  Barimi didn't shout back, his injury had left him weakened. Dirakh hoped it hadn't worsened to the extent of immobilizing him.

  All of the High-rim Market was destroyed. Wares were completely destroyed by the flames or crushed by collapsing buildings. Being this close to the flames made it hard for the Life Armours to filter and cool the air, it would have been hard to breathe without his training.

  It was a central spot in the city and the guards were bound to spot and respond to the fray. The time between now and that moment was what felt daunting.

  The screams of the trapped market-folk wasn't helping matters either. The masked attackers scare them with the aimless way they fired and killed. One could only tell they had purpose from the coordinated way they advanced.

  Dirakh reached the slanted hill, climbed a decent distance up and hid in one of the sheds still intact. Running away like this annoyed him. He was angry at how similar it felt to running and hiding from Scavengers during their raids when he was a youngling many cycles ago. The anger fueled a raging urge to hunt the attackers like he did with Trigad.

  Except the rifle he had taken at the abandoned building had no charge left, and he couldn't do anything with Barimi out there. That cyperan didn't deserve to be abandoned, to die here. He looked around from the little window in the shed. No sign of the ground worker.

  What he did notice was the silence in the distance, beyond the boundaries of the market. It was possible that some streets might have been cleared already, maybe people who managed to escape warned the others and they ran away, but not this far. It couldn't happen without alarming the guards. Did they know already and still chose— were ordered not to come?

  Dirakh didn't like where his mind wandered when he followed that thought.

  The sound of people banging against metal buildings brought his attention to the market grounds. They were market-folk, two of them were at least, the other two were younglings no older than twenty cycles.

  The one chasing them revealed himself right after. The masked attacker was aiming his rifle at them.

  The adults pleaded, talked about their children present but it didn't stop him from firing. The mother died instantly while the father struggled to hide his children from the attack with one good arm left.

  A dead mother, an injured pleading father. Wailing children. It was a scene too gruesome, too familiar to stand by and do nothing.

  “Damn this,” Dirakh growled.

  He left the building and leapt off the hill aiming for the armed attacker. Dirakh crashed into him as he started to fire. He grabbed the rifle as they stood up, struggling with the attacker while the family fled.

  Dirakh pulled him by the gun, turning around and shoved him into the side of the hill. “Stop this! There are families here. You people have the case, let it go.”

  “Nobody's going to survive this,” the other cyperan growled back. He struggled to aim the nozzle at him but Dirakh held it in place.

  Dirakh continued speaking amid the struggle. “Listen to me! Barimi and his boss were just following orders—”

  “Barimi?” the masked attacker interrupted. He broke into a laugh a moment later. “You mean the ground worker? He's dead, just like everyone's going to be. You can stop any of this, foreigner! It is already in motion. You, the people left in this market, the little younglings you're begging me to spare, they're good as dead!”

  Dirakh killed him then. Slamming hard into the chest piece of his enemy's Life Armour caused him to groan in pain. The disorientation loosened his grip on the rifle and Dirakh seized the weapon. Soon the masked attacker was nothing but a limp mass of searing holes.

  Dirakh was ready now, ready to hunt, all of it pushed him to the edge. He walked a little and reached the mother's body that the fleeing family had abandoned. He could see the pain in her eyes, the shock, the questioning look on her face. He was done with waiting.

  Barimi was dead. It was hard describing how he felt about it. Dirakh didn't know him long but he was certain death wasn't what the worker deserved.

  The guards weren't coming, the confidence that the attacker had spoken with confirmed it all. It was meant to look like another riot like the ones that had happened before Tisiryk's arrival. What if some of those were covers as well? No one knew for certain.

  It didn't make any sense how a single case could cause all of this. Whatever was inside was important enough for them to do this to the commoners.

  The odd thing was Dirakh didn't care about the case.

  The attackers scattered across the market were his priority. Their deaths was his new mission.

  One dead, seventeen left. He truly hoped none begged and all resisted like the last.