Chapter 622 unedited unmemed

ALRIGHTTTTTT. We done.

Bad news though.

I'm pooped. Dunno if sundays chapter will be out on sunday, since that would require me to spend all of tomorrow editing and writing. Not sure if i can power through that and actually get anything done, but i'll try. No promises. if brain no worky, the fingers no typy, so we shall seeeeeeeee.

Bye for now!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1srOIEFzhaWcqRpy65wLLtzlhlEom3lYLUDXTmx81T2k/edit?usp=sharing

Though only twenty five years young, Bulat had always considered himself older and wiser than his years.

Aged before his time is how Ma put it, often looking sad as she said it, but he took pride in being the most mature child around. ‘Old Bulat’, he called himself, and while no one else ever used it, he was willing to look past his friends’ lacking manners, for they were young men who didn’t know any better. It was hard being the mature one in the group, the man who everyone turned to for guidance, especially since it didn’t come naturally to Bulat. He was no different from any other hot-blooded youth, but while others paid no mind to the consequences on account of their age and ignorance, Bulat knew exactly how much he had to lose.

He was seven when Da passed away from the flux, a reoccurring affliction that broke out every few years. Most were hit hard, then eventually shook it off, but Da had been in poor health for as long as Bulat could remember and the flux had been the final push that put him over the edge. There he lay upon his pallet, tucked into the farthest corner of their modest little hut so as to keep the rest of them from catching it, but Bulat didn’t care and snuck off most nights to lay down beside Da. There they were, on Da’s final night, holding his hand and praying he would get better, when Da turned to him and smiled. “Baby Bulat,” he whispered, struggling to draw breath with his fluid filled lungs and pale as a cloud in blue summer skies. “Ye’ll be the man of the family, soon enough, so ye look after yer ma and sisters now, ye hear?” Bulat remembered nodding, but he wasn’t sure if Da ever saw it, because after uttering one last “Love ye, son”, Da went into the arms of the Mother Above.

That was the last day of Bulat’s youth, because from then on, he was a man.

Life was tough for them all afterwards, as Ma struggled to raise a son and two daughters in the slums of Sanshu. He remembered how hard she tried to keep them all together, telling him and his sisters it was like camping in the wilderness without having to worry about waking to find wolves gnawing on your ankles. It was nothing like that of course, with plenty of squatting in alleys and street corners by day and sleeping in a ramshackle lean-to by night. Every few days, hired toughs would come clear out their shelters and the struggle to find a new place to build another ensued, but throughout it all, Ma kept them together, and more importantly, she kept them safe.

Cognizant of Da’s last words, Bulat did what he could to help the family. Barely a week into their new life, he had already fallen in with a pack of grifters and secured himself a job by singling out a con-man at work and following him back to his hideout. A risky proposition that, but the way Old Bulat saw things, if they were the murderous sort, then they’d be thieves and robbers rather than ‘mere’ grifters, which made it a fairly safe bet. Thieving was no good, since Ma would beat him with a switch if she caught him stealing and the city guard would do worse, but grifting was just convincing some fool to part with his coin. Course, back then, Bulat only knew this because Da kept calling the medicine peddlers grifters, there to sell them false hope and nothing else. Despite that, Bulat also knew Ma bought medicine from them in secret, and Da had still died, so he was of the mind to never be fooled again.

Grifting was a field in which there was plenty of work for young children, especially if you quick on the uptake like Bulat. For a time, he played his part as corner-boy and lookout until he earned the group’s trust, at which point they promoted him to errand and bag boy. The pay wasn’t great, but he was fed every day he worked and save some food everyday to pass on to Ma and his sisters when he got home, as well as a few coppers every now and then when the grifters were feeling particularly generous. Over the next few years however, he learned all the ins and outs of the grift by watching the others, and eventually set out to con marks on his own with no small success. He knew how to win another person’s confidence or distract them at the perfect time, how to shave the odds in your favour and present them in a way that not only hid this advantage, but also presented it as a disadvantage. Games of chance were his weapon of choice, because then it all came down to a throw of the dice, and despite risking everything he had on gamble after gamble, he kept coming out ahead and bringing good coin into his family’s pockets.

Or at least what he thought was good coin, but the silvers he brought home every month were nothing compared to the tens of hundreds of gold coins a politician could collect in a single day, making them the biggest grifters of all.

The moment the bossman sat down and explained the concept behind his War Bonds, Bulat saw it for what it was. Not a scam exactly, but a means to convince all the tight-fisted, copper-pinching nobles of the Empire to open their purse-strings and throw away all their hard earned coin in return for a piece of parchment. Not even a unique piece of parchment either, as was the case with art, and it was mind-boggling how no one had ever come up with the concept before. Then again, maybe someone had, except they needed someone in the bossman’s position to execute such a brilliant idea, literally selling face in the form of reasonably cheap silk paper.

Altogether, Bulat maybe earned a good twenty or so gold from eighteen years of grifting. Not a vast fortune by any standards, but for a farmer boy from the slums, it wasn’t half bad either. He might’ve made more if he worked harder at it and didn’t split from the group to set out on his own, but at seventeen, he did the math and realized the quickest way to get rich (and coincidentally, avoid being killed by all the gullible idiots he’d fleeced) was to become a Martial Warrior. With that goal in mind, he set aside a few hours each day to seeking Balance to form his Core and eventually, randomly succeeded at twenty-one. No idea why it took so long, or why it even worked, but years of sitting around and letting his mind go still finally paid off, and then he made the dumbest, and ultimately, the best decision of his life.

He joined the Imperial Army.

The rest was history. He survived basic training, met Ravil, Pran, and Saluk, set out to serve under Rustram, and lost his foot in his first battle ever. Then, the bossman came along and changed Bulat’s life forever, and now he was a happily married man, the mayor of a bustling little district, and wealthy beyond measure from selling the bossman’s generously gifted War Bond for almost fifteen-thousand gold, to some idiot fool who could easily afford it. That was the best grift of all, in Bulat’s eyes, one in which conman and mark walk away satisfied.

Of course, the wife, job, and coin brought with it a whole slew of new problems, because he’d forgotten how boring civilian life could be. Even though politicians were all cheats, Bulat had accepted this job as mayor with the hopes of being the first honest politician in history, except the damned townspeople weren’t making it easy. Running unscrupulous businessmen out of the District was simple enough, but he had to see the townspeople each and every day, and the farmers and labourers once or twice a week at a minimum. They all knew he was a wealthy Martial Warrior and made all the important decisions in town, so they were constantly trying to make friends and ply him with wine, women, and other such gifts in hopes of future favours. Even the Bekkies weren’t above greasing a few palms, though civilian and Khishig alike were quick to resort to the stick if they ever felt the carrot had failed them.

And the worst part was? There was nothing particularly important about Bulat’s duties. Things like land permits, crop prices, work contracts and more, all of that was handled by the bossman’s office, those Minister of Finance clerks working day and night in a concentrated effort to drown Bulat in paperwork, or at least that’s what it felt like. A good thing all the Bekkies knew how to read, so it was a simple matter of hiring a couple kids to read the papers to him, and it was always in regards to the most mundane problems imaginable. This neighbour’s fence was a handspan off his property, that neighbours barn was blocking all the natural light, this path is too steep and needs to be evened out, or there’s a ditch wagons keep rolling into. One idiot merchant even came to him with complaints about how some drunkard ogled his wife and she had the ‘audacity’ to make eyes back. He had already ‘taught’ his wife how to behave appropriately, but he wanted the drunkard lashed and shamed in public for his transgression.

What did any of this have to do with Old Bulat? That was the answer he usually gave, and what followed was usually a long and boring discourse on how he should fix things, made longer by the need to repeatedly mention how they weren’t trying to tell Bulat how to do his job, while doing just that. It was all so frustrating, mostly because he couldn’t just pick those fools up and toss them out his office, though he came close to doing so more than once. Luckily for him, Ma was always around to cool everyone’s tempers, because while Old Bulat was the man of the family, he could never bear to utter a harsh word to Ma.

And the fool with the battered wife learned why first-hand. Ma threw him out on his ear and threatened to set her ‘Baby Bulat’ and ‘Hunky Husband’ on him if he ever dared lay a hand on his wife, which would difficult considering she left him the next day, with a little help from Ma of course.

Such was life for Bulat these past few months, a boring, miserable experience in which the only two things to look forward to were his nights spent in the arms of his beautiful wife, and his mornings spent indulging in her delicious pastries, made with fresh beet sugar which came straight from the bossman’s farms all the way to Bulat’s belly. Overall, things were rather uneventful, aside from the handful of days it took to transform the district from an empty field to a bustling walled town, surrounded by hundreds of thriving farms all progressing towards the final harvest. Now, construction was ongoing each and every day, with more coin flowing through Bulat’s office than he’d ever seen before in his life. No wonder the bossman needed trustworthy, literate people to serve as mayor for his districts, because even loyal, wealthy, virtuous Bulat was tempted to filch a coin or three. He didn’t of course, especially since most of the coin was for things like construction costs and payments for goods and services to keep everyone safe and happy. The bossman was a kindhearted soul, and that didn’t change when he was raised to Minister of Finance.

Then there was the whole brouhaha with the Legate, the provisional Legate, the Bristleboar Divinity, and Bulat’s respect for the bossman went up a few notches, which he hadn’t even thought would be possible. Not because of how he stood up to a Divinity, which wasn’t even all that surprising, since the bossman would probably criticize the Mother Herself if She ever deigned to make an appearance. Bulat could imagine it now. “Why so many trials and tribulations?” the bossman would ask, arms crossed with a scowl etched across his face, “And is it too much to ask for detailed instructions instead of vague Insights? For an omnipotent being, your communication skills are sorely lacking.”

No, the amazing thing was how the bossman didn’t even try to hide his shocking past. Oh how Bulat wished he’d been in the citadel to hear their exchange, for there was no way the tales could ever do it justice. “Yes,” everyone heard the bossman say, confirming the Bristleboar Divinity’s accusations were true. “I was that slave.” A simple admission, but one no one could have ever expected from even someone as humble and grounded as Falling Rain. Even Bulat himself rarely spoke of growing up in the slums, because he was a Martial Warrior now and people expected more of him, so he kept quiet about his past and pretended he knew how to read while everyone in the district gave face and played along with the ruse. It was just how polite society worked, where those with low status pretended not to notice the flaws of their betters, and most people of the outer provinces would have gladly forgotten what the Bristleboar Divinity revealed, for there were few people of higher status than Falling Rain.

But instead, the bossman proudly acknowledged his past and claimed it was part and parcel of the trials and tribulations set out before him. A slave at twelve, a Martial Warrior by thirteen, accomplished duellist at fifteen, Warrant Officer by seventeen, Expert by eighteen, Number One Expert of the Empire by nineteen, and now, at twenty years young, Falling Rain was the Imperial Minister of Finance and Legate of the outer provinces, a man who could call the winds and summon the rains with the last say in all military and economic decisions of all three provinces.

All thanks to the lessons learned from surviving his time as a slave.

It was an unprecedented way of looking at life, for it was believed wealth and status were determined by the Heavens themselves. The majority of people born would be unable to form a Core and remain commoners for their entire lives, and while some effort was still required from those blessed chosen, no amount of hard work could ever change one’s fate. This was immutable fact, so there must be a reason those chosen few were granted the powers of Heaven, the same way others were born into wealth, power, or status. This reason was karma, a tally of good and evil carried out in past lives, so being born into poverty, hardship, and insignificance must therefore be a punishment in the same vein. This was what Bulat had believed, as had countless other citizens of the Azure Empire, but on that day in the citadel, Falling Rain refuted their beliefs and said, “No. I suffered, and I survived, and I wear this as a mark of pride.”

Not in so many words of course, but that was how Bulat saw it, as did many others. In his districts, he saw commoners turn out in droves to sign up for the bossman’s irregulars, and despite all his efforts to make certain everyone understood what they were signing up for, there were still more than a million applicants vying for what was initially supposed to be a ten-thousand strong force. As Legate, the bossman expanded recruitment to a hundred thousand commoners, citing that while their courage was commendable, combat was not the only way to lend aid to the war effort. Farmers, blacksmiths, farriers, and even coolies were all crucial labourers which the Empire could not do without, and he worked hard to ensure they were appreciated. While wealthy nobles and merchants complained about a measly two-percent luxury tax, those taxes paid for crossbows and catapults which were swiftly delivered, assembled, and distributed throughout every district along the border. Every morning, Bulat led a class showing commoners how to load and aim their crossbows, while Dagen taught their ‘militia’ how to use the catapults. Moats were dug and the gates reinforced, while plans for higher walls and a clock-tower of all things were put into motion, and those commoners living along the Western border saw Falling Rain’s efforts bear fruit before their very eyes.

The Bristleboar Divinity had one thing right. Take away all their trappings, and there was nothing to differentiate nobles from commoners. Not only did the bossman wholeheartedly believe this, he also acted on his beliefs and treated commoners like valued people. This, more than anything else, won him the hearts of the people, though Bulat was the first to note that anyone living on the Western border already had no small measure of respect for the bossman, since they owed their new lives to his efforts. Difficult to say how the rest of the Empire would see their new Legate, especially if the stories they heard were distorted by meddling nobles and unhappy merchants seeking to twist the narrative in their favour.

But alas, as a mere mayor of a district, even the district housing most of the bossman’s fellow Bekkies, Bulat was no longer a part of the bossman’s inner circle, and could only look in on it from afar. He didn’t even know the bossman had left for the Central Citadel until a day after the fact, and several days later, he came awake in the night and discovered the Bekkies all up and about in the middle of the night, including his sweet wife Dei An who he found firing up her ovens in the bakery kitchen, which he had built right into the manor.

“What’s this all about?” he asked, looking around to see if there were still any sweet buns lying around, but unfortunately, he must have eaten them all before going to bed.

“The Legate beats the drums of war once more,” Dei An said, speaking in that stilted Common he so loved while feeding charcoal into the ovens, “And the Chief Provost herself will lead her Khishigs alongside him.”

“The bossman’s riding to war?”

“Yes, dear husband.” Giving him a pointed look which said she had little time for his questions, she offered a small smile and fluttered her lovely amber eyes. “Which means there is much work to be done before the night is through. They set out two hours before first light, and I mean to see them off with as much fresh bread as they can carry.”

So stop bothering me with questions and get out of my kitchen was the last bit, but sweet Dei An was too kind to say it out loud. She was a magnificent woman who he loved with all his heart, calm, confident, and beautiful beyond measure, which left him wondering what she ever saw in him. That said, if he continued to stand around and ogle her even after her polite dismissal, she’d give him a taste of her rolling pin delivered straight to the side of his head, so he flashed her a smile and said, “Then I guess Old Bulat will get out of your way, dear wife.”

There was no point offering to help since she’d just run him out of her kitchen, so he set out into the night to see what he could do to help. The Bekkies were good enough people, but they were exceedingly blunt and aloof to the point where it could easily be misconstrued as haughty rudeness. This sort of behaviour rubbed some folk the wrong way, and many of Bulat’s problems stemmed from the Bekkies lack of social boundaries when it came to certain things, like their willingness to wake people up in the middle of the night to ask for help preparing for war. Most folk were happy enough to do what they could, and Bulat made sure to loudly voice his appreciation for everyone to hear and smooth things over with those less than pleased about the Bekkies... insistent requests.

Ma was there too, soothing tempers with a word and smile where Bulat would have needed to charm and cajole, as well she should. While he learned the tricks of the trade from his old band of grifters, he learned how to win people over from seeing Ma in everyday life. She was a wonderful woman, still handsome despite being a commoner who just crossed over into her forties, but it was still a marked difference when she stood next to her new husband, Dagen, who was older but could pass for Bulat’s brother rather than step-father. Technically, they’d been married for several years now, but Bulat couldn’t bring himself to think of Dagen as anything but the new husband, and it was even harder not to resent either of them for doing Da’s memory a disservice. That wasn’t fair to Ma, as she’d been faithful to him for almost two decades after his death, when she could have easily remarried as someone’s concubine and become a kept woman. Dagen seemed a good enough sort, and he made Ma smile something fierce, which was good enough for Bulat, but he still didn’t like the man much for no reason other than he wasn’t Da.

For this reason, he found their farewells difficult to watch a few hours later, but he kept his mouth shut and offered Dagen a polite nod farewell and even waved as he rode off with the rest of the Khishigs, leaving poor Ma to cry as she watched him go and prayed for his safe return. Despite his personal feelings for the man, Bulat prayed for the same, because at the end of the day, he would do anything to keep Ma happy, so long as it didn’t involve getting on his wife’s bad side.

And make no mistake, the Bekkies raised their children strong. Though she was no Martial Warrior, Dei An was as fierce and determined as any Warrior Bulat knew. After helping Ma back to her manor, Bulat returned to his sweet wife who was still up and waiting for his return on the sitting room couch. Pouring her a small measure of rice wine and a larger cup for himself, he brought it over and joined her on the couch with a tired, but satisfied sigh. “Amazing work today, dear wife,” he said, after clinking their cups together. “Ye must’ve made enough to feed every Khishig three times over. Lucky them, getting a taste of the best bread in a hundred kilometres, if not the entire Empire itself. I always tell ye, yer prices are too low fer the quality ye make. That’s why there’s always a line up at yer door and disappointed customers left without.”

Smiling at his exaggerated praise, Dei An wrapped her arms around him and hugged tight, unable to touch hands around his barrel-chested frame. “My silly husband,” she said, her smile so beautiful it made his heart ache. “You also did well, lessening tensions between the Bekhai and the others. Their ways are strange and incomprehensible to the Bekhai, and your efforts do much to bridge the gap.” Tired from staying up all night, Dei An cocked her head and blinked lazily as she idly stroked his beard, her beautiful eyes brimming with love and affection. “You would make a great Speaker, if only you enjoyed it.”

As far as he knew, a Speaker was no different from a mayor except in name, but despite not knowing how to explain it, Dei An insisted it was different. Always happy to be praised, Bulat sipped his drink and said, “I enjoy it well enough. Little bothersome dealing with everyone’s problems and I learn more than I care to know, but end of the day, it’s decent work, which is more than I ever thought I’d have.”

“Liar.” Grabbing a fold of his flabby belly, Dei An playfully shook it and laughed. “This is not the stomach of man satisfied by his work, but one seeking to fill an emptiness left by it. You do your duty well, but it is both burden and obligation, with no joy to be found in it at all.”

It was true Bulat put on a fair bit of weight ever since he became mayor, but part of it was lack of time to Demonstrate the Forms, and the other part was due to Dei An’s delicious pastries and cooking. Bekkie cooking was a marvel he never knew he was missing out on, and though she claimed to be merely a passable cook, Bulat had paid good coin at fancy restaurants for food that tasted worse. Still, his obesity wasn’t the issue here, but rather his wife’s concerns, so he gently took her hand and moved it up from his belly. “Dear heart,” he said, kissing her sweet lips softly so as not to lose control. “Ye ain’t ever have to worry about me bein’ unhappy. Having you in my life is happiness enough.”

Kissing him far more passionately than he kissed her, Dei An broke off just before his mind blanked out and said, “Liar. Tell me for true, if your merry band of scoundrels were not busy fighting in the war, would you not be off with them drinking, gambling, and whoring every night away?”

“Dear heart, I would never go whoring. Old Bulat is a faithful husband, who loves ye more than life itself.”

“But yet you do not deny the drinking and gambling.” Eyes twinkling in merriment, Dei An shook her head and declared, “I do not understand you outlanders, always lying to yourselves as if that will change things. You are unhappy with your job, and it does not hurt to acknowledge it, for only then can you take steps to better your life.” Pursing her lips, she added, “The Legate is the same, but he does not understand our ways as one of the Bekhai should, and still he refuses to ask for guidance.”

“Can’t say I unnerstand what ye mean.”

Rolling her eyes, Dei An leaned back to study his expression and see if he was taking the piss, but Bulat was serious as could be. Confused by his lack of understanding, Dei An struggled to come up with the words to explain it, since even though she spoke Common all the time now, she was still not entirely comfortable expressing herself in the language, not like she did in her native tongue. Another peculiarity about the Bekkies, how they had their own language, something which wasn’t exactly illegal, but highly frowned upon since language was one of the few constants across the Empire. Accents and colloquialisms differed across the provinces, but the written, formal language had not been changed in thousands of years except to add new characters.

After long seconds of deliberation, Dei An finally said, “You do not seek joy. Not just you, dear husband, but all outlanders who fall so easily into complacency. You take the path before you without considering any other, because the path you see is safe and simple, and all other paths unknowns. Take your sisters and their husbands, who refused to even consider coming to start a farm here on the border, and even Mother-In-Law took much convincing before she agreed to come here with Dagen.”

“Well, I can’t say I really blame ‘em. This here is the battlefront, and ain’t many willing to risk what they have for what may be.”

“True.” Nuzzling in close to him once more, Dei An sighed and said, “But better to risk it all to be with family than to live safely without.”

That was another thing that the Bekkies did differently. Dei An couldn’t understand why Bulat rarely visited his sisters for fear of imposing. They were family, so how could family impose on one another? The Bekkies were a tight-knit bunch, and Bulat wished his family was the same, because he did miss his little sisters dearly. Their husbands were both good men, but a big brother would always worry, and he would much rather prefer if his little sisters and their adorable children were close by. “Well,” Bulat rumbled, kissing Dei An’s temple, “Work might be joyless, but I got plenty of joy here at home, more than any one man has the right to have.”

“Home and your wife will always be here for you,” Dei An countered, never willing to give in without a fight. “So why not seek joy in all aspects of your life, rather than limit it to one?”

“So what? Ye want I should quit as mayor and spend all me days at home?”

“Heavens no. I love you dear husband, but you would drive me mad if you were always underfoot.” Grinning as she rubbed his bulging belly, she added, “And I fear what would happen if you had nothing to keep you away from the kitchens.”

Fair enough. “Then what should I do?”

Sitting up to look him in the eye, Dei An answered in a matter-of-fact tone as if the answer was obvious. “Seek joy. Find your passion and pursue it dear husband, as I pursue mine in baking. I love kneading the dough and seeing it rise, the smell of crispy bread baking and the taste of a freshly steamed bun. What I enjoy most is seeing the products of my labour bring more joy to the world, whether it be a satisfied customer leaving the store with a bright smile on their face, or a hungry Khishig offering a small nod of appreciation as they ride off to war.” Waving towards the kitchen, Dei An continued, “This is work, yes, but it also my passion, my source of joy and satisfaction, something I enjoy more than my weekly games of Mahjong or riding quins along the mountainside. To pursue this is another sort of Balance, that of Balance in life itself, for there is more to life than mere survival.”

It made sense to Bulat, and he quietly mused his wife’s wisdom over, until he arrived at a question he couldn’t answer. “Why’d ye bring the bossman into this? What’s wrong with his life?”

“He pursues the wrong passions,” Dei An sleepily murmured, exhausted from a long night of baking. “Any fool can see he is not suited for war and bloodshed, no matter how talented he might be. He would have been much happier living the life of a Healer or herbalist, but now I see he was meant for more. As Minister of Finance and Legate of the outer provinces, he is finally able to pursue his true passion, which is to better humanity as a whole, but now he errs once more and treads the path of war once more. Poor Falling Rain. I did not know he was found as a slave, though we all suspected he suffered something traumatic, and now I understand why his is so driven to grow strong.” Yawning, Dei An shrugged and said, “He fears being helpless once more and at the mercy of evil people, so he chases strength just as others chase wealth or reputation, without knowing or caring that it will not bring him true joy.”

Just as being a wealthy mayor wouldn’t bring Bulat true joy, but he suspected he knew what would. A few days ago, the bossman won his greatest victory yet and rose higher than anyone ever thought possible, but Bulat had done nothing to help him achieve it, which left a sour taste in his mouth. Not because of the lack of honour and glory, but because he hadn’t been there when the bossman needed him. Even Bulat hadn’t noticed it, but sweet Dei An knew him better than he knew himself. “I need to go, dear wife.” Meeting her eyes which snapped wide open in both fear and support, Bulat said, “The bossman needs me. This ain’t his path, but it is mine, to stand shoulder to shoulder with Falling Rain and guard him against the Enemy, so that he might one day do what he was meant to.” If not for this war, the bossman might never have become the man that he was, but if they were able to end the Defiled threat or even bring it down to a manageable level, there was a good chance Falling Rain could lead the Empire into a new age of progress and prosperity. Bulat knew this for truth, because he’d already seen how much good the bossman had done in a few short months, so what might he accomplish if given years, or even decades to work with?

Dei An was right. Despite his prodigious talent, the Martial Path was not suited for Falling Rain. He was a leader and visionary, a trailblazer and trendsetter, a man who brought radical new ideas to the Empire and would eventually change it for the better, so long as he survived this war against the Enemy.

Long seconds passed in silence as he locked eyes with his beautiful wife, and for a moment, he feared she would ask him to stay and he would be too weak to refuse. Then, she nodded, ever so slightly, and though he could see how much it pained her to see him go and knew how much she would worry while he was gone, this had to be done. “Your soldier’s kit is packed and readied in the stable,” she said, surprising him with her preparations. “And a day’s worth of meals being kept warm in the furthest oven. You will have to eat rations from then on, but know that I will think of you each and every day.”

“And I you, dear wife.”

Their farewells took a little longer than he’d like, since they both got a little carried away, but Bulat had purchased a good horse after it won him a small fortune in a race. He’d only bet on it because it was named ‘Little Hero’, and it seemed like a sign from the Heavens to bring it home and let the Little Hero grow fat and happy, but alas, now they were heading off to war together. As he set out from the stables, Bulat felt the wind course through his hair as Little Hero cut loose for the first time in weeks, and finally, the world felt right.

For he was Old Bulat, husband to Dei An, son of Maira and Daulet, Aura Capable Warrior of the Empire, and friend of the little hero, Falling Rain.