Rugr urged the horse forward with a sharp crack of the reins and a quick jab from his boots, leaving the wagon—and Kleo—behind. He kept the horse at a gallop for the first mile before easing down into a steady trot.


    Heading straight for Balta was out of the question. He’d have to return to the wagon once Kleo had time to get the boy on their way to wherever they were going. The consequences of someone discovering the remains were too dire.


    Damn that girl. Why hadn’t she told him? They could have dealt with whatever was troubling her once the cargo was in the hands of the ship’s captain. She was perceptive, and it was clear she didn’t think going to Balta was the right course. A question nagged in the back of his mind, prickling at him. What did she see that he didn’t?


    The more he thought about it, the more confident he was that he wasn’t going to like the answer.


    She communicated using signs, which he had taught her himself. Together, they had developed a language for situations that required secrecy. His training had forbidden her from speaking, forcing her to communicate with subtle gestures. Her fluency soon surpassed his, causing him to improve his abilities to match.


    She had been brief, fingers moving with fluid, natural motions. It was unlikely the man would have even noticed.


    Be Prepared.


    She repeated the message over and over. Rugr was puzzled by the message; she knew he was always prepared. Still, he had kept a wary eye on the boy, assuming he was the subject of her concern.


    Rugr felt sure the boy was harmless. Still, he watched carefully, looking for anything he might have missed. The thought rankled him. He was not one to miss anything.


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


    As they tended to the horse after the "accident,” she had signed, "Trust me." Then, as he prepared to ride out, she emphasized the message.


    There was no doubt of trust between him, so he knew the message meant more—something like "Think, old man, think.”


    The road would be long, so he had time. He’d turn the puzzle over in his mind, find the missing pieces, and decide how to deal with it. He always did.


    It might be her Kadas Shadoom.


    The thought gave him pause. His own Kadas Shadoom was still vivid in his memory, even after all these years. It had driven him to extremes he’d rather not recall. The shudder in his chest reminded him that some memories never truly fade. He didn’t envy her but hoped her path was less complicated than his.


    That hope was as close to prayer as Rugr was willing to go. The gods and fates had long since abandoned his kind, and if he ever got the chance, he’d consign their remains to a box—like the one in the back of the wagon—sending them to the nether where they could rot for eternity.


    Astiria had been a refuge, but not without cost. Fewer than six hundred survivors had escaped the destruction of his homeworld. Living in complete isolation, they’d healed what wounds they could and built new lives. Most had found peace, but not Rugr. He waited, biding his time as the years turned into decades, then centuries. He wasn’t alone; others remembered the Sa Kamal. Others counted the days until their people had regained the strength to reclaim their homeworld.


    Some buried the shame of their betrayal when they turned their backs to hide in Astiria. They’d been weary, broken, and facing extinction. He didn’t begrudge their survival, but some small part of him would always regret not dying in the land of his birth.


    Astiria prided itself on harmony, but Rugr had learned long ago that no place was without its cracks. Over the last two decades, those cracks have become more challenging to ignore. Whispers in dark hallways, actions that didn’t match words, and the counsel of individuals with questionable motives. All signs of brewing discord.


    As head of internal security, Rugr had seen enough to be sure something was wrong, but the exact nature of the conspiracy eluded him. The threads were thin, too fragile to pull without risking them snapping. Over the past twenty-five years, things had begun to shift, and even Rugr, a man with access to more information than most, felt the weight of suspicion from his superiors. It was a strange, tense dance: they suspected he knew something he didn’t; he suspected the same of them.