October 12th, 1940
Cheapsake
Cheapsake burned with purpose.
Federal soldiers ran the streets with buckets and hoses, shouting over one another as smoke swallowed the city whole. Water hissed uselessly against walls already lost. Roofs collapsed in showers of sparks. The fire was too organized for an accident, too thorough for chaos.
Cody knew that kind of fire. The kind that doesn't die with water… the kind that burns with the intent of its wielder.
Imperial Loyalists had lit it.
Not to win ground but to send a message.
He moved through the smoke toward Luke's district, heart pounding harder with every step. The closer he got, the quieter the streets became, as if even the fire respected what it had done here.
The Onderon household was gone. Not gone, not broken… just erased from the tides of fire that dominated the entire city.
The structure had folded inward, blackened beams jutting out like broken bones. Heat still radiated from the stones, a low hum that vibrated through Cody's boots.
And in the center of it-
Meika.
She knelt in the ash, hands buried in her father's coat, fingers clenched so tight they trembled. Luke's body lay before her, burned beyond recognition, yet unmistakable. The fire had spared nothing that mattered.
"You shouldn't hold onto what's already gone."
The voice came from behind her.
Dwayne Newhiskey stood just beyond the rubble, coat immaculate despite the smoke, green light pulsing faintly beneath his skin like a living ember. His expression wasn't cruel.
It was composed and measured. Like a past that doesn't want to die after the flames.
"This is what happens when weakness is allowed to linger," he said, tone calm, almost instructive. "When old ideals refuse to make room for necessary change."
Meika turned toward him, eyes red and hollow.
"He didn't have to die," she whispered.
Dwayne nodded slowly. "No. But people like your father always do."
Cody stepped forward.
"What did you say?" he demanded.
Dwayne finally looked at him, mild curiosity crossing his face. "General Rivera. I wondered when you'd arrive."
The air shifted.
Cody felt it before he saw it, gravity tightening around him, the ground subtly responding to his presence, stones pressing inward as blue light bled from his hands. The world bent, just slightly, toward him.
"You lit this," Cody said, voice low. "You ordered it."
"I told them to burn the rest," Dwayne said evenly. "You don't rebuild on half-measures."
He crouched beside Meika, not to comfort her, but to frame her grief.
"Look at the city," Dwayne said gently. "Look at what hesitation costs. Remember this. One day, you'll understand why fire is sometimes the only language power respects."
Meika's breathing hitched.
Cody moved between them, his hand resting on his revolver.
"Step away from her."
Dwayne rose slowly.
Green magic flared, sharp and volatile, licking across his arms like flame given intent. Heat surged outward, forcing Cody back a step as the air shimmered.
"You still think this is about protection," Dwayne said. "That's why you'll lose."
Cody drew his revolver. Pure determination was written over his face.
The ground groaned beneath him as gravity tightened, debris lifting slightly, hovering in a slow, deliberate orbit. His blade followed, steel humming as the space around it warped.
"I won't let you turn her into this," Cody said, getting into a fighting stance as Dwayne smiled.
The fire reflected in Dwayne's eyes as he stared Cody down.
"You already have."
The first shot cracked through the smoke.
Blue and green magic collided in a violent surge, fire ripping outward as gravity folded inward, bullets curving midair, blades meeting in showers of sparks and flame. The ruins of Luke's home shook as the duel ignited, magic and metal tearing through the ash-choked street.
Behind them, unseen by either man, Meika watched.
She didn't understand the magic. Or the politics. Or the war.
But she understood this:
One man burned the world to make it obey. The other bent himself to keep it from breaking.
And somewhere deep inside her, something fractured, a path splitting before she even knew she had a choice.
March 2nd, 1948
Revilla
Jazmin had barely slept in the days since the Battle of St. James.
Church bells rang across Revilla in celebration of the Federal Army's victory, their peals bright and insistent, as if sound alone could banish fear. The city rejoiced. The nation exhaled.
But no letter had come from Cody.
Meika ate her breakfast in silence, the clink of cutlery against porcelain the loudest sound in the room. Across from her, Jazmin moved more slowly than usual, shoulders tight, eyes shadowed from too many nights spent awake with reports instead of rest.
The windows were open just enough to let in the early morning air. Revilla was already stirring beyond them, distant carts and boots on stone, the low murmur of a city trying to pretend it was not at war.
Despite the strain on its economy, despite factories pushed past their limits, despite the quiet desperation stitched into every household, the victory had mattered. Even more so when word spread that the Cabinet had pushed forward the Self-Governance Act.
By Cody's office, that kind of movement only happened when the Cabinet Secretary involved themself personally.
Which meant he was still alive.
No letter had come, not yet, but alive all the same.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the letters Cody used to send, folded thin from being read too many times. First during the Revolutionary War, then again through the War of 1940 and the Cotton Rebellion. His handwriting was always rushed, always uneven, as though he never quite had enough time but wrote anyway.
And then came the Great Fire of Cheapsake.
The medical ward had smelled of antiseptic and smoke, a scent Jazmin had never quite shaken afterward. Cody lay on the narrow bed, his back wrapped in layers of white that hid the worst of the burns but not the truth of them. Medics moved softly around him, hands glowing faintly green as they worked, calm only because panic would have killed him faster.
What stayed with her most, though, wasn't the injuries.
It was Meika.
Luke and Julianne's child, the same child Cody and Ken Drick had taken as their godchild. The same child they had promised to protect after the flames of Cheapsake started to settle.
She had been so small then, barely tall enough to see over the side of the bed. Jazmin remembered turning away for a moment, just long enough to speak to a medic, and when she looked back, Meika had climbed up onto the chair beside him.
No one had told her to.
Her hands wrapped around Cody's arm, fingers clenched tight, knuckles pale. Tear stains on her face as she just held on, as if her grip alone was the thing keeping him there.
Jazmin had almost pulled her back. Almost.
But she hadn't.
Because she saw it then, the way Meika counted his breaths without knowing she was doing it. The way her entire world had narrowed to the rise and fall of his chest. A child anchoring herself to the only certainty she had left.
When he finally stirred, Jazmin remembered the sound Meika made, not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Just relief, raw and unguarded relief.
It struck her with uncomfortable clarity that, with Luke and Julianne gone, there was no one else Meika reached for in quite the same way. Cody had quietly become the center she returned to without even thinking.
She reeled herself back to the present, to the teenage girl who was sitting in front of her now. The same child who took the courage to help the men in the field hospital despite all her fears of magic. A small smile formed on her face as she gently broke the silence.
"How are the men at the field hospital, dear?"
Meika lifted her cup, the steam from the hot chocolate warming her face. She took a careful sip before answering, as if choosing her words mattered.
"They're holding," she said at last. "Some are better than others."
She stared into the cup for a moment longer than necessary.
"Mara says the worst of the infections have passed. Supplies are still tight, though. We're improvising more than healing some days."
Jazmin nodded, fingers tightening briefly around her teacup. "That sounds like Mara," she said quietly. "Doing more with less."
Meika gave a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"There was a boy from Brooksville," she added. "Couldn't have been older than me and Mey. He kept asking if the fighting was over."
She swallowed.
"I didn't know what to tell him."
The silence that followed was heavier than before, not awkward, just full. The kind that settled when both of them were thinking of the same name and refusing to say it.
Before Jazmin could speak, there was a knock at the door.
It wasn't sharp, nor was it urgent, just firm enough to break the silence that had settled between them. Jazmin rose from her chair and crossed the room, opening the door.
A runner stood at attention outside, cap tucked neatly under his arm.
"Minister Turner," he said. "A message from the front."
Jazmin silently accepted the envelope, her expression composed even as her hands betrayed her, fingers tightening slightly as she recognized the seal pressed into the wax. For just a moment, she held it there, as if weighing what it might carry.
Then she opened it.
Meika watched as Jazmin's shoulders eased, the tension she hadn't realized was visible, finally loosening. A small smile formed, careful at first, then unmistakably real.
She studied the familiar strokes that defined her husband's handwriting. Even now, there were traces of the rushed pressure that used to mark his earlier letters, though they were no longer as sharp, no longer as harsh as they had been before. They had softened over time, much like the man himself, as he settled further into civilian life.
She could feel her niece's curiosity from across the table, that quiet, searching attention that lingered on her every movement. Jazmin folded the letter once and turned back toward her.
"He's alive," she said softly.
The words lingered between them.
Alive.
Meika didn't move at first. Her fingers stayed wrapped around the cup, as though it were anchoring her to the table. Then, slowly, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"Alive," she echoed softly.
Jazmin nodded once. "Injured. Complaining. Which is how I know he's truly fine."
That earned a small, disbelieving huff from Meika.
"He wrote it himself," Jazmin added, already unfolding the letter again. "And before you ask, yes, he wasted ink on unnecessary commentary." Meika smiled despite herself, already knowing exactly the kind of unnecessary commentary that meant.
Jazmin's lips twitched as she read on.
"Tell Meika that if Mey has gotten into another fight without me there to witness it, I'll be personally offended," she read aloud. "And he is always welcomed to come over and have dinner… though I suspect that won't be an unfamiliar arrangement for long. "
Meika froze.
Then she laughed, soft at first, as though even she wasn't expecting it to come out. She pressed her knuckles lightly to her mouth, eyes bright in a way they hadn't been all morning. Jazmin watched her carefully, catching the faint flush that rose along her niece's face.
"He hasn't gotten into any… that I know of," Meika said quickly, trying to recover her composure. "He just stands straighter when he thinks people are being watched."
Jazmin exhaled a quiet laugh, rolling her eyes. "I suspected as much."
"Also," she continued, voice warming, "tell her Mey has a habit of ending up in places that matter."
The words lingered for a moment longer than the rest.
Meika looked up sharply, her expression catching before she could school it into something neutral. A faint warmth crept into her face as she quickly averted her gaze, fingers tightening around her cup as though it had suddenly become very important to hold onto.
Meika cleared her throat, a little too quickly.
"That… doesn't sound like him at all," she muttered, though her voice lacked any real conviction.
Jazmin arched a brow. "Doesn't it?"
Meika hesitated for a moment. The silence that followed wasn't heavy, just aware, like both of them were careful not to press too hard on the thought that had just passed between them.
Then Meika shook her head, as if physically dismissing it. "He just… walks into problems. That's probably what he meant."
Jazmin hummed softly, rolling her eyes playfully, but didn't argue.
Instead, she tapped the folded letter once against the table, grounding the moment back into something tangible again.
"Of course he did." She folded it again and set it down between them. This time, she didn't linger on it.
A quiet pause settled over the table.
Then Jazmin gently pushed her chair back.
"Go finish your drink, dear. You still have class later."
Meika nodded, still a little distracted, and Jazmin turned toward the sink, collecting the dishes one by one.
The warmth of the kitchen contrasted softly with the weight she carried beneath it. There would be meetings waiting for her at the Ministry. Arguments and decisions that did not pause just because the morning had turned briefly gentle.
But for now, there was only the sound of water, and the fading echo of something almost peaceful.
To be Continued