Kazdel was, as it had always been, destitute.
Its people hungered.
They hungered in spirit and in body alike. They were starved, yet they clung to life with a desperate, predatory tenacity.
And within this wretched Kazdel, the people dreamt.
They dreamt of vengeance against those who had driven them into this barren, godforsaken earth!
They dreamt of the iron hammer falling upon the traitors of their race!
Death to the enemies of the Sarkaz!
Millennia of oppression and discrimination. Thousands of years of systemic hatred and loathing had been more than enough to ensure that the majority of Sarkaz could never even conceive of coexistence with other races.
Yet, in this nest of the Sarkaz, there flickered a single light that dared to dream of peace.
Her name was Theresia, and her burden was that of the blessed Lord of Fiends, chosen by destiny to shepherd the Sarkaz.
She was the actress seeking to end a theater of the absurd that had played out for centuries without a director, a producer, or a script.
********************************
"Hmm... is someone talking about me? My ears are a bit itchy."
Theresia rubbed her ears twice.
A strange sensation of being watched or mentioned had nagged at her.
Beside her, through the window, the morning of Kazdel revealed itself.
Even when the sun rose, this land did not brighten easily. Broken fences, soot-stained alleys, and roads where the mere passage of wind kicked up clouds of grit and dust.
Still, the people moved.
In this desolate tundra of a city, for those who did not move, there was no path left but the lonely road to the grave.
Theresia rested her hands on the windowsill. The stone was biting cold.
Whether one wore a crown or not, this city remained perpetually chilled to the bone. Her task was not to add more fuel to the fires of global revolution, as certain individuals in the Union were doing, but to preserve a dying ember in a frozen hearth. That, she found, was far more difficult.
Revolution burns everything back to the beginning, but reform is the painstaking labor of removing and resetting each stone in a crumbling tower, one by one.
Footsteps stopped outside the door. There was no knock.
In this palace, a knock was not a gesture of etiquette; it was an alarm of vigilance.
The door swung open, and Theresis entered.
His face bore the exhaustion of an all-nighter. Yet, he did not look tired so much as he looked like a man who had incorporated weariness into his very being. His military uniform was immaculate; not a single button was out of alignment.
That discipline was his manner of love.
"The window is open again."
Theresis's voice was neither harsh nor tender. It was a simple statement of fact. He did not extend the sentence, nor did he bother asking 'why.'
Theresia felt this lack of interrogation as a form of consideration. She blinked and replied while keeping her gaze fixed on the outside.
"It felt suffocating."
Theresia spoke briefly, but she felt the weight on her shoulders lift slightly after saying it.
Theresis briefly shifted his gaze to the window before looking down at the mountain of documents on Theresia's desk. Numbers and names. Food ration charts, orphan asylum registries, road reconstruction sectors.
Theresis knew well that the aftermath of war was more persistent than the war itself. The great conflict had ended over a century ago, yet the impoverished Kazdel was still drowning in the labor of restoration.
"Here is today's itinerary."
He did not frame it as a question. It was a remark bordering on coldness. Of course, Theresia did not dislike her brother's stiff tone. It actually helped settle her mind.
"I'm planning to visit the school."
Theresis's eyebrows twitched upward—the extent of his outward surprise.
"The school?"
"The place where they teach letters. Where the children are being educated."
As she spoke, Theresia recalled the silence she had observed the day before.
In Kazdel, silence was rarely a good omen. Those who have given up are silent; the starving are silent; the terrified are even more silent. Usually, in Kazdel, only the corpses were silent.
But what if that silence was the quiet focus of children reading and following the strokes of a pen?
She had seen it. In the first modern school established with financial aid from the Union, she had seen children studying. That sight was more peaceful than anything she had ever known—more peaceful even than the day the Six Heroes ended the Great War.
Theresia turned the thought over in her mind as if explaining it to an unseen witness. Even after seeing it with her own eyes, she had doubted it for a moment.
Theresis nodded.
"Security?"
"You'll handle it, Brother."
"Understood."
The answer suggested it was a self-evident duty. Theresia liked that about him. Her brother, Theresis, did not dislike her playfulness, but he never partook in it himself. His words were always just the skeletal frame. But with a frame, things do not collapse.
Of course, she still nurtured a secret hope that he might one day let his guard down and joke around like they did in their childhood.
Another set of footsteps approached. These were leisurely, hiding neither their presence nor their direction. It was Kal'tsit.
The moment the door opened, the air in the room shifted minutely. As the only Feline in this court of Sarkaz, her ears twitched as she entered.
"Taking in the wind?"
Kal'tsit spoke to Theresia, but her eyes were already scanning Theresia's hands and face. She was checking for coughs, fever, or the deepening shadows under her eyes—the instinctive habit of a doctor.
Theresia curved her lips into a smile, placing a finger on her forehead and closing her eyes with a boastful expression.
"Yes, I was. It seems the wind hasn't grown tired of me yet."
"Ah, is that so."
Kal'tsit, naturally, did not play along with the joke. It wasn't that she was cold; it was the reflexive response of someone who did not believe in the luxury of levity. Kal'tsit reached out, picked up a document from the desk, and scanned it rapidly.
"Hmph, how mean."
Theresia puffed out her cheeks in a theatrical pout. Seeing the expression, Kal'tsit realized her social oversight and quickly shifted the subject.
"I heard about the school," Kal'tsit said. "It's a good step. But I assume you don't intend to stop there?"
Returning to her serious state, Theresia took a shallow breath. Kal'tsit always asked about the 'next step.' She forced her to weigh the present against the future constantly.
"Stop? This is just the beginning."
As Theresia threw on her overcoat, Kal'tsit's gaze drifted to the edge of the document pile. There lay a copy of a telegram. International Communist Party, Aid, Support. A list of supplies crossing over from the Union.
Kal'tsit flicked the paper with her fingertip.
"I'll say this now before the topic of the Union comes up," Kal'tsit said in a low voice. "I do not easily trust their offers of assistance."
In Kal'tsit's voice, Theresia felt the shadow of a man named 'Vladimir' rather than the word 'Union.' Kal'tsit did not hate the Union itself, but she constantly doubted the sincerity of its leader. She always sought the cold calculation behind the benevolence.
To Kal'tsit, aside from a few close individuals, most goodwill was not an 'opportunity' but a 'mask.'
Theresia looked Kal'tsit straight in the eye. "I am not a fool."
Kal'tsit replied instantly. "I know." She sat in a chair and continued, "That is why I am more concerned. A fool is simply deceived, but a clever person… they walk on even as they rationalize the trap."
Theresia nearly laughed. Kal'tsit always spoke like this. Even when it sounded like a compliment, it wasn't. It was usually a warning. And Kal'tsit's warnings were almost always correct.
Theresis intervened briefly.
"But the aid is necessary."
He spoke without emotion. His point was that while they understood Kal'tsit's vigilance, they could not ignore reality.
Kal'tsit gave a micro-nod.
"Necessary, yes. Just do not forget why they are fulfilling those needs."
Theresia knew that 'why.' International politics and foreign aid were never driven by pure altruism, especially not in an era of global upheaval. Theresia understood that Kal'tsit was warning her about this, and simultaneously, Kal'tsit was truly afraid of the moment Theresia might place her 'faith' in a person.
Theresia looked out the window again. She saw the children in the streets. Hungry faces. But their eyes—those sparks hadn't gone out yet.
"Even so, I will teach them to read," Theresia said. "Regardless of what others gain from it, what the children gain is undeniable."
Kal'tsit did not argue. Instead, she gave a very short sigh. It was a sigh not of surrender, but of an acceptance that said, 'Yes, I suppose you would do that.' Kal'tsit trusted Theresia. It was perhaps one of the few certainties she held.
Theresis walked toward the door first. "Let us go."
Theresia took one last look around the room. The wind through the window gap ruffled the curtains. She didn't mind the swaying. Swaying, after all, meant things were still alive.
Kal'tsit and Theresis followed behind her.
"Yes. Let's go."
*****************************
The air outside was sharper than it had been indoors. The chill wasn't just the temperature; it felt like the cold soaked up by the stone walls and dust over centuries was seeping into her throat.
Theresia turned up her collar but quickly lowered it again. She hated the feeling of her spirit shrinking alongside her body. As she crossed the threshold, she slowed her pace by half a beat.
It was the boundary between the ordered silence of the palace and the living clamor of Kazdel. At the end of the hall, worn carpets were flanked by guards. Their curved horns and feather-like decorations were so varied that it could hardly be called a uniform parade. In this country, uniformity was a luxury.
Theresis led the way down the stairs. He shifted his shoulders slightly, scanning the surroundings. Kal'tsit followed, her footsteps silent. An old man huddled in a corner, a soldier walking despite bandages on his thighs, a child suppressing a cough in the marketplace.
Kal'tsit's gaze as she read their conditions seemed indifferent, but that indifference was a survival skill honed over an eternity. As they stepped beyond the palace walls, the morning of Kazdel struck their faces.
There was light, but no warmth. Each time the sunlight reflected off the walls, dust sparkled in the air. The sparkle wasn't beautiful; it felt suffocating. The alleys were narrow, the houses low. Places that were once homes were now mere single walls serving as lean-tos. When the wind gusted, sand poured from the cracks like water.
Yet, there were people. Carrying bread, hauling water, struggling to survive just one more day. They all moved to live, and they lived by moving.
Watching them, Theresia whispered to herself: 'Yes, they are alive. And because they are alive, we can change things.'
Just then, two children on the street spotted Theresia and froze. One child had no proper shoes and had wrapped his feet in layers of cloth; the other was swamped by an oversized shirt. Yet their eyes shone.
One child opened his mouth, then closed it again. He clearly wanted to say something but was unsure of the protocol. Theresia waved first, showing her palm—a gesture intended to reassure, not threaten.
"Hello. Where are you heading today?"
The two children tried to speak at once, bumping into each other. The one who spoke first was more urgent.
"Shool! I mean... School!"
His tongue tied, the boy's face turned bright red. But he didn't run away. Theresia laughed. Not a brief polite chuckle, but a genuine laugh. She saw the children's shoulders relax at the sound.
"Right, school. What are you learning there?"
One child began counting on his fingers. "Letters. Numbers... and, and maps."
"Maps?" Theresia tilted her head, prompting the child to speak faster with newfound courage.
"Where our land goes... and other languages, not just ours. The teacher says if we know letters, we won't be tricked."
Theresia's smile faltered for a second. To hear the phrase 'not be tricked' come from the mouth of a Kazdel child was so… hauntingly accurate. Kal'tsit whispered beside her, "The teacher is quite the realist."
It could have sounded cynical, but Kal'tsit's voice was oddly devoid of its usual thorns. It sounded almost like relief. Theresia caught the tone and fought the urge to laugh even louder, knowing Kal'tsit wouldn't appreciate it.
Theresia nodded to the children.
"Indeed. Do not be tricked. Letters might look weaker than a sword, but in truth, they are stronger. Study hard."
The children might not have fully grasped the weight of her words, but they nodded vigorously before sprinting off. Mud splashed from their heels onto their calves, but they didn't care.
Theresis spoke low. "Shall I assign a guard?" He spoke as if the decision was already made, but he phrased it as a question—his way of respecting her authority.
"Yes, please. But keep it discreet," Theresia replied immediately.
Further down the alley, a newly repaired brick building appeared. Unlike the crumbling ruins surrounding it, the bricks here were laid evenly. The windows were fitted with glass, and the door had iron hinges. It was the school.
A small sign hung by the door. The letters were slightly crooked but clear—evidently carved by hand. Theresia loved that slight imperfection. It felt like the trace of someone who dared to believe, 'We can do this too.'
As she entered, Theresia quieted her footsteps. Theresis and Kal'tsit followed suit. None of them wanted to break the almost unbelievable atmosphere of quiet within the classroom.
It was a silence that was hard to reconcile with children—especially Sarkaz children. Theresia had never seen such a still gathering, not even at a military inspection. The teacher wrote on the blackboard with chalk. The sound of the chalk scraping against the board was like the rhythm of light rain. The children followed the sound, lips moving as they mimed the words. Some traced the shapes of letters in the air; others grimaced at the cramp in their wrists as they copied letters onto paper.
Watching this, Theresia felt a strange heat in the back of her throat. It wasn't sadness—it was the heat of a heart catching fire. The tears would come later.
Kal'tsit nudged Theresia's hand very gently. It was a subtle signal to pay attention. Theresia realized she had been holding her breath for too long and exhaled slowly. As she did, some of the tension lodged in her chest settled.
Then, a small cough came from the back of the classroom. Someone had tried to hold it in and failed. Kal'tsit's ears swiveled toward the sound instantly. She moved before Theresia could, stepping silenty toward the child. She reached out and gently took the child's hand to check their temperature. The touch was soft yet clinical.
The child's eyes widened with a mix of surprise and caution. Kal'tsit lowered herself to eye level. Her voice was even lower than usual. "Do you have a fever?"
The child's lips trembled. He looked at the boy next to him. When his friend gave a small nod, the child whispered, "A little..."
Kal'tsit's expression hardened—not with anger, but with the focus of a physician. She checked his pulse and peeked at the color of his eyes. "Come to me after class," she told him. "If you run, I'll hunt you down."
The child's face scrunched up for a moment, then shifted into an odd expression of relief. Evidently, 'I'll hunt you down' sounded more like protection than a threat.
Theresia watched with a growing smile. Even if Kal'tsit claimed not to believe in goodwill, the fact remained that her own hands were instruments of it.
"And here you were saying you don't believe in goodwill, yet you're helping away just fine," Theresia teased.
"...Be quiet," Kal'tsit muttered.
Theresia didn't miss the chance to poke fun at her friend. When the class eventually ended, the children stood in unison to give their farewells. It wasn't perfect—some bowed too deeply, others just waved. But Theresia didn't mind the chaos.
The teacher recognized Theresia and stiffened, attempting to kneel. Theresia caught his arm before his knees could touch the floor. "Don't." Her voice was soft but firm. The teacher's face flushed.
"Lord Theresia, I—"
"This is a school. You are the teacher, and it is you who deserves the respect here. I have no need for such formalities in this place."
Her words were sharp enough that the teacher could no longer press the point. Instead, he simply bowed his head. That was their compromise.
Theresia looked around the room once more. Suddenly, the sound of an approaching messenger reached them. The footsteps were frantic and stopped abruptly at the threshold as the courier gasped for air. Theresis stepped forward, blocking the messenger's path to create a buffer for Theresia.
"My Lord... at the War Council... His Highness Netschsalem requests your presence immediately. The Mistress has arrived... and from the courts of the sub-races—"
The messenger swallowed the last word. Whether it was 'revolt,' 'negotiation,' or 'terms,' he didn't have the time to choose. Theresia took one last look at the blackboard. The words written there remained: Civilization, Harmony, Reconciliation. The words seemed to speak to her.
Theresia nodded to the messenger. "Understood. We're coming."
She waved to the children in the classroom. They waved back in a cluster. To Theresia, those waving hands felt heavier and more significant than any oath of loyalty she had ever received.
***************************
The chamber where the War Council met was one of the few places in Kazdel that retained an air of antiquity. Charred beams remained visible on the ceiling, and ancient flags hung from the walls. The flags were tattered and faded, yet they had not been torn down—a testament to the stubborn will of Kazdel itself.
As Theresia entered, the murmuring died down. Some bowed; others stared directly at her. At one end of the table, in the chairman's seat, sat Netschsalem, the King of the Nachtszehrer. He sat almost perfectly still, his breathing so slow it was nearly imperceptible. But when his eyes swept across the table, the very air in the room seemed to fall into order.
Netschsalem gave Theresia a slight nod. It wasn't a deep bow, but a form of respect that avoided exaggeration. "You've come."
Theresia did not sit immediately. She walked to the end of the table, scanning the papers scattered across it. Finally, her eyes settled on a sealed bundle of documents in the center. The seal of the Union. She thought to herself: So, this is the topic of the day.
"Where is Raquera-malin?" Theresia asked.
As the question left her lips, the door at the back of the room opened. Raquera-malin entered with silent footsteps, her gaze sweeping over the council. As her eyes met theirs, the tension in the room began to thaw. She smiled at Theresia—a smile of welcome, though her eyes seemed to say, 'Another difficult day, isn't it?'
"I hope I'm not late?" she asked with a slight lilt.
Theresia's lips curled upward. "If you were ever late, I'd have to assume it was intentional."
Raquera-malin gave a small laugh, peeling away another layer of tension. Theresis stood near the wall behind Theresia, while Kal'tsit stood beside her for a moment before taking a seat at the table. Theresia nodded to the chairman's seat.
"Let us begin."
Netschsalem raised a hand, silencing the room completely. He slid the sealed document toward Theresia. "The Union's aid proposal."
Theresia didn't break the seal immediately. She traced the texture of the envelope with her fingertips. The paper was high-quality—something almost impossible to produce in Kazdel. The paper itself was a message: 'We have more resources than you.'
"Start with the contents," Theresia commanded.
Netschsalem flipped the first page. "Grain. Medicine. Educational materials. Printing equipment. Some industrial plant facilities. And… funds for the construction of Nomadic Cities."
A few people in the room breathed in sharply. Regardless of their political posturing, the human instinct flinches before the prospect of ending hunger. Raquera-malin leaned slightly toward Theresia, her voice low but clear.
"Exactly the things we need most right now."
Theresia nodded but held up a single finger. "And the price?"
At that single word, the atmosphere turned cold and rigid once more. Kal'tsit's lips twitched—not in a smile, but in a 'See?' expression. Without looking at Theresia, she stared at the documents. "And now we reach the main text." Her tone was calm, yet pointed.
Netschsalem turned to the next page. "The Union requests that the Kazdel Communist Party be recognized as an official partner. All aid will be channeled through that entity."
Someone nearly scoffed before catching themselves. To the Ten Royal Courts, the word 'Communist' was still an alien concept. Their authority was built on lineage and tribal tradition. Theresia did not ignore their reaction; she seized the initiative.
"Channels are necessary. Systems can only be built where there is a flow," she stated. It was a piece of persuasion, but it carried the weight of a command. She scanned the room to see who might object.
Netschsalem read on. "A mission of Union advisors will participate in refining Kazdel's financial and administrative systems. The educational curriculum is to include the 'Federated Administrative Model' as reference material."
Kal'tsit's eyebrows shot up. This was her 'alert' state. She leaned forward, her voice a low growl. "And when the advisors enter, will they merely 'advise' and then leave?" She wasn't looking at Theresia; she was glaring at the word 'Union' on the page.
Theresia didn't rush to answer. She tapped a line on the document. The sound echoed in the quiet room. "It says 'participate,' not 'command.'"
"Words on paper mean nothing to a hegemon like the Union," Kal'tsit shot back. She swept her hand over the table as if erasing everything. Her eyes grew dark. Theresia realized this darkness didn't come from mere distrust, but from a long history of witnessing betrayals. It was a fear born of experience.
Theresis cut in. "Even so, we need it." He spoke with a chin tilted up, making the word 'need' sound like a military report rather than an opinion. "We must feed the army, stabilize the home front, and if we neglect the orphans, we have no next generation." He looked at Theresia, his gaze saying it was time for a decision.
Raquera-malin also nodded. She cast a gentle look toward the likely dissenters, as if to say, 'You know this is true.'
Netschsalem read the final point. "As a condition for sustained aid, Kazdel will guarantee the security of Union supply routes. Furthermore, they request joint usage rights for specific railways and warehouse facilities within Kazdel."
The moment the term 'joint usage' was uttered, representatives from several Royal Courts shifted. It was an instinctive move toward the hilts of their swords. In the Sarkaz War Council, it was tradition to attend armed. Theresia didn't miss the movement. She gave a light signal with her hand, a subtle pressure that made the representatives settle back down, beads of sweat on their brows.
Once things calmed, Kal'tsit said quietly, "Joint usage is merely a foothold for encroachment."
Theresia did not refute her. Instead, she changed the subject. She looked at Netschsalem. "The duration?"
Netschsalem checked the bottom of the page. "It is not specified."
As the answer fell, Theresia's eyes sharpened. Just as I thought.
She didn't lower her voice; she spoke clearly so that everyone could hear. "I will not grant joint usage rights without a specified duration."
A few nodded in agreement. Some representatives who had been rigid with fear that Theresia would accept everything unconditionally finally breathed a sigh of relief. She was drawing a line.
Raquera-malin tapped the table twice—not a clap, but a rhythmic beat. "Good. Then we simply attach our own conditions." She looked at Theresia, clearly offering her support.
Theresia nodded and looked at Kal'tsit. Kal'tsit didn't look away; she raised her chin slightly, signaling that she wasn't just being difficult for the sake of it.
"Let us finalize our conditions," Theresia said, counting off her fingers. "First: The advisors are limited to 'consultation' only. The final authority for approval rests with Kazdel."
Kal'tsit immediately added, "We must restrict the scope of that consultation too. Finance, economy, education. Absolute zero access to the military command structure."
Theresia accepted this. "Very well. No access to military command." Theresis exhaled a tiny breath of relief. Theresia caught it and felt a pang of gratitude for her brother's silent support.
Theresia raised a second finger. "Second: Joint usage rights must have a fixed term. Any renewal will require the consent of the Lord of Fiends and the Ten Royal Courts."
The mention of the Ten Royal Courts smoothed the expressions of the representatives. Raquera-malin smiled. "Now it sounds like a proper council meeting."
Finally, Theresia set the last condition. "And lastly, if the Union expects any further price, it must be documented in writing. Verbal agreements are strictly forbidden."
Kal'tsit allowed a small smile to touch her lips. 'Yes, at least that much is necessary,' her expression said. Raquera-malin leaned in and asked, "And the reply?"
Theresia looked at Netschsalem. He nodded in agreement. Theresis nodded silently as well. Kal'tsit, though, kept her eyes on the 'conditions' rather than 'faith' until the very end.
"But will the Union's leader accept this?" Kal'tsit asked. Her voice was flat, but her gaze was razor-sharp. It suggested that if he did accept, they should be suspicious, and if he didn't, even more so.
Theresia didn't answer immediately. Instead, she looked at the red Union seal once more. She did not trust the man behind it blindly; as Kal'tsit said, certainty is dangerous. But she could not afford to delay. Delay was a luxury Kazdel simply did not have.
Theresia clenched her fist. "I will make him accept it."
Raquera-malin raised a hand. "Well said. Fitting for a Lord of Fiends."
Theresis added, "I will review the draft of the reply."
When the meeting broke up, Kal'tsit rose silently from her chair. She didn't look down; she stared straight at Theresia. "Theresia."
Theresia knew that when Kal'tsit used her name like that, it was for something grave. Kal'tsit said in a low tone, "I still do not believe they move out of the goodness of their hearts." She reached a hand toward Theresia but stopped midway. Her fingertips hovered in the air—a hand that wanted to pull Theresia back, yet feared doing so would only push her further away.
"Even so... I know you are doing what is necessary for this nation. So..." Kal'tsit emphasized the last words. "Do not be tricked."
Theresia did not look away. She knew that Kal'tsit's way of caring was to make her doubt others rather than trust them. And in today's Kazdel, that doubt was often the only form of protection available. Theresia nodded slowly.
"I won't. I won't be tricked."
It wasn't a promise meant to soothe Kal'tsit; it was a promise to herself. And so, the day's council concluded.
As she walked out, Theresia imagined a place she had never seen. What was the Union like? Was it truly the utopia the Communists claimed? Or was it just another hypocritical, two-faced state? She shook the thoughts away. She didn't need to overthink it.
Whatever the truth of the Union was, she vowed she would make Kazdel into the ideal the Union's speakers spoke of.