The asymmetry of time is its cruelest aspect. We may look back and see the ebb and flow of events, but not forward; we walk blindly through moments, never realizing that they are the most important of our lives. Only after long years do we recognize them for what they were - though we cannot see but the faintest glimpse of them now, through the dull haze of memory.

What would it be, to live the apex of one’s life with that knowledge? To experience love’s first kiss backed by the weight of all that follows, to see in a discovery the vast sweep of knowledge it unlocks?

It is a cold comfort that I should begin to pierce the veil now. I cannot help but see the authority with which each day unfolds, the weight of each leaden moment. The path curves ahead, stretching into the distance - but the ache builds in my feet, and I know the horizon is not meant for me.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 693.

Michael rounded a turn in the garden pathway, keeping his pace brisk. Tall walls of crystal surrounded its rooftop course, leaving it exposed to the sky above - a sanctuary for Leire, but she had yielded its use to her guests rather than constrain them inside for the past week. The air was thick with the smell of late summer flowers and the sweet rot of fallen fruit; flies buzzed here and there amid the greenery where the scattered trees had yielded berries and stonefruit, unharvested. It brought a frown to Michael’s lips, and his pace slowed. In his mind he saw the neat rows of Jeorg’s orchard, overgrown with brambles and swarming with insects as his perfect trees dropped their bounty to the ground - if they still stood. For all he knew, Spark’s agents had burned the whole valley out of spite. The ruined garden in his mind spun alight, and for a moment he wandered amid the torn fields just as he had on Braun Island, his mind a bleeding wound-

“Michael!” Antolin’s voice shouted from behind.

He shook himself and turned to look at Antolin; the marshal was in his customary jacket despite the sun overhead, though the heat did not seem to trouble him. “Antolin,” he said, returning the greeting. “What brings you up here?” He paused, listening to the dim hum of stress from the other man. “Seeing the Grand Marshal here to talk to me in person is worrying, I admit.”

Antolin snorted, drawing to a stop just shy of Michael. “Don’t talk to me of worry,” he muttered. “Every day I spend here brings me two days closer to death. But it’s unavoidable; I’m here to ask you for your help.”

“My help?” Michael said, incredulous. “What could I possibly do to help you?”

The marshal raised one thick brow, pursing his lips together. “I need you and your friends to leave Goitxea,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall Michael’s objection. “The Batzar convened again yesterday. Mendoza has been fed the rumor that you hold the Sculptor’s soul. He’s calling for inquiries, and I won’t be able to hold them at bay forever.” He jerked his head irritatedly at the stairs leading back down to the compound. “She doesn’t want to concede any ground to Mendoza, but the batzarkideak have scented blood. Leire is exposed.”

“How would leaving change any of that?” Michael asked. “She effectively lied to them, although it was a lie of omission. You told her this would happen.”

“Not in so many words.” Antolin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But yes. She’s more stubborn than any of those old goats, and she can’t believe that they’d violate the sanctity of her home. Until recently I would have agreed with her. Now-” He shook his head, then met Michael’s eyes. “She thinks I mother her too much, that I exaggerate the danger. I won’t be able to convince her. You, though - you can demand it. Tell Leire you wish to relocate to Estu, south of the strait. It’s close to Daressa, and far from here. Once you’re both gone from the capital, Mendoza’s threats turn back to bluster; Estu is largely a military city. The governor of that province is my subordinate. You will be safe - all of you.”

Michael tilted his head, feeling the weight of the marshal’s words, the certainty. “For how long?” he asked.

Something changed in the other man’s eyes. “One year,” he said quietly. “Perhaps two.”

The unspoken rationale was written on Antolin’s face - one year, perhaps two, and Leire would be dead. Michael would gain Stellar; his return to Mendian would be inexorable law. “And until then?”

“Your time is yours,” Antolin sighed. “Support the Daressan partisans, learn the intricacies of your soul - take up knitting, if it pleases you.” His eyes narrowed, and he looked to the side. “Leire will have suggestions. I have a few of my own. Ultimately, however, the time you spend in Estu will build the foundation of your tenure here. You should spend at least some of it to that end.”

Michael frowned. “I don’t want you to mistake me,” he said. “I have no ambition for power in Mendian. I accepted Leire’s offer because it was the best of poor choices, and the only one I could see that benefited my friends.”

“Your power in Mendian is what will benefit them,” Antolin said. “Daressa will not be freed in a month, nor in a year. The Star that shines over a free country will not be Leire. But when we lose her, we lose her power, her legend. People fear her, and rightly so.” He looked down at Michael. “Forgive me for saying so, but you do not inspire much of anything at the moment. Your show of resurrecting the Goitxeako Arbola was impressive, but it was a parlor trick meant to distract; more is required for respect, and respect is required for your aims.”

“You said you have something in mind,” Michael said. “I’d like to hear it, because my grasp of the Mendiko political landscape is somewhat limited.”

Antolin sighed and began to walk; Michael fell in beside him, slowly pacing down the garden path. “I have never been a great believer in fate,” he said. “But there does seem to be a conjunction of events at work here. The timing of Mendoza’s objection is suspicious.” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded paper, holding it out to Michael. “We received this four days ago from the Safid consulate in Goitxea.”

Michael took the paper and unfolded it; it was a short missive in a neat and flowing hand - one that set his heart pounding. “This is Saleh’s writing,” he said. “I recognize it from his book.”

Antolin nodded. “That was our assessment as well. It’s not unheard of for him to write his own communiques, but this one-” He gestured. “You may be interested to read it.”

A dull cold bloomed in Michael’s chest as he turned his attention back to the page, holding it flat to let the light fall upon Saleh’s words.