Cassius summoned soldiers and sent them to fetch his tent and refreshments.

As they hurried away, I said, "Could I see the survivors?"

Cassius replied, "When we’ve dickered, there will be time enough. The survivors are safe and tended to, but within the walls."

I was urgent, insistent. "While we wait for your tent, I would see them."

Cassius shook his head. "I can’t let you past the walls until we have our arrangement—"

An uncharacteristic aggression surged through me. I interrupted him, roughly, "Those are my walls. Those are my people. I would see them."

He was taken aback by my sudden intensity. The Griidlord behind him adjusted her stance, alarmed by the loudness of my voice.

I cared not a whit for the valuables lying in the city. My emotions roiled with the need to know my father’s fate. There could be no peace for me until I found out. I wrestled constantly with the strange apathy I felt at his absence. I had always thought of myself as a good son. I had bent myself to his will, committed my whole life to his purpose, not mine. For so long, all I had wanted was his approval, his satisfaction.

Now, it seemed I would never have it. I wrestled with the guilt of feeling relieved by this. But, as the voice had said, if I did my duty as a son—whether by finding him alive or confirming his death, even while foregoing the celebrations in Boston—I would have nothing left to feel guilty about.

I needed this closure.

I stepped closer to the little man. At last, I saw a reaction worthy of a Griidlord. He cowed away, standing before one of the most powerful beings on the planet. Though I was the youngest and least developed of those beings, a god is a god, no matter how small.

His Griidlord stepped up, her posture tense. Chowwick took a shadowing step behind me.

"Now," I growled. I felt POWER try to come alive, knew my visor flickered with light like a flame licking fresh tinder.

The little man tried to save face. "Fine, but you go by yourself."

Chowwick laughed harshly. "No, little man. He goes with his SHIELD."

Cassius shuddered in frustration. Petulantly, he said, "Fine. But just the two of you."

Chowwick said, "That’s fine by us."

Cassius turned to the red Griidlord and said, "Take them."

She saluted. It was strange to me—she, a Griidlord, saluting him, a merchant, and behaving with the rigidity of a soldier.

She turned to us and said, "This way."

As she walked back toward the wall, Chowwick and I moved to follow. I spoke quietly to him, "Thank you, Chowwick."

He slapped my shoulder with a massive gauntlet and said, "Shit, don’t thank me, lad. We’re brothers now—you best get used to this. In time, you’ll understand and do the same for me."

We caught up with the female Griidlord. Chowwick spoke to her casually, like two tradesmen passing in a tavern. "You’re not Julia."

She turned, her demeanor more relaxed now that she was away from Cassius. She let her helm melt back, revealing her face. She was young—much younger than I had expected. She seemed no older than I was. But her face was hard-edged, the set of her jaw firm. She bore no trace of makeup, and her hair was cut short, like a man’s.

She said, "No. And I might never be a Julia."

Chowwick said, "But you're out of San Fran, judging by your armor. What’s happened to Julia? Did she bite the big one?"

The woman shook her head. "Time is taking its toll on her. Leadership doesn’t trust her like they used to. Her decisions have become... I shouldn’t talk about this. She serves the Empire in Vegas now."

Chowwick nodded, a little solemn. "So she got demoted, and you got the bump? You’re new to the suit."

"I’ve worn it a few years now," she replied.

Chowwick chortled, "That’s new enough, lass. That’s new enough."

I followed their exchange, my eyes widening slightly. Julia? Julia Rosegold was the Arrow of San Francisco—I knew that! She was one of the most famous Griidlords anywhere. She had been the right hand of Joel Montanion. It was sobering to think that the degradation of the suit had caught up with her. The Empire of Angels had surged so fiercely for centuries. Not too long ago, it seemed they would finally be the ones to consume the earth. With Griidlords like Joel and Julia, they had been unstoppable. But like Pittsburgh before them, their time had waned. There was still an Empire out West, a collective of four or five city-states. But each year, more rumors grew of discord, of a desire for independence among the empire's components.

I said, "I’m Tiberius."

She responded, "Yes, I know. We’ve all heard of you. You took the name Bloodsword... it’s... cute."

I could tell that when she said "cute," she really meant "overly dramatic."

"I’m Tacita. Tacita Oblius. Of House Oblius."

Chowwick must have seen the look of confusion on my face and slapped me on the shoulder again. "You’ll get used to it, lad. It’s a strange life as a Griidlord. I crossed shields with Julia’s claws more than once. When the Falling starts, there’s nothing for us but letting each other's blood for the sake of our cities, to get those damned Orbs. But when the sky grows quiet, that’s forgotten. I crossed paths with Julia more times off the field than on it. We’ve been lucky in our corner of the world not to have seen much war these last decades. Life is better and longer with fewer enemies."

Tacita added, "This is very true. There is no war or animosity between the people of the Empire and the people of Boston. If you had come here as soldiers of Dallas, we would have killed you. They are enemies, whether the skies Fall or not."

I understood. Dallas seemed to war with everyone. Dallas had been a holdout when the Empire’s influence spread, like a rock against the waves of inevitability.

We walked down the ruins of the main street. I didn’t know exactly how large Dodge had been, but there had been thousands here at least. Centrally located, trade from both East and West passed through. Craftsmen had abounded, processing materials in the warehouses and sending finished goods out. Tradesmen, craftsmen, and warehouse workers—all needed ale poured and their hair cut. The city had been filled with people who earned their living from the population rather than from the goods that flowed through.

Cassius had been right. Though I couldn’t see any bodies, I found myself dulling SCENT. The smell of decay festooned the air.

It was a sad thing to see what had happened. In another life, I would have eventually become the master of this city. We passed the burned-out ruins of a schoolhouse. Shreds of paper books curled and rolled in the breeze. My SIGHT showed me a warped, multicolored monstrosity that had once been a box of crayons before the heat of the fire melted it.

There had been families here. There had been children.

The refugee camp appeared further in. The looting party from the Empire had not come to save people, and the camp was not composed of uniform tents. The survivors of the city’s pillage were being housed in a surviving warehouse. A couple of army tents stood outside, possibly donated by the merchant’s party. More shelters sprawled by the warehouse entrance, built crudely from the rubble and wreckage of my father’s life’s work.

Tacita said, "You seek your father. That’s why you want to see these people, yes?"

It felt like an accusation. I realized that I should have wanted to see them because they were my father’s people. I should have wanted to count the survivors and measure their welfare.

I didn’t lie. "Yes."

Tacita waved to an Empire soldier standing near the entrance to the warehouse. He trotted over, stood at attention, and saluted her. She accepted the salute like an officer.

"These are Griidlords from Boston," she said. "The Sword is Tiberius Bloodsword, the heir to Dodge. He has come to barter with Cassius for the rights to the wealth that remains here. He also seeks his father."

She pointed into the warehouse. "Show us the way to the bodyguard who survived."