Two more years passed. Calista and I were now five.

Today, Father was taking us to the registration office. It was the furthest we’d ever been from home. Calista was glued to his shoulder like she was trying to become part of him, trembling slightly in her little fur-lined coat and matching earmuffs.

I, on the other hand, marched beside him in the thick spring snow, bundled in the woolly scarf Mother made me last birthday. It was cold, but I was more excited than anything. I thought we’d finally see the village I’d pestered about for months.

Instead, we arrived at a quiet little train platform. A boxy office squatted off to the side, and inside was some poor soul buried in paperwork. That was our grand destination—just a room with a camera and a very tired man who looked even less thrilled to be there than we were.

“Welcome to the Empire Documentation and Personnel Office,” the man droned, his voice flat and exhausted. I didn’t blame him — being trapped in this box day in, day out would drain the soul out of anyone.

“Here for two citizen registrations,” my father said, already unbuttoning his coat with a sigh.

The clerk handed him a small stack of forms. “Fill these out,” he muttered, sliding over six sheets of paper and a pen without lifting his head.

Then he finally stood, grabbing a bulky camera and tripod from the corner. “Kids, follow me.”

He led us to a bare wall at the back of the office — our glamour shot backdrop, apparently.

“Smile…” the man said — in the exact same lifeless tone as before. It inspired anything but a smile from Calista.

The camera flashed, filling the room with a blinding white light like a SWAT team had tossed in a flashbang. Honestly, I expected no less from a relic that looked like it survived two wars, well a relic by my standards anyways.

Calista's picture done, it was time for the main event. Make way, sis.

“Smile…” Again, same tone, same pitch — like someone had hit replay on a haunted voicemail.

I smiled. Awkward? Maybe. But definitely better than the pouty mess my sister just put on.

We returned to find Father slouched beside the desk, having filled out the paperwork with the enthusiasm of a rock. He dropped the stack onto the counter like it had personally wronged him.

The man behind the desk flipped through the forms with zero urgency. “Your citizen certificates and ID cards will be processed and dispatched to this office in about... eight months. Ish.”

“Eight months? Are you serious?!” Father’s eyebrows shot up, his voice edged with irritation.

The man glanced at the paperwork again, frowning slightly. “Let’s see here... ah. White Legion, huh?” His voice turned sly, almost amused.

My father said nothing — just nodded.

The clerk gave a mock sigh. “Yeah. Make that ten months.” He grinned, shoving the papers into a rusted cabinet like it was trash.

I expected Father to explode. Instead, he just closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled. “Thank you for your time and effort,” he muttered. “Let’s go, kids.”

As we left, I looked up at him. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark.

What the hell was the White Legion?