The office of President Gan Fall was quiet, save for the ticking of the great clock on the wall and the muffled roar of celebration from the city below. The Reunification Festival thundered on outside, but here, the air was heavy, thick with shadow and incense.
From the darkest corner of the chamber, one of the Sentinels stepped forward. The figure's mask was smooth, expressionless, carved with a single vertical line. The robes swayed with measured grace, and her voice, unmistakably female, carried no warmth.
"We have come to inform you of the new Trinity Project," she said, bowing briefly before Gan Fall. "And we require double the food from your normal exports. It is time to renegotiate the trade agreement."
Gan Fall leaned back, fingers folding tightly atop his desk. He had expected as much, but even so, his stomach clenched. "And in return?"
The masked woman's silence was her answer.
Gan Fall pressed on. "We need breedable cloudfish interceptors. The United States requires them for long-range transport—without constant resting stations. With more Vearth to sustain the food needs, the design is viable."
"Impossible." The woman's reply was sharp, final. "That would break the Isolation Pact and the Arms Limitation accords signed by you—and us. We cannot risk exposure to the Blue Sea devils."
Gan Fall exhaled slowly, fighting to keep his face neutral. He knew she was right, but still. His people relied on patched-together flying fish, on jet dials that wore down too quickly, on fragile chains linking islands together. Every advance came at the mercy of these shadowed figures. Who is the greater evil? he thought bitterly. Those below the clouds… or the ones standing in front of me?
The silence stretched—until a knock rattled the heavy doors.
"Tch. That fucking general," a Sentinel muttered under his breath.
"Language, Bete," the female hissed, her tone like steel.
"...Fuck," he repeated anyway.
Gan Fall pinched the bridge of his nose. "Come in, General."
The doors swung wide. A towering man marched inside, his boots striking with force. His shoulders were broad, his uniform crisp, and his presence filled the chamber like a war drum.
He stopped before the desk, fist to chest. "Heso! General McKinley, at your service!"
Gan Fall inclined his head in return. "Heso." His eyes flicked toward the door. "And the Vice President? The Minister of Finance?"
General McKinley's salute lowered, his tone still formal. "The Vice President is overseeing the construction of the new wind power plants in Waford. The Minister is bedridden from overwork."
Gan Fall's jaw tightened. Of course. The timing could not have been worse. "Then this meeting must be postponed." The words felt heavy on his tongue, a weakness he could scarcely afford.
But even as he spoke, he knew. To delay trade negotiations with the Sentinels was no simple matter. It was a tradition—an expectation written in unspoken law. He could already feel the noose tightening.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to history: New Shandora's gold drained until the streets gleamed with empty stone; the strange cube-stones handed over to the Sentinels—Poregryph? Poneflith? Pone… something. And food, mountains of food, always demanded.
In return, they had been given martial arts known as Rokushiki, glimpses of ancient power. Unbreedable cloudfish interceptors, doled out sparingly. Later, the means to mass-produce dials. These gifts had stitched the Skyrealm together, birthing the United States, with Angel Island as its proud heart.
Now it was the centre of civilisation above the clouds—currency, culture, culinary wonders. Yet every gain had been chained to a bargain.
How ironic, McKinley thought darkly. In our schools, the Sentinels are praised as humble, freedom-giving protectors. Yet here they haggle for every crumb and coin. Compared to them, our vendors and street scammers look almost cute. And still—we must guard the truth. Their origins, their faction, must remain secret. Only the highest of us can know.
Gan Fall glanced at his general. McKinley stood straight, resolute, his jaw set. But Gan Fall saw the subtle strain—the way his shoulders sagged just a fraction, the quiet exhale between words.
"This," McKinley muttered, his voice low, "will be a long day."
Neither of them noticed the strands of white threading into the general's hair.