"Jakob?" A woman's voice—hoarse from prolonged exposure to chemicals—echoed beneath the towering, deactivated shadows of the hangar. "Jakob? Are you here?"
In the darkness, nothing seemed to stir except the hulking machines frozen in place. The silence, thick with the scent of pesticides and chemicals, felt almost predatory. Yet the slender woman silhouetted in the doorway showed no fear. She stepped into the blackness as if it were routine, a basket in hand.
"Jakob? I'm coming in?" She ignored the silence that suggested she was alone, moving away from the faint light seeping through the entrance. Like an actor performing a one-man show, she continued speaking lines that would receive no response: "The whole city's celebrating right now. Even the folks at the freight station are getting restless. Old Hank somehow got his hands on a recipe and made spice cakes with rationed round-wheat flour. I thought they were pretty good, so I brought some back. You should try them too."
She stopped in the center of the darkness. Though she couldn't see a thing, she stubbornly raised the basket above her head and held it there—a posture almost like an offering. Five minutes passed without movement. Even if the basket wasn't heavy, her arms began to ache from the strain.
Then, a heavy sigh came from the shadows.
"Elita, you really don't have to do this," a man's voice said, resigned. "You know I can't tell good food from bad."
"That just means your tongue is in dire need of education," the woman called Elita retorted matter-of-factly. "And if you won't take care of it yourself, then the responsibility falls on us. When conditions allow, you must eat something decent."
"...I'm starting to miss the days when we lived on crushed round-wheat and bran. At least back then, the only thing that refused to listen to me was the harvester." His tone was bleak, a stark contrast to Elita's cheerful voice.
"Oh, stop talking nonsense and come down!" The woman on the ground shook the basket impatiently. "It's too dark—I can't see you, but I know you're crouching on top of one of those haulers!"
But then, the man's voice ghosted up from behind her:
"Actually, I'm not." He even gave her waist a light poke for emphasis.
Elita let out a small shriek, instinctively leaping away. In her panic, the basket slipped from her grip and flew backward. It would have hit the person behind her, spilled its contents, and scattered the food across the floor—but before any of that could happen, a large hand steadied it midair.
Jakob materialized from the darkness. The faint light from the hangar entrance barely outlined his towering, broad-shouldered frame. His disproportionate muscularity made him look threatening. This trick—appearing out of nowhere in the dark—had frightened many before, always with perfect success. Yet when Elita turned and saw him, she only giggled.
"...You shouldn't laugh like that," Jakob—or rather, Yago Sevatarion—sighed in defeat. "I was trying to scare you."
He was entirely serious, but Elita responded as if humoring a child whose prank had failed: "Alright, you did scare me! You scared me so much I dropped the basket—and Old Hank's spice cakes were in there!"
It was compelling evidence. On this agricultural world the locals called Jestael, wasting food was condemned both legally and morally. Yet no amount of evidence could change the harsh reality: the once-dreaded Prince of Crows had fallen from grace. His skills, once honed for war, now had no greater purpose than startling a basket out of a girl's hands.
But to his surprise, he found it wasn't as unbearable as he'd imagined.
"You should've turned on the lights before coming in," Sevatar said, dragging the absurdly small basket in one hand and the inexplicably cheerful Elita toward the lit doorway with the other. "You're not like me—you can't see in the dark. If you keep stumbling around like this, one day you'll trip right onto a harvester's blades."
"But if I turned on the lights, I'd never find you. The moment they're on, you'd just hide somewhere else," Elita dismissed his warning. "Besides, you wouldn't let me fall onto the blades."
Sevatar sneered. "Oh? You're so sure? I'm a cold, heartless man. I could watch you bleed out, peel your skin off, carefully tailor it, and drape it over that harvester with a sign that says: 'Behold! This is what happens when you forget to turn on the lights before entering the hangar!'"
He meant it. He could do it. No one should doubt the sincerity of the First Captain of the Night Lords when making such threats—these things were child's play to him.
But Elita just giggled again. "Jakob's telling his unfunny horror jokes again!"
It reminded Sevatar, unbidden, of something Ahzek Ahriman had once mentioned—some ancient literature that compared this kind of giggling to a hen's clucking. He couldn't remember the details, if he'd even paid attention in the first place.
He had no interest in hens, nor did he want Ahriman's smug, book-hoarding face taking up space in his thoughts. He shoved the memory aside and abandoned all topics that only served to humiliate him, returning to reality:
"You're back earlier than I expected," he said. "I thought you'd be staying in First City these past few days. Didn't the selection committee arrange anything?"
Elita shrugged. "I didn't make the cut."
"I didn't expect that. They said they didn't want anyone with 'blue-gray symptoms,' but I assumed that was just for appearances." They stepped into the light, and Elita saw Sevatar raise an eyebrow. "Our little Elita is the prettiest girl in District Four. If even you didn't make the welcome team, then Governor DeVille and the Imperial Tax Collectors' aesthetic tastes deserve some serious questioning."
The expression tugged at the scars on his face, the twisted marks combining with his rough skin and sharp features to make him look even more fearsome. A recording of his current expression could undoubtedly be used to frighten children into silence.
Yet Elita only laughed.
"It wasn't about that. It was because of this scar." She traced a line along the base of her left neck. "The welcome team's uniform is cut like this—" She drew a half-circle above her collarbone with a finger. "They said if I wore it, the scar would show. So, no good."
Sevatar knew how she'd gotten that scar. No one knew better—not even Elita herself.
It came from an industrial accident two years ago—a shard of metal flying off a cylinder had sliced deep into the side of her neck. From Sevatar's perspective, it wasn't life-threatening, but it had terrified her. The fifteen-year-old girl had been too stunned to do anything but lie there and cry. Medical sprays and salves were always in short supply on Jestael, so in the end, it was Sevatar who borrowed the proper needle and thread, cleaned the wound, and stitched her up. He'd finished the job in two minutes—quick and neat. Even the belatedly arriving doctor had been impressed. When the wound healed, the stitches were nearly invisible, leaving only a straight, pale line rather than the usual ugly, wormlike scar.
That was the first time he'd realized the skills passed down in the Eighth Legion could be used like this.
He banished the pointless nostalgia again and asked, "You didn't make it, but you don't seem upset."
The girl brightened immediately. "Because I met Technocrat Hasting! He told us to spread the word—he's expanding the technical division and setting up a training school! The official announcement won't come until after the celebrations, but he wanted everyone to know as soon as possible... Jakob, do you think I'd get in if I applied?"
"I don't know everything," Sevatar shrugged. "I can't say if you'd get in or not. But I can say that if you don't apply, you definitely won't."
"Wow, you're just feeding me nonsense again."
"It is nonsense. But it's correct nonsense. Instead of worrying about how things might turn out, you should focus on what you can do now."
"I asked because I wanted some encouragement! Jakob, you really don't understand people at all!"
"Ah... Actually, I do. I'm just doing this on purpose."
"Then you're just infuriating!" Elita huffed, reaching into the basket and pulling out a cake. "Let's see if this shuts your mouth—since nothing nice ever comes out of it!"
She shoved the caramel-colored, fragrant pastry toward Sevatar's face. Knowing she wouldn't let up until he indulged her, he obediently took a bite, allowing the not-quite-harmonious blend of spices and round-wheat to assault his taste buds. With a wry smile, he raised his hands in surrender.
By now, they'd left the building and reached the open space in front of the freight station. Old Hank and his cronies had cobbled together a lopsided oven from scrap parts and promethium, attempting to mass-produce his spice cakes. Engrossed in their experiment, they paid no attention to Elita's late arrival or Jakob's reclusive presence.
Through the haze of promethium fumes and steam from baking dough, the vast harvested fields stretched out—giant machinery waiting to be stored, golden haystacks dotting the brown-yellow earth.
A breeze carried the scent of round-wheat and straw. Elita cheered and rushed to join Old Hank's baking crew. Sevatar declined all invitations, quietly holding the forgotten basket at the edge of the crowd, watching their laughter and antics. It was a scene almost absent from his memories of the past, yet over the near-decade of his self-imposed exile on Jestael, it had become increasingly familiar.
Their harvests grew better each year. Rations increased. People could finally eat their fill. The Imperial tax ships loomed over First City's spaceport, but this year's bounty was enough to pay off centuries of back taxes. Jestael would no longer face punitive restrictions. By the next planting season, they'd have enough surplus to trade with other worlds. The credit went to Governor DeVille—a truly good man. The planet was thriving, its people brimming with joy and hope.
Joy and hope that should never have belonged to Yago Sevatarion.
The First Captain of the Night Lords knew he could never escape his past. If he cherished what was before him now, he should never have stayed here in the first place.
His past would catch up to him. And now, a deep, unshakable premonition told him—it was coming.
Hah, bet you didn't see that coming!