Early fledglings consume delicious worms; dormant secrets inscribe longstanding laws. At the Homestead, quick risers thought that if they rose before the skies cracked bright, then no sleeper would have realized rumor-defying actualities happening beyond their four walls. Those Blends were wrong, for I got up when they did with my ears prepared to eavesdrop more of their plans to flee Cymel, to behold their unfolding love betrayals, to relate to their frustration about mountain Tritausen disturbing their sleep. Heeding, besides washing up in the communal bath and scuffing up my bedhead hair, provided me a good reason leave bed every morning.

The Cymerian government had its secrets within the Cymerian Justices Residences' walls. An emotionless, political matrimony shipped Princess Gaid from her broken yet beloved homeland of Nashl, so she could have suffocated in Cymel, to mask her misery in marriage with a manchild crowned Cymerian King, not some romantic love story the public eye portrayed.

Justice Losse Egmen, my law partner, was not Justice Losse Egmen. He was Justice Losse Imau Glauss. Yes, our government covered up his heir-worthy lineage to Dictator Ven Glauss of Doson through a designated adoption. Though Losse came to terms to keep this kingdom-disheveling truth confidential, sometimes I wondered if anyone else would someday, such as the Doson Demon himself, reveal a knife hidden behind his back.

More so, a High Commander's grovel-worthy rank posed no more than an ornamental display of useless power. She directed a lonely army of divided patriots waiting for the next vacant opportunity to ignite a backstabbing coup. Nothing but Cymel's shattering wall of historical immaculacy and cultural prowess indoctrinated outsiders.

Down the halls, clack, clack my sandals resonated on my walk toward the public vanity. Promising to purchase new ones by the end of the day, I inspected my pale, dry face in the mirror, whisking at messy strands camoflauging in the umber wood panels from behind. Weather in the Pure Season spared no Blend, let alone no Cymerian. After throwing on a jacket on top of my bland jumpsuit, identical to the one worn the night before, my chilled hands pressed together in consideration of how cold the government was about to become toward Tritausen and Blends. Like my tedious outfits, history repeated itself.

I scarfed down a handful of grains and crept about the Homestead's creaking stairs and narrow, brick walls, entering my father's workroom. Past the instructional books and soil-tipped shovels thrown about, I swiped up the letter covered in my mother's chicken-scratch handwriting, skimming over her "heartfelt desire" to see me again. My father's snores rumbled from the adjacent room. Shortly after, I set down the letter and departed.

Now that Ri-El had found resolve at some point and left the garden, the weeping mother of Eva-En now wept in her place. Tilling as her tears watered the small crops, her determination to hope kept her mind to work while everyone else slumbered on their worries. My feet kept forward despite my heart stopping in hope to comfort her. Such sympathy alone could not bring her daughter home.

Hurrying by sleeping Trau in the stable, I approached Ira curled up in her pile of straw. Several pats failed to rouse her at first, since the mountain Tritausen must have given her a reason to be tense with their constant howling throughout the night. No fear, for a few gentle words and an extra morning treat always worked, and she shot up in no time. I debated whether to put her new saddle back on her, but I ended up leaving it on our way out of the slumbering, smelly stable. Devoted effort, as I decided with the Nodus ruling, could have quelled Eva-En and her grieving mother's suffering at least.

Another burst of wind across the weary fields failed to chill my jacketed body. It felt rather comfortable, other than keeping my legs high from itchy crops reaching up for us as we departed the Cymel-Seson Enclave Homestead. Through several aisles of produce and scattered shacks, we tired each other of our morning irritability. Multiple times Ira shifted me on her uncomfortable back and whined, hauling my struggle for balance between a line of mountains, forcing me to talk with her, checking if any stray farmers saw my inane resolve.

We made it to Vorda Officers in their violet armor, they leaning back for a full view of a Vorda Stone's glowing crest at the other side of the mountains, they not minding the overhanging, rusted gong beside it much, for it was rarely used. They surveyed this small yet key division of the city-bounding Vorda Frontier.

To our side, a woman shook her head to an Officer. "Please, just please," she tugged her washed out shawl together to entice her only obstacle to so-called power. "I need to go there. Just this one time."

Rounded with Vorda Officers at its base, the Seson Border, that shadow-casting wall, separated desperate Cymerians bribing, such as that woman, adamant Border Officers from propagandizing Doson on the other side. Numerous Dosonites with the right to cross over spent their days evangelizing to wistful Cymerians and Blends, hoping they would have crossed over to a land that Dictator Ven Glauss of Doson called "no-longer-supernatural equality," achieved with baleful experimentation.

I slid off of Ira and pulled her through the crowd of both legal and illegal migrants traveling to and from Doson, arriving at a post with another lone Trau kicking up a small sand storm with his digging toes, and then I stationed her there. Covering an eye from the blaring, bright sky, I turned back and shouldered toward a crystal building mounted on towering pillars, my other hand shuffling through my bag for my seal's cold contact. I went up the building's side stairs, pulling out the seal upon finding it, and eyed a Vorda Officer and some man speaking with him at the top.

"Have you ever seen anyone use Shol before?" The man spoke.

"Of course I have," the Officer replied. "I've seen Tritausen use them. And t—."

"Did that ever make you feel uncomfortable or helpless for not having any?"

The Officer recovered from his interruption then barked, "I don't have Shol as far as I know, but it doesn't bother me at all," rolling his eyes toward my smirk.

"Our beloved Dictator is working toward an equal society where we should all have power of our own, not just Tritausen. Please, if you are interested in—."

"I'm not interested," the Officer huffed. "Peace and safety to you."

"Very well. Peace and safety to you as well." The campaigner nodded then turned to me. "Good day to you, young lady. Are you interested in knowing about receiving Shol power?"

"... I already have Shol," I shook my head.

"Oh, well that's great then! Are you interested in participating in a series of Shol studies in Doson? Travel and living expenses are free, for our government pays it in full."

"No, I am not interested. Peace and safety to you." I smiled to the nose-pinching Officer.

"Very well indeed, ma'am," the Dosonite waved us off then departed from us down the stairs. "Peace and safety!"

"They just keep comin' 'n' never stop," the Officer said. "Every damn day."

"Hmhm," I tittered, pulling out my seal for him to see. "They must not have enough subjects." The Officer tilted the seal about in my hand, observing its variant glares.

"They'll never have enough." He pat my hand. "You're good, Justice."

"Hmhm, they may not. And thank you." Glancing where the man left to, I went past the agitated Officer, considering how peculiar the Dosonite's lack of knowledge of my high status was. As how Doson's Shol campaign suffocated in ideal principle, as was how dark yet familiar the room I entered. At the center, a circle of executives Vorda Officers in their seal-pinned uniforms conversed at a table under a crystal corona. An amethyst glow swiped to the side, revealing Officer Robi Kan-Slunk's square face after sheathing his Vorda sword.

Seeing me, he stepped a few long strides for me and took a firm shake to my dainty hand. "Justice Celt-Sone, good day to you." Others followed with their greetings, and then Robi added, "What brings you here?"

"I have come to discuss with you all the progress that the Divisional Commanders have administered here following Nodus 1718's decision."

"Nodus 1718..." An executive scrutinizing his map looked up at me. "It's the one about Doson, right? Decided about a week back?"

"Yes."

Robi removed his hand from his sword sheath that sided his hip, and he nested himself with the rest of his associates. "Nodi 1718, saying that we are no longer allowed to partake in political activities with Doson?"

"That's the one." For sure one of them should have been familiar. Yet it seemed none of them understood what I even asked at first. "You all are familiar with its conditions, yes?"

Yul Imau, who sided the mapper, rubbed his beard. "For us, we executives cannot manage any Vorda trades with Doson."

"And we cannot manage any Vorda smuggling between Dosonites and Cymerians," broad-faced Titaus Rone rasped.

"The truth is," Robi leaned back, "We don't have any power until the Divisional Commander gives us orders, as it always was."

"I see," I nodded. "At first I thought you all had not been reading your newspapers."

"No, we understand," Robi said. "It's just that there's a lot of Nodi to remember. In fact, the High Commander came by here a few days ago and gave us specific directions to keep our hands off of the Vorda Stones, should the Dosonites increase their Shol production."

"Where is the Commander now?"

"I" — Titaus frowned — "I think he might have left."

I rolled my eyes and lips to the map-marked wall beside. If there was one sure trait to describe the Cymerian government, it was reclusive.

"I think," he reiterated.

I faced them again. "I suppose I can collaborate with him by letter. But it is an urgent notice."

"How urgent now?" Robi said.

"Mmm..." The Shol Tritausen's glare invaded my stream of thought. "... Quite serious, depending on its outcome. However, due to its rather..." I scrambled for the fitting word. "... Contingent order, we cannot take definite action on it right now. I just want to find out what had been done so far according to Divisional command."

"Well, we haven't received any Divisional command," Yul said. "It was only the High command."

"And he said you all should not manage the Stones for any reason."

"Yes, that's what we've said so far," Robi said.

In that moment, all the mental notes I took of the past week's Nodi, from the complaining merchants to the concerned officers worried about Tritausen interest in the army, came to mind. While my duty as a Justice of the Military Division in the Cymerian High Counsel allowed me to give orders to the High Commander, most instances it would have required the King's, let alone the rest of the High Counsel's, divided input. I understood now why former Justice Ghermar, who I replaced, did his best to dismiss me when I came to him with another spontaneous, military order.

Skaa! A shrilling noise pierced from outside.

"What...?" I knew that sound. "...What was that?"

"Sounds like a—." Robi stood with some of the other Vorda Executives then looked to me. "We'll go check it out."

Before long, we arrived to a part of the Seson's Border base outside, where one Vorda Stone's amyethst crown sparked obsidian fog and fractals.

"I'll get my Vorda Sword and reset it," Robi unsheathed his sword. It seemed so timely for this contingent emergency to happen.

"It's too dangerous without the rest of us posted," Yul said. "And besides, we don't know yet if the rest of them are affected."

"Well, let's hurry and get them checked. It looks like this one's about to black out, and the rest of them could be too. We'll deal with the High Commander later."