When Silver Burned: Chapter 32-35 (Patreon)

32 - An Unwelcome Detour

The late-morning sun, as it crept across the sky somewhere south-east of the city of aVonal, found the newest batch of recruits dictating a heavy pace. Arranged in a string of gray, the congregation strutted along the cleared path, bags of stuffed together armor plates clinking and their horses beating up a cloud of dust at their backs. Having passed the last hills several days ago, the distant mountains only served as a margin between the sky and the frigid expanse to remind them, when they looked back, the place they'd left behind. 

Nearing the outer edge of the Republic, it was colder around these parts—though not by much. The earth was dark, nearly black with patches of red and vivid orange grass sprouting here and there. Water gathered in small puddles, like haphazard holes in cheese. Wildlife was sparse, and it was only by chance that Kalsin had spotted a pika—a hamster-like little critter—nesting in a hole. But the most notable difference from the rest of the Republic were the fractures.

In Kalsin's experience, fractures had always been two, maybe three shoulders’ wide rivers used for a large array of purposes; transportation with boats or bahten, fishing, resource gathering, et cetera. Useful things. Vital things, even. But here, fractures had narrowed down to palm-sized little streams that could easily break your ankle if you accidentally stepped inside one. The damned things gave Kalsin an odd sense of claustrophobia, as if they would snap closed the moment you decided to wash your hands in them. According to one of the soldiers escorting the recruits, these streams were too bottomless, like any other fracture. Kalsin took his word for it. He wasn't about to run personal experiments.

Thankfully, the road they followed was free of such pitfalls, allowing them to fully concentrate on whatever their latest pastime happened to be. Marching was boring as seven shits, meaning they had to make their own fun. The cycle went like this; Fals started a song or two in the morning before others joined in, shouting until vocal chords ran dry, so they moved on to telling stories from home by noon. Riddles and guessing games followed soon after, which were enjoyable enough until they fast deteriorated into incoherent bickering. Then finally, much-needed silence descended. 

They were at stage three right about then.

"Leaves. Has it any leaves?" Crawl asked.

"No and no. Already told you it's not a plant," said Shutter.

"You say that, but you haven't seen my neighbors' sister. Gal had ears so long, me and my buddies struck up a whole plan to paint them green when the traveling herbalist came to town, and bargain her away as a living-breathing aloe plantation."

Shutter, walking between Crawl and Kalsin, sent the latter a look that was part melancholy and part cry for help.

"How did it go?" Kalsin asked, curious.

Crawl grimaced. Red grass hanging from the corner of his mouth, his expression would've looked abstractly gruesome as a painting. "Like I said, it was a plan. Never came to life. We were still ironing out the details when she ran off with some rich merchant's son. Love at first jingle of the coin pouch."

"Uck, my condolences."

"I believe we call that 'fucked lucked' around here," Pike said from one row behind, a chortle of repressed mirth by Batshit and Youthere next to him.

"Not funny," Crawl muttered. "Swear, one of these days, the good lieutenant's parrot is gonna wake up with rope over his beaks."

Empty threats, but Kalsin diffused on reflex anyway. "Not something I recommend. That parrot has one scary halbird."

For his efforts, Kalsin received a couple of groans, as well as something awfully reminiscent of a facepalm from Dweller up ahead.

The staccato beat of horses drew the attention of the recruits, but the sound was coming from the side rather than the back. Kalsin saw four riders approach their group, going straight to the front of the line to intercept the lieutenant. The line of recruits came to a halt as Brownweather spoke with one of the riders. Kalsin was too far away to hear what was being said, but had a perfect view of the grimace on the lieutenant's face.

Crawl looked at Kalsin. "Say, if a bad person thinks the news are bad, does it mean they're actually good?"

"Could be. Either that, or said bad news are so monstrously bad, in fact, that they manage to further bruise even the most rotten of hearts."

What the spectacle was all about remained a secret. Without a single word barked at his men, Brownweather changed direction at the head of the column, and led the entire group off the dirt road. They were still heading east, but slightly diverging to the north.

"A detour?" Kalsin asked. The walk resumed now towards an unknown destination.

Shutter was squinting back and toward the east, down the long stretch of road they had been following. "The Clenn are still on the original route. They're not changing directions."

Similar comments rose from the crowd in the coming hour. Sour comments, questioning. The long weeks of constant marching had worn out the recruits to a point where the looming trials had become a hopeful prospect in a get-it-over-with sort of way. Endless stories told about the Veiled had filled their days and nights, the invaders painted as ruthless killers in red that just kept coming no matter how many you killed. According to the soldiers, that's what waited for them in the Outer Line of Defense, and the recruits had developed a collective sickness of being told how miserable they were going to be. Just give them a sword and let them face the real thing already. At least defending, the enemy would come to you and not the other way around. Fucking blistered feet.

But first they had a celebration to look forward to in Fort Ambition. At least, that's where they've been heading before the riders intercepted them. Now? Who the hell knew now. The Inner Line was a long stretch of land with dozens of forts and settlements that housed the bulk of the army—all the Clenn soldiers, as well as veteran Scarrd too valuable to throw to the wolves—so there was no real way of knowing where Brownweather was leading them.

They found out soon enough.

It was midafternoon when they spotted the buildings in the distance, a blob of stark gray dropped against the reddish landscape. With low walls and a much wider radius, the place resembled more of a fortified encampment than a fortress or garrison with longevity in mind. 

"Righto," Crawl said. "That's a far scream from the festive fort we were promised. See that over there?" he pointed, an unnecessary gesture. Even from this far out, they could all clearly make out the gaping hole that had reduced a section of the wall to nothing but rubble and black dirt.

Before the recruits could boil up their own conclusions, the lieutenant halted the line and shouted until he had their attention. It took a second or two until the last person—Fals, probably—quieted down and set their eyes on the officer.

"Listen here," he said. "You're looking at a two-day fresh deed of an unknown mythos. The thing tore through the walls and rampaged across half the encampment before, by its own devils-given volition rather than by the hands of the locals, it left as quick as it arrived." Judging by the ruined wall, the mythos must've been at least five foot wide. Without conscious effort, Kalsin mentally ran through a list of his known creatures, ticking off a few as possibilities while dismissing others. He then realized what he was doing and scolded himself; he wasn't a hunter anymore.

Brownweather continued, "Good news is, you worthless lot are gonna have the chance to make yourself worth something before you're all slaughtered. Now, instead of drinking away your woes in Fort Ambition, you'll be lending a helpful hand around this here settlement. Things needs doing; hoarding rubble, cleaning rags of the injured, hammering nails to rebuild foundations and whatever-else-fuck. Physical labor. Got it? Got it, sir, we understand, sir. Good. Get to it, then."

A dark murmur of protests started to rise from the recruits, but the lieutenant ignored it. "Oh, and welcome the newest member in your sorry ranks," he said over his shoulder, nodding his head toward one of the riders, a blonde woman with an unslung bow across her saddle. "She's trained in archery, meaning, she's about ten times more valuable than the sum of you. Also meaning, her name is her own business. Else if she's keen on solidarity, just call her Wardoll."

Kalsin watched the newest recruit dismount, though he couldn't make out much from afar. Another late arrival. He didn't like that, wasn't keen on newfound questionmarks scrabbling themselves into his planbooks with the possibility to muck everything up. 

His mates, however, had other things to be displeased about.

"Hope that ancient fossil-bitch chokes on his food," Crawl said. Harsh words from the redhead, spoken with, maybe for the first time Kalsin had known him, genuine anger. "This has to be a joke."

Though Shutter didn't curse, his frown spoke enough. "Does he have the authority? I thought the celebrations in Fort Ambition were a tradition etched in stone."

"Clearly not," Kalsin said, but his voice was pretty much lost in the shitshow of cursing all around him. The orderly line had broken up and reformed into volatile circles of righteous frustration. Brownweather, the sole catalyst to their anger, had done the smart thing and quickly disappeared inside the intact part of the encampment. He'd given the orders, and with or without protests, they'd have to do it.

The loudest curses were coming from Fals, who, amazingly enough, had both Ringtail and Cyanfish struggling to calm her. "...Kill him! Let me the fuck go, you, I will! I swear I will..."

Kalsin wanted to smile as he went to her side, but he held his expression clear. "Squeeze out his eyeballs, or kick a hole in his stomach and stomp his guts out his back?"

Cyanfish shot a perplexed look at Kalsin, one that indicated his antics weren't helping. But just as Kalsin hoped, the question knocked Fals from her rage for a moment long enough to actually think about the answer. "Both," she said.

"Or," Kalsin nodded toward the ruined wall, "We could get done what needs to be done. Get it done quickly enough so that, when the day is over, we can give a collective central finger to our dreaded lieutenant and his bowels-gotten orders."

"And then what?" Ringtail asked with a frown.

"Then, hopefully, we get to make our own celebration."

33 - Dig One Grave

Half the settlement had survived the mythos attack. The other half had been razed to unrecognizable pieces of wood and mortar.

Kalsin slowly walked down a lane that once had narrowly divided a pair of buildings—both now piles that barely reached his waist. His eyes tracked the destruction with a familiar detachment that almost made him forget his sore arms. The beast's size had been exceptionally large. That one was obvious. Kalsin crouched, trailing a deep furrow in the smooth surface of a door half covered by debris. Claws. He could see similar marks here and there, could almost envision the mythos barreling down the road in blind rage. If he were to put money on its level of intelligence, he'd bet on bestial. Primal and instinctive and a step below having rational thought. Size or physical strength aside, a smart being would not risk alarming such a large portion of the human populace without good reason. 

"Ulfhénn? Maybe. Maybe-maybe-maybe. Thought it might be an ahkinni or ala at first, but that wouldn't explain the claws..." Kalsin muttered. 

He looked around then, the distance between him and Cinder washing over him like a bucket of cold water. He breathed in deeply. His sister wasn't here to give him the rundown, and he didn't hunt mythos for a living anymore. So why did he sneak away from hoarding rubble for a chance to investigate the wreckage by his lonesome? 

The recruits had quickly, though not without complaint, started assisting the locals after the lieutenant had dropped the orders in their lap. They helped the settlers. One look at the dirty faces and blue-beaten bruises, and they would've helped even without the orders. The strongest recruits cleared the old and ruined, giving ground for the new and about-to-be. The smartest organized and handled the crowds with efficient hands. Others talked to the civilians, asked them where to take a load off their shoulders, and proceeded to do just that. Many tears had been shed by the locals, but borderlands-living made for people accustomed to hardships and setbacks. There was nothing to be done but turn a new side of the blade and hammer on. 

The recruits helped, and the settlers showed gratitude in return. Gratitude, which Kalsin was intent on cashing in.

Now, there was no malice in these particular plans. It was a universal truth that people needed to unwind from time to time, said need constantly being multiplied by trudging through shit and misfortune. Kalsin figured both recruits and civilians had been excessively squeezed through the grinder as of late, so what better way to pump back a little color into their lives than with some festive drinking and music during the sunset? Carrying planks under his arms, stacking carts in the company of sweating men and women, Kalsin had chatted up the locals. In just a couple of hours he'd pushed past barriers and wormed his way into their confidence. It wasn't all that difficult, and again—his intentions were good and clear.

That's how a mutually beneficial deal had been struck; the recruits would give the strength of their arms to help with the village, and in return the locals would bring out tables, cork ale bottles, and try to put loss and destruction behind them for a single evening. Needless to say, the deal quickly found popularity among both groups.

So why the hell was Kalsin out here, walking through silent and abandoned lanes when they still had a good hour of work before dusk? Force of habit, nostalgia, or plain stupidity? He wished he knew.

Kalsin stopped and wrapped his arms around himself as a gust of cold wind passed through him. 

"How do you do it, Jack? How are you so… assured?" 

He remained like that, eyes glazing over until everything appeared as a blur or colors. He knew there was plenty to do, yet for some reason it felt like there was nothing to do. Kalsin knew for a fact he wasn't lazy. He'd swam through deeper and worse smelling sewage in the past. Even before his time as a hunter, he could follow orders just fine. For as long as he remembered he could always set a goal and push towards it with everything he had. Something grounded, something both selfish and selfless enough to be real. 

And despite all that, lately he'd been feeling... gray.

A crunch of breaking wood came from his right, and Kalsin turned to see Ringtail walk toward him with a hostile scowl on her face. Kalsin cursed his luck of getting found, then cursed it twice for the person who found him.

"Why aren't you doing your job?" she nailed him with the question. He already knew she wasn't one for preamble.

"Why are you looking after me like it's your job?" Kalsin asked back, his arms already having shifted to a defiant fold from the vulnerable grasp.

Ringtail opened then closed her mouth, almost as if Kalsin's question was something she really didn’t want to confront, but a sneer quickly snuck in its place. "I already knew you were an insensitive pain in the ass, but an asshole who shirks his duty when it's needed? That's a new."

Kalsin laughed with disbelief. "Shirk my... look, there's a whole ocean of things you can do in your free time. I’ve got some coal and paper I can lend you, or ask Shoreline, she has a neat fishing set on hand. People call these things hobbies. Heard about them? Because stalking, for one, is fucking weird, and for two, it's not sustainable in the long term."

"Stop. Deflecting. Doesn't work on me during a fight, not gonna work here."

"Piss off."

Her palms formed a fist at her sides. "Of course. Would've been too good to be true. Ghost comes up with post-disaster party plans, and just when we're thinking, hey, he's not completely useless after all, he goes and walks away when the work actually needs doing."

"I was just taking a break," Kalsin said. He shouldered past Ringtail to rejoin the others and salvage what little he could. Anything but to endure this whining for a second longer.

"Don't you turn away from me!" she yelled at his back. "A break? A break? There's a boy who has not seen twelve summers yet, his fingers crushed, and with nobody to sit at his bedside!"

"And I'm going there now, ‘right?" he growled. "Thanks for looking out for me. Now, do me one more favor and shut the fuck up."

She didn't follow him, and that was that. At least, Kalsin thought so.

He'd barely been cleaning a basket of dirty clothes for more than five minutes when Littleguy approached him, saying Brownweather wanted to see him. Kalsin stood without a word and, after politely refusing the offer to be escorted, made his way toward one of the administrative buildings still standing. 

He had no illusions about the topic of his summons, though it came as a mouthful of bitter surprise. He'd misstepped, gotten caught, and been snitched on. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have antagonized Ringtail as much as he did, but what point is striking up a fire in a snowstorm? He'd tried the patient approach with her in the beginning, and after all this time, she only managed to chew down his fuse until he would explode from the smallest of provocations. 

By the time Kalsin found his way and pulled the door open, he reigned his emotions in order. There was nothing left but to hope the lieutenant was in a good mood.

The building wasn't large as far as offices were concerned, but a lack of furnishing and even bigger lack of personnel gave it an airy quality. Brownweather was seated behind an empty desk, steel-booted legs resting on the wooden surface that, probably not so long ago, had been the fine home of stacked paperwork. The scattered documents on the floor supported that claim with enough evidence. Unfortunately for Kalsin, the legal proceeding he was about to witness wouldn't be the one labeled ‘smelly underlimbs versus inked-down headaches'.

Ringtail stood in one corner, rigid as a pole and clearly not happy to be in present company—the loathing for their lieutenant was universal among the recruits. Her unblinking gaze found Kalsin the moment he stepped in, and her expression was about as apologetic as he would've expected; not at all. Kalsin raised an imaginary hat in her direction. Absolutely shameless, that one.

"For the love of—" Brownweather exclaimed, flinching. "Tűzmother's shiny arse, Ghosty, each time you make an entrance it's like a one man freak carnival came to town. Cover up or somethin'."

"Soon as I'm able to, sir. I hear the Veiled are bringing the trend westward."

"Ain't that the truth," Brownweather muttered, his attention having returned to a weathered piece of paper. He read in silence for nearly half a minute. "Nice of you to join us!" he said, looking up suddenly. He gave the paper a shake, which had the unintended effect of a few haphazard documents on the floor taking a brief flight. "This here rot-puke is a list of property damages the encampment suffered, and this," he glared down at the foot of his chair. "Eeeh, fucker's around here somewhere. Anyways, there's another list detailing the human damages caused by the mythos attack. Right? Right. Now, both lists are longer than a row of footmen who ate rancid soup the day before, 'front of a single latrine in a mile radius. And it's starting to smell like shit real quick in here."

Kalsin gave a small nod of acknowledgement, but remained silent otherwise. 

"Ghosty!" Kalsin nearly jumped at Brownweather's screech. "I hear you've gone sightseeing! How was it?"

Kalsin didn't spare a glance at Ringtail, who could've made a falcon proud with her unashamed stare. "It was my mistake, sir," he said. He didn't have to fake the regretful tone of his voice. "I took a breather and lost track of time. It won't happen again."

"Mhm," Brownweather leaned back in his chair, massaging his temples. He spoke after a moment. "Haah. I really, honestly, not in the minusculest fuckingly care about this whole debacle." He waved at Ringtail with his left, though still addressing the roof. "But since this one reported insubordination... or wait, was it insubordination? Did I give explicit orders to—aw, who the shit cares. The point I'm trying to make is that, as long as I'm a leading officer and you're a bottom-feeder, you do exactly what I tell you to do. Or what I insinuate you to do. Understand me?"

"I understand you."

"In the army's chain of command there's no hidey-holes, no sneaky clauses written in tiny letters. You do what I say. And by you," he pointed at him, then drew a circle in the air, "I mean you as a collective, the whole lot. Funny thing is, if your mates also went along with your little break, there wouldn't have been any trouble. Did I specify a timeframe to finish? Don't think I did. The issue is that you, Ghosty, you stepped out of line. Everyone else is working like good little ants, and you, a singular you, is now an exception. Can't have that."

Kalsin spoke up, staring straight ahead. "Sir, we should have the work done by nightfall. Most of it, at least. I assume we're expected to assist only with the most pressing tasks, before we continue onward."

To Kalsin's surprise, Brownweather smiled at him. "Glad to hear!" Of course, it would've been too good to be true to leave it at that. "But I'm afraid you're still fucked lucked. What you did was insignificant, but still. Examples, you see. Gotta make them when you can." 

The table creaked as Brownweather dragged his boots on the floor, adjusting in his seat so he could rummage through the pile around him somewhat effectively. Seconds trickled by, nothing but the sound of paper sliding on wood. He annoyedly swiped at a paper having flown in his face, then gave up with a curse. "It's not—fine. I faintly remember reading that report about human casualties? Pretty sure some people died, so, we're gonna need graves to bury the dead. You'll start on the digging."

"I, uh, believe we already took care of that, sir," Kalsin said.

Brownweather met Kalsin's eyes. "That's the neat thing about graves. There's never going to be a shortage of people dying. Working ahead of schedule has never been easier, hm?"

Kalsin nodded. Gravedigging shouldn't be an issue. He had a limited amount of practice in the past, though he had dug them to get rid of mythos corpses instead of human ones. "Just one?"

"Fuck if I know," Brownweather said. "Eh. I'd be surprised if you manage even that many before midnight."

From the corner of his eyes Kalsin saw Ringtail follow the conversation back and forth, chewing on the inside of her mouth. He couldn't decipher from her expression if she was happy with the outcome or not.

"Oh, and Ghosty," Brownweather said, once again leaning back in his chair, eyes closed as if getting ready for a nap. "Use your hands."

Kalsin's mouth popped open to protest, but a sharp 'dismissed' cut his breath before he could say a single word. He stared at the lieutenant, mind reeling. He made to speak again, but only empty air came when he realized he didn't know what to say. How the hell does one reason with an unreasonable request? 

Then he realized—that was the whole point. This was punishment for punishment's sake. 

But unlike flogging or beating—both of which would've required Brownweather to lift his lazy ass out from that chair—this punishment would instead be self-inflicted. Fingers against earth. See which one gave out quicker.

Kalsin looked away from the lieutenant. Spineless, sadistic fuck.

He saw from the corner of his eyes Ringtail take a startled step forward with a horrified expression, but Kalsin didn’t waste time on her as he strode out. She got what she wanted, and he... 

He had a hole to dig.

34 - Friendly Red Horrors

The pain wasn't even the worst. No, what made Kalsin miserable for the following days was going through the everyday motions, unable to focus on anything but the sharp agony whenever he touched a thing.

Though he'd tried to go slow and careful, his punishment had resulted in four torn fingernails and most of his fingers completely without skin around the tips. The bleeding was short lived, but at least the fluids had made the mud a little more pliable. Orders or not, he had stopped well before midnight because, while he knew the lieutenant wanted to make an example out of him, he also valued his fingers remaining firmly attached to his body. His one enjoyment during that night was listening to Fals' voice waft through the evening, cheers, laughter reaching his ears as time had passed and the lights dimmed.

Though he had finished early, he hadn't joined the tail end of the celebration afterwards. Turning in for the night seemed like a better idea, and yet it was a long while until he had fallen asleep with both hands pulsing in pain. Shutter, who'd sat out the party for his own reasons, helped him clean and wrap his hands the next morning. What Kalsin appreciated even more was the silence from Shutter as he sat there, bandaging. No words, no veiled judgment behind kind words nor pretense of sympathy came from him. It made his injuries just a touch more bearable.

Nobody gave Kalsin a hard time about his little stunt, at least not to his face. He quickly got tired keeping track of how people reacted to what Brownweather deemed justice well served; he'd seen everything from speculative glances thrown at him, to a spectrum of smiles of pity ranging from fake to real ones, and a fan favorite, jokes about a revolutionary 'mitten sword stance'. Kalsin had smiled along, but found himself withdrawing from people when given the chance. 

His chafed mood must've shown, because Crawl, Littleguy, and the recruits he usually spent time with quickly stopped bringing up the incident. It was considerate of them. If it wasn't for the constant companion of dull sting in his hands, Kalsin might've made an effort to show gratitude. Instead, he'd just become similarly stingy.

They continued their journey toward the Old the next morning. The atmosphere among the recruits was an odd mixture of relief, anticipation, and uncertainty. There was no shortage of stupid stories born the previous night and told in a dozen different variations, some of which wildly unlikely to have actually happened. Like, how four cups of ale deep, Uggo had started giving free massages on an improvised bench they'd covered with blankets when he'd revealed his hidden talent. Fals had, allegedly, bedded both the drummer who led the percussion for her songs and the settlement's major. Both at the same time, according to her. Bonds had been forged, pent up tension had been released, and now they had nothing left but to walk into the mouth of the waiting beast.

Lukewarm, desolate winds accompanied their advance through the flatlands stretching between the two lines of defense, a dark tundra with rustic highlights going on and on whatever direction they turned. Abandoned trenches, bits of piled up and broken earth spoke of the people that had fought and died before them, remnants from old battles as the border between the Ember Republic and the Eastern Expanse shifted back and forth throughout the decades. 

"Lookout spots," one of the soldiers escorting them called from the back when they passed a lone, circular earthwork, rising a good five feet above the ground like a small island protruding from a sea of red grass. "Those manning the lookouts keep watch, alert the older boys if they see movement. Sneaky fuckers, the Veiled are. We keep the grass trimmed around the lookouts so they can't blend in. But the front has moved up since. You'll see."

The recruits spent the walk in silence, listening to the occasional bit of wisdom shared by some of the more talkative soldiers over the whistling wind. It was late afternoon when they stopped by a small spring hidden in the shade of a thin, white copse of trees. Fractures aplenty, their horses never had a shortage of water, but human appetite still held a preference for crystalline fresh drinks after a long and sweaty day. And so it came as welcome news that, rather than pushing through the last stretch toward their destination, Brownweather ordered them to set up camp for the night.

Kalsin took care of Sap as the group split up, some clearing spots for the tents while others went to wash out the dirt that had snuck past the folds of their clothes. The man handling their mounts was decent enough at his job, gentle with the animals, and he always gave Kalsin a friendly nod when he checked on Sap. He never questioned why Kalsin was there so often. A recruit brushing off his bahten, using the little free time he had for extra labor, was a picture hard to imagine. And yet. And yet.

Maybe there's a universal understanding between people who, at some point during their lives, had formed a connection with an animal that was more than simply pet and owner. Kalsin liked to think so. A pinch of honesty in a dishonest world.

When Kalsin finished up, he joined Pike and Crawl sitting some distance away from Littleguy, who was busy hammering in the last few pins around their tent. The camp was loud and lively all around them. Kalsin sat next to Pike, looking from a fidgeting Crawl to a distant Littleguy stomping his heel at a pin with more force than necessary. Or it could've been a regular stomp. It was hard to tell with someone like Littleguy.

"There goes another," Crawl said, one leg bouncing to an unheard rhythm, his eyes following something in the distance. "Damn, that was— okay, does anyone actually know if she's hitting the targets? Can barely see it land from here."

Following his gaze, Kalsin saw a figure at the edge of the camp as she put another arrow on the string of her bow, drew, held for a breath, then released. Several groups were enjoying the show of marksmanship, though the blonde gave no outward sign that she was aware of being the center of attention. 

"Sure she is," Kalsin said, humoring him. He gave Pike a questioning glance. 

Pike made a large spoon of jégberry porridge disappear in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then shrugged in response.

"Something off about that one, Crawl," Littleguy said. He had finished setting up their tent, and after securing the flaps to remain open, he joined their group with a blanket held around his neck like a cape. "When the lieutenant offers you a choice between your real name and whatevershit he cooks up, you better well choose your name. Sh'then went with Wardoll instead. Hells." 

"János. János. János. Was that enough, or do you need some more to fill your imaginary quota? Stick the label 'Littleguy's real name reservoir' on it, may his ego feast upon the contents on rainy days." Crawl said. "No, but really. You're just jealous Wardoll got a name better than you did."

"Defending her won't make her fuck you, Crawl."

"I'm not... now that's just uncalled for."

"I can point you to the end of the line," Pike spoke up, scraping another spoonful from the bottom of the bowl. "Consensus around the camp is that she's a real looker. You're not the only one who might be aiming to, mh, take their shot."

"Ah," Kalsin said. "I get it. She's an archer. Take a shot. Hah. A shot. That's funny, because archers shoot arrows, and—" 

Pike's spoon bounced off Kalsin's head mid-speech, who pressed a hand against the aching spot on reflex, then cursed when his wrapped fingers protested upon contact. He gave Pike a dirty look and settled with mentally flipping him off, since physically he was unable to do so.

"Uh-oh" Crawl said with a weary tone. "Trouble personified approaching from the south."

Kalsin looked, and saw Ringtail enter the camp, her energetic gait eating up distance as she went. When she caught sight of Kalsin, a strange expression passed over her face, but Kalsin quickly turned away. He didn't want to give her a reason to approach. 

Unfortunately, judging from Crawl's widening eyes, the opposite was about to happen.

"How's the food today, Pike?" Kalsin asked, standing.

Pike hummed contentedly. "'Fish knows his spices."

"Go," Littleguy said. "We'll deal with her."

As Kalsin hurried off in search of Cyanfish manning the pot, Littleguy's brisk yet meaningful words brought to him an oddly soothing sensation. The camaraderie of his companions caught him off guard. They understood him more than he gave them credit for, he smiled. He then frowned. They understood him more than he was comfortable with.

Cyanfish ended up giving Kalsin one, then another steaming bowl of porridge, and both portions smelled almost as good as they tasted. Kalsin savored the jégberry's sweet-and-sour tang as he chatted with the young recruit. Though Kalsin had no natural disposition for flapping his mouth, he'd found that Cyanfish was easy to talk to, even if the topic of conversation was a hollow cavern of nothing-at-all. 

Charisma. You're either born with it, or you learn to pretend you were born with it. 

Kalsin was good at pretending.

It was much later when he returned to his group, late enough that the sun had almost disappeared below the horizon, casting orange streaks between the shadows of many tents. Pike had also disappeared somewhere.

Kalsin retook his spot on the ground. He didn't ask what Ringtail wanted. But Crawl remarked on it anyway. 

"If I said she actually looked sorry, would you believe me?"

"Not really."

"Well. I guess there's no point in saying 'she actually looked sorry', then. I think she wanted to apologize. We told her off, but... dunno. Hard to predict what 'Tail has got going on in her head." Crawl glanced at him as if expecting an answer.

"I don't much want to hear it. Easier to leave it alone," Kalsin said. 

He didn't understand Ringtail and those who harbored animosity for no apparent reason. There was no logic to it—she had been obsessed with making his life more difficult from the start. Always sneaking glances at him with that frown on her upturned nose, brows perpetually furrowed.

No, it was wiser to avoid people like that rather than keep trying to bridge the chasm. They were going to fight the Veiled together, that was true enough. But they didn't have to like each other.

Night crept up on the camp like a satin cloak. Littleguy asked Kalsin how his fingers were healing at some point, but they remained quiet for the most part. Recruits slowly disappeared inside their tents and a hush fell over the evening air, the soft whistle of wind and the ruffle of fabric taking over. Crawl and Littleguy went inside to their beds soon after. Purposefully or not, the big man left his blanket on the ground, and Kalsin wrapped it around himself when he felt the cool air worm past his clothes. 

An owl hooted with an irregular pattern. Rustic petals drifted above the grass. The evening chorus, the way the slowly rising half-moon illuminated the rolling red plains; everything appeared so different from what Kalsin was accustomed to back in the Republic proper. 

Jack probably loved this. Kalsin imagined her large form picking through the vegetation, hoping to find a patch of brickleaf hidden in the red undergrowth.

Jack. His friend, his once bodyguard. Would he ever get the chance to reunite with her? Because no matter how much Kalsin wanted to ignore what had happened—things had changed, and they had changed irreversibly. Both for him and for her. 

Jack was now Clenn. She had been given a clean page, and what kind of friend would Kalsin be if he attached himself to her, dragged her down now that she had a chance to finally make something of herself? Creating another Cinder... please not that. Anything but that.

He worried that his path was different than hers, and he didn't know where it led. He could almost see Jack talking to him, fingers dancing. 

‘Stop fucking around, Kalsin. You're not a soldier. When'd you ever let others mix your palette and determine the curves of the lines you draw? Do what you're good at, cobble up some plan, and run with it. Even if it means running away to live as a hermit in the wastes, or infiltrating the Veiled with a broken axle, or taking on the scars of every shit-faced recruit around you. Who cares which. Who cares, as long as you make. It. Yours.’

The inside of their tent was dark when Kalsin entered, and after his eyes adjusted, he saw the gently breathing piles that were his companions nestled to one side. They were pressed close, with Crawl's arm hanging over Littleguy's forehead in that telltale and somewhat amusing manner of the unconscious. Theirs was a strange relationship. There was history between the two. Kalsin hoped he wouldn't be there to see the final chapter of it.

He watched them for another second before turning to his own spot.

But someone was already there.

The young woman was sitting on his bedroll, staring at him through a wall of red hair the color of clotted blood. The lily patterns on her dress were faded and almost seemed to move and crawl about in the gloom. Her features were obscured to him, but Kalsin somehow felt that her eyes were unblinking and her mouth an upturned gash stretching from ear to ear. 

Kalsin didn't move. He couldn't. His veins had turned to ice and he trembled. He had seen her before. Back in Atlas' office, when he was about to receive his sentence.

The girl made no sound. Her wall of red hair remained turned toward him as if she could see him through it. Then, without warning, a lock of hair dripped to the ground.

Her scalp started melting in small spots at first, then faster, turning the veil of red hair into a waterfall of blood that pooled on his bedroll. Pale arms turned to gray and stretchy rivulets, lilies elongated like mold washing down the drain. 

Her figure collapsed in on itself, disintegrating like candle wax left out in the hot summer sun until there was nothing left but a red layer on the ground.

Kalsin's breaths came fast, and though he wanted to run and escape, his legs didn't obey him. He wanted to turn away, but it was like his body was forced to watch the grotesque scene unfold.

Distantly, thanks to a part of him that was immune to panic and knew only cold reasoning, he noticed how strange the position of the pool was. The red liquid stayed within the boundaries of his bedroll, perfectly aligning with the edge of the haphazard fabric. There was not a single drop going past the sides and touching the ground. And then, as if sentient enough to know a point had been made, as if knowing his very thoughts—the red layer rolled away like smoke in the air.

And the red girl was gone.

The tent was silent. It was dark, with just enough light to see Littleguy and Crawl sound asleep. A restful evening. Everything was the same when Kalsin had entered, and nothing remained, not even a trace of the girl having been there. 

Kalsin went to his knees with a gasp, bracing himself on all fours—though he had enough presence of mind to avoid falling on his bedroll. 

He was seeing ghosts. He was seeing ghosts. 

Insane. Delirious. Hallucinating things that were not real and no one else saw. Sanity scratched and looked for a handhold, and found none. Kalsin trembled, aware and unable to do anything about the fact that he was fucking losing his mind.

His hand shook as he poked at his bedroll. Of course, nothing happened. What else was he expecting? Palms sweating under the layer of bandages, he grabbed the edge of the fabric and pulled on it, smoothing out the wrinkles and looking inside.

That's when he saw the thorns.

In the darkness, he almost missed the small shapes scattered around and caught on the inside of the cloth of his bedroll. They were small, half the size of his fingernails. He would've never seen them if it wasn't for... for whatever it was he had seen.

The red girl, she had… warned him?

Kalsin let out a shaky breath, trying to gain back control. He plucked a thorn between his bandaged thumb and index finger, careful to only touch the wide base. The tip wasn't long, but it was sharp, and it glinted with a strange sheen when caught in the filtered moonlight. He squinted. There was definitely some kind of coating around the tip.

Kalsin's thoughts raced. A ghost was haunting him, and he had to accept that as a fact. That was enough to mess with the brain in and of itself. But the ghost saved him from some sort of poison that, most likely, would've been fatal. There was no way to test it, but what other purpose would poison serve? The disturbing way the ghost fell apart—maybe there was a reason for it. Maybe it was showing him what would've happened if the coating entered his bloodstream.

Which meant that someone close—with the possibility ranging from recruits he'd come to know to soldiers he'd barely met—just tried to kill him. 

Kalsin shivered again, and not because of the ghost or the cold winds of night. But because maybe someone knew about his curse, about being more than just another heretic. About what he could do.

Maybe the Civil House wasn't done with him at all.

35 - At The End of the World

True to its name, the Outer Line of Defense wasn't a singular location, but a long stretch of earthworks protruding from the flat wastes. The walls were erected along thin fractures, cobbled into a uniform line as they snaked into the distance in a seemingly random, zigzagging pattern like a reverse crack in the earth, but always stretching in the general direction of north and south. They were seemingly molded from dirt and mud, four feet tall at most, and were slanted from the inside so that defenders would use it as cover before it came to a vertical drop on the outside. Where the angle allowed, Kalsin saw small sections had been reinforced with wood and plates of spiky metal.

They didn't get and didn't expect to get a welcome committee. Instead, they had a single rider approach their group with an unhurried trot across the red plains. 

"What month is it?" the rider asked, pulling on the reigns as his chestnut horse peppered the recruits in a liberal dosage of dust.

"Nagy of Sommer," Fals called out. For some indecipherable reason—and to the amusement of the group—she was speaking with an accent. "Whot's the naaeme of that beaute you're roiding, chief? Me loike her fuur. Shoiny."

The man gripped Brownweather's arm with a grin, who returned the gesture with a smile of his own. "Skif. It's been a short while," Brownweather said.

"That it has, liout," Skif said. "A couple of months if I had to wager, but you know how it is. Or have you forgotten already? How easy it is to lose count when you sleep and wake by the horn?" 

Even as Brownweather shook his head bemusedly, Skif straightened in his saddle and searched the crowd until he found Fals. "Shiny fur on her, and good eyes on you, ey? Good eyes, always be on the lookout for those with a pair of good eyes. I like that. I like you." He turned to back Brownweather and asked with a low voice, though Kalsin was still close enough to hear him. "Please tell me it's not another Fals?"

He didn't catch Brownweather's answer, but the momentary flicker of despair passing through Skif's face spoke loud enough. He then surveyed the crowd as if counting their numbers, and clicked his tongue to spur his grazing horse back in action. "I'll take the recruits from here, good men. Thank you."

Throughout the next few minutes, the soldiers that had accompanied them for their journey handed each recruit their full load of equipment and split off, making their exit with a relieved air of those glad to be going home, likely back toward Lostpoint Station. Kalsin's eyes followed them until they were small dots in the distance. He saw another couple of men lead their horses away, down south along the earthen barrier.

He wasn't the only one with questions on his face, because—after having dismounted and handed off his own horse—Skif gave them an explanation. "They'll be taken to the nearest stable, and they'll be cared for. Animals would only cause trouble during defense, and runners have an easier time if they know exactly where they can mount up. But come now. There’s never an idle second in this place."

The recruits, now moving in a formless mass, followed Skif and Brownweather along the inside of the continuous earthwork. 

What seemed like a deserted stretch of land at first quickly turned out to be inhabited, albeit in a scattered manner with groups of fifty to sixty men stationed every mile or so. Countless clay huts had been built and were used as housing, with a few brick structures giving the expanse a barren sort of flavor to human civilization.

As for the outer side of the wall, lookout spots were erected at intervals, far enough into the Eastern Expanse that they appeared smaller than Kalsin's thumb. The earth was dark and bare in a large radius around them with not a single patch of red grass. If Kalsin counted correctly, there had to be a single lookout spot manned about every mile or two.

Skif kept talking as they went.

"...quite bleak, but you get used to it. There's plenty to do to keep yourself occupied, and when a steady routine meets unchanging surroundings, time tends to turn and turn like a bad case of digestive noncompliance."

"The wall, why's it so uneven?" asked Cyanfish.

"A'yes, an oldy question, that one. Classic. Why not just build a straight line? Look there, around the bend," Skif pointed. Kalsin couldn't see from where he stood. "We kept the wall generally going south to north, but made it criss and cross and built it along the natural fractures that split the earth nearby. There, we piled up the earth right at the edge, then widened the lip of the fractures, and the result? Ditches! The sort of ditches that have the tendency to snap ankles with lips of bottomless cracks."

"Fractures would not be common enough to cover the entire wall," Dweller said. "What stops the Veiled from simply avoiding those spots and climbing the wall elsewhere?"

Kalsin heard the grin in Skif’s voice. "Can't avoid them if you can't see them. Where no fracture borders the wall, we dug the same ditch, paved it with the same rocky earth, and filled it with the same water. Fake and real fractures connected, it all looks like a singular and continuous line of water. The jumbled pattern is by design, to give our guests a nice little confuzzle. You know, like an impromptu game of 'find the ball'? Except here, you gotta avoid it, or pay the price of a magnitude higher chance of drownage."

"To be fair," Brownweather added with a mutter. "Patterns of attacks have deviated towards locations without fractures. The easterners learn, and they remember some, much as we don't want them to."

"Heh, and then we shift men from the fractures to places without, figuring, why bother defending those spots if they don't attack there? Which results in an attack there. Say what you want about them, but fucking comical, the Veiled are."

There was a question Kalsin didn't catch, but Skif's answers always came loud and addressed to all of them. "Not many, true. We have to cover a large stretch of land with numbers we simply don't have. We're stretched thin."

"Isn't that sort of a problem?" Kalsin asked. “A lack of manpower?"

"Not for the Republic at large, it isn't. There's a common misconception about the Old, and the sooner you accept it, the better off you'll be; we're not defenders. We're no rugged band of wickedly dangerous fighters." He paused, voice solemn and a touch too dramatic in Kalsin's opinion. "We're a safety net. And the Veiled, they're rabid sharks constantly prodding and pushing, tearing out little pieces with each bite. The net holds them back for the most part. But if enough sharks come at once, the pitiful thing inevitably will tear against the overwhelming force.

"The Old, ey? The Hold would be a more fitting name. One horn means a Veiled has been spotted, be on your toes! Two horns, the Veiled are attacking, prepare for battle. And when three horns are sounded, that’s when our lookouts are signaling an approaching number of foes that we cannot hope to win against. Then, a runner is sent back to the Inner Line. You know what we do after that? We hold. Ha! We hold these lumps of dirt some people drunkenly named walls, knowing full well we're likely going to be dead by the time reinforcement arrives, but we hold all the same."

Weirdly enough, it was Brownweather who ended the heavy silence with a crooked grin. "I told you worthless lot already, haven't I? You're all fucked lucked, you really are, but take solace in the fact that the Republic could never defend the border without us. There's too much ground to cover, and having a designated line of men who know exactly where the enemy has breached makes the Republic as safe as it could be. It's a smart system."

"Vital little cogs," Kalsin murmured, "That keep an empire made of cogs above the clouds."

Shutter gave him a questioning look. Kalsin shrugged. The walk continued.

They kept going for one, then the shorter end of two hours. Though the scenery remained mostly uniform, red-and-white grass and dark earth, and a flat horizon that already promised several crimson sunsets, it was the human element that provided a semblance of variety. Storage buildings. Tiny stables. Odd, flat roofed barracks with training posts situated nearby, dark wood chipped from frequent usage and splinters trampled into the earth all around.

Wind lashed against the recruits and Kalsin breathed in a scent fresh and salty, the essence of the oceans taking him by surprise. The Kel Waters laid to the south of them, not close, but apparently still close enough to catch an occasional whiff. He looked out toward the expanse again, and noted with some relief the lookout spots had thin roofs over them. Getting soaked is not as pleasant as some would assume.

Activity along the Outer Line of Defense was constant, but it was more reminiscent of a flowing river rather than a buzzing anthill. No matter how far you walked, one could always observe groups of people doing what Kalsin figured they were supposed to be doing. Not many people, never crowded, but always there. Men low on the ground, bent over spent scraps of metal and scrubbing off rust. Men ringing their shields and swords against one another. Men huddled around thin fractures with sieves—sink, swirl, wash, repeat. And the idle ones. Adjust the sheath for the hundredth time, fiddle with that loose thread in the shirt, and keep looking East, over the earthworks. Watching, anticipating.

Skif nodded toward the side. There was a camp of lavish tents stretching a good distance inward, back enough from the wall that no danger threatened them. "Your Clenn counterparts. Looks like they know how to make themselves feel right at home."

Kalsin kept his eyes westward as they walked, watching the Clenn batch of recruits loiter among their considerably more luxurious makeshift camp. Their tents were a great deal taller than theirs, barely buffeted by the strong winds except for the colored strips of decorative fabric at the top that separated them based on surge. He was too far, but Kalsin liked to think he saw Jack and Cinder somewhere among the figures. They were there, he knew, but knowing and seeing are different brews for different ailments.

"Is there a reason why we’re stationed here, in particular?" Dweller asked.

"All this," Skif spread one arm like the showman in a circus, sweeping it across the general area. Kalsin noticed a set of claw-like scars peeking from his collarbone. "All this, give or take a sackful of miles, has been our busiest stretch to defend for the past few months. So what we do, then, is we plop the Clenn recruits that come every few months right at the center of our hot zones. Why, you ask? Because they're our strongest assets. Even greener than a frog's rubbery arse, a single overworld Clenn can save a hundred good men."

Youthere snorted. "They bitch about it, no?"

"To the contrary. You think the Clenn enjoy wasting their precious days in this sooted end of the world? With thousands of Scarrd as company? Psth. They'll be eager to join the first skirmish that happens at the walls, and then, after the killing's wrapped up, they'll be up and back to the Inner Line like fart on the wind. Gone, just like that. Then a few months from now, new recruits arrive, a Clenn squad included. The Scarrd stay and become older boys and die. The Clenn go back home. And rinse and repeat."

Kalsin's mates didn't like that. Silent, they shot cold glances at the far tents. Kalsin didn't like it much better, either, but he never felt the particular urge to give a public demonstration of his inner workings at all times. Instead, he followed Shutter's gaze, who was frowning toward the opposite direction and out into the Eastern Expanse. 

Kalsin found himself in mute agreement with him. Now there, that carpet of red grass—swished and swayed by the wind like waves upon a dark sea. The things that lurked beyond. That was something to think about. 

Skif said, "Not much farther now."

His statement turned out to be true enough, though their place of respite looked no different from the rest of the Old. The wall was a bit less steep here, sloping up gently enough for a person to comfortably stand their ground above the sudden, outward drop. No more than two dozen feet back inward, a series of huts had been built into the side of a rocky outcrop twice the height of a man. The whole picture resembled a miniature, artificial gorge. Or a valley between two mountains, or maybe a particularly wide and deserted alleyway. 

Kalsin rolled his pen between his fingers. Not the worst place to be stationed at. Stuck between hard place and a hard place, but at least it had some character.

<><><>

What remained of the day, the recruits spent settling in as Warmlight slowly dipped below the skyline. The vivid sunset was a hell of a sight, visible if you walked a hundred feet in either direction until the outcrop slanted and merged with the flatlands, and so it came as no surprise that many of them took the chance to see it for the first time. A thin, gentle strum of strings carried on the wind, courtesy of Fals perched on the slanted roof of a hut.

"No colors?" Crawl asked from behind.

Kalsin adjusted the sketchbook in his lap, frowned up at the sunset for a moment, then continued drawing. "Nope."

"That should be a criminal offense."

Kalsin said nothing. He was aware of things happening around him—a gathering of his mates sprawled on the ground, a few older boys coming and going along the wall, the crackling of an early campfire—but he paid them no mind.

"A sunset without colors is like dry soup. I don't see the point."

Crawl sat, carefully balancing two steaming bowls. The spicy scent of the meaty stew prickled Kalsin's nose when Crawl placed one of them on the ground in front of him. "Rescued a portion for you."

Kalsin gave a distracted hum as he drew. Then he looked at the stew and his pen stilled for a moment. 

He blinked, and slowly closed his notebook. "Uh. Thank you, but I already got some food in me," he lied. He was hungry, but a sudden wave of nausea born of fear made him nearly retch, and the smell didn't help one bit. "I'm sure Littleguy would be happy to have it."

"Accurate enough," Crawl said with a laugh. He moved the bowl back to his side, and Kalsin's knotted stomach eased up a bit.

He did not see the red-haired ghost again, but… but could he trust the delusions of his own mind? Damn it.

Paranoia was an unhealthy medicine, one that prevented untimely deaths, but also ruined precious moments with its sour taste. It whispered ugliness. Posed uncertainties like, 'is there poison in my food?', or, 'watch out, surely there's a dagger behind the friendly handshake!'. Turned good things into bad things, all in the name of avoiding the worst thing.

Kalsin was aware of this, and yet he couldn't stop himself from casting a nervous glance around. No, there was no sight of the redheaded ghost. Part of him was distressed, because what sane person would expect to see ghosts? 

And then another part of him, it was relieved. The part that had constructed a mad rationale; that maybe this ghost could only be seen when death was nearby. He had seen her first when his fate was being decided in the prison, right? The second time, with the poisoned thorns in his tent. So maybe she was a guardian angel, of sorts.

Only there was one simple issue with this line of thinking. Kalsin had been in dangerous situations his whole life, and he'd never seen the bloody girl before those events.

Fuck. He wanted not to be crazy so, so much.

Did the lack of the ghost appearing mean he was safe from poison? Was Crawl's gesture of goodwill truly that, and nothing more? Hell if he knew. But the seeds had been planted, and he couldn't help but see his mates differently now, filtering everyday acts of kindness through a lens of doubt. His fist curled in agitation. All this, because someone rich and mighty in the Civil House wanted him gone. All this, because they feared the possibility of Scarrd becoming Clenn.

"You heard about Quiescent yet?"

Kalsin uncurled his hand, smoothing out his trousers. He shook his head. "Not much to hear about, I don't think."

"Brrr. Right, I swear that man's body eats sounds for breakfast. Gives me the shivers." Crawl raised a spoon to his mouth, winced, and blew on the steaming mush before taking the bite. "Anyway, he and Leather used to be tight when they arrived. Only, they had a falling out yesterday. I barely caught the back end of the argument, but I heard the slur 'mythos' being thrown around." He stirred his bowl. Shrugged. "Wonder what's that about."

Kalsin snorted. Slur, right. A mythos hiding among the recruits would've killed at least a dozen of their numbers already, no matter how hard they tried blending in. It was in their nature. "I wouldn't read too much into it."

"You wouldn't? I thought you might. Since, 'yknow... I mean, it's not difficult to tell."

"Hm?"

"That you were a hunter, once. How long have you been doing that?"

Kalsin's idle thumb raked through the pages of his sketchbook. The sun had finished its retreat, but orange highlights still lingered to illuminate the distant clouds. "A while," he said. "Been a while."

There was a lull in the strings, then Fals' voice filled the air as she sang from the top of her hut.

I've seen the she red beaut',

On many times a day,

Brought an ode of things to come and play—and things to bring away.

I've d'mired the she red beaut',

And I've got much to say,

But never to her face because—because she'd turned away.

I've loved the she red beaut',

She trapper, me the prey,

To flaunt herself in front' my eyes—then take it all away.

I've reached for-the she red beaut',

Been rightly led astray,

Because she was a burning red—an'a million miles away.

The she red beaut' was never mine—and never she would stay.

Kalsin sat and listened among men and women, watching the sunset on the frontiers of the world with Crawl next to him, and Joe and Uggo on their backs not a stone's throw away, and Yesfellow, Crux, Shoreline and Ringtail and many others besides. Kalsin would've given a great volume of things to peer into the minds around him during those minutes. To know if the serene moment gifted them peace. To note, catalog the disparity between thoughts of past's nostalgia and future's hope. To see if the sets and tangles of the minds around him were similar, or entirely different from his own, or maybe weaving plans, still, to put a certain silver-eyed man in his early grave.

"Damn you," Crawl said, voice quiet, choked, and almost too low for Kalsin to hear. "Part of me relished it. So... ugly and sweltering. And I would do it again."

Kalsin didn't say anything, pretending not to hear the words that clearly weren't meant for him. If there were things to say, they would come out eventually, and all else would remain unsaid. 

Kalsin preferred things unsaid. Better to let things lie rather than being forced into a corner to lie about them.