Come back to me.

It was a plea, an admonition, a desperate hope from a wife. Everything was implied-love, trust, need, desire-but nothing would be fulfilled.

Nearby, a quill began scratching across a piece of paper. The sound carried to Konowa in thin, clear tones. He felt the rhythm of the point as it curved and sliced its path. He turned, letting something more than his hearing guide him. Her Majesty’s Scribe, Rallie Synjyn, sat on a rock among the bodies, a scroll unfurled across her lap. Her black cloak blended with the darkness as if the night itself was part of her. The feather barbs of her quill fluttered as the wind and her writing picked up speed.

Konowa watched, mesmerized. From this distance he couldn’t see what she was writing, yet he imagined he saw every word. The quill rose above the page, moved over, and plunged back down. He saw the story unfold back in the world they’d left behind.

This desert of wasted lives and damaged souls was a battle won, the sharp end of imperial power applied. On maps in headquarters far away, the red-rimmed limits of the empire would surge outward as another pin was pushed in place. Bottles would be uncorked and talk of promotions-discreet of course, lest one be seen as too eager-would creep into conversation. Through the news sheets and crier services, the citizens of the Calahrian Empire would learn of the Iron Elves’ latest feat of arms and rejoice at their triumph over the Shadow Monarch’s minions and the ancient desert power of Kaman Rhal’s dragon. Evil was thwarted once again and the power of a new Star was delivered unto the people, courtesy of the benevolent Empire. The cost-fifty-four soldiers dead, wounded, and missing, and a couple hundred native warriors lost against untold hundreds of the enemy-would seem satisfactorily grim and proportionate.