* * *

  A new herd ranged the territory beyond the city’s ruin.

  Roots enough of hardy grass survived, and so regrew, however burnt their stalks. In time, waste became again savanna, and riding birds gathered once more along the plain. Both untamed creatures returning from migration and war mounts set loose in compassion.

  Even the best-trained riding birds were but semi-domesticated animals, and latent wild resurfaced with ease, even to those with saddle and tack still affixed. Wild and feral alike intermingled without prejudice, forming a single herd, and all ate well feasting on the rebounding grassland.

  But one emerged to run ahead of the rest.

  He was healthy and young, with long unbending feathers. Tender scars ran beneath his coat, that the other birds could not see. And a gleam shone in his eye, not unique for his kind, but that still might strike an onlooker off-guard, were its reflection to sparkle in their own.

  There were others perhaps stronger or larger among the herd, but none so determined to remain at the forefront of their roving wedge. During the first few days, other males with perhaps a slight edge in size or weight had indeed contested his place as their navigator. But each backed down after a few probing swipes. Perhaps they sensed the saddle he still wore might protect him from their claws. Or perhaps they discerned some other danger when he stood his ground against their challenge, unyielding as if cornered.

  So he ran ahead of all the rest. And with time, persistence, and instinct, he guided them.

  Savanna birds typically migrated north to south, following the rains. But that year, they traveled elsewhere, even as the grasses they left behind remained plentiful, and ripe for grazing. That year, a great marathon of savanna birds ran west, away from the heart of the grasslands.

  West, to the mountains beyond.

  * * *

  Thjali searched without sleep, scouring the charred skeleton of Atum-Ra, as each pile of shattered marble beckoned to her with hallucinated promise.

  A ribbon-wire blade traced the lengths of any thoroughfare still left half-intact. Great black fissures erupted along the filament’s incisions, tilling the stone like fertile soil. But never underneath those upturned streets was that which she sought.

  So she could never leave, trapped there. Felling stray savanna wildlife or straggler refugees for sustenance. Thralls grew ever greater in number, that way, roaming the ruins, spreading her wildfire, waiting for her will.

  And so a furnace of black flame as if darkness visible worsened evermore intense throughout the city’s corpse, in slow march toward metastasis.

  * * *

  Roskvir had been gone so long that even Aurelia could admit to herself that she worried for him.

  But the soldiers had escorted him away without violence, at least. And she knew she couldn’t allow herself to agonize over his fate too much, in light of all else that needed its turn for worry. So in his absence, she’d tried to focus on something productive, rather than simply languishing.

  She’d sat in silence for hours, eyes closed, many of the days since. Trying to calculate rough upper-bound estimates of the enemy’s strength, and possible trajectories of a conventional war. Perhaps millions of lifetimes worth of suffering could be averted, she knew, if she could only make the right deductions with any accuracy.

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  But time again she lost her way in a frustrating maze, formed by so many shifting variables and path-dependent confounders. Her constricted perspective, trapped in that place, kept just too many important facts out of sight. She wished she’d filled her memory with more when she’d had the chance, during Roskvir’s visits. Always had she been so stupid.

  Distant footsteps approached her chamber, rousing her from the depths of despondency after another such failed attempt to make herself in any way useful. She perked up, hopeful. But the steps soon diminished, continuing past her door in the hallway outside, and she deflated back down. Similar disappointments had been frequent, but still she remained a victim to hope each time.

  She wanted her parents, she thought, slumping against her bed.

  If not her father or mother, she wished for Valeria, or even for cruel Argentus to be there with her.

  For someone, anyone else of her kin. Each as they were more suited to rule than she.

  Someone who could handle all the war business, in her stead, so she could not blame herself for any further part of it, and stem the tide of guilt she felt for her uselessness and stupidity. And so she could instead be anywhere else but there, guarded well by Tanhkmet’s elites in some estate or library far away, protected and hidden.

  She wanted a familiar soul to sit beside her, and tell her that she needn’t worry. Someone else, older and wiser and prepared for the responsibility of rulership.

  Above all, she just wanted them to be alive again.

  But they were dead, she knew.

  She didn’t hide from that fact. She understood it in full, perfect detail, with complete comprehension of what it meant, both visceral and in every sense abstract. They were never coming back.

  She crumpled along the far side of her bed frame, hugging her shins, curled into a ball. Half-hidden from sight of her chamber door, in the only corner of that place that offered any semblance of seclusion.

  She wanted them to be alive. But they were dead.

  And so she waited, and hoped instead that Roskvir would soon return.

  * * *

  A whip cracked close behind, but Theodora had already learned not to flinch. Bloody calluses peeled from her palms and fingers, and bothersome sweat ran along her browline, but she knew as well by then not to pause to wick it away. Her pickaxe simply rose and fell in unbroken rhythm.

  All that broke the monotony of the pit mine were the low growls and vicious barks of enormous dog-creatures, as well as the occasional lone gunshot somewhere out of sight. Speech of any kind was punished by the whip, as well. Her heart went out to the poor sod who’d discovered that for the rest of them. She could still see him out of the corner of her eye, every inch of his bare back wet with blood.

  Flakes of ore shed into the air as they broke apart the copper-hued stones, and dust of the same auburn filled their lungs. And so their musty, near-featureless barracks would shake with fits of hacking and wheezing through to the mornings, and they would all awaken poorly slept.

  Theodora thought of how even her own resilient muscles screamed in protest as if years out of practice. How a whip might tear yet more new scars into her own back at any moment even without provocation. And of how her body begged her to cough, or to spare just one hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead.

  But she thought too of the battle’s last moments, when Junius called for surrender, just before their last pockets of resistance were cut down.

  When she’d looked back at last, and had seen their ships departing.

  And though so many were left behind, and one of the transports even lost with all hands, she thought of how so many others had escaped that day. Withdrawing, to carry on. Because she and her comrades had stood.

  And so, worked past exhaustion, one among so many rows of other prisoners in that other horrible pit, throat parched, skin itching, muscles tearing, still, she found herself at peace.

  Not content, or resigned. For she still lived, and there was fighting to be done.

  But no longer was each of her days controlled, even in those chains. Not an hour more she wasted on survivor’s guilt, confusion and despair. Then, the shadow of her grief wore lighter on her conscience, however much it still lingered.

  Sorrow for Nebet ached worse than any strain of her body. She had not yet found proper time in which to mourn.

  But she thought of Iumatar, and Captain Tanhkmet, and imagined how they might’ve escaped together. After the miracle of Iumatar’s success, of which Junius had told each of the survivors their first night in the barracks.

  There was thus a simplicity to her situation, in the sort of way she liked. She needed only to persevere, and survive.

  And so that hope burned on, hope she was proud to have helped manifest. And as her pick rose and fell, chipping away stone for some enemy’s purpose, she smiled.

  Remnants is far from complete. We will be launching right into book two immediately after.

  Remnants hit the main Rising Stars list about a week ago, so this is a particularly crucial time to boost growth stats as much as possible and gain momentum. I haven't yet set up donations or any other form of monetization, so right now stuff like ratings and follows/favorites (as well as e.g. recommending Remnants to your friends!) is the best way you can support the story and help allow me to dedicate maximum energy into perfecting chapters of book two for upload as fast as possible.