Korroth sat on the cold metal floor, his hands dumped to the sides, his head slouching forward. His eyes were wide open, though the cell was completely dark. The other captives had fallen silent by now; no more sobbing, no more screaming, no more banging against the walls. The stench was thick and overpowering, hardly any air circulated in the cramped room. Occasionally one of them shifted around to relieve the ache in their limbs, but most had become near-catatonic in their state of dehydration and starvation.

The Pau’an’s brow furrowed. His fingers closed into fists. His mind was not here, it was in his home city, on the day of victory, the day of peace, when he and his confederates had liberated the Ikan people from war. On the day when the Ikan people had recompensed their liberators with death.

The young revolutionaries had thought that no price was too high to stop the bloodshed, to bring down the warmongering City Council. Even their own intimate patriotism was slaughtered for the sacrifice. They had surrendered their city to the enemy, but to avert its destruction, to end its absurd suffering. They had thought that the Ikan people would rejoice and work together to rebuild.

But not so. The people would not share in the sacrifice. They took the peace, sure, but not the bloodied hands. They killed the young betrayers and, though Korroth was still breathing, they killed him too.