"What are they chanting?" Lily asked, gesturing to the crowd below as she braved the heat of a syrup-filled monstrosity, and was punished for her hubris.

The crowd in question had begun to gather mere minutes after their waiter had seated the pair at the rooftop café overlooking the Vitri Plaza. What had started as four Ashadi youths protesting in front of the Provincial Ministry had swollen to hundreds in less than an hour, with more arriving every minute.

So far, the crowd had been peaceful, but Alarion was on edge. The difference between peaceful protesting and a violent mob could be razor thin, a sentiment clearly shared by many of the businesses that had already begun to close up shop, even though it was only midday.

"Vaelde, oto sai! Vaelde, oto sai!"

"Orphan?" Lily prompted again.

"Mm? Oh. Uh… Vaelde, oto sai. I think." It took a moment for his brain to catch up to the meaning of her question, but he was still quick enough to answer correctly before she scolded him. "Martyr, in the West."

Lily blew a cool breath over the lip of her steaming coffee. "Alright, what does it mean?"

Alarion scratched at the scar on his nose. "I think they are chanting for me."

"Somewhat presumptuous," Lily observed. "Last I checked, you were not dead."

"They started calling me martyr when it was assumed I would die," he shrugged. "The name stuck."

"Oh, good, another one."

Alarion turned his eyes back to the crowd. He didn't know how he felt about having so many people chanting for him. He knew he didn't like the anger on so many faces below. It was easy to understand why they were enraged. Ashad-Vitri had been built astride the ruins of the Old City, on land damaged by the Ruination. The Vitrians had done it as a statement, to maintain continuity with the past and to demonstrate their ability to rehabilitate the dead land.

But that statement had never been intended to take in tens of thousands of refugees. With more arriving every day, the city had reached capacity and begun to spill out into the surrounding desert. The refugees were hungry. They were scared and tired.

They wanted something to believe in.

"Vaelde, oto sai! Vaelde, oto sai!"

"Madam…" The waiter said at last. He had been lingering by their table for several minutes, trying to get Lily to acknowledge him, without success. "If you could settle your bill?"

"It will blow over," Lily reassured the man dismissively. When he continued to hover, she sighed and plucked a few notes from her purse. The amount was far too much for their meal, even with Lily's exorbitant tipping habits, and she made a point of pressing bills directly into the waiter's hand. "You can close up shop once I have finished my coffee, yes."

Alarion wasn't sure if it was the marks or her fluttering eyelashes that defeated the waiter's resolve, but the man left them alone.

"You seem so sure," Alarion said. Looking over the roiling mass of people in the hexagonal plaza below, he was not so certain.

"When you have been at this as long as I have, you get a feel for people."

"And just how long have you been at this?"

"Nice try," she smirked. The question of her age had become a game of cat and mouse between them. Not because she seemed embarrassed or secretive, but because he was curious and she delighted in frustrating that curiosity. "There are no leaders that I can see, no organizers. That can be good and bad, depending on the circumstance, but without guidance, a crowd like that is more likely to disperse than to choose violence."

"And if the garrison overreacts?"

"Well then, they are not choosing violence, are they?" she chided. "Even then, I would bet against it."

"So you think they will just disperse on their own?"

"Possibly. It gets dark, and people get tired. Normally, I would be concerned about looting in a place this wealthy, but imagine a crowd chanting about a martyr is going to be more interested in justice than your average mob."

"Possibly, you imagine? I thought you had a feel for people?"

"I do!"

"Then-"

"They might disperse on their own, or they could police their own to avoid looting. But if you want my honest opinion, the plaza will be on fire within the hour. Too much pent up anger with no direction."

Alarion was befuddled. "Then why did you tell the waiter it would blow over?"

"Because they will listen to you, Martyr."

"Absolutely not."

"Absolutely, yes," she retorted. "You could not ask for a better test audience. A crowd already primed to hang on your every word. You could demand their firstborn and half of them-"

"I can't," Alarion whispered, his shaking voice barely audible over the chanting below.

"I am not asking you to give a rousing speech, or answer tough questions. You go down, you show your face. You say that you do not want violence, that you do not want looting, and that the square must be clear by dusk. They will obey."

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"And if they do not?"

Lily looked to the crowded streets below, her full lips curled into a tight smile. "Martyr, in the West. Martyr, in the West. Vaelde, oto sai. I told you, I have a feel for people, and these will listen. Now go."

It didn't matter that she had no authority to give him orders. She gave them anyway. And for some idiot reason, he obeyed.

Alarion's heart beat heavily in his chest as he descended the narrow stairway back to ground level. The staff were huddled together in the kitchen, staring out at the open front of the restaurant through the order shelf. He could see the fear on their faces, and it was easy to understand. If the crowd lost their temper, which they looked primed to do, then the plaza would be drenched in blood by nightfall. At best, they would lose some chairs and tables as the mob ripped apart anything that could be used as an improvised weapon. More likely, the whole plaza would be ruined in the ensuing violence.

He cursed Lily as he slunk along the outer perimeter of the plaza, keeping out of sight as much as possible. Some might recognize him as the Orphan, but others would only see his crisp new Vitrian uniform. Alarion had little fear for his personal safety, for most of the crowd were unawakened, but he wanted to avoid a confrontation that could spill over before he grabbed their attention. [Stealth] helped, as did the relatively short distances involved.

His destination was a plinth on the plaza's west side. Directly in front of the administrative building, a brass plaque on its front face claimed it would one day house a statue of Imperator Savase. But for now, it was empty, save for a few scattered youths who had climbed up to lord over the rest of the crowd..

<Martyr…?> An old woman said from Alarion's right as he neared the plinth. It wasn't the chant of the crowd, but a question followed by recognition. <Martyr, in the West!>

A few others followed the line of her outstretched finger, and what had been an aimless chant of frustration and protest became a clarion call. Those nearby surged toward him, with some rushing forward, pushing and shoving.

It was dangerous; someone would get hurt.

With a bottomless pit of nausea in his stomach, Alarion drew Echo from his inner pocket and casually tossed the weapon over the plinth, taking care to aim high to avoid any awkward fatalities.

He flickered to the weapon and fell a few feet to the granite beneath. The young men atop it startled, one falling flat on his back in surprise. Alarion winced, thankful that none had been too close to the edge.

It took nearly a minute for recognition to travel through the crowd. It started in two places, with those who had seen him flicker into the sky, and those close enough to the plinth to notice the uniformed officer standing atop it. The one with white hair and a red scarf.

The excitement traveled like a wave, with heads turning, fists raised, and bodies surging. What had been an uneven circle of protesters quickly compressed into a semicircle around the front half of the plinth. Some attempted to climb, but were dragged and shouted down by others. The chant, which had been low and rhythmic among the crowd, had now reached a fever pitch. Even the cadence changed, no longer one, two-three but a persistent repetition.

<Martyr in the West! Martyr in the West! Martyr in the West!>

He would have been lying if he said he did not enjoy that moment. Standing atop the plinth, which was itself perched on the raised hill at the center of Ashad-Vitri, Alarion could see the ruins of the Old City. His vision was nowhere near good enough, but Alarion imagined he could see his old home, that squat white building half collapsed into the sands.

He could see Lily sitting atop the nearby café, coffee in one hand and her chin resting on the other. He hated her.

The crowd beneath him would have screamed itself hoarse if left to its own devices. The fervor in the air was almost religious, and Alarion knew from his lessons that this was how powerful Thoughtborn were created. If he could maintain that level of devotion, then in 100 years there would be a 'Martyr in the West' made in his image, or in their image of him.

It would probably be taller.

<Everyone,> Alarion started, and failed. He'd spoken too quietly, and the crowd was nowhere near settled. Rather than try again, he raised his hands. A roar erupted from the crowd, and he muttered a profanity under his breath as he lowered his palms down, as if stifling the noise with his will. It took a couple of attempts, but eventually the chaos subsided.

He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it just as quickly. He hadn't the faintest idea of what to say; he hadn't even been thinking during the crossing or anytime thereafter. A thousand eyes were staring up at him, and he had no idea what to say.

He looked back at Lily, as if hoping she could walk him through it at a distance.

Then he saw her.

"Sierra?" he asked no one.

She was sitting on the edge of the building, her legs dangling beneath her, kicking at the air as she waited for him to speak.

<I have lost!> Alarion shouted, looking not at the crowd—but at her. His voice cracked, but it rang across the plaza like a bell. The silence that followed felt too heavy by half.

<I lost my sisters, my mother. I failed those who took me in. More than once. I've been set back to the start more times than I care to remember. I understand your anger, your pain.>

A few murmurs rippled through the crowd, but no one dared interrupt. His voice was calm and dignified, but they all felt the wounds with each aching word.

<I wake up every morning with faces in my dreams,> he closed his eyes and pushed out with a pulse of [Unraveller's Sense]. The café was at the outer reaches of his skill, but when he touched 'Sierra', he recognized her for what she was. An Ashadi girl with pale skin and black hair. No figment of the boil, no faultless resurrection. A familiar face, nothing more. <I see them now in my waking hours. Not just those I failed to save. But the lives I have taken.>

<Strangers, enemies, even friends. I have the blood of false martyrs on my sword. Bones of Ashad, who felt ideals were more important than their own lives. Worth more than the lives of their countrymen!>

Alarion's voice grew firmer, not louder. He stepped forward on the plinth, wind tugging gently at his scarf. Righteous anger mixed with disgust as he thought back to the boil, to the things they had done to their own to make it possible.

<They were wrong. This Center would be king of the ashes. Or the dead. They take their name from our songs, but they have lost the melody! I do not hate, I pity! They are empty men, with empty hearts!>

He pointed viciously toward the Provincial Ministry.

<Those men are looking for an excuse to stomp the boot. And the Bones are hoping you will provide one.>

Alarion let the words hang. The hush that followed was reverent, brittle. The power was intoxicating. If he told them to tear the plaza apart—to tear each other apart, they would have done so without hesitation.

<You will do neither.>

A ripple of protest ran through the crowd, but for every man who raised a voice of complaint, ten more spoke up to silence him.

<I understand anger,> he told them. <I understand loss. You need someone to blame, someone to hurt. Even if it is yourselves. Or the man beside you. But no more.>

He drew a breath, his hands shaking at his side as he shouted.

<We fight to stay living, we don't kill for the dead! You want your voices to be heard. Bring your complaints to my doorstep, not as a mob, but as Ashadi! I will speak for you! I will fight for you! And we will have no more martyrs!>

The atmosphere had changed before he had finished speaking. The energy in the crowd remained, but the rage was gone, or redirected. Then the chant began anew.

<Martyr in the West! Martyr in the West! Martyr in the West!>

It took him an hour to get down from that plinth, and another to navigate the crowd back to the café. At his insistence, they did not follow him inside.

Which was good—because it would've undercut his stoic image to be seen throwing up all over a back hallway.

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