After Lieutenant Colonel Janet Harkness spoke with Colonel Reeves, the wheels of Pentagon bureaucracy began turning with the ponderous inevitability of a great machine awakening from slumber. The Pentagon’s Joint Operations Center transformed from its nocturnal quiet into a hive of controlled activity. Maps and satellite imagery flashed across screens as analysts worked to establish the fleet’s origin, composition, and—most critically—its intent. Within forty minutes, the Secretary of Defense had been awakened in his Georgetown home. Within the hour, the President himself was being briefed.

Thomas Bannister received the news of a foreign armada approaching American shores with grim stoicism. He sat in the dimly lit Situation Room, his weathered face illuminated by the blue glow of satellite imagery projected on the central screen. The room was quiet except for the soft whir of climate control and the occasional tap of fingers on keyboards. Around the table sat the most powerful people in America—his cabinet, military leaders, intelligence officials—all watching him with the tense expectation of a nation’s fate hanging in the balance.

“Continue,” Bannister said, his voice betraying nothing of the unease churning in his gut.

General Chen, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, cleared his throat. “Mr. President, as of 0400 hours, we’ve identified thirty distinct vessels. They continue to maintain formation, and their speed remains constant at seventeen knots.”

“Still no transponder signals? No radio communications?” Bannister asked, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“None, sir. We’ve attempted contact on all standard channels. Nothing but static,” Chen replied. “We’ve even tried older protocols, thinking they might be using antiquated systems.”

“Which leads one to suspect they may not have any electronic communications capability,” Bannister murmured. He paused. “And we still have no idea who they are? Could it be a remnant of a pre-Event naval force—Russian, Chinese, or perhaps even European?”

“Unlikely,” interjected Admiral Walsh, Commander of U.S. Fleet Forces Command. “No nation back home builds vessels of that configuration. The silhouette doesn’t match any known naval architecture. Speaking of which…” he gestured, and the screen switched to a different image. “We have a visual of the ships from one of our surveillance drones.”

Bannister stared. The vessel he saw in the picture, captured with perfect clarity from a relatively low elevation of three thousand feet, was unlike anything he had ever seen. It was a massive wooden vessel, reminiscent at first glance of the galleys used by the Barbary Corsairs of old, only this was much larger, with four towering masts and sails that caught the wind like great black wings. The hull was narrow and sleek like a dagger, with banks of oars that gave it the appearance of some enormous water-skimming beetle or abyssal crustacean. There was a lethal, graceful elegance about it that set his teeth on edge.

“Are those... cannons?” Bannister asked, leaning forward and pointing. “Along the port and starboard sides of the ship?”

“No, sir,” Walsh replied. “They appear to be some form of torsion-based artillery, similar to ballistae, but unlike any type known to our records and considerably more advanced. Each ship appears to carry at least twenty of these weapons on each side. Normally, a fleet of pre-industrial vessels, even vessels of this size, approaching our coast would be laughable, but we have no idea what capabilities the people aboard them may possess, and there is always the threat of sorcery. We simply do not know what we’re dealing with.”

Bannister’s jaw tightened. “Have we identified any flags or insignia?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” Walsh clicked the remote in his hand, and the screen switched to a shot of a long, streaming red banner emblazoned with a snowflake split by a jagged bolt of lightning. “Every vessel in the fleet sails under this banner. We are still working on identifying it, but based on the direction they're sailing from, and by back-tracking their trajectory to an estimated point of origin, we believe the fleet originated from near the Arctic pole, which in turn leads us to conclude it may be under the command of--"

"--The Dominion of Sarnath," Bannister finished, as the pieces began falling into place. Of course. It made sense now, he thought, and kicked himself for not seeing it sooner. The Dark Elf intelligence operative who'd been captured and then released must have made one hell of a report to whoever his superiors were, and his own analysts, as well as Ghalrak Dramz, had predicted the Dark Elves would soon make their move.

And what a move it was. A fleet of thirty enormous ships, sailing with deliberate purpose toward American shores.

“Sir,” said the Secretary of Defense, “we need to consider our response options. If these are indeed Dark Elves, we’re looking at a potential invasion force.”

"I disagree," said Hannah Ascher, the Secretary of State. "Sir, our new Dwarf friends and our own analysts have been telling us for weeks that the Dominion was going to do something to try and make up for lost time. We know, based on our intel from the Dominion scout's detainment, that the Dark Elves are a proud people. They really, really don't like being outmaneuvered, and if they think the Dwarves have stolen a march on them in opening diplomatic relations with us, it stands to reason the Dominion might make a very visible, very dramatic move to try and regain the initiative. I think what we're looking at is not a hostile naval force, but a diplomatic mission.”

“A diplomatic mission?” Admiral Walsh repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. “A diplomatic mission of dozens of warships, potentially thousands of troops, and God knows what else?"

“Exactly,” Ascher replied, leaning forward. “A show of force designed to impress us. To make us take them seriously. Think about it—the Dark Elves know we have technology that makes their most advanced weapons look primitive. But I’ll bet they've also figured out by now that we're not invincible either. They know, or at least suspect, that our supply chains are still fragile and we're still trying to get our footing back under us.”

Bannister nodded slowly. “You’re suggesting this is their way of establishing themselves as equals in our eyes.”

“Yes, sir. They want a seat at the table, but they don’t want to come to us as supplicants,” Ascher confirmed. “They want to do it on their terms. They want to demonstrate their power and capability before opening talks. It’s a classic diplomatic maneuver. A single ship is easily dismissed, but sending a fleet this size forces us to acknowledge them. They're telling without actually telling us that they're a sophisticated, serious power--one that possesses the technical expertise as well as the shipbuilding and engineering capacity to construct a navy of large, blue-water sailing vessels at scale, maintain them, provision them, arm them, crew them with what I suspect are professionally-trained sailors, coordinate them in large fleet maneuvers, and sail them across an ocean. For any power, of any age, that is no small feat in and of itself.”

She cleared her throat, then continued. “And it only confirms what our analysts have told us about the satellite images we've taken of the Dominion homeland to the north: that the Dominion of Sarnath possesses a level of industrial and military sophistication that rivals or exceeds any pre-industrial civilization on Earth. I would even go so far as to say they fit more neatly into the early industrial period, given the sheer size of some of the manufacturing complexes we’ve identified and the volume of smoke emanating from their industrial centers.”

General Chen frowned, his finger tapping impatiently on the table. “With all due respect, Secretary Ascher, that’s an awfully generous interpretation of a fleet of warships heading toward our coast. What if they’re not here to talk? What if they’re here to conquer?”

“I’m not suggesting we take them at face value,” Ascher replied. “But we need to be strategic in our response. If we meet their show of force with overwhelming military power, we risk escalating this into a conflict we can’t particularly afford right now. We should prepare for any contingency, yes. But we can’t afford to treat this like the opening salvo of a war until we have direct evidence of hostile intent.” She grinned. “Besides, the Dominion isn’t stupid. By now they know, or at least suspect, we have weapons that could sink every one of those ships before they got within a hundred miles of our coast.”

A silence settled over the room, heavy as velvet. Bannister weighed the argument, glancing from Ascher’s impassive face to the pinched skepticism of the uniformed men. He felt the familiar ache in his jaw—the first warning sign of a migraine—but forced himself to focus.

“Let’s assume you’re right,” he said to Ascher. “What would you recommend?”

“Send a fleet of our own to intercept them, but keep a significant buffer,” Ascher answered. “We maintain a show of strength, but don’t posture so aggressively that we force their hand. Prepare diplomatic channels for initial contact. If they truly intend a landing, we stage a reception team: military, but also diplomatic. We give them the opportunity to state their intent, and depending on what we learn, we can either open formal diplomatic talks…or blast them out of the water if we need to. In the meantime, we signal to them—not just with words, but with action—that we respect their strength but are not cowed by it.”

Bannister turned to Chen, whose face suggested he’d just swallowed a mouthful of vinegar. “General?”

“I’d recommend the same, with one caveat, sir: we need to prepare for unorthodox threats. Sabotage, information warfare, that kind of thing. Our military advantages may not translate one-to-one in this world, and we don’t know what these bastards are capable of.” He paused, then added, “I’d also recommend AI-driven monitoring for any anomalous activity. And forward deploy Marine Expeditionary Units to likely landing sites, with air cover on fifteen-minute ready.”

Bannister nodded without hesitation. “Do it. And Ascher, you and your people draft a message. Something that walks the line between respect, caution, and warning. Admiral Walsh, can you postulate their intended landing site based on current trajectory?”

“Yes, sir,” Walsh said. “Based on current trajectory and speed, we estimate they'll reach the eastern seaboard in approximately twelve days. We’ve plotted their most likely landing sites, though there’s still some variance in the projections; we are 87 percent sure that the target will be the Outer Banks of North Carolina, possibly around the abandoned military complex near the half-mothballed coastal defense complex at Cape Hatteras. The secondary probabilities put their landing further north, possibly as far as Sandy Hook, New Jersey, or as close as the Chesapeake Bay.” Walsh gave a tired, lopsided smile. “We’re surging every available asset to monitor and be ready. We need only your order on when and where to intercept them.”

Bannister had no intention of allowing a foreign armada so close to US shores without knowing their intentions first. “Assemble an interdiction force of suitable size—I leave its exact makeup to you—and position it at a distance of no less than two hundred nautical miles away from our coast. I want air and sea dominance established well before they come within range, but issue clear orders not to fire unless fired upon or credibly threatened. If these Dark Elves or whoever they are have come to talk, let’s hear them out. But if they’re here for a fight, I want it ended as quickly as possible”

“Yes, sir,” Walsh said, the tension at his jawline easing by a millimeter.

“Do you really think it will come to that, sir?” asked Ascher.

Bannister sighed. “I hope not. I truly do. We have enough on our plates already, and I am in no hurry to start a fight with anyone. But if we are, I’d rather be the one to fire the first and last shot—and end it as quickly as possible.”

Murmurs of agreement went around the room. No one doubted that if the destruction of the Dark Elf fleet became necessary to ensure the safety of the United States, Thomas Bannister would order it without hesitation.

For a moment, Bannister ruminated that there was a kind of clarity to be found in service such as the one he had dedicated his life to. Every morning when he woke up, he asked himself one simple question: “How can I best serve my country and ensure the maximum safety and prosperity for the American Republic?” If he couldn’t answer that question every hour of every day, he had no business sitting in this chair. And if the answer was war—well, then, Bannister would do what generations of American presidents had done before him, with cold efficiency and no apologies.

He turned from the table and dismissed the meeting with a curt gesture. The cabinet and brass understood; there was work to do, and none of it required another round of platitudes or empty resolve. The men and women in that room were experts at this game, the best in the world at projecting force and managing disaster, and Bannister knew when to let them do their job and get the hell out of their way.

And in due course, his orders went out. They went out to the Navy, the Air Force, and the National Guard. They were received by diplomats, naval attachés, and intelligence staffers. They disrupted the sleep of naval commanders, pilots, and military strategists across the Eastern Seaboard, who in turn set in motion the machinery of American military readiness.

The American military machine, though still recovering from the disruption of the Event, ground into motion with the efficiency that had made it the most formidable fighting force in human history back on Earth. Supply chains were activated, communications networks established, and contingency plans implemented with the precision of long practice. Shipyards and naval bases across the eastern seaboard exploded into activity. Airfields and air bases hummed with the sound of jet engines warming up. Fuel trucks rolled across tarmacs, ammunition was loaded into bunkers, and sailors and airmen scrambled to their stations as klaxons blared.

In the Pentagon, Admiral Walsh spent the next six hours assembling the interdiction force. He selected two America-class amphibious assault ships, the Tripoli and the Bougainville, as the centerpieces of the operation, flanked by three Arleigh Burke-class guided-missile destroyers: the Curtis Wilbur, the Russell, and the John Ericsson. Their Aegis combat systems, advanced sensors, and long-range missiles would provide the backbone of the surface screen. A Virginia-class attack submarine would provide underwater surveillance and support, while detachments of F-35B Lightning II fighters stood ready. Naval aviation and long-endurance reconnaissance drones would monitor the Dark Elf fleet’s approach.

By lunchtime, the task force’s sensors, satellites, submarines, and aircraft had stitched together a nearly continuous picture of the approaching fleet and the wider battlespace. Every ship, every sail, every course change was being tracked, logged, analyzed, and updated in real time. Nothing in the operating area was moving without the U.S. Navy knowing about it.

Walsh was a professional. He had his orders. He had no intention of firing the first shot. But if the newcomers proved hostile, he intended to ensure there would not be a second.

He briefly considered using the USS Gerald R. Ford or one of her sister ships as the flagship of the interdiction fleet, but ultimately rejected the idea. A supercarrier would be interpreted—correctly—as a signal that Washington was preparing for war. That was not the message he wanted to send. The Tripoli and Bougainville were more than sufficient for the task. To the newcomers who had never seen their like before, they would still appear immense; to the United States Navy, they were a measured response. Besides, the Ford and her sisters were strategic assets with commitments around the globe—including this new one. There was no sense pulling a carrier strike group off station merely to make a point.

Meanwhile, Hannah Ascher and her team worked to establish diplomatic first-contact protocols and draft a message that would walk the diplomatic tightrope Bannister had ordered. The words had to be precise—respectful enough to acknowledge the Dark Elves as a serious power, but firm enough to establish clear boundaries. Too soft, and they might interpret it as weakness; too harsh, and they might see it as provocation.

Ascher knew the stakes. If this was indeed a diplomatic overture from the Dominion, the wrong words, the slightest misinterpreted movement or action, could turn it into a conflict. The task reminded her of a movie she'd seen once as a teen, in which Earth was visited by aliens and humans had to figure out how to communicate with them without accidentally starting a war. The stakes now felt even higher.

She pushed her chair back from the conference table and rubbed her eyes. The draft was nearly finished, but something about it still didn’t feel right. Too formal? Too casual? The nuances of language had never seemed so fraught with danger.

“Let me see that again,” she said to her deputy, who slid the document across the table.

Ascher took one look at it and slid it back. "Too threatening. Try again."

None of these preparations brought any comfort to President Bannister, though. The fact remained: however overwhelming American power appeared on paper, in practice, they didn’t know what they were up against. It was one thing to outgun and outmaneuver familiar adversaries, but these Dark Elves were a relative unknown factor aside from what the Dwarves had already told him, and then there was the added risk factor of magic. Despite the best efforts of DARPA and the best minds in the country, the United States still understood almost nothing about how exactly the use of magic in this strange new world worked, and more importantly, what its limits were and what a trained battlemage or sorcerer could do when pitted against modern technology. There was just no way of knowing what nasty surprises these visitors had in store in the event diplomacy failed.

Thomas Bannister ground his teeth so hard the molars creaked. The idea that Dark Elves or anyone else had something in their arsenal that could give the US pause prickled his pride. By any metric, the United States was a global superpower on a level never seen before. No empire in human history had possessed America’s combination of reach, firepower, industry, and technical sophistication. The idea that there might be a trapdoor in reality, an X-factor that could render all this muscle and steel moot, was as infuriating as it was terrifying.

All the more reason, he thought, to try his best to meet these strangers with an open hand instead of a closed fist. If the Dark Elves were as skilled in magic as Ghalrak Dramz had suggested, then they represented a gold mine of intelligence—provided the United States could keep the encounter diplomatic long enough to learn anything.

Thousands of miles away, in the great stern cabin aboard the Umbra, Lady Nyrena was learning a great deal about the dangerous, foreign humans her queen had charged her with taming. The books Varthiel Arakanos had brought back from his confinement proved to be the single most valuable piece of intelligence the Dominion could have hoped for. They were a treasure trove of information, and Nyrena sat hunched over in her chair as she pored over them.

Translating them had been pathetically easy. Nyrena didn’t have to ask any of the mages aboard the fleet to do it. Her own skill with the Art was more than sufficient for the task, and now she devoured them like a hungry zburator.

She flipped a page and took a sip of vintage frostberry wine. It had been in the bottle for more than five centuries—perfectly aged by Dark Elf standards. Nyrena was halfway through a massive tome covering the first 150 years of American history and…well, melodramatic, really, almost comically so. It was as if the humans had intentionally gone out of their way to make their history as sensational as possible. But the more she read, the more she realized the truth was stranger than fiction. These humans had risen from a collection of colonies to become a superpower in less than three centuries—an astonishing feat by any standard, even Dark Elf reckoning.

Nyrena set down her wineglass and leaned back, her pale fingers drumming thoughtfully on the arm of her chair. The Americans were dangerous in ways she hadn’t fully appreciated before. Not just their weapons—those were impressive enough—but their energy, their relentless drive, and their belief in their own exceptionalism. It reminded her uncomfortably of her own people’s sense of superiority.

She pushed such illogical thoughts aside and forced her mind to calm, to distill what she’d learned into bullet points.

One: The Americans were a proud people. They had a history of responding to perceived slights with overwhelming force. They had, at various points in their history, responded to aggression and insults by razing cities to the ground and starving the survivors into submission.

Two: They were remarkably resilient. The book detailed numerous crises that should have destroyed them—civil wars, economic collapses, external threats—yet they had emerged stronger each time. These were not people who would crumble under pressure. The Dominion underestimated this resilience at its peril.

Three: They valued their independence above all else. The Americans had fought a bloody war to break their nation free from what they perceived as an oppressive empire, and an even bloodier one to preserve it. They would not willingly submit to any foreign power, no matter how sophisticated or ancient, and would almost certainly react with extreme violence if they thought they were being manipulated. Nyrena would have to handle them with exacting care to ensure her subtle machinations to bend them to the Dominion’s will and purpose were never discovered.

She paused for a moment, taking another sip of wine. Nyrena considered herself a learned noblewoman, but the Americans’ civil war had an almost theatrical tragedy to it she hadn’t encountered before. It read as if penned by a playwright—not just as a history, but as drama: brother fighting brother, neighbor against neighbor, butchery on an almost industrial scale. Privately, Nyrena thought the entire exercise was one of absolute stupidity. The Dark Elves would never have tolerated such division, would have crushed it long before it ever reached a boiling point. Still, the Americans had endured the catastrophe where other human kingdoms would have collapsed from it, and that merited a certain grudging respect. That dogged resilience again, she thought.

Four: They were deeply suspicious of authority, even their own. Their system of government was deliberately designed to limit the power of any single individual or institution. This meant that any attempt to negotiate with them would require patience and a willingness to navigate a labyrinth of competing interests and formal and informal power centers in order to build and expand her web of influence. Thankfully, patience was something which the Sar’Kadan never had in short supply.

Five: They were frighteningly adaptable. The book detailed how they had absorbed and integrated millions of people from across the world they'd been transported from, creating a culture that was both diverse and uniquely American. This ability to incorporate new ideas and people was perhaps their greatest strength.

At the same time, however, Nyrena suspected that Americans exaggerated the importance of individual liberty in their own historical accounts. That made perfect sense to her because the accounts, from what she understood, were apparently penned mainly for domestic consumption. Freedom could serve a ruling government well as a slogan and propaganda tool to shepherd the masses, but no civilization of such size and complexity could truly function without some kind of guiding elite. Sooner or later, someone always took hold of the reins. It was simply the nature of power. The Americans liked to imagine themselves independent, but Nyrena suspected that, like all human societies, they would ultimately follow and defer to whichever institutions proved competent enough to lead them. The challenge, then, would not be discovering whether such institutions existed, but identifying them for manipulation and influence in order to ensure they remained favorable to the Dominion's interests and, just as importantly, to sideline the Dwarves.

Six: Their leadership changed regularly, which meant long-term strategies would need to account for shifting priorities. Unlike the Dominion, where Queen Alarae’s reign was eternal, American administrations lasted mere years. That presented both problems and potential opportunities.

Her musings were interrupted when the cabin door opened without a knock. Nyrena did not have to look up to know who was striding into her quarters.

“Lord Zareth,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Of course, it wasn’t a pleasure at all. Lord Zareth had been the sole member of the Twilight Council to speak out against the expedition, and his insistence on accompanying it had surprised her at first until Nyrena realized he was there solely to undermine her. She knew Zareth viewed her as an arrogant upstart and the Americans as a threat to be crushed, and was determined to put both in what he believed was their proper place.

“Still reading their clumsy scrawlings, Lady Nyrena?” Zareth scoffed, gesturing dismissively at the books scattered across her desk. “How quaint. Tell me, are they able to write a coherent sentence or are their scribblings more akin to cave paintings?”

Nyrena closed the book with deliberate care, marking her place with a ribbon. She took a moment to summon her patience and school her face to an icy calm before replying. “Perhaps if you had taken the time to read them yourself, Lord Zareth, you would have a more informed opinion,” Nyrena replied, her voice cool and measured. “But I suppose that would require you to set aside your prejudices for a moment.”

Zareth’s face darkened as he moved further into the cabin, his black robes sweeping the floor. “My prejudices, as you call them, are based on millennia of experience. These humans are nothing more than clever animals—fleeting, destructive, and ultimately beneath our notice.”

“And yet here we are,” Nyrena said, gesturing around her cabin, “sailing toward them with the full weight of the Dominion behind us. One might wonder why we would bother with creatures so far beneath our notice.”

The barb struck home. Zareth’s jaw tightened, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords.

“Because our Queen has been persuaded by your honeyed words,” he spat. “But I am not so easily swayed.”

“It would take no less than a god to persuade our Queen of anything,” Nyrena said. “She made her decision based on sound reasoning and strategic insight. She gave her blessing to this mission because she saw its wisdom. Something you would do well to remember when you speak of her decisions…or dare question them.”

Zareth’s eyes narrowed to slits, and for a moment the air in the cabin seemed to thicken, as though the very atmosphere was being compressed by the force of his disdain. He had not risen to his position on the Council by being a fool, and he was not blind to the power dynamics at play. Nyrena was the Queen’s favorite—for now—and Zareth knew better than to openly question the sovereign’s wisdom. But there were other ways to plant doubt, other channels through which a seed of suspicion could be nurtured until it grew into something that could not be ignored.

For a moment, Nyrena thought he might lash out at her with a spell or sudden attack. Zareth was, by all accounts, the second most powerful sorcerer in the Dominion, second only to the Queen herself. In a duel of magic, she was no match for him.

But Zareth merely straightened his robes and composed himself, the momentary flash of magical energy dissipating like smoke.

“You are correct, Lady Nyrena. The Queen’s word is law.” His voice dripped with false deference. “I merely wonder if her faith in your abilities is… misplaced. These humans have already shown themselves to be treacherous. They captured and interrogated your scout. And now we sail into their waters with nothing but your assurances that they will not respond with violence.”

He advanced another measured step, the black silk of his robes whispering against the floorboards. “Forgive my candor, Lady, but I believe these primitives are capable of far worse than you imagine. Their cunning is that of cornered beasts. They will smile and parley, perhaps even pledge peace, but the moment our vigilance wavers, they will strike for the jugular. It is in their nature. You may have been deceived by their pageantry, but I assure you, the Dominion will pay for your naiveté with blood and flame.”

Nyrena rose from her chair, her movements deliberate and graceful. She crossed to the cabin window and gazed out at the fleet trailing behind the Umbra, their black sails catching the wind like dark wings against the blue sky. The sight of thirty warships cutting through the water should have filled her with confidence. Instead, it only heightened her awareness of the stakes.

“The Americans will not attack us,” Nyrena said, keeping her expression remote, her tone cool and even. She did not turn from the window. Her reflection—a pale, self-assured mask—gazed back at her from the glass, the fleet stretched behind like a cloak. “From everything I have learned, it is not in their nature to attack first—unless they sense some clear and immediate threat. They respond to aggression, to insult, to existential peril, but they do not start wars for glory or whim. Their history is strikingly consistent in this pattern.” She allowed herself a moment’s satisfaction at Zareth’s dour scowl, then continued, “If we approach them with respect and strength—not supplication, but an assertion of equals—they will reciprocate, at least initially.”

Zareth snorted. “And you base this assessment on what? The scribblings of their historians? Their self-serving accounts of their own glory?”

“On their patterns of behavior over centuries,” Nyrena replied, turning from the window to face him. “Their military doctrine emphasizes overwhelming force in response to direct threats, but they are remarkably restrained when it comes to initiating conflict. They prefer to exhaust diplomatic options first. And even in times of conflict, they are restrained by a cult-like reverence for a document called a ‘Constitution’ which places severe restrictions on their own leaders’ ability to wage war. They are, in many ways, their own most formidable obstacle.”

Nyrena stepped closer to Zareth. “That restraint, that reluctance to strike first, is precisely what we will take advantage of. They will hesitate just long enough for us to establish ourselves as equals rather than threats.”

Zareth’s expression soured further. “And you believe these self-imposed limitations will protect us? That they will hesitate to use their weapons because of some ancient document?”

“I believe they will hesitate to use them without provocation,” Nyrena corrected, her voice sharpening. “Which is precisely why we must not provide any. Our fleet is a statement of power, not a declaration of war. The Americans will recognize the difference—if we present it correctly.”

Zareth’s expression remained skeptical and borderline contemptuous. “And what of their weapons?” he asked. “The scout reported machines that could fly without magic, ships that moved without sails or oars. Are we simply to pretend these are not threats?”

“Of course not,” Nyrena replied, her voice sharpening. “I am not blind to their capabilities. But I also recognize that they are not invincible. They have a number of internal weaknesses—supply chains still severed after their arrival here, political divisions, and a deep-seated reluctance to commit to prolonged conflict, to name a few. These are all vulnerabilities we can turn to our benefit.”

Zareth’s lip curled in disgust. “You speak as though we should be grateful for their restraint. We are the Sar’Kadan of the Dominion of Sarnath, Lady Nyrena. These newcomers should be grateful we have not crushed them already.”

“And yet,” Nyrena said, her voice silky with barely concealed scorn, “Here we are, because the Queen recognizes what you refuse to see—that these Americans represent both danger and opportunity. Sooner or later, their arts of making and other knowledge will begin to seep out and spread across Loriath. If that happens unchecked, every kingdom, every empire, every petty warlord could have access to their technology within a generation. We cannot stop that tide—but we can control it. We can ensure that the Dominion is the primary beneficiary of that knowledge, not its victim. Otherwise, we risk the Dominion becoming a target of conquest by those who should be our inferiors—or failing that, reduced to irrelevance. The Dwarves have already positioned themselves as friends to these humans, because they came to this understanding before we did. They realized that these newcomers will change the balance of power in Loriath forever. They have stolen a march on us, and now we must catch up.”

Zareth’s crimson gaze flickered with a glint of something like amusement, or perhaps it was just the predatory gleam he wore whenever baiting a rival. “It is difficult to imagine that such creatures can herald change of that scale,” he said, letting the syllables hang like a cloud of poison in the center of the room. “They are humans, Lady Nyrena. Short-lived, impulsive, and driven by base emotions. Little better than apes.”

Nyrena arched an eyebrow—not out of surprise, but as a deliberate signal of contempt. Inwardly, she fought the urge to rail at his short-sightedness. “Which makes them all the more dangerous, Lord Zareth. Every civilization that has dismissed them as harmless has paid for it in ruin. And these particular humans have built an empire that spans a continent in the span of centuries rather than millennia. They are voracious, and they are effective.”

She crossed the cabin, the soles of her soft boots barely making a sound on the lacquered wood, and selected a volume from the collection on her desk. The book was a battered thing, its cover adorned with the proud visage of a bald eagle. She flipped open to a page marked with a sliver of silk. “Consider this,” she said, her voice sharpening: “In their first major war as an independent nation, they defeated the greatest military power of their time. They did so not through superior numbers or technology, but through a combination of resilience, strategic patience, and the willingness to endure extraordinary suffering. They lost more battles than they won, yet still forced their enemy to capitulate. And that is a pattern repeated throughout their history.”

Zareth’s lip curled in visible disgust, but he listened. He was too much a student of intrigue to ignore meaningful data, even when it wounded his pride.

“Resilience?” he echoed, prowling nearer. “That is what you call it? I see only pigheaded stubbornness. Refusal to recognize their betters. An inability to accept their place in the world.”

“And yet they keep winning,” Nyrena replied, laying the book flat on the desk. “That’s what matters, Lord Zareth. Not how you feel about them, not how you wish the world to be, but what is.”

Zareth’s face darkened further. Shadows seemed to gather under his brow, and the air between them took on the electric chill of an oncoming storm. “And what if you are wrong, Lady Nyrena?” He stepped so close that the tips of their boots nearly touched, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “What if your precious books have misled you? What if these humans see our fleet not as a diplomatic mission but as an invasion force? Have you considered that possibility?”

The challenge was naked, the implication deadly. Nyrena did not shrink from it. She met Zareth’s gaze with a steady, unblinking calm, her pupils narrowing to thin points. “I have considered every possibility, Lord Zareth. That is why I am here, and why you are not leading this expedition.”

The air between them crackled with tension. Zareth’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the faintest shimmer of magical energy dancing across his knuckles.

Then, as quickly as it began, the tension ended. Zareth brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulders. “I will leave you to your… studies,” he said. “But mark my words, Lady Nyrena. If your assessment proves wrong—if these humans respond to our presence with violence—the blood will be on your hands. And the Council will know exactly who to blame.”

He turned on his heel and swept from the cabin, leaving Nyrena alone with her thoughts and the faint scent of ozone that always lingered after Zareth’s magical displays. She stood motionless for a moment, then returned to her chair, her composure cracking just enough to allow a sigh of frustration.

The man was insufferable. Brilliant, powerful, and utterly convinced of his own infallibility—a dangerous combination in anyone, let alone the second most powerful mage in the Dominion. His presence aboard the Umbra was a constant reminder that despite the Queen’s favor, Nyrena’s position remained precarious.

It mattered not. Nyrena would succeed at her mission. And when she did, she would see Zareth and those like him choke on their contempt. She would be the one who brought the Americans into Sarnath’s orbit, the one who secured their knowledge, their technology, their strange and terrible weapons for the Dominion’s use.

Oh, such a cautious courtship the Americans would require. Yet if properly guided, what heights might the Dominion reach standing atop their shoulders? What a coup it would be to harness America’s power and make it the Dominion’s own, to yoke it in service of Sarnath’s grand designs. The Queen would reward her accordingly, and Zareth and the rest of his doddering reactionary ilk would be relegated to the dustbin of history.

Nyrena took a deep breath and opened the book again. There was still much left to learn before they made landfall. The Americans were a puzzle, complex and contradictory, and she intended to understand every piece before she attempted to solve it.

And she was certain the Americans already knew her fleet was coming. Their gods-damned eyes, their satellite-machines, meant that they would have detected her fleet long before it entered their waters. This was not a surprise to Nyrena—she had anticipated it. In fact, she had counted on it. The longer the Americans had to observe her approach, the more time they would have to prepare, to consider, to deliberate. And deliberation, as she had learned from their history, was the American way.

Nyrena allowed herself a small, cold smile. Let them prepare. Let them marshal their forces and devise their strategies. She had spent weeks studying their history, their psychology, their patterns of behavior. She understood them better now, had the measure of them. When the time came for first contact, she would be ready.

Santa Fe, New Mexico

On the morning of the scheduled day of his departure to start Youth Frontier Corps training—the same morning when, hundreds of miles and half a continent away, President Bannister received his classified briefing on the Dark Elf fleet approaching U.S. shores—Raul Lopez woke at precisely five a.m. Not a minute before, not a second late—the time he’d set in his phone alarm, and in his mind, the night before. He lay on his back in the stillness of predawn, listening to the slow oscillation of ceiling fan blades and the arrhythmic click of the radiator. For a moment, Raul waited for the spike of nerves or the surge of excitement that, in theory, should accompany a day like this. Nothing came. If anything, the moment felt bittersweet. As far as he knew, this would be the last time he saw home for the next few years.

He sat up, feeling the heaviness of the single blanket pooled around his legs, and regarded the rectangle of darkness at the window. His duffel and battered backpack sat by the door, packed tight the night before: roll-collar shirts, three changes of cargo pants, socks (four pairs, crew cut), underwear, shaving kit, and a handful of paperback books for downtime if he had any. The duffel was a hand-me-down from his uncle with faded Marine Corps stenciling still visible on the side. Raul had repurposed the luggage tag with a strip of blue painter’s tape and a name in permanent marker: LOPEZ, R.

He moved quietly out of bed, careful not to creak the floorboards, and shrugged on a clean t-shirt and sweats. In the hall, the air held a faint must of cumin and old paint. The only light came from the night bulbs Nana insisted on plugging into every outlet—tiny glowing dots that lit the way to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror: broad nose, close-cropped black hair, soft bags under eyes that had not slept well, but a jaw set with the same dogged resolve his father wore in every photo. Raul washed his face, brushed his teeth, then took a brief but hot shower.

When he was done, Raul dressed in his stiff new Corps-issued tan fatigues. He smoothed the shirt, adjusted the belt, and slung both bags over his shoulder. It was barely 5:30 when he padded softly down the stairs, guided by the smell of burning gas and the faintest trace of flour.

Raul paused at the bottom landing, in the hush that belonged to early risers and insomniacs, and listened. He heard the gurgle of the coffeemaker, a scrape of ceramic on tile, and the muffled, arrhythmic hum of an old ranchera tune from the radio in the kitchen. Something about that music—so out of place at this hour, so resolutely cheerful—brought a spike of warmth to his chest. He stood in the shadowed archway, taking in the scene of his family’s kitchen and trying to fix the memory of it in his mind: linoleum floors with their worn patches, the mismatched chairs, Nana’s embroidered dish towels, the calendar on the wall turned to June and already marked with homemade notes in red ink.

When he got to the kitchen, he saw that his grandmother was already up. More, he saw that Nana, God bless her, had made a smorgasbord of his favorites. How long had the old woman been up cooking? Hours, probably. The table was covered with dishes: fresh tortillas, carne adovada, huevos rancheros, beans, and a pot of hot chocolate that filled the kitchen with the sweet scent of cocoa, cinnamon, and vanilla. There were even churros, golden, piping-hot, and dusted with sugar, arranged carefully on a plate.

Nana stood at the stove, her back to him, flipping another tortilla on the comal. She hadn’t heard him enter. For a moment, Raul just watched her, this small, indomitable woman who had survived cartels and border crossings and the death of a husband. If he had even a fraction of her toughness, he’d pass his training with flying colors.

“Buenos días, Nana,” he said softly. “You’re up early.”

Nana turned from the stove, spatula in hand, and gave him a wry smile. “Did you think I would let my grandson leave on an empty stomach, and without seeing him off?” She clicked her tongue. “Sit. Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

“I’m not letting you go without a goodbye either,” said his mother, walking into the kitchen and sitting down next to her son. “ She wore rumpled clothes, as if she’d slept in them. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and Raul noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes. She’d been crying—not recently, but the evidence lingered in the slight puffiness around her eyelids.

“Did you sleep at all, Mama?” he asked, concern in his tone as he wolfed down his food.

She shook her head, a small, tired smile gracing her lips. “How could I, with my son leaving for who knows how long?”

“I’ll be fine,” Raul said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “They’ve got medics and everything. It’s not like I’m going to war. And I’ll be able to visit. They’ll give us leave. I’ll be back before you know it.”

His mother squeezed his hand, her dark eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’d better call every week. I mean it, Raul. Every single week.”

“I will,” he promised, squeezing back.

Nana refilled his plate, which now stood empty. “Eat,” she said again. “You’ll need your strength for whatever they throw at you.”

Raul obeyed, and gladly. He tore into the carne adovada, the tender pork falling apart under his fork, the red chili sauce rich and smoky on his tongue. The tortillas were still warm from the comal, soft and pliable, and he used them to scoop up beans and eggs in equal measure. The hot chocolate was thick, almost syrupy, the way Nana always made it—sweet enough to mask the bitterness of the cocoa, spiced with cinnamon and a whisper of vanilla that clung to the back of his throat.

Nana waited for Raul to finish his second helping before she quietly left the table and went to the glass-fronted cabinet above the freezer. The cabinet was usually off-limits, a repository for old crystal, chipped holiday mugs, and, very occasionally, bottles of contraband. She stood on her toes to reach the top shelf, rummaging for a moment before extracting a large glass decanter whose contents shone a shade of dark gold even in the weak morning light.

She set it—and a single, tiny shot glass—on the table with the solemnity of a priest at the altar. “This was your grandfather’s,” she said, her voice soft but heavy with memory. “He brought it with him from Sinaloa. The finest tequila in all the state—or so he claimed. He never told me how he got it, or from whom." There was pride in her voice, a sadness too—a nostalgic longing, perhaps, or the ache of remembering a version of herself and her husband that still existed only in these stories. “I have saved it all these years. It is not the kind of thing you drink with friends or after a bad day. It is what you use to mark moments of importance, like this one." She poured a measure of amber liquid into the glass and set it before him. “Drink. For courage. For luck. For coming home safe. God bless and keep you, Raul Antonio Lopez.”

Raul picked up the glass, feeling the weight of it in his palm. Technically, he knew he wasn’t old enough to drink yet, but he’d sooner cross the law than turn down this special gesture, so he raised it to his nose and inhaled. Raul wasn’t an expert on alcohol by any stretch, but it smelled very fine and very expensive, with elements of oak, agave, and something earthier underneath, like the soil after a heavy rain.

“Salud,” he said, and drank.

The tequila burned a clean line down his throat, like liquid fire, but it wasn’t harsh or bitter the way he expected it to be. It was surprisingly smooth and slid down easily, landing in his stomach in an expanding ball of pleasant heat that radiated outward until his body was suffused with it.

“Your grandfather would be so proud of you,” Nana said, her voice softer than usual. “He left everything behind to give this family a chance. Now you’re doing the same.” She reached across the table and placed her weathered hand over his. “You have his fire, mijo. I saw it the moment you were born.”

Raul swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat.“Gracias, Nana,” he said, his voice rougher than before.

She took the glass back and refilled it, just once. “Finish it,” Nana commanded. “Then we pray.”

Raul downed it in a single gulp. Then he slid from his chair and knelt on the worn linoleum floor. His mother and Nana joined him, though with considerable effort on Nana’s part. Her small frame trembled slightly as she lowered herself beside him.

“Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo,” she began, her voice steady and strong.

Raul bowed his head, feeling the familiar words wash over him. His mother’s hand found his, her fingers cold and trembling. He squeezed gently, offering what comfort he could. When Nana was finished, she rose creakily to her feet—shooing away his attempt to help her—and said, “We will drive you to the drop-off, Raul. We insist. You have the address?”

“Yes, Nana. It was in the email the YFC sent me when they approved my application,” Raul said, pulling the folded printout from his back pocket. “It’s at the old National Guard armory on Cerrillos Road. They’re supposed to have buses waiting.” He pulled a folded piece of paper with the address scribbled on it from his pocket and handed it to Nana, who examined it with the same meticulous care she gave to reading medicine labels or grocery receipts.

“Good,” she said, tucking it into the front pocket of her apron. “Then let us not delay. The drop-off is at seven, and we must leave soon.”

Raul’s mother rose from her knees, her eyes red-rimmed but dry now. She brushed imaginary dust from her rumpled pants and straightened her shoulders with visible effort. “I will get your sisters up to say goodbye,” she said, her voice steadier than Raul expected. “They would never forgive me if they slept through this.”

She disappeared down the hallway, and Raul heard the soft murmur of her voice as she woke the girls. The house stirred around him—floorboards creaking, water running in the bathroom, the high-pitched squeal of Lucia’s voice protesting the early hour. Raul felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he heard his sisters’ protests turn to understanding. He glanced at Nana, who stood watching him with that knowing expression she’d worn since he was a boy—the one that said she saw right through his brave face.

“The girls will be a mess,” Nana said, moving to wrap the remaining churros in wax paper. “Especially Lucia. She doesn’t understand why you have to go.”

“I know,” Raul replied, helping her place the wrapped food in a small paper bag. “But she’ll be okay eventually. She’s tougher than she looks.”

The sound of small feet thundering down the hallway announced his sisters’ arrival. Elena, eleven and already showing signs of the beauty that would one day turn heads, came first. Her dark hair was tangled from sleep, her eyes wide and solemn as they fixed on Raul’s uniform.

“You look like a grown-up,” she said.

Raul felt something crack inside his chest. Elena had always been the quiet one, the observer. She always understood more than she let on, and the way she looked at him now—with those dark, serious eyes that missed nothing—told him she knew exactly what his departure meant.

He glanced down at his uniform, suddenly self-conscious. The tan fabric felt stiff and foreign against his skin, the buttons gleaming under the kitchen light.

“Yeah?” he said, running his hand over the front of the shirt. “I guess I do.”

Lucia appeared behind her sister, rubbing her eyes with small fists. At eight, she was all knees and elbows, her pajamas hanging loose on her thin frame. When she saw Raul in his uniform, her face crumpled like wet paper.

“No,” she said, her voice small but firm. “You’re not going.” Then she launched herself at him, burying her face against his chest. Her small body shook with silent sobs that soaked through his shirt.

“I have to, princesa,” he murmured into her hair.

“But why?” Lucia’s voice pitched higher. “Why can’t you stay here with us? Do you not like us anymore?”

The question hit Raul harder than any physical blow. He pulled her into a tight hug, feeling her small body shake against his chest. “Of course I like you. I love you. That’s why I’m doing this. Sometimes, to take care of the people you love, you have to go away for a little while so you can come back and take better care of them later.”

Lucia pulled back, her tear-streaked face scrunched in confusion. “But I don’t want better care later. I want you here now.”

Raul swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. He knelt down to Lucia’s level, brushing the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. “I know you do, princesa. And I want to be here too. But this is something I have to do—for all of us.”

“You’ll forget about us,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling.

“Never.” He tapped her nose gently. “Not ever. You’re my sister.”

“I’m your only sister,” she said, momentarily distracted. “Elena doesn’t count.”

Elena rolled her eyes. “I’m standing right here, you know.”

Raul smiled, grateful for the momentary break in tension. “You’re both my favorites. I couldn’t choose between you.”

“Even when she’s being a brat?” Elena asked, nodding toward Lucia.

“Especially then,” Raul said, pulling them both into a hug. The two girls hugged back so hard he thought they might squeeze the air from his lungs.

“Promise me you’ll be good,” he whispered. “Listen to Mama and Nana. Help with Carlos. And no fighting.”

“We promise,” they said in unison.

He held them for a long moment, memorizing their faces, the scent of sleep and strawberry shampoo that clung to their hair. When he finally released them, he saw his mother standing in the doorway, her eyes glistening.

“Come on,” Nana said, breaking the silence with her usual practicality. “We need to get going if we’re going to make it on time. Girls, back to sleep. You have school this morning. Mama and I will be back soon.” She pointed at them with a gnarled finger. “And God help you if I come back and you’re out of bed.”

Both girls nodded. “Yes, Nana.” Then Elena led Lucia, still looking over her shoulder at Raul, back down the hall to the bedroom they shared.

When the door closed behind them, Raul felt the weight of the moment settle over him like a physical thing. He would have liked to say goodbye to his baby brother too, but Carlos was still sleeping, and Raul didn’t have the heart to wake him up; if he did, Carlos would be grumpy all day, and Mama didn’t need that.

It was still dark out when the three of them headed outside to the small truck that served as the family car. It had seen better days, but Raul had always done his best to make sure it was in good working order. A new car was so far out of their budget it might as well have been on the moon. His mother slid into the driver’s seat, Nana into the passenger seat. There was no back seat, so Raul sat in the bed of the truck next to his luggage. He didn’t mind.

The engine coughed to life on the first try, and they pulled away from the curb with a lurch that rattled the bags against the metal bed. Raul braced himself with one hand, the other gripping the duffel’s strap, and watched the familiar shapes of his neighborhood slide past in the predawn gray. The Ramirez house with its peeling green trim. The corner bodega where Mr. Flores had given him free chips on his birthday every year since he was eight. The basketball hoop at the park, rusted at the rim, netting long gone but still standing, where he’d spent most of his teenage afternoons shooting alone until the light failed. The park where he’d worked up the nerve to ask out Ashley Harlowe last year, only to be turned down. The bakery on Guadalupe Street where he’d been going since he was a child. He remembered how, back when he was a grade schooler, old Mrs. Andrews behind the counter used to give him a free donut if he showed her good grades on his report card.

Raul watched the familiar landscape roll by and tried to commit each detail to memory—the way the dawn light caught the edges of the rooftops, the particular curve of the road as it wound toward the highway. He didn’t know when he’d see these streets again, or what they might look like when he returned.

His mother drove the way she did everything—carefully, with both hands on the wheel, her back straight and her eyes fixed on the road ahead. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left the house. She was holding herself together through sheer force of will, the way she always did when things got hard. Raul felt a surge of guilt mixed with pride. She’d raised four children mostly alone, working two jobs, never complaining. And now he was leaving her to handle everything by herself.

Nana, beside her, kept her hands folded primly in her lap and her gaze forward, though Raul could see the wetness in her eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.

It took the better part of an hour to reach the old armory. When they finally turned into the parking lot, Raul’s breath caught. The place was already swarming with activity. Dozens of buses idled in neat rows, their engines creating a low hum that vibrated through the morning air. Young men and women in identical tan fatigues milled about, some standing alone with their bags, others clustered in nervous groups. Parents hovered nearby, their faces wearing the same complicated expression Raul had seen on the faces of his loved ones that morning—pride fighting grief, hope wrestling with fear.

The truck lurched to a stop near the entrance, and Raul’s mother killed the engine. For a moment, nobody spoke.

Nana was the one who eventually broke it by unbuckling her seatbelt with a decisive click. “Come,” she said. “Let us not delay.”

Raul hopped down from the truck bed and slung his duffel over one shoulder and his backpack over the other. The morning air was cooler here, away from the city, with a crispness that carried the scent of piñon and sage.

For a moment, he just stood there and watched the organized chaos of the departure zone. Drill instructors in crisp uniforms moved through the crowd with the efficiency of sheepdogs, herding recruits toward their designated buses. The sound of shouted instructions and slamming doors created a strange symphony against the backdrop of whispered goodbyes.

His mother stepped out of the truck, her movements stiff, her face carefully composed. Nana followed, moving with the deliberate grace that belied her eighty-two years.

“You have everything?” his mother asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Toothbrush? Extra socks?”

“The churros I packed you for the road?” added Nana.

“Everything,” Raul assured them, patting his backpack. “I even packed the small Bible Nana gave me last Christmas.”

His mother nodded, her eyes darting around the crowd as if searching for something to focus on besides the moment at hand. “Good. That’s good.”

They reached the check-in table where a woman in a crisp uniform sat behind a folding table, clipboard in hand. She glanced up at Raul with the practiced efficiency of someone who had processed hundreds of recruits that morning.

“Name?” she asked, pen poised.

“Raul Lopez,” he replied, straightening his shoulders.

She scanned her list, found his name, and checked it off with a quick flick of her wrist. “Bus forty-two. That way.” She pointed toward a row of identical vehicles. “Next!”

Raul turned to face his mother and grandmother. The moment he’d been dreading had arrived.

His mother’s composure cracked. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she pulled him into a fierce embrace. “Come back to us,” she whispered against his ear. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I will, Mama,” he said, his voice thick. “I promise.”

Nana waited her turn, her eyes bright with unshed tears. When Raul’s mother finally released him, she was crying again.

“Call every week,” she whispered.

“Every week,” he promised her, one more time. “I’ll let you know as soon as I get there, too. And when I find out where they’re sending me once I’m finished at Camp Roosevelt, I’ll let you know.”

He went to hug Nana, and she waved him away. “My bones are too brittle for that,” she said, her gruffness doing a poor job of masking her emotion. “Just... be careful, mijo. Don’t be foolish. Come home in one piece.”

“I will, Nana,” Raul said, his voice cracking despite his best efforts.

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small wooden cross on a leather cord. “Your grandfather carried this when he left Sinaloa all those years ago,” she said, pressing it into his palm. “It kept him safe through many dangers. Now it will keep you safe too.”

Raul closed his fingers around the cross, feeling the worn edges of the wood against his skin. “Thank you,” he managed.

“Now go,” Nana said, her voice suddenly sharp. “Before you miss your ride and make all this fuss for nothing.”

Raul nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He shouldered his bags one last time and turned toward bus forty-two. The vehicle sat at the end of the row, its engine already rumbling, exhaust billowing in the cool morning. There was already a line of young people forming up to board it. Raul took his spot at the very end of that line, and for a moment he wondered if there’d even be enough room for everybody.

But of course, there was. The bus was a large one—not a school bus, but a large Greyhound, repurposed and painted a dull federal-regulation gray with the YFC logo on the side. Raul wondered if there was a bathroom on board and was silently grateful he’d had the good sense to empty his bladder before leaving the house.

The bus doors opened with a loud, pneumatic hiss. I bet we look like cattle boarding a cattle truck, Raul thought sardonically as he shuffled forward. The line moved with mechanical efficiency, each recruit presenting their paperwork before climbing the steps.

When it was finally his turn, Raul handed over his documents to the uniformed attendant at the door. The man glanced at them, nodded, and waved him aboard without a word. The interior of the bus hit him like a wall—the thick stench of diesel fumes with an undercurrent of nervous sweat. The air conditioning was either appallingly bad or completely broken; it was stifling inside, even though the morning was cool. It was loud too, with everyone else talking and trying to talk over each other to be heard.

He found an empty seat near the middle, stowed his bags in the overhead compartment, and sank down next to the window. The vinyl seat was cold against his legs despite the warm morning. Outside, the parking lot continued to buzz with activity—more recruits arriving, more tearful goodbyes.

Raul pressed his palm against the cool glass and looked out at where Mama and Nana were still standing. They saw him, waved, and he waved back.

The driver got into his seat and yanked the doors shut. Raul jolted as the bus began to back out of its parking space. Mama blew him a kiss, but Nana’s parting gesture was rather more pointed. She fixed Raul with a mock scowl, pointed two fingers at her eyes, then pointed at him. Then, she took those same two fingers and made an unmistakable snipping motion to imitate a pair of scissors.

The threat was abundantly clear. Raul grinned and nodded to show he understood.

The bus lurched forward, and Raul watched his family shrink in the distance until they were mere specks against the sprawling parking lot. His mother’s small frame, Nana’s determined posture—both growing smaller until the bus turned a corner and they vanished from sight entirely, along with everyone and everything else he’d ever known. Raul watched the familiar landmarks of Santa Fe slip away—the adobe buildings, the piñon-dotted hills, the distant mountains that had always defined his world.

His throat tightened, but he refused to let the tears fall. Not here, not with all these strangers around. To distract himself, he looked down at the worn wooden cross hanging around his neck and traced its worn edges with a thumb. How many dangers had this small talisman witnessed? How many close calls had it survived? Too many to count, surely.

He hoped his time in the YFC wouldn’t add to the total. Raul wasn’t looking to embark on some grand adventure or turn into an action hero. He wanted to serve out his enlistment, keep his head down, get the promised land grant, and get out.

Just three years, he told himself yet again. He could do three years. He had to. He’d rather get eaten by some monster than return home a failure.

He reached into his backpack to grab a book and, while rummaging through it, found a small travel-sized plastic bottle, the kind people used to take lotions and such on airplanes. It was filled with some kind of brown liquid. Raul uncapped it, sniffed it, and grinned.

Grandfather’s tequila. Nana must have slipped it in there when his mother wasn’t looking.

Raul felt homesick already.

Washington, D.C.