Shale was grateful for the barracks. Ugly, drafty, overcrowded—but they still stood. Cedar Company had a roof, four walls, and straw pallets to call their own. That was more than could be said for the soldiers from the lesser units, the ones deemed nonessential after the war ended. Their barracks had been shuttered, their men discharged and left to fend for themselves in the alleys and gutters of Matiran.

  Those unlucky bastards were out of sight and out of mind, as far as the empire was concerned.

  Shale sat on his cot, boots unlaced, staring at the cracked beams overhead when the familiar clatter of hooves echoed outside. He gritted his teeth.

  Lieutenant Prudentius again.

  The barracks door creaked open. The psyad officer, face as polished and thin as his black uniform, stepped in without invitation. His nose seemed permanently upturned, as though the air inside was beneath him.

  "Lieutenant Shale," he said, as if speaking to a servant.

  Shale stood, slow, every bone in his body aching. "Every time you show up, it's with worse news," he muttered.

  The officer raised an eyebrow, unperturbed. "Orders from the emperor. The protest in the square will be dispersed. Your company will lead the effort."

  Shale crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "How exactly are we meant to disperse them?"

  "Clubs," the officer said smoothly, as if it were reasonable. "No blades, no rifles. His Majesty desires a peaceful resolution."

  Shale barked a humorless laugh. "Peaceful? Clubs against a starving mob?"

  The officer's eyes narrowed, lips curling ever so slightly. "Careful, lieutenant. Remember your place."

  Shale pushed off the wall, stepping closer, his voice dropping. "You're a lieutenant same as me."

  "By rank," the officer sniffed, "but not by birth."

  Shale’s fists clenched at his sides.

  The psyad officer leaned in, voice soft but sharp. "Your oath binds you to the emperor, right or wrong. His will is the empire's will. Don't forget that."

  Shale said nothing, jaw tight.

  Prudentius offered a shallow bow and turned on his heel, exiting with the same grace as he entered. Shale stared after him, fury simmering beneath his skin.

  He turned back to Cedar Company, gathered loosely around the barracks common room. Their eyes followed the psyad officer's exit, jaws clenched, expectant.

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  Shale cleared his throat. "Orders are in. We’re to disperse the protesters."

  A ripple of groans passed through the ranks.

  "With clubs," Shale added flatly.

  Hawthorn laughed bitterly, scrubbing a hand through his matted hair. "Clubs? We’re the bloody empire, not tavern bouncers. This is how they repay us? For fifty years in the mud and blood?"

  Prickle spat on the floor. "Do they know the crowd's not coming with empty hands? Or don’t they care if we get butchered?"

  Another voice chimed in from the back, rough with exhaustion. "The psyads sit high in their towers, sending us to do their dirty work like dogs."

  "Dogs at least get fed," someone else muttered.

  Shale crossed his arms, his tone colder. "Orders are orders. His Majesty desires a peaceful resolution."

  "His Majesty’s got a funny way of showing it," Hawthorn growled, louder this time. "He wants peace? He can come swing a club himself."

  Shale didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. They all knew the emperor’s mercy would crack before the mob did.

  The streets felt narrower than usual as Cedar Company marched toward the square. Clubs slung at their sides, shields strapped across their backs. The men grumbled under their breath.

  Hawthorn spat into the mud. "We’ll be lucky to come back with our teeth."

  Prickle adjusted his patchwork coat. "Maybe we’ll club that psyad officer first."

  Shale said nothing. The air felt wrong. Too quiet in some alleys. Too many carts pulled up near the square. Too many shutters closed tight.

  They reached the heart of Matiran.

  The square teemed with bodies. Thousands pressed shoulder to shoulder, shouting, fists raised. Their voices merged into a single, thunderous chant that rolled through the streets: "Bread and blood! Bread and blood!" Women who’d held the empire together. Soldiers with hollow eyes. Merchants who couldn’t afford to sell their own goods. And beneath the surface, Shale felt something sharper.

  Humans.

  Hidden, waiting.

  Shale stepped forward, drawing the imperial decree from his coat. He unrolled it, the words tasting like bile.

  "By order of His Imperial Majesty Phiniaster the First, rightful emperor of Livadia and protector of the Isthmus, this assembly is declared unlawful. Disperse peacefully, or face imperial justice."

  No one moved.

  A woman shouted from the crowd, her voice raw: "Come take our bread, see what happens!"

  Shale raised his shield and took a breath. "Advance," he ordered, voice steady, though his gut churned. His men formed ranks beside him, clubs gripped tight, shields raised. Despite hollow eyes and worn boots, Cedar Company could still move like soldiers.

  They pushed forward, shoving into the crowd, shields bracing against bodies, clubs pressed low to force space without yet swinging. The chant of "Bread and blood!" surged louder, the press of bodies tightening. The crowd gave ground reluctantly, but their defiance burned hotter with every step.

  A crack split the air. One of his soldiers dropped, a rifle round through the throat.

  The square erupted.

  Humans pulled rifles from carts, from beneath cloaks, from the shadows. Shots rang out. Screams followed.

  Shale swung his club, knocking down the first man who charged him. His shield caught another blow. He fought like muscle memory demanded, but the tide turned fast.

  Hands grabbed him. Rough, calloused, human. He tried to draw his sidearm, but the butt of a rifle crashed into his temple.

  The world spun.

  His last sight was the square lit by fire and gunpowder smoke, the faces of humans fierce, unbowed.

  Then darkness.

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