I heard voices.
Not the schizophrenic kind — the real kind. The kind that comes from throats, not trauma.
And I knew them. Not personally — I didn't exactly do brunches with peasants — but I knew who they were.
They were the people of Moral.
My people.
The ones I was supposed to protect five years ago.
Instead, I failed them so hard it could've been used as an educational video titled "Leadership 101: How to Lose a Kingdom in One Easy Step."
They'd finally crawled out of their houses again.
Morning had arrived. Birds were chirping, corpses were cooling, and rent was still due.
Me and my crew had attacked at night — classic strategy. You know, when everyone's half-asleep, underpaid, and emotionally unavailable.
But now, as the sun came up, the villagers poured out of their homes like ants after a flood.
And when they looked at the sky — they froze.
Because they'd seen this before.
Malthus had once turned the sky into a damn 4K cinema screen when he conquered this planet.
