![]() “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Tibeau, Touraine’s second sergeant and best friend, settled against the rail next to her. ![]() ![]() Her white-knuckle grip on the rail was only partly due to the nausea that had rocked her on the water. It took the air from the lieutenant’s chest. Around her, pale Balladairan-born sailors scrambled across the ship to bring it safely to harbor.Įl-Wast, for the first time in some twenty-odd years. Its rearing golden horse danced to life, sparked by the reflection of the night lanterns. Even from this distance, in the early-morning dark, she could see a black Balladairan standard flapping above the docks. ![]() The city where Touraine was born.Īt a sudden gust, Touraine pulled her black military coat tighter about her body and hunched small over the railing of the ship as it approached land. City of rebellious, uncivilized god-worshippers. City of the golden sun and fruits Touraine couldn’t remember tasting. City of marble and sandstone, of olives and clay. A sandstorm brewed dark and menacing against the Qazāli horizon as Lieutenant Touraine and the rest of the Balladairan Colonial Brigade sailed into El-Wast, capital city of Qazāl, foremost of Balladaire’s southern colonies.Įl-Wast. ![]()
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