Calendar of the Displacement. Year 0001 Day 3. Earth Calendar: April 14, 2028.

  The Extraterritorial Secure Facility "Sloboda," near the fortress of Ejey.

  In the cramped but functional command module, which smelled of ozone from the active equipment and strong army coffee, Colonel Petrov, the garrison commander, was studying the latest intelligence. On the electronic map displayed on a large tactical tablet, red icons marked the movement of Lourian troops. There were many of them. Far too many.

  There was a short knock at the door.

  "Permission to enter?"

  Petrov looked up. Standing in the doorway was a major general, the gold stars on his shoulder boards shining brightly even in the dim light of the lamps. The colonel instantly shot to his feet, snapping to attention.

  "Greetings, Comrade Major General!"

  Major General Sobolev, a man of about forty-five with a weary but perceptive gaze, entered the office.

  "At ease, Boris Leonidovich," he said, taking off his service cap and placing it on the table. "I'm not a fan of all these formalities at the front. Have a seat."

  Sobolev was a legend—one of the General Staff's finest strategists, who had been through more than one hot spot. He had been sent here to lead the entire Russian operational group on Rodenius.

  "So, Boris, I've been appointed to command…" he gave a crooked smile, "...the First Expeditionary Division. A bit grandiose, isn't it? In reality, I've got your marine battalion and a couple of attached SOF companies."

  "Happy to be of service, Comrade Major General," Petrov smiled. He appreciated the dark, military humor.

  Sobolev sat down in the chair opposite him, his expression turning serious.

  "As you can imagine, it's absolute chaos back in Moscow right now. Some are screaming that we should lie low and not interfere. Others, that we need to immediately teach these… 'natives'… a lesson and show them who's in charge. While they're arguing, we have one order: ensure the security of our facilities and our allies. And that means preparing for war. What's your situation?"

  Petrov pointed to the tablet.

  "According to data from the Orlan drone, the enemy is concentrating its main forces in the Gim area. They're building a fortified position. It seems that after our 'welcome,' they've decided to be more cautious. But our assets are reporting that they are preparing a flanking maneuver through the hills to the south, to hit us and Ejey on the flank."

  "Logical," Sobolev nodded. "We shouldn't underestimate them. They lost the technological battle, but they know how to fight. What else?"

  "There is one problem, Comrade Major General. Between Gim and Ejey, there are several small villages and hamlets. It appears they've been cut off from the main Qua-Toyne forces and don't even know that the war has begun. When the Lourians move in, they'll orchestrate a massacre. That could become a serious political problem for us."

  Sobolev thought for a moment, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the table.

  "Understood. Then we act preemptively." He looked at Petrov. "Scramble a couple of Mi-8 helicopters with an assault team and a Ka-52 escort. The mission is humanitarian. Evacuate the civilians from those villages. No shooting, if possible. Have a motorized rifle platoon in the 'Tigrs' provide ground support and route reconnaissance."

  "Yes, sir," the colonel replied. "Consider it done."

  Having received confirmation, Colonel Petrov issued the necessary orders over the comms. A few minutes later, the roar of helicopter turboshaft engines tore through the morning quiet over "Sloboda." The tension in the command post eased slightly. Major General Sobolev gestured toward two glasses and an old, Soviet-era electric kettle in the corner.

  "Well, Boris, while our birds are at work, how about some tea?"

  Petrov nodded. They sat down at a small table. The conversation quickly shifted from official to a more personal, comradely tone. They were old service buddies who had been on more than one "tour" together. They spoke of their families, of what happened during the transfer and the chaos, of a fantasy world now unreachable, and of how difficult this isolation was. There were no complaints in their voices, only the terse statement of facts—the lot of professional soldiers.

  "You know, Alyosha," Petrov said, stirring sugar into his glass, "the strangest thing is the silence. At night. No roar of planes, no sound of a distant highway. Just… the wind and the cries of some unknown creatures. It's like we've ended up at God's own dacha."

  "Right, a dacha where the neighbor is a maniac with an axe," Sobolev chuckled, taking a large gulp of hot tea. "By the way, have you met the local 'commandant' yet? General Nou, I believe. The one holding down the fort in Ejey."

  Petrov shook his head.

  "Haven't had the chance, Comrade General. As soon as we arrived, it was nonstop: setting up the base, securing the perimeter, reconnaissance… there just hasn't been time for courtesy calls. And frankly, I wasn't eager. Judging by our diplomats' reports, he's a real piece of work. Arrogant, ambitious, and absolutely confident in the impregnability of his stone box."

  Sobolev set down his glass and looked at the colonel seriously.

  "And that, Boris, was your mistake," there was no reproach in his voice, only cold analysis. "We aren't just digging a mine here. We are representatives of the Russian Federation. We have set up a military base on their doorstep, we're building an airfield, our planes are flying in their skies. And the commander of our garrison hasn't even seen fit to introduce himself to the commander of their key fortress. From their perspective, that is an act of blatant disrespect. Almost an insult."

  Petrov frowned, realizing the general was right.

  "You're right, Alexei. I was looking at it from a purely military standpoint…"

  "And here, Boris, politics and war are more intertwined than anywhere else," Sobolev continued. "This Nou may be a pompous ass, but he is their general. And the success of our entire operation could depend on his loyalty, or at least his neutrality. We have to show them that we are allies, not new masters. Even if, deep down, we both understand who is really in charge here."

  He stood up.

  "Alright, enough tea. Let's go. We'll pay this general a courtesy call. While we're at it, we can get a look at his vaunted fortress with our own eyes. We need to understand what we can count on when the real fight begins."

  Petrov nodded, finishing his tea.

  "Yes, sir."

  They left the command post. An armored "Tigr" was already waiting for them at the entrance. In this new world, even a courtesy call required a proper escort.

  Fortress Ejey. The Office of the Commander of the Western Garrison.

  General Nou stood at the enormous window of his office, from which he could survey his creation. Beyond the twenty-five-meter-high walls, built of polished granite, lay rows of barracks, arsenals, and training fields. His garrison, thirty thousand of the principality's finest warriors, was ready for any threat.

  He had good reason for satisfaction. The fortress of Ejey had held against three sieges in the past century. Its walls were twenty-five meters of dressed granite, its water supply came from an underground river, and its provisions could sustain the garrison for eighteen months. He had personally overseen the installation of new mana-reinforced gates and the expansion of the wyvern stables. By every measure he knew — and he knew every measure that mattered in the military tradition of Qua-Toyne — Ejey was as strong as a fortress could be.

  He was not a stupid man. He was a man whose expertise was genuine and whose world had simply not yet produced a problem that his expertise could not solve. These were different things, and the difference was invisible from the inside.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

  "General Nou, representatives from the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation have arrived. They are requesting an audience," his aide-de-camp reported, bowing his head, instinctively bracing for his superior's flash of anger.

  Nou didn't even turn.

  "Let them wait," he snapped. His gaze was fixed on the east, where the ugly outlines of the Russian base, "Sloboda," were visible on the horizon. "They build their own fortress right under my nose, surround themselves with barbed wire, fly over my head in their iron dragonflies… acting as if they own the place."

  Inwardly, Nou was seething. He had read the reports on the annihilation of the Lourian fleet, but he considered them to be greatly exaggerated. A naval battle was one thing, but a land war, the siege of a fortress, was something else entirely. Here, the rules were dictated by stone, steel, and valor, not by cunning tricks. "They won't fool me like they did those sea-faring simpletons," he thought, finally turning toward the door.

  When he entered the receiving hall, he was met by two men in unfamiliar, mottled uniforms.

  "The gentlemen from Russia," he said, and his voice dripped with unconcealed disdain. "We are pleased to see you in Ejey."

  The senior of the two Russians, a slim, fit man with a weary but perceptive gaze, took a step forward.

  "General Nou. Major General Sobolev," he introduced himself, his voice calm, but with an undertone of steel.

  Nou ignored the hand extended for a handshake and instead looked the Russians up and down with a contemptuous glare.

  "Gods, what a pathetic uniform!" he declared, loudly enough for his aides to hear. "You look like vagrants who've been rolling in the mud. In civilized countries, officers wear dress uniforms, not potato sacks."

  "General!" one of his assistants hissed, his face flushing. "They… they can understand our language!"

  Major General Sobolev remained perfectly calm. He slowly lowered his hand. His cold, analytical gaze scanned Nou from head to toe, as if studying a strange insect.

  "Your attire, General," he said in the same even tone, "is very beautiful. A dress uniform, correct? Bright, with gold embroidery. An excellent target for a sniper from a kilometer and a half away. Our uniform,"—he indicated his pixelated camouflage—"is called 'Tsifra.' It is not for beauty. It is for blending in with the terrain and making it difficult for the enemy to take aim. It is clothing for war, not for palace receptions. But I suppose, in your world, these concepts have not yet been separated."

  Sobolev's words, delivered without a hint of emotion, struck Nou harder than any sword thrust. For a moment, he was speechless. The Russian general had not just answered the insult. He had, in a matter of seconds, given him a lecture on the tactics of modern warfare, pointing out his complete incompetence. Nou's aides exchanged horrified glances. They had just witnessed not a diplomatic spat, but a clash of two epochs. And their general had just suffered a crushing defeat in this battle.

  For a few moments, a ringing silence hung in the hall. General Nou's face turned purple. He opened his mouth to unleash an angry tirade, but the words caught in his throat. He, the finest strategist in the principality, had just been publicly humiliated, and not by a weapon, but by logic.

  "Of course, with such a bright outfit, your place is certainly at a parade," Sobolev continued calmly, and a barely perceptible irony touched his voice. "We just recently held such an event ourselves. It was very impressive."

  Behind Sobolev, Colonel Petrov coughed discreetly into his fist to hide a smirk. Nou, failing to grasp the subtle sarcasm but feeling himself back on familiar ground, puffed out his chest with pride.

  "Precisely! But my fortress is no parade ground. It is absolutely impregnable," he declared. "I personally supervised its construction. High walls, moats, magical traps. We can withstand any siege, even if the entire Lourian army were to appear at our gates. So, you gentlemen need not worry or leave your… 'Sloboda.' You may consider yourselves completely safe under my protection."

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Behind him, his aides exchanged panicked glances.

  "Is… is he serious?" one whispered.

  "He just offered the most powerful army in this world to sit behind his back… Gods, I hope this doesn't come back to bite us."

  Sobolev, maintaining his absolute composure, gave a restrained nod.

  "We appreciate your concern for our soldiers, General. But war is an unpredictable business.

  "To better coordinate our actions, would you permit us to station a small group of communications officers and forward observers in your fortress? Purely for observation and coordination purposes."

  Nou considered this for a moment. He was not entirely without tactical instinct — the idea of having Russian communications equipment inside his fortress, with its direct link to their flying machines and long-range weapons, had a certain appeal. If the Lourians did come to his walls, it would be useful to have allies who could call fire from the sky without routing the request through three layers of bureaucracy.

  "A small group," he said. "No more than six. Under my garrison's supervision. And they report to my officers as well as their own."

  "Understood completely, General. Six men. Under your authority within the fortress perimeter."

  "Then yes. By all means."

  "Thank you for your hospitality. We won't keep you any longer," Sobolev inclined his head slightly and, without offering a handshake this time, turned to leave. Nou, considering the audience concluded, had already turned his back on them.

  When the massive fortress gates closed behind their "Tigr," and they had driven a safe distance away, the tension that had filled the armored capsule finally dissipated. Colonel Petrov leaned back in his seat and roared with laughter.

  "Pompous ass! 'My fortress is impregnable'! Does he have any idea that two salvoes from a 'Solntsepyok' would turn his courtyard into a crematorium and leave his garrison with nothing to breathe inside those twenty-five-meter walls?"

  Sobolev smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes.

  "We shouldn't underestimate him, Boris," he said seriously. "He's foolish and arrogant, but he is a product of his world. He believes in high walls and the valor of his knights because he has never seen anything else. And that is his weakness. And our advantage."

  He glanced toward Ejey, which now looked like a toy fortress.

  "He gave us what we needed. Eyes and ears inside his fortress. Now, when the assault begins, our forward observers will be directing artillery and airpower from his own walls. He personally invited us to his command post."

  The laughter in the vehicle died down. Petrov looked at his commander with a new respect. This wasn't just diplomacy. This was a war, won before the first shot was even fired. And General Nou, in his shining uniform, hadn't even realized that he had just surrendered his impregnable fortress without a fight.

  Thirty kilometers east of the razed city of Gim, nestled in a small, wooded hollow, lay an unnamed elven village. For centuries, its inhabitants had lived in voluntary isolation, avoiding contact with the noisy and brutal world of men. News of the war with Louria had reached them too late—brought by refugees who had miraculously escaped the slaughter in the border hamlets.

  Gathering what they could in a single night, the entire community—about a hundred souls, mostly the elderly, women, and children—abandoned their homes and set out on a perilous journey to the east. Their destination was a distant outpost of the principality, no less than thirty kilometers away.

  They covered the first ten kilometers across an open plain, covered in low, lush grass. The scene around them was idyllic: birds sang in the sky, and wild oxen grazed in the meadows. But for the elves, this beauty was a deadly trap. The open space, with nowhere to hide, made them easy prey. The rear guard consisted of just ten young men armed with hunting bows—all that was left of their militia after the mobilization.

  A boy named Parun tightly gripped his younger sister Asha's hand. Before leaving for the army, his father had told him: "You're the man of the house now. Protect her." And Parun was prepared to die to fulfill that command.

  Suddenly, a desperate cry came from the rear guard:

  "LOURIAN CAVALRY! FROM THE WEST!"

  Parun spun around, and his heart plummeted into an icy abyss. Three kilometers away, raising a cloud of dust, a hundred horsemen were bearing down on them. Ahead of the refugee column, which no one had yet seen, green self-propelled carriages appeared. The elves didn't waste time wondering who they were; they dropped all their belongings and ran toward them as fast as they could, hoping for salvation.

  This was the 15th cavalry squadron, the "Hawks," led by a sadist of rare vintage, Captain Jupiter Jove. Even in the brutal army of Louria, his squadron was considered a pack of degenerates—former pirates, bandits, and mercenaries who had been granted noble titles for their "special services" in punitive operations. Jove himself was known for being able to cut down one of his own soldiers on a whim, writing it off as a combat loss.

  He looked at the scattering crowd of elves ahead, and his lips twisted into an anticipatory sneer.

  "Entertainment, at last," he said, addressing his lieutenant. "After so many days of tedious pursuit—such tender prey. Especially the elven women… The key is not to damage them too much before we are finished."

  "All of them to the sword, Captain?" the lieutenant smirked.

  "All of them," Jove confirmed. "But not right away. First, we play. Charge!"

  With a savage, guttural howl, the hundred horsemen spurred their mounts. The earth trembled beneath their hooves.

  For Captain Jupiter Jove, the last few days had been a string of disappointments. Their glorious campaign had begun with a humiliating retreat from Gim. The city they were supposed to have taken in a swift assault had turned out to be a deathtrap. Instead of rich spoils, they were met with poisoned wells that made his soldiers die in convulsions with foam on their lips, and invisible curses that tore his men to pieces in the empty houses. This nightmare, which their mages had termed "scientific alchemy," had sown fear in his squadron. The command's sweet promises of plunder and rapine had turned into a shameful flight.

  And now, after days of fruitless searching, his reward was before him. Easy prey. About a hundred elves: old men, women, children. Defenseless. Vulnerable. Looking at their fragile figures scurrying across the plain, Jove felt dark, intoxicating fantasies fill his mind. He could already imagine their screams, their tears, their despair. The spectacle would wash away the shame of Gim and restore to him the feeling of absolute power.

  At the same time, among the elven caravan.

  A boy named Parun tightly gripped his younger sister Asha's hand. He ran without watching his path, pulling her along. He saw their ten defenders, armed only with hunting bows, turn to face a hopeless fight. Ten against a hundred.

  "Gods, if you exist… save her… only her…" he prayed, choking on his own breath and tears.

  Ahead, where they were running, the green carriages had stopped. People in strange, mottled clothing and holding black "staffs" were pouring out of them. This was their only, their last hope.

  "Asha, hold on! We're almost there! I won't let them take you!" he yelled, his voice rising above the thunder of hooves.

  Parun ran, his small lungs burning with fire, his heart beating against his ribs like a caged bird. He gripped his sister Asha's hand tightly and pulled her along behind him. The savage cries of the Lourians and the death screams of their defenders sounded from behind. A memory surfaced in his mind, mixed with the fear—his mother's quiet voice, telling an ancient legend by the hearth.

  "...a long, long time ago, in the Age of Myth, the army of the Demon Lord came to our lands. They wanted to burn the Sacred Forest where our Great Mother, the Goddess of Fertility, lived. Our finest warriors fell, and the demons began to exterminate our people. And then, the Goddess cried out to her creator, the Supreme God. And the Supreme God heard her prayer. He sent his Apostles in celestial ships and iron dragons. Their magic shook the earth with thunder and incinerated the demons with light. The demon army was broken and fled. The elves offered the Apostles gold and jewels, but they refused the gifts and returned to the heavens. Only one of their ships, a broken one, remained in our world. It is still kept in the sanctuary of Lean Nou, protected by the ancient magic of time..."

  His mother had said it wasn't a fairy tale. That it had really happened.

  "…save us…" Parun whispered without a sound.

  He stumbled and fell, pulling his sister down with him. The Lourian cavalry was now only a hundred meters away. He could see their faces, twisted with fury, their swords glinting in the sun. This was the end.

  He closed his eyes and, hugging his sister, screamed at the sky, pouring all his pain and desperation into the cry:

  "OH, GREAT SUPREME GOD! IF YOU CAN HEAR ME! SAVE MY SISTER! TAKE MY LIFE, BUT SAVE HER!"

  And in that moment, the world exploded in a roar.

  It was not thunder, nor the roar of a wyvern. It was a deafening, air-shattering sound that made the very earth tremble. Parun and Asha opened their eyes.

  Hovering above them, blotting out the gray sky, were three gigantic, man-made insects.

  "Bzzzzzzzzzzzbrrrrrr."

  Parun lay on the ground, shielding his sister, and stared wide-eyed at what was happening. He was at once nauseatingly terrified by the sight of flesh being torn to shreds, and joyfully moved to tears that this horrifying power was directed not at them, but at their tormentors. Asha, her face buried in his chest, trembled all over.

  The Ka-52 helicopters worked with a cold, machine-like efficiency. They weren't just spraying the enemy with fire. They were hunting. One of the helicopters passed over the scattered column and fired its 30mm 2A42 cannon. These were not simple slugs. They were high-explosive incendiary fragmentation rounds. Each shell, upon hitting its target, did not just punch through armor—it exploded, turning a rider and his horse into a cloud of fire, metal, and bloody shreds. A single short burst turned a third of the bandit squadron into a gory mess.

  Jove, whose mind had not yet recovered from the shock, saw this and knew instinctively that a tight formation was suicide.

  "SPREAD OUT!" he screamed, his voice lost in the thunder. "THEY'RE FIRING INTO THE CLUSTERS! DISPERSE!"

  But it was too late. The second helicopter, like a beast cornering its prey, began to selectively target individual riders. Its cannon fired in short, precise bursts. One horseman, trying to gallop away, was literally cut in half by a stream of shells. Another, frozen in terror, vanished in a flash of fire. The horses, maddened with pain and fear, screamed and thrashed, throwing their riders and trampling the fallen. The hell that Jove had intended to unleash upon the elves had been turned back upon him, magnified a hundredfold.

  He watched as his soldiers, his hand-picked cutthroats, gasped, cried, and begged for mercy, but the only answer was the relentless thunder of the cannons. It was a cacophony of death that shattered the mind.

  Jove, watching his squadron cease to exist, finally lost control.

  "WHAT ARE YOU?! BE GONE, SPAWN OF HELL!" he screamed at the sky, but his words were meaningless.

  He saw one of the helicopters turn and fly directly at him. He froze, paralyzed by terror. The next moment, the ground beside him exploded. The shockwave threw him from his horse, and he tumbled through the air before crashing to the ground. A sharp pain shot through his body, his ears were ringing, and blood was pouring from his nose and mouth. He lay dazed in the mud, which was mixed with the blood of his comrades, and through a haze of pain, he saw the last surviving horsemen turn in panic and try to flee.

  But their flight was short-lived. From the east, from the direction of the green carriages, new, larger "insects" rose into the sky. They were two Mi-28N "Night Hunters," which had been providing cover for the ground team. Unguided rockets shot from their underwing pylons and, leaving smoky trails behind them, blanketed the fleeing riders. The Lourian warriors, with no chance of escape and no strength left to resist, vanished in a series of fiery explosions.

  A moment later, it was all over. On the plain where, just a few minutes before, a hundred elite cavalrymen had been charging, only smoking craters and mutilated corpses remained.

  When the thunder died down and a silence, broken only by the crackling of the burning remains, fell upon the plain, the elves still lay on the ground, afraid to raise their heads. After a few minutes, the green carriages slowly approached them. The same people in mottled clothing emerged, holding their black "staffs." They did not come close, but spread out, forming a defensive perimeter.

  Then, from the heavens, with a deafening roar, the largest of the "man-made dragons" they had ever seen began to descend—a gigantic Mi-26 transport helicopter. It kicked up clouds of dust and grass, and the elves pressed themselves to the ground in terror. When it finally touched down and its roar subsided, more people emerged from its open belly.

  One of them, a man with a red cross on his sleeve, broke away from the group and slowly, with his hands raised to show he was not a threat, walked toward them.

  "Are there any wounded?" his voice, amplified by a megaphone, was calm and non-aggressive. "We are the Russian military. We are here to help."

  The elves were silent, their eyes filled with a mixture of fear and reverent awe. They had just watched these beings rain fire from the sky upon their enemies. They had been saved. But by whom? Gods? Or new, even more terrifying demons?

  Finally, the small boy, Parun, got to his trembling feet. He was still gripping his sister Asha's hand. He took a few steps toward the soldier.

  "Thank you… thank you for saving us…" his voice was thin and barely audible. He summoned his courage and, looking into the eyes of the man in the strange uniform, asked: "Are you… are you the Apostles, sent by the Supreme God?"

  The young man, a lieutenant in the medical service, was momentarily taken aback. He glanced at his commanding officer, the marine platoon captain, who was standing beside him. The captain, a grim-faced man with a weathered face on which a mask of fatigue was set, gave a faint smirk.

  "Let's just say we're the guys who were in the right place at the right time, kid," he replied.

  His words, broadcast through the megaphone, carried over the elves. They looked at one another. Not gods. But not demons either. Saviors. The village elder, a gray-haired elf leaning on a staff, rose and bowed deeply.

  "We are forever in your debt."

  Following his lead, the others began to kneel.

  "As you were!" the captain's voice hardened. "There's no time for pleasantries. This is a combat zone. The enemy could return with reinforcements. My orders are to evacuate you to a secure location. All women, children, and the elderly—board the helicopter. The rest of you—into the trucks. Move it!"

  But upon seeing the gigantic maw of the Mi-26, the elves recoiled in terror.

  The elder's eyes moved from the helicopter to the soldiers in their mottled uniforms and back. His lips moved silently for a moment.

  "The Apostles," he said, almost to himself. Not a question. The word of a man placing a thing he has just seen into the only available category. "The celestial ships from the legend of the Goddess's prayer." He looked at the captain. "We cannot enter. It is sacred. We are not...

  The captain lost his patience. He could see he was dealing with people whose minds had been broken by terror and were now clinging to myths and superstitions.

  "Listen to my command!" he bellowed, and his command voice made even the bravest among them flinch. "That is not a 'celestial ship,' it's an Mi-26 transport helicopter! And those are not 'carriages,' they're 'Ural' trucks! And if you don't start loading into them right now, the next cavalry charge will turn you all into crow food! Do you understand me?! Move, now!"

  His harsh but not unkind words were more effective than any coaxing. The elves, driven by fear and a new, incomprehensible hope, began to slowly but surely board the transports. They were entering a new world. A world where there were no gods and demons, only helicopters, trucks, and grim, tired soldiers who, it turned out, also knew how to save lives.

  Inside the Mi-26, Parun sat on a canvas seat and held Asha against his side. The machine was louder than anything he had ever been inside. The vibration came through the floor and into his bones. Around him, the other elves sat with the careful stillness of people trying very hard not to react to anything.

  A young Russian soldier — nineteen, maybe twenty, with a round face and tired eyes — sat across from him. He was eating something from a small brown packet. He noticed Parun watching and, without ceremony, held out an identical packet. He said something in Russian that Parun didn't understand, but the gesture was clear.

  Parun took it. It was hard and smelled of nothing in particular.

  The soldier demonstrated tearing it open. Parun copied him. Inside was something dry and dense that tasted vaguely of grain.

  He ate it. He gave half to Asha.

  The soldier watched them for a moment, then looked away at nothing, out the small window where the ground was moving below at a speed that seemed impossible. His expression was the expression of someone doing a necessary thing and thinking about something else entirely.

  Parun looked at his hands. Then at the ceiling of the machine. Then at the soldier.

  This one had given him bread from a brown packet and was looking out the window.