The Tower is fallen, again - only this time Koa is old enough to understand what is happening, and to appreciate the abject horror of knowing it's too late to do anything now. It's a paralyzing, unbearable weight - one he sees reflected on so many faces around him, his family and friends, his soldiers, his people. It would be so easy to give up now, to collapse beneath the crush of failure, to accept the poison promise of safety. Someone needs to keep them moving, to shepherd them through the ash.
And Koa is a soldier. He was forged in fire for this.
So he swallows it all, shoves it into a little box and keeps on pushing forward. Later there will be time for him to feel grief and anger, but for today there's work to do. And work he does: organizing, comforting, triaging, yelling, mobilizing whatever and whoever he can to get them out of danger's grip. He finds his family, and his friends', and everyone else he can. He sends someone to check the Celestine. He writes letters while on the go and posts them with desperate, frantic hope that they'll reach their recipients in time to prevent stupidity and panic.
The hours crawl and fly.
Now he's at the Skyport, overseeing another load of evacuees onto the flying ships. "Torchline this way! Form an orderly queue!" His throat is horse from shouting. His feet are swollen and throbbing from running. His hair is a mess, his face streaked with dirt and ash, his shirt drenched dark with sweat. There's a fierce ache in his bones.
But Koa soldiers onward. There isn't time to fall apart.
And Koa is a soldier. He was forged in fire for this.
So he swallows it all, shoves it into a little box and keeps on pushing forward. Later there will be time for him to feel grief and anger, but for today there's work to do. And work he does: organizing, comforting, triaging, yelling, mobilizing whatever and whoever he can to get them out of danger's grip. He finds his family, and his friends', and everyone else he can. He sends someone to check the Celestine. He writes letters while on the go and posts them with desperate, frantic hope that they'll reach their recipients in time to prevent stupidity and panic.
The hours crawl and fly.
Now he's at the Skyport, overseeing another load of evacuees onto the flying ships. "Torchline this way! Form an orderly queue!" His throat is horse from shouting. His feet are swollen and throbbing from running. His hair is a mess, his face streaked with dirt and ash, his shirt drenched dark with sweat. There's a fierce ache in his bones.
But Koa soldiers onward. There isn't time to fall apart.
Koa
