Shale woke to sunlight pressing through wooden shutters, the scent of fresh bread thick in the air. For a moment, he expected chains on his wrists. A cold floor beneath him. But there were no irons. Just a modest cot beneath his back, rough linen sheets, a small table beside him. His wounds were dressed. His head still throbbed from the blow, but someone had wrapped it in clean bandages.

  This wasn’t a cell.

  He sat up slow, eyes scanning the room. Plain wooden walls, a single chair, a loaf of bread and a bowl of lentil stew resting on the table. He could hear faint voices outside—orderly, not panicked. No cries of pain. No barked orders.

  This wasn’t how captives were treated.

  The door creaked open.

  A human stepped inside, his hair white as frost, beard thick but neatly trimmed. He wore a leather coat worn thin at the elbows, plain breeches, no sword at his hip. His eyes were sharp as cut stone, scanning Shale with the calm focus of a hunter.

  The man spoke, his Nadic smooth, almost too smooth for a human. "Lieutenant."

  Shale narrowed his eyes. "You have me at a disadvantage."

  The man inclined his head, one hand resting lightly on the back of the chair. "I am called the White Lion. Not a name I chose, but one that sticks."

  Shale blinked. The name meant nothing to him. No wanted posters. No whispered warnings in the taverns of Matiran. "Never heard of you."

  The Lion smiled faintly. "That’s the point, isn’t it? Your empire doesn’t see all the cracks until they widen."

  Shale folded his arms, ignoring the dull throb in his temple. "You know my rank. My name’s Shale. Lieutenant Aeric Shale, Livadian Imperial Light Infantry."

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  The Lion nodded, settling into the chair without asking permission. "Lieutenant Shale, then. Thank you for the introduction."

  Shale scowled. "What is this? You dressing me up for a show trial?"

  The Lion shook his head. "Nothing like that. I wanted to speak with the man who led the riot squad."

  Shale shifted, testing the weight of his limbs, finding his balance. "You could’ve just killed me."

  "And waste the chance to talk to someone who might listen?" The Lion leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "We all want a world with peace and harmony. Even your emperor tries for that. But he shows bias toward his own kind."

  The Lion’s eyes sharpened. "Tell me, Lieutenant. Why are there no psyad farmers? No noble hands in the dirt alongside humans?"

  Shale’s jaw clenched. "The emperor gave the decree. Everyone’s meant to contribute."

  The Lion smiled without warmth. "I’ve yet to see it enforced. Orders are easy. Enforcement takes will."

  He sat back, eyes never leaving Shale. "You know firsthand what kind of peace they offer. Clubs in your hands. Rifles in ours. Who spilled blood first?"

  Shale didn’t answer.

  The Lion’s tone softened, the edge still there but buried deeper. "I’ve fought wars too, Lieutenant. For kings who never felt the cold their soldiers slept in. We’ve stood in the same mud, on different sides."

  His gaze flicked to the window. "Doesn’t your blood itch when you see psyads fat in their towers while humans and dryads starve?"

  Shale’s throat tightened. He wanted to speak, to bark out rehearsed imperial doctrine. But the words caught.

  The Lion leaned back, sensing the crack. "Stay here a while. Eat the bread we’ve baked. Watch the people you’re told to fear. Look at the empire and ask why it never lifts its hands to work beside us."

  Shale ground his teeth but said nothing.

  The Lion stood, smoothing the creases from his coat. "Your emperor builds with chains. We build with hands and bread. One of us will last longer."

  He paused at the door. "Think on that, Lieutenant Shale."

  The door closed softly behind him, leaving Shale alone with the bread and stew, the warmth of the sun, and a knot tightening in his chest.

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