24
Evening sunlight streamed over the city, leaving the buildings of Ofalla as shadows against the glare. Zerena Dobrin stood upon a stone balcony, her hands braced on the balustrade as she watched her people.
In the plaza below, men loaded bodies into a wagon bound for a mass grave. They were burying the dead a few miles southwest of the city. Some of those corpses were gray. Others were just ordinary people who had fallen during the attack.
“These are the fruits of your labour,” Zerena muttered. “You promised us help, and this is what you brought us.”
Dressed in tan pants and a blue shirt under her leather coat, Desa stood in the shadows. Her bob of short, brown hair was an absolute mess, thin strands falling into her eyes. “If not for us,” she began. “Your city would have been destr
