30
A HUMID SQUALL of wind tore at Jessica’s hair. It whipped up branches of the large trees around the square and sent a flurry of pink petals dancing between rows of soldiers. Mud or blood stained once-white uniforms. Many of the men nursed injuries, but they stood, silent as bowling pins, as the six blue-clad figures walked between them, stopping at the end of each row to type on their screens. The observers the Union had sent.
They were counting. Checking if their numbers matched those as approved by the Barresh council.
Seated on the fence, Jessica had counted them in two minutes.
There were twenty-five soldiers to a row, and there were twenty-five rows. Yet, the Union delegates scribbled their notes and conferred with each other.
Commander Nemedor Satarin, lips pressed in a thin
