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Including themselves.

“You said the empire recognizes no settlements,” Kesta said as they crossed beneath a line of hanging lamps.

Dreven walked beside her now rather than ahead. “Correct.”

“How long has Ash Camp existed?”

“Before my arrival.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Twenty-seven cycles.”

Kesta did the conversion through the translator and looked at him. “Years?”

“Approximately.”

“You've been here twenty-seven years?”

“Yes.”

“And you're still commander.”

His expression became guarded. “That was not always my title.”

“What was?”

He looked toward a pair of young Kharovians practicing knife forms in a recessed square. Their tails repeatedly tangled as they tried to turn in opposite directions. Keth stood nearby, separating them with the patience of someone who had performed the same correction hundreds of times.

“Another conversation.”

Kesta recognized a closed door when she saw one.

She let it stand.

The younger of the two students dropped his training knife. Keth bent to retrieve it, said something that made both children laugh, and handed it back.

Kesta slowed.

“Criminals don't usually build schools.”

Dreven followed her gaze. His face changed in a way she could not immediately name.

“Some criminals do.”

“Children were born here.”

“Yes.”

“The empire condemned them too?”

The warmth disappeared from his expression.

“The empire condemns bloodlines when bloodlines become inconvenient.”

Kesta thought of the casualty file hidden inside her palm. Of Project Helix. Of pairings and bodies classified before death.

She looked around Ash Camp differently.