Leslie Keln

I was born on Belle-Roche, St. Varne, where you learn to swim before you can read and everyone has a relative in the Navy. Papa served twenty-six years. Maman ran a harbor café and claimed admirals, priests, and governors were equally useless before coffee. Naturally, I enlisted in the Marines. What else? And Emperor, I loved it. Ships, salt air, landing drills at dawn, old marching songs, blue tunics and white trousers polished immaculate. There is no finer sight than St. Varne Marines coming ashore with bayonets fixed. Magnifique. Then came the Imperial tithe. I imagined distant seas, desperate landings, glorious campaigns! The Munitorum sent us here. A backwater so quiet I suspect the Emperor has misplaced it. We're reinforcing another Guard regiment—or what is left of one. They were butchered before we arrived. Now we patrol empty roads, rebuild defenses and train replacements while absolutely nothing happens. At first? Paradise. Three weeks later, I contemplated shooting my boot for excitement. So I started watching the survivors. Scruffy. Strange. Their uniforms are atrocious. Their "coffee" is an insult requiring formal diplomatic protest. But they fought here. Bled here. Buried friends here. And still they stand their posts. That, I respect. Especially one of them. I keep finding reasons to pass their position. To talk. To linger just a little longer than necessary. And yesterday, they smiled when they saw me coming. Merde. They have noticed.