In the morning I go to Boris to collect what's mine.
The city is already up. People rebuilding walls, dragging beams, hauling stone. Thirty-two dead in the last attack—the worst in years, from what I heard leaving the inn. The faces on the street aren't grieving. They're working. Grief is a luxury for people with time.
At the command post, Boris is already behind his desk. Giving orders to two officers. Studying an open map with small wooden soldier figurines scattered across it. Probably a strategy for the reconstruction.
"Problems?" I ask.
"The structural damage was worse than the casualties, but we'll rebuild. We'll manage." He scratches his chin, smoothing the beard down. "You're here for your money, aren't you?"
I nod.
"Take it and get out. I've got work to do."
Short and blunt. Visibly annoyed at my greed. Or at least performing annoyance. I know which one it is.
