He was looking at the horizon when he said it, not at them, and not at the table behind him.
The sunrise was still in the air, the first clean light spreading across the Oasis of Grain, and Alistair Thorne was looking east when he opened his mouth.
His voice was quieter than the ritual had been.
"Weep not, my Harvest. I am the Sword of the Sun."
He did not turn around, nor did he look at any of them.
Nobody answered.
It was not a line for the Echelon, nor for Solnar, nor for the Record.
It was for the three people standing behind him on the ground that was, now and always, the ground of the faction they had bled to make real.
Due, behind him, was very quiet. He did not adjust his collar, and he did not say anything about the strangeness of the line, because this morning was not like the others.
Elara was crying without making it a performance, and she had not planned to.
