MY HOME IS TRAPPED BENEATH THE THUMB of a God-King who would not know it’s worth should its weight in gold be deposited at his feet. He weighs its worth not in the incomparable beauty of its spirit, or in the indomitable joy of its people; but rather, he weighs it in the resources it can provide him and his preferred people. He’d siphon away the magic that hums in its lands so that he might benefit his own. He’d constitute its people to endless labor and give them little to show for it, if only so that his own streets may be lined with gold. His wolves prowl the streets, their teeth beared in sharp warning: fall in line, or be undone. But when the wolf comes to the door, the low rumble of its growl reverberating, I swallow back my fear. The only line to follow is the straight edge of my spear — the only line to fall is the forward thrust of my blade into the chest of the beast. My home will be free again, even if I do not live to see its people dance in the streets. -Kairn