Of them all, how many can we name? Legion & Be'elzebub both transcend into the category of pocket-army. The term to describe a single entity that can be placed upon the field to replace tens of thousands of men and not lose force. An Ardan comparison would be Neneria. Yet those are merely two entities that have to be treated as destructive as armies themselves.

Those who carry within themselves the noble blood of Tartarian Royalty are called Princes and the powers of these Princes rarely exhibit themselves in the fashion of Ardan Divinity. We could point to Malphas, who shifts forms into the bodies of animals immediately in order to regenerate his wounds. We could point to Sitri, who is able to make all fall in love with him with the same strength that a parent has for their child. But the case I point to is Pax, the Demon Prince who professes to hold my title. An upstart I despise utterly, the Prince of Peace.

Terribly unskilled in combat, barely amateurish with the sword he wishes to wield, little larger than the average Demon with a miniscule amount of show magic within himself. Pax wanders onto the battlefield with no armour across his body and no helmet upon his head, only his white flag strapped to his back. Yet not once has his skin been blemished with a wound. The Prince of Peace embodies the title for no knowing harm may come upon him. Swords will stop, archers will find them unable to loose their arrows, mages will suddenly lose the ability to channel magic if they wish to inflict harm upon Pax.

I remember sparring sessions with the demon during the Great War. He would not even bother to dodge or blow attacks. My hand would come close to his body, my spear would be about to cut him and then my body would stop as if it had been seized by stone.

In such fashion, to say I do not enjoy this position would be a lie. I am very curious to see on what will happen in that regard.

- Excerpt from "Spectator of the Surface War", written by Goddess Fortia, of Peace.

Anghazi was not the grandest city. Not the cleanest. Not magnificent in age like Orripoli. But that didn't matter to Mustafar, it was home. For a moment, he lost himself as he stared up at that sprawl which slowly crawled up the hill. He smiled as he saw the multi-coloured cloth pavilions of restaurants, all emerald-green and rose-red and sea-blue. He smelled the spices gently wafting from them. He saw the market stalls that came out everyday in the evening, when the whole city would enter the streets. He heard the ongoing bargains, the laughter of children, the gossip of women. The bathhouses and the pools. For just a moment, Mustafar had travelled back in time.

He saw himself running through those streets, jumping across fences. Laughing without a care in the world. Back then, the most trouble had been a slap on the rear from his father when he had stayed out for too long. That had been a long time ago though. He remembered sneaking out with his neighbour's daughter. That night, he would never forget. Nor the next morning when he had thought he had been so smart only to two entire families crammed into the small living room of the house his family owned. Uncles, aunts, sisters, brothers, two mothers that had utterly no mercy, two fathers that were ready to skin him alive. "Honey." Rania whispered to his side. She had called him honey back then too. He preferred it over sugar to sweeten tea or coffee.

"It's alright." Mustafar replied.

And then he was back. Back to today's Anghazi. A sprawl of yellow sandstone that slowly and heavily clambered over the hills that sat on the coastline. The colours were gone, by the bleak yellow of a beach in a storm and the white clothes that everyone wore in the Arikan sun. And how white it was. Every street had been flooded by it as if the local farmers had decided to invade the city with their sheep. Yet sheep they weren't. No. Sheep they weren't. Everyone had come for the same reason. Supposedly, even Goddess Tanit, of all Ibya, would be here somewhere. Mustafar had not seen her though.

"You're spacing out." This was the fourth time he had heard those words. And he could not even pretend not to.

"I'm just thinking." Mustafar forced himself to look away from that dreary city. Anghazi it was, but it was not the Anghazi he had grown up in. He turned to Rania, the most beautiful woman in the world. Twenty years they had shared, twenty more they would… although Mustafar didn't know if he believed that anymore. Her large brown eyes were worried, her coppery skin shone in the dawn. They had slept on the docks. Well. They had. Mustafar had stood and kept watch as did most of the other men.

He looked down from his wife to the pair of boys, each one timidly holding onto Rania's hands. Before, Mustafar had tried to live with no regrets. These past few days revealed one though. One mistake that stung like none other: he had not married her sooner. Ibrahim and Hamza, two of the fours stars in his sky. The other stood by his side, the last was in his arms, little Mona who hugged him dearly. She had struggled not to cry since she woke up. Rania said nothing, she just leaned on his shoulder.

And so they stood and waited and gazed up at their little city. Not little by any means, Anghazi was huge. Today though, with people from the whole province streaming in, it felt tiny. "Do you have food?" Mustafar asked.

Rania took the bag off her back and opened it to show off the packed fruit and sandwiches she had made for the trip. Water would be provided and it would only be four days. It should be four days. Meals were limited to one a day though, that had come in the broadcast in the morning. The Empire would not let anyone starve on their ships but it wasn't going to be travel in luxury. "Passport?" Rania pulled out four blue passports from a pocket in the bag. "Wallet?" She showed it off without taking it out the bag. "Money?"

Another pocket were banknotes had been stacked. There had already been a run on the banks, but everyone kept a stash under their mattress. It wasn't worth much anyway. The official exchange rates into Imperial Marks had already plummeted, it was only because some Imperial Bureau had given the refugees a fixed rate at their own offices that there was point taking any. "Marriage certificate?"

"Here." Rania said and showed off her ring with that blue gemstone. She saw Mustafar's face and rolled her eyes. "Of course I have it." She pulled the paper out of her bag.

"Have they sent an address?"

"In Doschia." Rania said. "Countryside though." She smiled, pursed her lips and tried to say the name. "He-He-gen-do-f."

"Do you have a name?"

"Keh-ding-how-zer. They live in the countryside."

"If anything happ-" Mustafar began and Rania interrupted him.

"I know I know." She said. "Nine-Nine-Nine for the police and to ring you. I know. Don't worry. We'll be safe." Mustafar took a deep breath, closed his eyes and tried to not cry. Men should not cry. Fathers especially. Today though, when he got back home, he knew he would. But when he got back home. He didn't want his children to see him like that. He gave a small nod and felt a kiss on his cheek.

They would be safe. Safer than here definitely. Rania was smart too. He would have not gotten even a quarter as he did through life if he did not have Rania beside him. Mustafar kissed Mona on the forehead and knelt down to his sons. He stared them in the eyes. Ibrahim, the older of the two, tried to put on a brave face. Mustafar opened his mouth and realised he could not tell the lie he wanted to say. So he said nothing. He just stared and traced their faces into his memory. "I love you Dad." Hamza burst out first. That was the beginning of the tears and the hugging. For Mustafar. For his family. For everyone else in the crowd. All the two thousand people that were in the first batch to be taken away. A line of police cars packed tightly together, on which the officers stood, separated them from the next batch.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

It did not stop until the loudest sound Mustafar had ever heard blew over the city. He knew the crash of buildings during demolition. The crash of cars during accidents. The wails of family who had lost a loved one. And somehow, even when city was in a raucous dance during the festival of Ghadames, even when he heard thunder right above his head, he had never thought a sound so deep and so loud could be made like that.

Mustafar pulled away from his children to see a fortress come close to Inghazi's huge docks, now seeming so tiny in comparison. With a huge tower in the centre and two turrets on the front, three barrels each. All were large enough for Mustafar to feel as if he could slide inside them. Down the sides, there were at least a dozen smaller cannons or turrets, Mustafar lost count after a point. Adorned with ropes that connected its highest points to the bow, teeming with the black-red-white tricolour of Empire. Its bow lifted off the front on which Imperial sailors stood in white uniforms and caps. And on the balconies of the tower.

It blew that war-horn again, silencing the crowd and began to slow.

INS Kassandora.

A picture of the Goddess of War, armoured and with flowing crimson hair, holding a black greatsword forwards, had been painted onto the side of the ship's bow.

When Mustafar had heard of the Tartarian threat, he had lost all hope. Everyone knew of the Great War, there wasn't a school on the whole planet that didn't teach dedicate at least one history topic on it. Tartarus had come in a great wave to assist the White Pantheon. They had endless armies, endless manpower, they left nothing even in their wake. Even the very sky would be tinted to ash under their relentless advance. He refused to believe that anyone would try to stand against that.

And now as he looked at the ship again, at the pair of huge cannons in the back that matched the ones at the front, at whatever those two prongs were extending down the ship from its control tower, at its spinning radars. When he heard that sound. When he saw the anchor that was as large as his house drop into water and men throw ropes off the ship to tie it to the dock. He believed it.

These men weren't planning on standing against Tartarus. They were planning to defeat it. The police did not even have to clamour for order as the crowd sat stunned. Platform bridges were lowered from the ship to the dock to allow for Imperial men to depart. Soldiers in black uniforms, others in colourful cloaks and with hands covered in jewellery. Those gemstones lighting up as they took off into the air revealed what had been brought: magicians.

It was Rania's elbow that got Mustafar moving. Still holding Mona in his hands, he led to the line that was already forming. The inspections were being done quickly. Mustafar didn't know what he expected. He had heard stories of Imperial efficiency from others who had visited that country. Of how they did not bargain in shops and how the police preferred explanation over bribe. And now, as he watched one of the four platform bridges, each guarded by two pairs of soldiers with rifles slung over their backs. Each with another officer in a paler shade of uniform, not black but some deep-blue instead.

And when the line started moving, it began to flow. Shouts were given to prepare papers and to hand them to the inspector. That everything was in order. That the Kassandora would carry all who had papers and to be orderly. More ships were coming. All who could be taken would be. As they got closer, Mustafar looked at the pale men who had come. Imperial soldiers definitely, with the Imperial tricolour on the arm, then the Allian one underneath it. So it was an Allian crew. That was good.

Although any crew would be good. What did it matter. The soldiers stood at attention with their rifles although they just looked like guards. It had to be the man in the lighter shade of not-quite-blue that was in charge. He was doing all the talking. And as they got closer, Mustafar managed to pick up on his voice. He sounded young. "We do not have much time. Everything will be explained on the ship." Three times he heard before he came face to face with the fellow.

No older than thirty-five. Maybe pushing thirty. Young indeed. Mustafar could only stare as the man saw Rania already holding her papers and just extended his hand. "Greetings." He spoke in the same formal Ibyan that they used on the news. "We do not have much time. Everything will be explained on the ship." His eyes quickly scanned the papers as Rania all but forced the four passports into his hand. And he gently pushed them away. "Those will be processed in Rilia." The man quickly replied. His Ibyan was quite good indeed. "That will be everything. Four." Mustafar didn't even bother think of arguing as he stared at that sideways-skyscraper of a ship. He just set little Mona on the ground.

"You lead Ibrahim." Rania said, she swapped hands with her eldest for her youngest.

One final kiss to Rania, one final squeeze to Hamza's hand, one final hug to Ibrahim, one final embrace of Mona.

And it was done. Up they went. Down he stayed.

Swept up.

The river kept on flowing.

Mustafar just stepped to the side, still taken aback at how such a steel beast could be made to float. Surely it was impossible. Surely. He had seen huge ships before. He had even seen the massive cargo ships that would offload goods in Anghazi. This surely had to be larger even than them. Surely. And he smiled as he saw Rania disappear behind the small metal sheet that made up the ship's side. They wouldn't, they shouldn't be able to catch the fact he was crying, but he didn't want to test his luck.

Two thousand people.

And how long did it take?

Not long enough for Mustafar to even feel sting of fatigue on his feet. No more than twenty minutes. Those four bridges onto the Kassandora, four entrances into the Empire, four pathways to some hope at salvation swallowed the entire crowd without as much as a single argument. Some men broke down, others sat on the ground, a few found their way to the exit. But no one so much as tried to scratch the hand that was offering them salvation.

The man turned around, a self-satisfied smile of a job well done on his face. "Pretty ship." He spoke in that clear Ibyan. It was hard to even detect an accent on him. But pretty was the last word Ibrahim would use to describe this vessel. No. It was much more than that.

"Thank you." Mustafar replied as the four soldiers returned up the bridge. They closed a set of gates behind them and the younger officer stepped forward to stand next to Mustafar. "Are you not going with them?"

"One moment." The man replied. He lifted the radio to his mouth and began to speak in a much faster tone. The radio gave a reply. The man replied. The radio replied. He hooked it back onto his breast pocket. "Ahh… No." He replied.

"Oh." Mustafar said.

"Colonel George Westson. Although I go by Doctor Westson before this." Mustafar felt his dark

"Doctor?" Mustafar hoped his bushy eyebrows had not jumped off his face.

"Linguist." He said. "Not medical. Doctorate in Languages, Oxbridge." Mustafar had heard of that school before. It was supposed to be one of the best in the world. "No no." George said. "Never served. They just took me to be a translator."

"Oh." That explained the clear speech then. The man was a doctor in languages! He probably knew Ibyan better than Mustafar did!

"Will you take care of them?" For a moment, the man looked as if he was taken aback.

"Of course." He said slowly and sighed. "They will not be hurt, you have our word on that." He looked around. "It's…" He trailed off. "We're wouldn't come otherwise."

"Are more ships coming?" Mustafar asked. Maybe he would be able to get one eventually. Once all the women and children had been sent off. Definitely then.

"The INS Hallin will be here in a half-hour. That's five hundred people." George pulled out a notebook from his pocket and flicked through multiple pages. "Then we have the Kot, two-hundred." He looked through the list. "If there's no hiccups…" He trailed off. "Nine-thousand, four hundred and thirty four people today."

"That's a lot." Mustafar said in awe.

George took a moment to respond. The tone was low. "Mmh." He didn't sound like he agreed. "There'll be more tomorrow. We have four cruise liners lined up in the morning." He took a deep breath and through more pages back. "There, back. Eight days. You'll see the Kassandora again in-" The radio buzzing immediately stole the man's attention. Mustafar should have learned Allian. He couldn't pick up a single word bar 'Kassandora'. Some back and forth came between the man and he snapped his fingers. This must have been the local commander. He took a step and shouted in Ibyan. "STEP BACK! THE ANCHOR WILL BE GOING UP!" George poked put his hand on Mustafar's shoulder. This time, it was gentler. "They'll be safe."

Safer than here. Of that, Mustafar had no doubt.

The Imperial took a deep breath as Mustafar finally managed to pull his eyes away from the crowd. He saw the magicians that were hovering in the air. They formed a line, a conveyor belt of solid air as crates were lifted from the Kassandora and directly onto the backs of trucks that Mustafar would have once called large. With the Kassandora in sight though, they wouldn't even be ants.

"And those?"

"Rifles and bullets." George replied.

"For who?"

"For you."

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