"You never called him King?" Ráh wrapped the silk scarlet cord around her wrist. She dipped a cotton towel into dirty water and rinsed the blood off the warrior's face.
"We did … call him King. He said it did not suit him." The warrior sat up. "In my world, when the last king passed, Jesha took the throne. We just let it be. Strange really, though it seemed right."
Outside the arched windows, war ravaged the city. Ráh's ear hugged the wall. "Listen." In the distance, lowly chants of a thousand voices echoed from the ocean's shore. "Jesha …" She turned to the warrior. "They say he was born a slave."
"Thus the scars on his back." The warrior eased to his feet. Smells of spilt fuel filtered through shattered glass. His eyes widened as another airship fell from the sky. "This city will fall." With every blast the blade of his sword rattled amongst the rubble. "It doesn't seem that--"
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