The courtyard behind the Naval Office in Bastion was quiet in the mornings. That was why Zara came here. Bastion's capital was always buzzing, full of courier droids and whispers. Even the high towers of the Diarchs felt cramped sometimes, like the weight of perfection was pressing in through the walls. But here? Here the stones were old, the air still, and the garden overgrown just enough to feel like memory could breathe.
She used to run through this courtyard. Legs too short for the pace she set. She'd trip. Scrape her knees. Once she set her tunic on fire. Mother wasn't thrilled.
Zara stepped lightly around the edge of the reflecting pool. Her reflection followed: tall and haloed in the morning sun. Blonde hair cascading around her face. She looked like someone who had always known who she was. She looked like a lie.
The first time she bent fire to her will, she was four. A tantrum. A shattered window. The scent of scorched paint. Her mother called the recruiters that evening.
"She's yours now."
That's what her mother had said. Not gifted. Not special. Just... done.
Zara sat on the bench with the cracked tile. The one she and Genn used to race to after before she went away. She hadn't thought about Genn in years. She'd flamed out, literally. Similar talents but she couldn't regulate. Couldn't keep the fire in the box. Zara could. Because she learned early: it wasn't about being powerful. It was about appearing powerful. The fire was a prop. The real weapon was fear.
She leaned back and let the silence settle over her. The wind brushed the trees like careful fingers. Why did she always push people away? Because closeness was a risk. Because control meant distance. Because the fire had to be boxed. And maybe because no one had ever fought to stay.
She'd fight. She always did. But now, sitting here, the Archon Zara Saga let herself wonder what it might feel like to lose, and not be alone.
The wind shifted. Time to go. She smoothed her robes, stood tall, and left the garden behind. Like every other ghost.
