## Story 1 ![7-1.png](/uploads/7_1_5c3f7017a3.png) The boy stirs to wakefulness in an unfamiliar room. Beside him sits a silent clockwork
man and a woman with a gentle smile. The boy had traveled countless unforgiving lands in an
attempt to halt the cruel war staged by his own kingdom. Yet he now finds himself in the
comfortable bed of a civilian.
"What happened?" he asks.

The man apologizes for acting on his own discretion. He explains how the woman
came to their aid when the boy fell victim to a mighty seizure. As the boy begins to thank his
rescuer, he silently curses the inadequacy of his frail and sickly body. But irony rules the day,
and he launches into a coughing fit before he can finish speaking. The woman gently lowers
the hacking boy back onto the bed. Sleep comes to claim him once more. Perhaps this is
because illness has worn him to the bone, or perhaps it is due to the radiant warmth of her
hands. As he drifts away, he takes a moment to appreciate the brief moment of respite. ## Story 2 ![7-2.png](/uploads/7_2_31f2cecefb.png) Several days have passed since the boy began his treatment in the woman's humble
abode. He occasionally hears commotion erupt outside. The townsfolk talk of nothing save
the war. The fires of battle spread daily across the land, and they fear their town will soon be
set to burn. Eventually, their unease grows so great that a guard is dispatched to keep watch
over the boy and man. I have to form my alliance as quickly as possible, thinks the boy.

I must forge a peace among these warring nations.

Despite the boy's conviction, his weakened body fights him at every turn. Instead of helping the
people, he finds himself increasingly reliant on their aid. The pain of his fever and cough is soon
joined by the endless throb of a guilty conscience. The woman tends him briskly and efficiently.
Despite the raging war, her words are soft and kind. Despite her abject poverty, her food is
warm and hearty. The situation begins to remind the boy of his childhood.

As his thoughts spin, they finally alight on a particular memory: One from his earliest
days as a child. It is the face of his mother—a woman who departed this world long, long ago. ## Story 3 ![7-3.png](/uploads/7_3_8ae5332043.png) Slowly but surely, the boy progresses in his recovery. One day, a thought occurs to him:
Why is this woman working so hard for me? And why does she remind me of my mother?
The boy asks his clockwork companion if he knows anything of her circumstances. The man
nods and reaches for a nearby picture frame that is turned face-down. He flips it over to reveal
a family photograph.

The man then begins to speak of the room's history. This country keeps a database of
all citizens, one he had been able to access. He continues speaking, his voice dry and emotionless.
He tells the boy what he found in the records of the woman's family. The room in which they rest
once belonged to her child. The same child who smiles so brightly in the photo. But the fires of
war had claimed him some time ago. And just as the boy sensed his late mother in the woman,
so too did she sense her late child in him.

A time of respite. A woman's devotion. A veiled love. Pain shoots through the boy's heart.
But it does not come from his illness. Instead, it comes from a realization. A realization that his
own homeland is responsible for all of this. ## Story 4 ![7-4.png](/uploads/7_4_b06ffffa8b.png) The woman's endless devotion stems from her conflating the boy with her own dead
child. A child that was killed by the very war the boy's homeland had started. This truth lay
heavily on the boy's heart.

"Enough," he says to the clockwork man.
"I can stay here no longer."
He dresses himself and uses his staff to rise from the bed.

As the man reaches to steady the boy, the distant rumble of cannon fire rings out. It is
the sound of lives being lost. The familiar footsteps of tragedy march ever closer. They threaten
to engulf the house at any moment. The woman suddenly leaps from her bed and rushes to the
pair, begging them not to leave.

"Let me go," says the boy.
"I am not your son; I am from the kingdom, and royal blood flows in my veins."

Shock breaks out across the woman's face before slowly morphing into hatred.

"It's your fault," she growls.
"Your fault."
"My son is dead and it's all your fault!"

She lets forth an agonized howl—the pain of a mother tormented by an immutable past.

"Yes," replies the boy "I am responsible."
He bows his head deeply. He knows he is the target of her hatred—and he knows that it is
earned.

As they abandon the house, the boy's fever spikes and the pain threatens to blot out
his consciousness. But he continues stumbling on. He will protect the woman and her house.
He will stop the war. He will bear the burden of hate for as long as he must. That is why he
walks on.... And why he never looks back.

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