The sea, the border of the Goa Kingdom, Windmill Village.
The sea breeze that was once so gentle now carried smoke and the stench of blood. A wooden windmill blazed on a distant hillside, burning like a giant torch and staining the evening sky a ghastly orange-red. The once-peaceful streets were now strewn with rubble, broken weapons, and bodies that no one had yet had time to clear away. Survivors' sobs and the groans of the wounded mingled with the Marines' harsh shouts and the crunch of military boots on gravel, playing a cruel symphony called "the aftermath of war."
Yano Craig knelt before the ruins of his family tavern, "The Seagull and Anchor," clutching a charred, half-burned blue butterfly hair tie. His fourteen-year-old body was rigid as stone. Only his gray eyes, inherited from his mother, were fixed on the two small figures before him, already cold beneath rough white sheets.
