White Silk and Rainlight

[Alrun Amalbalde]

Alrun didn’t tell anyone. Not officially, at least.
There was no entry in the movement logs. No clearance request. No convoy. No security drone formations. Just a single message, hand-written on paper — left on the edge of a polished command desk:
"Back by morning. Don’t follow. Trust me — Gensui."
And so she left.
Not in uniform, but in a simple, flowing tunic the color of old paper and a cloak soft enough to melt into shadows. Her hair was unbraided for once, tucked beneath a hood, the pale blonde turning silver in the half-light of the capital’s rainy streets.
Beside her walked Orla von der Katzenburg — the only person Alrun trusted enough for this. Orla didn’t ask questions. She simply nodded when summoned and kept pace, her armored coat whispering with every step.
They took the old city entrance — not the main platforms or lifts, but a forgotten tunnel beneath the old tramway line. A relic from a different Irkanien, where wires still sparked and walls bled rust.
"Why are we doing this?" Orla asked softly as they emerged into a side alley lit in rotating pinks and yellows.
Alrun didn’t answer right away. Her eyes were on the street beyond. Vendors hawking sweet rice wrapped in crispbread, girls dancing in silver heels on cracked pavement, boys in jury-rigged synth armor mock-fighting in the corner. Laughter. Light. Life.
"I needed to remember," Alrun said finally. Her voice was barely above the hum of a neon sign. "What I’m protecting."
They passed a fruit stand. The vendor didn’t recognize her — just another tired woman in a worn cloak. He handed her a slice of sugarberry, and she paid with coins instead of credits, palms open, smile small.
"You could’ve watched from a drone," Orla said. Not as a rebuke. Just a truth.
"Yes," Alrun agreed, chewing slowly. "But the city never smells the same through a drone."
Later, they sat on the rim of a dry fountain, listening to a street musician play an old Irkisch tune on a cracked-string instrument. A child ran past them with a toy drone buzzing overhead, laughing like the world was still whole.
Alrun closed her eyes. Just for a moment.
Orla remained alert. Always.
"You miss it," she said after a while.
"I never had it," Alrun replied. "But I wanted to."
A pause. Then a small laugh — real and rare — from the Marshal.
"Maybe in another life, I sold books."
Orla tilted her head. "You'd still terrify customers."
"I’d organize them by mood. Alphabetically. Cross-referenced by regret."
Orla smirked. "You’re not wrong."
They stayed a little longer. Ate something fried and unidentifiable. Walked through a street market selling bootleg VR gear and temple incense. No one stopped them. No one knew.
And as the night gave way to morning mist, Alrun looked once more at the city — the mess, the noise, the stubborn light.
Then she turned and whispered, almost to herself:
"Now I can go back."