Where Duty Ends

The restaurant at the heart of San Dorma’s capital, El Palador de Oro, was bathed in amber light — the kind of glow that hid sweat, lies, and conscience.

At the round table near the corner window sat three men from Aethelgard, the powerful northern nation funding half of San Dorma’s economy, and three from San Dorma’s military government — all in expensive suits that didn’t match the dust and heat outside.

Silver cutlery, aged whiskey, and thin smiles filled the silence between them.

“To prosperity,” said Minister Delano Ruiz, raising his glass. His hand trembled slightly — either from age or guilt, no one could tell.

“And to loyalty,” replied Ambassador Martin Kellor of Aethelgard, clinking glasses. “Your exports have been a blessing to our defense industry, gentlemen.”

“The pleasure’s mutual,” said General Baro, a stout man with medals across his chest. “Our army grows stronger with every partnership.”

Across the table, Deputy Minister Velez, younger, thinner, and less accustomed to deceit, shifted uneasily. His eyes darted between them before he spoke.

“About that, General,” he said. “Our people are starving. Food exports are killing the rural states. Maybe we reduce them a little? Trade off with more defense shipments instead?”

The table fell silent.

Martin Kellor lowered his glass. His Aethelgard colleagues exchanged looks — that practiced, wordless communication of diplomats who’ve already decided.

“Mr. Velez,” Kellor said slowly, with the kind of condescension reserved for lesser men. “Your nation signed an agreement. We expect commitments to be honored. You can’t build a country on excuses.”

“And you can’t feed a nation on bullets,” Velez snapped before catching himself.

General Baro’s jaw tightened. “Watch your mouth, Velez.”

The air turned cold. For a few seconds, no one moved. Then Minister Ruiz forced a chuckle, raising his glass again.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen — let’s not spoil the evening. The agreement stands. And… our friends here,” he looked at the Aethelgard officials with a crooked smile, “will make sure our cooperation is… generously appreciated this time.”

Kellor smiled — the kind of smile that could sign wars into existence.

“Of course,” he said. “Aethelgard never forgets loyalty.”

Laughter filled the room again, loud and hollow, echoing against the marble walls. The waiters cleared the plates, leaving behind the faint smell of steak, whiskey, and rot.

Outside, two black cars idled under the buzzing yellow lamps.

In the first car, Velez sat between Ruiz and Baro. The city lights flickered on the windshield as they drove through the pothole-riddled streets.

“You’ve got a fucking death wish, Velez,” Baro muttered.

“All I said was the truth—”

“Truth doesn’t feed your family. Money does,” Ruiz interrupted coldly. “You’ve been paid handsomely. Don’t start growing a conscience now. People of San Dorma can take care of themselves.”

“No,” Velez whispered, staring out the window at the beggars on the sidewalk, “they can’t.”

The second car pulled up to Hotel Solaris — a marble palace standing in the middle of a decaying district. Beyond its glowing arches lay narrow alleys, broken roofs, and stray dogs scavenging through garbage.

Inside, chandeliers gleamed above imported carpets. The Aethelgard officials — Kellor, Plant, and Hendricks — stepped out and handed their coats to bellboys.

Joseph Plant, tall and smug, paused at the reception as his eyes locked onto one of the hotel staff — a young woman with wheatish skin and wavy hair tied into a bun with a single metal pin.

“You,” he said, his accent thick. “Room 401. Ten minutes.”

The woman froze, her eyes darting to her manager, who looked away.

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Room 401 smelled of cigars and aftershave. Plant stood at the balcony, staring at the city’s silhouette — the neon glow ending abruptly into rural darkness. Beyond that, miles of nothing — the kind of nothing Aethelgard profited from.

A knock on the door.

“Come in,” he said without turning.

The woman entered, eyes red, hands shaking as she clutched a folded towel against her chest.

“You crying?” Plant asked, stepping closer. “I— I’m sorry, sir, I—”

He grabbed her chin and forced her face up to meet his.

“You locals. Always so fucking dramatic.”

He kissed her, forcing his mouth against hers. She whimpered, tears sliding down her cheek. He started unbuttoning his shirt, laughing low — until the sound of metal slicing through air cut him short.

Her hand moved fast — the hairpin drove straight into his throat. Blood sprayed across the cream-colored walls.

He gurgled, stumbled, and fell. She stood over him, trembling, watching the life leave his eyes.

Then, with sudden cold precision, she searched the room — phone, wallet, keycard, a few documents. She stuffed them into a small black bag, wiped her fingerprints, and moved to the window.

She looked down — a hay cart was parked below. She jumped.

Her feet hit the hay, rolled onto the dirt, and she ran — through alleys, across an unlit road, into the whispering forest that hugged the city’s edges.

A shadow waited for her near a rusted truck. José, broad-shouldered and grim, stepped forward with a cigarette hanging from his lips.

“You sprayed the mark?” he asked.

“No,” she gasped. “I didn’t have time—”

José’s eyes hardened. He grabbed her by the neck and slammed her against the truck.

“You better not start following your husband’s fucking path, Elisa.”

Her eyes widened. Her breath shook. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, José…”

He released her, tossed a bundle of cash into her hands.

“Take it. Get lost. I’ll take it from here.”

She clutched the money and turned to leave. Behind her, José lifted his walkie-talkie.

“It’s done,” he said.

Seconds later, the night exploded. A fiery bloom rose over the city — Hotel Solaris erupted into flame. The roar echoed through the valley.

Elisa stopped and turned. The sky glowed orange, painting her face in light and shadow. Her expression didn’t change. She simply turned back and walked into the dark.

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Hours later, she reached a small house at the edge of the slums.

The nameplate read, “Iago and Elisa Moreno.”

She pushed the creaking door open and peeked inside a dim room. Her son lay asleep on a thin mattress — small, peaceful, a faint smile on his lips. Above the doorframe, drawn with a marker, was his name, Ciro.

She walked to her own room, locked the door, and placed the cash bundle inside a tin box, beneath a folded shirt. Then she stood before the cracked mirror.

Her reflection looked back at her — blood on her sleeve, a smear on her cheek, hair falling loose. For a moment, her lips trembled.

She took a deep breath, wiped the blood off with the corner of her dress, and straightened her posture.

“You’re fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re fine.”

But her eyes glistened — not from tears, but from the reflection of fire still burning miles away.

Aethelgard – Next Morning

The newsroom screens blared headlines in red:

“Three Senior Aethelgard Officials Killed in San Dorma Hotel Explosion.”

Inside an office of the Intelligence Bureau, Alex Hart, early 30s, fair and lean with tired eyes, read the news from his desk. The corners of his mouth tightened, not from shock but recognition.

He folded the paper, exhaled quietly, and stared out the window at the rain streaking across Aethelgard’s skyline.

A soft knock on the glass wall of his office.

“The director wants you in the conference room,” said an aide.

Alex nodded, stood up, adjusted his tie, and slipped the folded newspaper under his arm.

“Guess it’s San Dorma, then,” he muttered under his breath.

He left the office, the hum of fluorescent lights following him down the corridor.