The Blackthorn Academy has been transformed into a fortress of diplomacy.
Where there were once only the scarred, blackened stones of a military compound, there are now sweeping banners of deep green and silver, snapping crisply in the Pacific Northwest breeze. The integration school courtyard has been cleared of its training equipment, replaced by rows of polished mahogany tables and plush, velvet-upholstered chairs. The air, usually smelling of damp earth, crushed pine, and the sharp tang of ozone, is now heavily layered with the scent of expensive cologne, fresh-roasted coffee, and the nervous sweat of a hundred human politicians.
I stand on the balcony of the Administration Wing, my heavily bandaged hands gripping the cold steel railing. My left shoulder throbs with a dull, rhythmic
