O Pai da França

August in Syria, Damascus—the air was thick with dust and the scent of gunpowder.

Beep, beep... The rhythmic sound of a military whistle echoed outside the window. The boy lying in bed opened his eyes and rose. In one swift motion, he got up and dressed, then washed up before the mirror. Coman Laine Sova Dragon let the whistle pass through his left ear and out his right, paying it little mind. It was Saturday, after all, but more than that, he had lived a second life. He saw things as they were, his mindset mature.

Coman held no particular attachment to his past life. No one had lifted him to great heights, nor could he climb on his own. If only he had some ability, he wouldn’t have ended up so powerless.

His name, Coman, carried a Germanic ring, but he was indeed French, living in French Syria alongside his father, who served in the Foreign Legion. Though his father was an officer, his rank was modest—a major by the end of the French campaign, later promoted to lieutenant colonel by Vichy France.

Coman left his room with droplets still clinging to his face. The wall beside his bed bore the handprint from last night, where a mosquito had met its end. Several others buzzed about the open window, survivors of the nightly hunt.

“Have you heard? The Mosquito Emperor has fallen.” (in a hushed tone) “What? Who did it?” (in surprise) “A hand reached out from the clouds above, striking him down. The face was hidden.”

“Good morning, Syria.” Coman stepped out into the morning breeze, clad in his uniform, his gait relaxed. Two peers followed clos