Gwisen suppressed a shudder, remembering his family’s tales of what really happened. The immolation camps. Crematorium ash clouds blotting out the sun with the corpses of his people. Thersian slave markets, stinking of piss and shit and decaying corpses. Cages filled with Shawdese he couldn’t rescue.
He could never speak of those things here, not among the Thersians. Cityfolk wouldn’t throw moons or slivers into the donation jar unless they were being flattered. So Gwisen kept the truth to himself and gave them what they wanted.