Nova was curled up on the bed and not speaking with him.

... Of course it was Rosenthal who'd ruined their outing. Middle-aged xenophobia machine. William couldn't believe she'd drawn a sword in public. Wonder she wasn't facing disciplinary action.

Well, she was essentially the highest ranked official on base. It wasn't as though there was anyone there who could discipline her.

He scrolled through battle reports, read officer's accounts.

There weren't very many.

The White Wind of the Starka's fleet, to put it lightly, hadn't taken prisoners. Or allowed retreat. Or showed any mercy at all, to anyone.

Their strategy seemed to be brutally massacring everything they could get their hands on and perhaps occasionally letting one or two officers go, maimed, to spread the word that they weren't meant to be fucked with.

Aside from the fact that they committed basically every war crime William could think of, it was very efficient, at least as a method of victory in warfare. They had been disbanded about thirty years ago or so, though.

William counted it back in his head; Rosenthal would've only been a cadet or something around that time? Probably not even twenty.

He spun his chair a bit, ran his eyes over accounts of fairly one-sided battle. Things that he was pretty certain counted as horrific even by Starka standards.

When he came home, he wasn't like that, Nova had implored with such a deep, hurting expression in his eyes.

Nova would've still only been a teenager then, at most, right? It would make sense if he didn't know or understand the sheer scale of it.