The others strip off their outer layers and make themselves as comfortable as possible on the man’s sparse furniture. Sverre sprawls out across the ratty couch with a groan. Magda and Daniil fight over the remaining armchair until he stubbornly plops down and she just as stubbornly decides to sit on his lap. I roll my eyes at them and turn to our host. Hort is broad-shouldered and stocky, his tan skin worn and leathery but marked with few scars. I search for a war-brand on his wrist, but find it smooth and blank.

“Did you serve?” I ask, made wary by the lack of a brand.

“No,” the man says, and gestures down at himself. “Bad leg. My wife did, though. Lost her life in the Battle of Vuuten. Now it’s just me.”

It’s odd for a Titan to live alone; usually, a lone man would integrate into another family in the village. But perhaps Kisk is too small for that to be possible.

“She made her planet proud.” It’s what you’re supposed to say, but the words never fail to sound hollow and cold to my ears. I’ve never heard of that battle, or of Vuuten, which must have fallen before I came here. Just one more in the endless stream of small victories and great tragedies that make up the war.

The man inclines his head in a nod.

“Do you need anything?” he asks. There’s a hesitation to the words. Most people on Titan don’t have much, especially in places like this, and providing for five soldiers is a tall order. Four, I remind myself, and shake off the image of Ivennie’s face. It’s still a lot to ask. This man will likely spend days with a half-full belly to make up for it. But my people are hungry.

“Yes,” I say. “Food and drink. Something warm.” I try to ignore the anxiety that crosses Hort’s face before he bows his head.

“Of course,” he says, and backs toward the kitchen. He pauses on the threshold, his gaze flickering to the closed bedroom door. A soft sound—a muffled word or a cough—comes from within. My hand moves to my blaster.

“You said it was just you,” I say sharply. My team’s conversation quiets as they note the tension. Daniil and Magda rise to their feet. The man holds up both hands, palms out.

“Wait,” he says quickly. “I…” He stammers for a moment. “Let me show you.”

I gesture toward the door with my gun, and the man sidles toward it, with nervous glances toward my waiting soldiers. He opens the door slightly and hesitates, giving me an imploring look.

“Please,” he says. “Only you.”