Miss Sacha was lying. Ariston knew that for a fact. She might not know she was, however; according to Alain, he and Damon and all their soldiers were nothing more than fairy tales and stories now. He chose to believe she was unaware of the truth and not to hold it against her. Instead he merely removed his helmet in respect and lowered his head.
"Orimos Constantine. Milo Durand. Brant Everard. Gaman and Geryn Marran. Derik Rhustark. Kericus Welles. Lazlow and Dion Sarn. Jowan Tom. Colin Holde. August Madelm. Kevin Rafton. Mort Sigerson. Donell Barret. Oswin Tark, the Scorpion we called him sometimes. Logen Kalezic. Kain Sanfirret. Dart Waldis. Cadan Garadal. Valor Ogradan. Chas Biggs. Lamont Oehrlain. William Gennaro. Jauren Schildknecht. Garret Perrnov. Kevin Fairleigh. Cornell Rogel. Damon Sourdeval. Ariston Pythias." "These are the men of the seventeenth unit. The men who all died at Karthmere Citadel. Perhaps history gave them more meaningful fates, but those are all just stories, stories that say only Damon and I died that day while our men were scattered. I do remember Milo wasn't with the rest of us, but Constantine and Everard died with me."Damon hadn't remembered; in point of fact, Ariston remembered that he had forgotten, and he had stopped telling him otherwise. They were both starting to lose themselves at that point, and the pain in Damon's voice every time he told him how many of their friends were dead... it wasn't worth letting him know the truth.
"I'm sorry for not saying anything, Damon."He put his helmet back on, rather than face his friend.