Publisher's blurb: The rest of the world knows little about Segira. Most of them heard about us for the first time on the day that the Segiran Red Army raised their banner over Zastivo. They have never seen the dancing, heard the singing, pulled the lucky coin from a piece of the Christmas bread. To them, our land is nothing more than untapped resources. A tool in staving off wars of aggression that would destroy the planet if they came to fruition. They fight in Segira because they cannot fight each other directly; our homeland has become their battleground. We Segirans? We know more of our land. We remember the day that the Mountain Wolf, Tvrtko Vuković, made his last stand at the Royal Palace, blood mingling with the oil leaking from his battlesuit as its autocannons plucked Su-17s from the air. We remember when the American peacekeepers established their puppet regime on the day before the Armistice, reigniting the conflict. We remember when the fruit grew in the orchards, when the prince was born, the celebrations we had. We remember the bittersweet taste of the koljivo eaten in memory of those we have lost as we pray for their souls. We live in a time of sacrifice, a time of loss. How does one explain the loss of life? How does one tell the children they gave birth to that their father is dead, and that they will grow up without their mother? War. We need only say the word, and they will know. It is timeless, eternal. Our struggle is not one for Segira, but for our souls. If we do not fight—if we do not stand now against the foreigners and traitors—we will lose more than just our lives.