Across the platform, the officer clasped cuffs around the young man’s wrists.
“You’re from Nbru?” the policeman asked as he scrutinized Yassen’s holo. His eyebrows furrowed. “Says here that you arrived over a month ago. Why’d you leave?”
“Work,” Yassen replied. At once, she recognized the change in his accent. Gone were the heavy, rolling sounds of the desert, replaced by the high, lilting tones of the Nbruian. He gave a bashful smile. “Jantar gives better coin.”
“Take off your visor,” the officer demanded, and Yassen slowly unclipped his, revealing his colorless eyes. “You’re a Jantari?”
“My father was,” Yassen replied with a tight-lipped smile.
The office snorted. “And her?” He looked at Elena, and she saw him take in her long curls, her dark brown skin. “Where’s her passport?”
“My wife forgot it at home,” Yassen said smoothly, and she shot him a look. “We’re sorry. We rushed out when we heard the war declaration. My poor mother-in-law, may the Mountain bless her soul, has a frail heart. She lives across the city. We just want to check on her.”
You’re talking too much, she thought, but she held her tongue.
“Tough luck,” the officer growled. He pointed at Elena. “Without holos, I can’t let her pass. Come with me, miss.”
Elena bristled, but Yassen stepped in front of her. He slipped something into the officer’s pocket.
“Sometimes we forget things when we’re worried,” he whispered.
The officer’s lip curled back in a sneer. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
“No,” Yassen said, his voice serene. “Just paying my deference to the guards of Jantar.”
The officer considered this. Finally, he patted his pocket and nodded.
“Next time, bring your pod. We can’t have Ravani mingling with our people,” he said. “Hail Farin.”
He strode past them, heading for the next man unfortunate enough to catch his attention. Elena let out a shaky breath.
“They’re rounding us up.” She shook her head. Anger flashed through her—a keen, sudden pain, like needles piercing through her fingertips. She had to protect her people. With her fire, she could burn down every Jantari policeman and Arohassin soldier. With her fire, she would hang them from the rafters.
Yassen must have recognized the look in her eyes because he touched her arm as heat rolled off her. He did not flinch.
“Easy now,” he said, glancing around them. “Remember why you’re here.”
She forced herself to nod. A hissing sound grew in her ears, and she knew at once that it was the fire within her begging to be unleashed.
In time, she told it.
She flexed her hand, and a wisp of a flame, a tiny little thing, danced and died in her palm.
They arrived at the Sona Range at dawn of the third day. On the train, Elena had snagged a scarf left by a passenger and used it to hide her dark, curly hair. Officers, luckily, had not combed the hovertrains once they boarded. They only searched the platforms for traveling Ravani, and Elena shuddered to think what was happening to her countrymen.
The sky bled in drops of rust and carmine as their hovertrain neared the mountains. Like most of Jantar, the peaks glinted unnaturally. Small patches of snow were in stark contrast to the blue and red pines, but what drew Elena’s attention were the rigs. Massive metal conglomerations hugged the mountainside like ugly beetles. In the middle, two pressurized glass pipes acted as elevator tubes. One was used to send Sesharians deep into the mountain; the other, to retrieve carts filled with raw ore. Elena was both impressed by the sheer might of the mines and repulsed by the way they gutted the land of its value.
Her father always said that the Jantari did not respect their land. They built and mined without pausing to consider their effects. At least her people knew how to coexist with the desert, to learn its shapes and curves. At least the Ravani knew when to give and when to beg.
Her thoughts turned to Rani, now gutted and burned. How could it be that over a week ago, she had walked through its streets, heard dhols ring through the air as people sang songs about the sands? Elena longed for her home. So much so that her ache felt more intense than hunger, more fervent than prayer.
Yassen groaned, breaking her from her thoughts.
She turned as he rolled onto his back. He was laid out across the seats, asleep. It was her turn to stay on watch, but instead of keeping an eye on their surroundings, Elena found herself studying Yassen. The pale sun outlined the bridge of his curved nose, the high plane of his forehead, softening him. She could see the scar on his neck, small and curved, where she had once held her slingsword to his throat.
Elena hesitated, and then stood slowly. His hair brushed her thigh as she sat down beside him. He stirred, and she froze. For a moment, she thought he would wake, but Yassen remained asleep. His lips were slightly parted, his long lashes dusting the tops of his cheeks. A singular curl of hair fell across his forehead. Age lines crinkled the edges of his eyes, but the sunlight made him young. As if he’d found peace beyond this world.
He looked beautiful, in a way.
