“The Prophet’s time has not come,” the old man griped. “But they will come, the both of them. You mark my words; the Phoenix will rise from the ashes and Her Prophet will burn all the unfaithful.”
Yassen slipped down the bridge and into the sandpit. Pain slithered down his shoulder to his wrist, but he ignored it. He stood at the edge of the crowd, beside a merchant peddling makhana as the woman gazed at the sky and the palace beyond.
Then, strangely, she began to laugh.
The old man looked at her, confused. Even members in the crowd shifted in unease. When the woman finally stopped, she raised a shaking finger at Palace Hill.
“They—theywill burn us all.” Her voice sharpened. “They will lead us to a war we cannot win, and we will end up like the islands. Dead or colonized.”
Yassen walked around the edge of the crowd as she jumped down from the statue and walked up to the old man. She was at least a head taller, with the defiant look of a young martyr.
“Your Prophet is no different than that tyrant on the hill,” she said. “Both wage war on this land without regard for its people.” She turned away and directed her words to the crowd. “This land is ours to rule and govern as we see fit. And no one, especially not some half-forgotten bird, can tell us otherwise.”
Cheers and whistles broke out. The old man shook his head. He grumbled something Yassen could not hear and then pushed his way through the crowd. He began to zip up his jacket, and as he passed, Yassen caught a glimpse of a crumpled hat tucked in his breast pocket.
It was the color of gold.
People surrounded the woman, patting her on the back. Yassen watched for a while.
Leave it, he wanted to tell her.Do not lose yourself in these fantasies.
The Arohassin believed in revolution. They decried the Phoenix because She was not real; Alabore Ravence was not a holy figure, but a shrewd general who knew how to manipulate his enemies. They had made Yassen believe that the only way to create change was by destroying the old kingdoms. And for a long time, Yassen had fallen for their stories. He had grown up believing in the Phoenix simply because his mother had. But with the Arohassin, he began to see the vengeful nature of fire. It was only later he had come to learn that hypocrisies existed on all sides. And that fire, no matter who wielded it, was always wild and destructive.
Over the protestors’ conversations, Yassen heard a sound. He looked up to see shadows over the bridge. A face came into view, and then another. Angry faces crowned with gold caps. He spotted the old man from before. Beside him stood a thin man with a hooked nose.Where have I seen him before?The thin man and the others looked down at the small gathering and sneered. Yassen spotted the glint of a pulse gun.
And then he smelled smoke.
Quick as a fox he darted underneath the bridge as the gold caps opened fire. Screams erupted into the night, and the protestors scattered.
Suddenly, the darkness beneath the bridge erupted with light.
He rounded the column of the bridge as a pulse whizzed past him. Another hit the column, spraying stone. Yassen scrambled up the bank of the sandpit. The rain had hardened the sand, and he found purchase, instinct and training taking over.
The old man hopped onto the edge of the pit with his pulse gun. When he saw Yassen, he raised his weapon. Yassen dove forward, tackling him to the ground. They rolled in the sand, struggling, and then Yassen slipped his arm around the man’s shoulder and pinned him down.
“Get off of me, Jantari!” the man cried as Yassen’s hood fell, revealing his colorless eyes and light hair.
Yassen froze. With the acceptance he had slowly won in the palace, Yassen had almost forgotten. Almost believed that maybe, maybe he did belong. But as the old man hissed and struggled beneath him, the truth hit him, a bitter and sharp reminder. To this man, he was a stranger. An enemy.
Yassen looked down. He could easily snap the man’s neck. Leave his body for his brethren to find. His left hand shook as he cradled the man’s head.
But then more pulse fire erupted in the night. Grabbing the man’s weapon, Yassen hit the gold cap with the butt of his gun, knocking him unconscious. Then he sprinted toward the park, legs pumping, heart hammering. Bramble snagged at his arms and legs, but he did not slow.
Sirens were screaming in the distance when Yassen finally stopped at the western edge of the park. He hunched over, heaving for air. The roar of gunfire still thundered in his ears.
Despite himself, Yassen felt his throat constrict. Anger, frustration, and a sense of helplessness squeezed his throat.They are fools, all of them.
CHAPTER 18
ELENA
There is some comfort in the emptiness of the desert. Here, the past is erased by the wind, and the future is yet to be written.
—from the diaries of Priestess Nomu of the Fire Order
Elena burst into Leo’s study.
“You need to stop them,” she said. “They’re out of control.”
