ELENA
Mourn not the hero, the villain, or the god. Mourn the woman she could not become.
—from the diaries of Priestess Nomu of the Fire Order
Elena watched Samson’s sleeping form as her pale fire cast shadows across his face. His Agni twinged. And then his eyes shot open, and he sat up with a gasp.
“Chandi,” he cried.
Slowly, she closed her fists, smothering the flames. “Hey, Sam.”
He looked at her blearily, and for a beat, hope brightened his eyes. But then recognition shuttered his expression, and something small and crude bit into her chest. It hurt. And it bothered Elena even more because she did not know why it did, to see hope flee his eyes when he looked upon her.
“How—how are you feeling?” she asked, more roughly than she intended.
“Like I’m still waking from a dream.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Chandi, the others, wh-where are they?”
“In Ayoni,” she said. “Daz is furious. Says the Ayoni broke their trust. He’s going to make sure they’re freed as soon as possible.” But even as she said it, the words felt rote, hollow.
She could not shake the terrible memory of traps opening beneath the docks and swallowing the Sesharian soldiers. Could not unhear Chandi’s scream. She had been overcome by a dizzying sense of helplessness as the masked workers had filed onto the docks. She realized then that they wore not masks, but visors. Faded bulls dotted their hands. Their lips had been sewn shut, and she was not sure what was more horrifying: that the dockworkers were Sesharians forced into silence, or that they were forced to imprison their own under the brutal orders of Bresingi.
Their ships, which were meant to be full of fighting men, ran empty. They had only a few Black Scales left, and then Daz’s men. They were sailing into a losing fight, and she did not know how to make it right. The same crushing helplessness clawed her throat again, and she looked away.
“How many of us are left?” Samson asked.
“Forty. Seventy, if you count Jaya’s Sandsworn.”
“Skies above.” He hung his head, crushing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Serpent forgive me.”
“Sam—”
“I swore to protect them,” he said, his voice strangled. “I promised, Elena. And I—I’ve failed. First the miners, now my men. Chandi.” His voice broke under the weight of her name. “We’re cursed gods, Elena. All we bring is ruin.”
Reassure him, she thought remotely.Make him think I’m on his side.This was the game, wasn’t it? To win his trust until she drove the blade between his ribs. But Elena could not summon the strength. Looking at him now, alone, withered, she felt the ire of her hate waver. This was the man she meant to destroy. This broken, bleeding boy without a home.
He reminded her so much of herself in that moment. They were both lost and forsaken, trapped in a vicious hunt for freedom when it remained the most elusive victory of all. She knew of his self-hatred: of not being enough, of not doing enough, of losing the ones closest no matter how hard you tried to keep them safe. They were one and the same. The Burning Queen and the Butcher. And this recognition almost felt like surrender, like a truce.
But Samson Kytuu did not deserve it.
Elena swallowed the quiet ache gnawing at her throat, and it felt like burying a knife within her own ribs. To acknowledge their similarities was to then open the floodgates of their shared monstrosity, of their own wicked selfishness, and Elena knew that if she were to do so, if she were to even give an inch, Samson would take two. And then another. Until she was back in the rain, abandoned and bleeding.
No. Samson was a monster.
She just had to be so much worse.
“Where are you going?” Samson asked as she rose.
“I—I need air,” she said and stumbled out of the room.
She went to the upper deck and heaved herself onto the guardrails, gasping. She needed only a moment. Just a few minutes for the world to stop reeling. Just some air to beat out the hollow thumping of guilt building in her chest.
We’re cursed gods, Elena. All we bring is ruin.
Everyone she loved had burned to ash, and Elena could blame only herself. The destruction she had once chastised Samson for had become her legacy. All these deaths were a part of her legacy too.
“You all right?” Daz asked.
Elena startled. “Y-yes.”
