Samson sat on the seashell-studded beach as the moons climbed the winter night. He buried his hands in the sand and closed his eyes, attempting to focus more on the rough grains brushing against his skin than his own traitorous heart. But even behind his eyes, he saw her. Why could he not rid himself of her as easily as she had cast down his hopes? Samson flung open his eyes and stared intently at the horizon. The killdoms were docked within the harbor, their metal hulls glimmering in the moonlight. He could just faintly make out the black burns streaking down the bow, the portside, and he thought of the men he had lost to capture those ships.
Deep down, he had known that the council would fail. That freedom through peace was but a hollow promise. He had forgotten his own instincts in favor of hope, that vile, capricious thing, and actuallybelieved. Even whenhe had left those miners, even when he had abandoned his men, he had believed—desperately—that there was areasonbehind all of this. Samson clenched his hands into fists, squeezing so tightly he could feel the grains of sand digging into his fingernail beds. They had destroyed the mines to pressure Farin, taken his ships to prove their strength—and for what? For him and his like to be considered terrorists? He had hoped for Sesharian azadi, but then Elena had yanked it away with her simpering platitudes, and he did not know if he felt sorrow or anger or disgust or heartbreak. Perhaps all of it.
Perhaps this was grief—not a grief of loss, but a grief for what could have been. He wished he had never dreamed of a softer future, a happier one, when she had rested her hand on top of his and asked him to be brave. He wished he had never learned of two dollops of honey.
It was nearly dawn by the time Samson rose to his feet. Sand sprinkled down his arms. Merchants and dockhands were slowly returning to the docks, their voices rising into a swell, louder than before, but he ignored it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the golden emblem of Tsuani palace guards. They were watching him. Normally, Samson would reach for his urumi, but it was within the palace, and frankly, he could care less about piss-pant Tsuani.
Samson looked out across the horizon and ached for home. Seshar was but two days’ journey from Tsuana. He had always imagined returning to his birthplace with the promise of azadi unfurling from his tongue like a ribbon for all to see. Music would fill the streets. They’d pour wine into the sea for the ones they’d lost and then drink their sorrow and happiness into the warm depths of the night. They would eat until their stomachs swelled from gluttony and not famine. They’d drink and sing and laugh and cry, and then do it all over again the next day. No man or woman would look over their shoulder for the glint of a zeemir. He would not be called a rustblood. He would be deemed a hero, worthy of his promise.
But his promise was worth nothing now.
Samson turned away from the sea and began to walk up the beach when he heard a shout. Visha and another figure were running toward him.
“What is it?” he asked, panicking.
And then he recognized her companion. His throat closed.“Akino?”
The master of arms drew to a stop as Visha bent over, sucking in air loudly.
“We were looking for you,” she panted.
“H-how?” he asked Akino. “How did you escape? The miners—were they—”
“They declared me dead when they pulled me from the rubble, but by some twisted grace of the skies, I lived,” Akino said softly. “I was not fit to mine, so they sent me to work the killdoms.”
Heat leached from Samson’s face. He did not know what to say. How to make up for the lost time, or his own failings.
“I…” he tried.
Akino stared, quiet. An awkward silence stretched between them, large and unwieldly. Even Visha shifted uncomfortably, her quick smile forgotten.
“I…” he tried again.
“It’s like you hoped,” Akino said, his voice edged, but there was warmth beneath it, a soft yielding. “I lived, Sam.”
Without warning, Samson pulled him into a fierce embrace. Akino squawked in surprise. Samson gripped him tight, his voice trembling.
“I’m sorry, brother. I shouldn’t have left you behind. You were right—”
“Sam, Sam, I need to breathe,” Akino laughed, and when he pulled back, a small smile lighted his lips. “I’m here now. We are free.”
Samson let him go, dropping his hands. “We are not. It seems I keep failing, brother. Seshar is lost—”
“Lost?” An enormous grin split up Visha’s face, radiant as lightning. “Where have you been? Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?” he said, looking between them both.
“Elena called an emergency session last night. Apparently, Farin signed a treaty with her to retreat from both Ravence and Seshar, starting next week.”
She grinned up at him, expectant, but he only stood there, bewildered. Visha sucked her teeth.
“Gods damn it, Sam! We’re finally free! Seshar and Ravence are free!”
“It’s true, Sam,” Akino said softly. “It is done.”
He stared at them in stunned disbelief. He could not think of a reason for Farin to suddenly change his tune.
Visha laughed at his silence. She grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him gently as she said, “Farin cannot afford a long war. He bled his treasury dry trying to feed his armies and quell rebellions at home. And then we destroyed his mines. And then we took his two killdoms! He caved.”
