Page 1 of Storm of Ink and Blood

ONE

Ishaan, capital of Gi’ana, Siahi District

Zarya wedged the palm-sized explosive between two wooden slats, pinching the wick to ensure it stood straight. Beams of silver moonlight filtered in through high, smudged windows, illuminating rows and rows of stoppered glass bottles filled with midnight-black ink.

More bottles covered tables and shelves in neat, orderly rows like soldiers standing at attention, while others were packed in padded wooden crates stacked against every wall of the seven-story warehouse.

She worked quickly on the third-level mezzanine, placing more explosives at strategic points. Below her giant vats of ink bubbled on the sprawling main floor, churning up a bitter odor tainted with the edges of something rotten and sinister.

The building housed Rahajhan’s main supply of ink used to collar the vanshaj into servitude. Located within the Siahi District in the city of Ishaan, the capital of Gi’ana, it was both a forgotten and significant place.

Forgotten because so many things related to the vanshaj were shoved into this dilapidated corner of the city to be cast aside where no one would be forced to look upon the injustice committed against an entire group of innocent people for a millennium.

Significant because without this building, control over the vanshaj would be in jeopardy, and with any luck, eradicated entirely.

Every day hundreds of men and women were forced to stand at the conveyor belts, filling tiny glass jars with shadowy ink and stoppering them with pieces of cork before carefully placing them in wooden crates to be shipped all over the continent.

Thin arms stirred the massive vats surrounded by torches sparking with black flames, which were said to be the source of the magic that infused the ink. The flames generated noxious fumes that left the workers dizzy and often disoriented, making their working conditions untenable.

The magical fire was a creation of the Jadugara, an ancient sect of Aazheri native to Gi’ana, and the architects of infusing the ink with the binding enchantment. They added insult to injury when every worker in this warehouse was vanshaj, forcing them to act as unwilling cogs in the machine keeping them bound within their chains.

A silhouette passed overhead, and Zarya caught the telltale silver flash of Yasen’s hair reflecting in the dim light. He stopped, carefully placing a small explosive on a shelf before prowling along the walkway. They had only a few more minutes before the city watch would inevitably circle their way to this end of the warehouse on their nightly rounds.

At various points around the building, other members of the vanshaj resistance were placing tiny explosives at designated locations throughout the warehouse, including the ramparts overhead. They had to make this count. The goal: ensure it would take months before anyone could even think about resurrecting this place again.

Zarya descended a flight of stairs, crossed the floor, and nestled more explosives around the vats’ bases until she had run through her entire supply. She then headed for a long shelf at the far end of the room, wedging more of the tiny bombs between the supports.

Her arm brushed a bottle, and it wobbled precariously, threatening to tip. Thanks to years of combat training, her lightning-quick reflexes snatched it mid-descent right before it smashed at her feet. As her fingers closed around the vessel, a strange tingling traveled up her arm and spread through her chest, kicking up her pulse. She stared at it, trying to parse out the peculiar sensation, when a noise drew her attention up. Yasen leaped down from a high platform, light on his feet, before he jogged down the stairs to where Zarya waited.

“All finished?” he asked in a low voice.

“Almost.” She grabbed a crate sitting near her feet and began gently packing it with bottles. While Yasen waited for her to finish, he watched the shadows moving above before they also made their way to the main floor and then melted out of the exits.

“Hurry up,” Yasen whispered.

Zarya nestled the last few bottles into the crate. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Hey!” came a deep male voice breaking through the silence. “Stop! What are you doing in here?”

Yasen and Zarya whipped around to find two members of the city watch wearing fitted black jackets set with large square pockets, black pants, and tall black boots, both with a talwar already gripped in their hands. Zarya looked left and right, noting the sinister glint of moonlight off their blades. They were cornered in an alcove, and their only exit was through the now-blocked path.

Yasen withdrew the blade at his hip, and though his posture remained casual, Zarya knew he was coiled to strike.

“We were just leaving,” he said. “Nothing to see here.”

The guard on the left bared his teeth. “In the name of the royal family, you are under arrest. It is forbidden to enter these walls without permission from the Jadugara.”

“Oh?” Yasen asked. “Is that all you need? I know I have our letter somewhere.”

He made a show of patting his pockets while Zarya scanned their surroundings for an escape route.

The guards advanced, and Yasen stretched out a protective arm as he shuffled Zarya back, crowding them against the shelves while she clutched the crate in her hands.

She could use magic, but she refused to abandon the bottles, nor did she want to draw any more attention to their presence. It was a miracle that more of the dozens of city watch circling the building hadn’t also come to investigate.

A moment later, a shrill whistle mimicking a mynah’s call sounded in a rhythmic pattern—two short blasts followed by a long one. That was the signal. Yasen’s and Zarya’s gazes met, understanding they were out of time. Other resistance members planned to light the wicks in a matter of seconds, but they wouldn’t realize Zarya and Yasen were trapped inside.

The guards’ foreheads furrowed in confusion, understandably wondering why a mynah would be anywhere in this area.