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There was a rustling of leathers as Joshua obeyed, and a second later, Joshua’s bow fell across Xerxes’s palm along with a single arrow.

“I’ll leave you to it, Your Majesty.” The clanging of Joshua’s celestial bells drifted back toward the camp as Xerxes loaded the arrow onto the bowstring. He stared at the ground for a moment, watching the bird’s shadow ripple over the glassy, gold sand. Though, instead of seeing meat now, he saw the misty mirage of hundreds of soldiers in dark blue war leathers and silver armour with white dragons stitched down their sleeves and prayers to the Divinities on their lips. He saw a glittering glass palace he’d left behind, along with one hundred and twenty-seven provinces full of his people. He saw the frayed string holding them all together, the paper-thin barrier that kept them from being taken as hostages and turned into B’rei Mira slaves for the rest of their lives. He saw children’s futures being ripped away, and all the beautiful temples in the Mother City smashed to rubble.

The only thing standing between the legendary War King Alecsander and everything Xerxes feared was hope. A fragile, easily shattered hope that was draining by the day.

He could give the Per-Siana army a win at the salt cliffs. A small one, but a win nonetheless. Something that might make them forget that a white-skinned assassin had snuck past the Per-Siana watchmen in the night. Something that might make them forget the arrival of this new, strange creature, and whatever creepy bedtime stories they’d been told about these Vafat in the past—now that the physicians would surely spread the gossip among the men. A win would energize the Per-Siana army. A win would start rumours. A win would give a glimpse of hope in a situation starving for hope. And above all else, that was what the army of Per-Siana needed more than baths, more than running, more than food.

Xerxes let the arrow slide off the bow and fall into the sand. He watched the bird’s shadow sail around a few more laps before heading for a distant dune and slipping out of reach.

It was just a bird. But it was one life Xerxes could save, when there might be so many others he couldn’t.

A guise of hope was all Xerxes could give Per-Siana now. Even at his best, he couldn’t muster real hope, a real chance at surviving. But if he could take a small win, that might be enough to boost broken spirits and erase the daunting truth hanging above everyone for a little while that they were balancing on a narrow ledge and a heavy wind was coming. That they hadn’t even faced the worst of B’rei Mira yet.

That at some point, likely very soon, this war would change.

5

RYN

“Division Twelve!” a soldier shouted.

Heva nudged Ryn’s arm—the only clue Ryn had for interpreting the mysterious Weylin script on the signet in her hand. “Twelve. That’s us.” BURN DIVISION XII.

Ryn was too busy blinking against the piercing sunlight to respond. Every prisoner had moaned in pain and shielded their faces when the giant prison doors were opened and they ascended the stairs to the street outside. They’d been told to wait there, all huddled together at the prison entrance while the soldiers assembled wagons for transport. In the bright daylight, the soldiers’ leathers shone a brighter blue, the silver details like mirrors catching sunbeams.

The first thing Ryn wanted to do was look around, to take in the glistening Per-Siana streets, to catch a glimpse of the Navy Road, to try and spot the crystal spires of the palace in the distance. But during the moments it took for her eyes to adjust, she thought better of it. She kept her gaze on the road beneath her feet where tiny shards of stone and glass were pressed down in a mosaic of shiny, muted colours that reminded her of the stained-glass windows at the Priesthood Temple. She didn’t look up at the sky where the white dragon had once proudly hung for all to see either.

What good was seeing the Mother City when she was forbidden from going into it, couldn’t walk the streets or visit the market she used to barter at, couldn’t touch the glossy white stone walls or approach the deep blue and gold buildings, couldn’t learn what had happened to Kai, didn’t have a home to go back to? She wondered if her backyard garden had crisped to brittle stalks and rotted fruits. It had been so long since she’d knelt in that dirt, worked the soil, planted her seeds, picked the vegetables. The house had probably been taken over, likely sold off by the banks. She imagined a Weylin family walking her hallways now, using her kitchen for their Weylin traditional feasts, sleeping in her bedroom like it was their own, trampling her garden to make room for Celestial Divinity shrines, sorting through her belongings and deciding what to keep and what was garbage. Given the right to judge everything that was once hers, including the “Cahana” name tablet hanging in the living space.

The Cahana family was no more. Not to be remembered, a name never to be mentioned again.

“Ryn!” Ryn’s head snapped up when Heva nudged her toward a blond-bearded soldier still waiting by the wagon. “Go!”

The road felt grainy beneath Ryn’s toes as she dragged herself over and drew the signet out of her pocket. The soldier glanced at it, nodded, and pulled open a rickety wood door to a barred wagon that looked ready to fall apart. The thin wood spokes meant to keep the prisoners from escaping were a joke. But Ryn climbed in first, and three dozen prisoners scrambled into the wagon behind her. The smells of freshly snipped flowers, cooking food, and the natural animal odour from the horses washed over her. Her stomach clenched when she breathed in the scent of warm bread, her eyes betraying her and searching for the nearby bakery that must have been making it.

A flash of dark green appeared in the crowd at the end of the street as inmates pushed into every crack of space, bumping Ryn’s back and rubbing against her sore elbows. Someone in a green veil and robe moved down the road, approaching the soldiers at the front of Ryn’s wagon. Ryn thought of the priestess’ emerald green ministry garments, and she quickly rose onto her tiptoes to get a better look. But after the veiled person spoke quietly with one of the soldiers, they left again, and Ryn sank back down.

Her gaze drifted across the street next, freezing on a triad of men standing outside the pearly white stone Temple of Helios, leaning against one of the temple’s ten pillars wrapped in dangling ivies. Ryn’s brows twitched as she noted the lustrous sapphire coats with long hoods that hid all three faces. Folke soldiers stood in a neat formation around the men with their swords drawn, scaring away citizens passing too close who pointed and whispered about the great magicians they recognized from the banners around the palace. Ryn’s lips peeled apart as she took in the Intelligentsia who’d not only wanted to publicly execute her for her crimes, but mostly because of the Adriel blood in her veins.

One lifted his head, catching a ray of sunlight that illuminated his pale skin and dark eyes. The subtle curl of purple lips creeping into a smile fired memories into Ryn’s soul of chilling whispers, a stolen kiss, and how he’d wanted nothing more than to see Ryn die.

Ryn grabbed the bars on either side of her face.

Her vision blurred as Damon glided over the road, the Folke holding back crowds who tried to approach him as he did. The hem of his sages’ coat slithered over the glistening mosaic street until he came to the wagon, close enough for Ryn to reach through and grab him if she wanted. His hood slid back an inch as he glanced up at her, his dark eyes sparkling and sharp, turning Ryn’s stomach.

He flicked a pale hand toward the nearby soldiers and said, “Make this prisoner kneel so her head is below mine where it belongs.”

Ryn heard Heva’s bark of protest as shuffling filled the wagon. Ryn’s shoulders were grabbed, the backs of her legs kicked, and before she knew it, she was bowing before Damon, his face hovering just above hers.

“Estheryn Electus, how times have changed you.” His soft, hissing voice trailed along Ryn’s hot cheeks as he looked her up and down, eyeing her dirty clothes, her tangled hair, the thinness of her limbs. He spoke too quietly for the rest of the wagon to hear. “You finally look like an Adriel should; dead and covered in earth like you’ve already been buried.” He chuckled, the scent of his breath washing over her with hints of fermented fruit drink and whatever meat he’d indulged in for breakfast. “I suppose you finally understand where you belong. In a deep grave—where I’ve been itching to put you since we met.”

When Ryn didn’t reply, Damon’s thin, purple lips sliced upward into a smile. He leaned in, his face coming close enough to give her the surging thought to bite off his nose. Ryn’s lip curled as she thought about doing it. “Goodbye, you disgusting Adriel pig. Enjoy your desert grave.” The words prickled over Ryn’s ears, warming her cheeks.

Damon drew back, his crooked smile telling, like he wanted her to realize this was the reason he’d come into the Mother City today; to witness the treacherous Estheryn Electus being sent to the desert to be slaughtered. To show her that he’d won in the end.

“You’d better pray to your gods I don’t come back alive,” she rasped quietly.

Damon’s laugh erupted through the street, garnering attention from those watching. He turned his back to the wagon and slinked across the road to the other Intelligentsia. To go destroy the next Adriel he could find, the way he’d destroyed her.