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Then Xerxes shouted, “A burn division?!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The man shrank back, clearing his throat and tugging his light blue courier scarf.

Xerxes looked the messenger up and down, noticing for the first time the young man’s bushy eyebrows and sand worn clothes. His sash drooped halfway down his tunic, stretched all over.

“When did we deploy a burn division?” he demanded. He grabbed another scroll, looking for some sort of informative report.

“Three Per-Siana prisons were mobilized into burn divisions. It’s the Intelligentsia’s way of offering their support,” the messenger said, and Xerxes’s jaw dropped. Warm evening desert air rushed into his mouth, drying out his tongue.

“What?” It came out through Xerxes’s teeth as he crumpled the scroll in his fist.

All the one hundred and twenty-seven Per-Siana provinces had prisons. Some of the larger provinces even had multiple prisons. This was going to be a disaster.

“Th… The Intelligentsia…”

Xerxes massaged his temples as the messenger stuttered. Even now, with Per-Siana under severe threat, the Intelligentsia were doing idiotic things he’d prohibited, going directly against his orders. He would throw Damon off the palace roof for this. He would strip the whole Intelligentsia of their tacky robes, and he would kick them out of their council seats as soon as he got back.

“Which prisons?” he asked. He flinched when the messenger didn’t answer immediately.

“Uh… I’m not sure exactly, but I believe they were starting in the easternmost provinces. Provinces seventy to seventy-three, I think? Or maybe it was thirty to thirty-three? Anyway, only a few burn divisions have been formed so far.” He offered an awkward bow of apology. “But I’m sure they’ll mobilize more—”

“No. Send an order to the Intelligentsia saying that I strictly ban them from forming more divisions. We don’t need them out here.” Xerxes glanced off at the miles of sand outside the tent, thinking of how little use fresh soldiers would be to him if they were untrained, starving prisoners—just more mouths to feed. “Warn them that if they go against my orders again, I’ll return to the palace and drag them out to the desert to be the next burn division!”

The messenger closed his mouth altogether, his eyes going round, and commanders and Division One leaders murmured. Perhaps it was strange to be caught between the Intelligentsia and the King of Per-Siana, but Xerxes cared not.

“Burn divisions,” he muttered as he scooped up all the scrolls and shoved them back into the messenger’s arms. “What a waste.” He turned to begin the meeting, but Commander Malore spoke first.

“I’ve heard about them, too—Burn Division Twelve. But I thought it was just inflated gossip. No burn division is that lucky.” The man ran a hand over his strings of greasy hair as Xerxes blinked at him in disbelief, wondering why, if this commander had heard such a wild tale, he hadn’t bothered to inform Xerxes about it. “They haven’t lost a single soldier yet.” Then, with a doubtful smirk, Commander Malore added, “Supposedly.”

By the tent entrance, Commander Zerralae rubbed a mole on his cheek, smiling. “They will.” A few chuckles rumbled through the space. The servants finally arrived with wine pitchers and cups, and soldiers headed to the side tables to help themselves.

The messenger’s voice was weak when he piped up. “You’re wrong.”

Xerxes dragged his gaze back, finding the fellow’s bushy brows tugged together, his wobbling lips tipped into a frown.

“Commander Adassah is stirring hope through our divisions across the desert.” The messenger bowed for the hundredth time. “Please, Your Majesty! One of our own trusted men, Bastone Issacs, is a witness! Commander Adassah is headed to liberate the divisions in the stalemate not far from here! You could call upon her burn division for help—rumour claims she’s—”

“Enough.” Xerxes shook his head and swiped the scrolls out of the messenger’s grip. They toppled into the sand. “I don’t believe in wild rumours, and I certainly don’t believe a burn division is going to survive much longer out here. What will it do to us if our army starts putting their hope in this maiden only to have her ripped to shreds by our enemies? The small hope I’ve carefully built up will be yanked out from beneath Per-Siana’s feet in the blink of an eye, crippling us all over again. Stop spreading these ridiculous messages about this woman!” Xerxes pulled the map off the shelf at the side of the tent, carried it over, and spread it open on the centre table. “Now, let’s get back to the purpose of this meeting. Someone give me an idea I can use.” Xerxes glanced back over at the frowning messenger when he didn’t leave. “Are there other reports?”

The messenger’s neck bobbed. He cleared his throat, then said quietly, “We lost Division Seventy-Five eight days ago. We’re preparing messages to be sent home to the families in the seventy fifth province. We also lost Division Eighty-Three, Division One Hundred and Two, and Division Forty-Four last night.”

The messenger said nothing else as the commanders crowded in around the table, the beginnings of their muttered suggestions and advice occupying the space. After a moment, Xerxes noticed the messenger slide back over the sand floor and slip out the exit. He didn’t come back.

Xerxes’s hand traced over the violet mark up his neck and across his jaw where his armour didn’t cover. The ink wasn’t sticky anymore but was as bright and glowing as it was the first day. Not a speck had come off or faded even after a week. In fact… shapes had started to form at the ends like it was spreading.

What, by the Divinities, did it mean if the marking was spreading?

And more importantly, how was he to turn this war if his divisions kept getting killed off?

“Open your eyes, Xerxes.”

His hand was slamming the side of his own head before he could consider what the nearby men would think. “Quiet!” he snapped, and two soldiers halted their words. Several sets of eyes blinked at their King in question, so Xerxes muttered an apology and glanced out at the desert again. Eventually, the chatter resumed, hushed and with care.

His questions weren’t for this god. In fact, he wanted to ask what this god wanted, and why he kept showing up at the worst of times, but Xerxes sealed his mouth shut with bitten lips. Now was not the time for thoughts of gods. And besides, his eyes were open—now more than ever.

Past the tent exit, the crimson sunset turned the sand hills bloodred. The sky was clear; not even a cloud lingered above. There were a lot of things Xerxes imagined coming for him across the sands, even overtaking him eventually, but untimely voices of gods wasn’t one of them.

The desert was quiet now. Too quiet. Xerxes’s jaw clenched slowly.