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Chapter Text

Chaghan’s world was reduced to sound and shadow. With his wrists bound behind his back and his vision obscured, all he could do was stumble in whichever direction the hand on his shoulder pushed him. The Hesperian guard’s grasp was iron, his breath sour, like something had died in his mouth. Every so often, he shifted, and Chaghan could hear the weight of his arquebus moving against the cloth of his uniform. For show, mostly, but he knew the soldier was just itching to use it. In the South, shooting shamans was becoming a national pastime.

Nevermind that he had no defenses. Gold circlets bit into his wrists, clinking against manacles when he moved. If anything, it would only have made the kill sweeter. Hesperians loved to hunt prey which could not strike them back.

The wooden deck of the boat tipped beneath his feet, sending him stumbling back – a brief, stomach-turning brush against the Hesperian’s chest before he was pushed forwards again. Sea air gusted, warm, salty, and squalling with the sounds of chattering birds. He had to suppose the ocean was there, that faint, glimmering line of blue visible through the rough canvas thrown over his head, but then again, that could just be the sky. The sun kept up its overbearing assault, making him sweat. Damn Southern weather. What he wouldn’t give for some clouds. A cool breeze. Tipping headfirst into a snowbank sounded like a dream.

Something was shouted in Hesperian from the stern, and its motions started to slow, deck bobbing underfoot as the little boat moored. More chatter, louder than the waves — Chaghan hoped he never grew accustomed to the sound of it, all those confused vowels and grating consonants, like the half-formed babble of small children. Which they were, in a way. A nation of intentional ignorance, burying half the universe under their Maker, their Chaos.

The hand at his shoulder shoved. He moved forwards.

Slippery wood beneath his boots became sand. The Hesperian party exchanged words with another. Guards, most likely. He squinted through the canvas, curious despite himself.

He shouldn’t bother, really. Soon enough, he’d be sick to death of seeing Speerlies. 

That was, if this gambit worked. 

It was a pretty big if. 

The droning buzz of insects crowded in, the air growing moist and cloying under his hood. He concentrated on trying to breathe, even though it felt like someone had thrown a wet cloth over his mouth and nose. Deeper into the forest. The world darkened, shaded by an unseen canopy. A mutter of words — Hesperian, and a new language, flowing and musical, one he didn’t recognise, speckled with borrowed Hesperian for the sake of the delegates.

A creak of great hinges opening heavy doors. Then, the quiet swallowed him up.

Inside the palace, it smelled like old teak wood and burning incense. Almost comforting, were it not for the clatter of readied spears, the curious murmur of unfamiliar voices.

A knee pressed into the backs of his own, the hand at his shoulder pushing him to the floor. His shins met stone. The gathered crowd hushed, expectant. Chaghan held his breath.

“Your Majesty,” purred the Hesperian ambassador, a thin, pencil-mustached man by the name of Tarquin. Chaghan pictured how the humidity would have turned his cheeks bright as poppies, plastering straw-coloured hair against his prominent forehead, and tried not to snort. “Your Royal Highness. We are humbled by your generous personal reception.”

“The pleasure is ours, Ambassador Tarquin.” Queen Hanelai’s low voice filled the room, her intonation flat, accent clipping into her Hesperian. Bizarre that she should have to speak their tongue on her own soil. “I see you have brought our guest.”

Guest. What a generous term. Chaghan’s bracelets clinked against his manacles as he rolled stiff shoulders, earning him a subtle kick from the Hesperian guard standing behind him.

“As requested. Governor Adams understands the delicate nature of our agreement. The coast of Snake Province lies upon Speerly waters. As such, we thought it only right to present the prisoner to you for judgement.” Tarquin cleared his throat. “Shall I…?”

“Please.”

With a flourish, the hood was whipped off Chaghan’s head.

He winced at the sudden press of light. The room was so bright, much brighter than it had looked through the hood. Tall windows, without panes of glass or paper, let in thick slants of sunlight, whispering leaves peeking over the dark wood frames, the outside bleeding in. The stone tiles beneath his knees shone in cheerful colours, arranged in geometric patterns of red and blue, ash-grey and ochre-yellow. Braziers burned upon tall metal stands, mirror-polished bronze bowls reflecting the golden sunlight, the scarlet flames. Speerly guards bristled in twin rows on either side of the great hall, painted shields held low, spears pointed up towards the arched, dark-beamed ceiling. 

At the far end of the room, upon a raised stone dais, sat three ornate wooden thrones. The central throne, and by far the grandest, was occupied by a petite woman in a layered dress of dark fabric. Queen Hanelai. Her eyes assessed him coolly from beneath her crown, a behemoth of a thing, bronze and beads and shells and plumes of scarlet feathers. Bead strings draped her arms and shoulders, rustling as she moved. The throne to her right was empty — the heir’s seat, reserved for the absent Princess. Her gaze moved over him, flicking to the left, to the young man seated beside her.

The Prince was not so richly dressed as the Queen, but still breathtaking nonetheless. Where the Republic’s heir might have slouched in his seat, the Speerly prince’s spine was straight as an arrow, a soldier’s perfect posture. Beads glimmered on broad shoulders, a swathe of cobalt and scarlet fabric bright across his chest. His stare was keen as a hunting dog’s. It pinned Chaghan to the spot. He wondered if Prince Altan Trengsin could smell fear.

When the Prince spoke, his voice was softer than Chaghan had expected.

“Are you a shaman?” he asked, in perfectly unaccented Nikara.

“Ah,” Ambassador Tarquin said, switching to Nikara. “He is, Your Highness. We have conducted extensive testing—”

“I asked him,” the Prince said, “not you.” His eyes hadn’t left Chaghan’s face.

Queen Hanelai raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The soldier behind Chaghan nudged the small of his back with his boot, prompting him to speak.

“You use the Nikara term.” Chaghan’s voice sounded like gravel. Gods, how long had it been since he’d drank water? “How disappointing. I would have expected a broader understanding from the Prince of an enlightened nation.”

The guards stationed along the sides of the room bristled. Altan held up a placating hand.

“What term would you use, then?”

“I am a Seer.” Chaghan smiled at the slight, quizzical tilt of the Prince’s head. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means.”

“You are a spy,” Tarquin cut in, laced with venom. “An agent of Chaos, sent South to destabilise our righteous Republic. Do not attempt to deny it.”

“I’m not denying it,” Chaghan shrugged, looking up at Tarquin’s face. Round-cheeked like a giant baby, flushed more purple than red. He grinned. “Although I’m not certain what this Chaos you keep talking about is supposed to be. So many false words. For a people so obsessed with progress, you certainly love to ignore inconvenient truths.”

Tarquin glanced behind him and nodded, once. The guard stepped forward and struck him sharply across the face.

“Ambassador.” Queen Hanelai’s voice had sharpened. “You are on Speerly soil. Hesperian laws regarding blasphemy do not apply here.”

Beside her, the Prince had stiffened in his seat. His fingers dug into the throne’s carved armrests; his expression was one of barely contained fury. The small thrill of victory it brought Chaghan was worth the blooming bruise on his cheek.

“Apologies, Your Majesty.” Tarquin dipped into a low bow. “It won’t happen again.”

The Queen considered him for a tense moment, before dipping her head. She glanced over to the Prince at her side again. “What do you think?”

Altan leaned back, considering. His frown shaded his eyes; his crown gleamed in the sunlight, bright white bone and shell a shining contrast to his dark skin. He nodded to Chaghan. “Do you want to live?”

Chaghan scoffed. He affected a bow, as best he could from his knees. “If it pleases Your Highness.”

Altan held his gaze for a moment longer. Then, he turned to face the Queen, and nodded.

“Very well,” Queen Hanelai murmured to him. She regarded the Ambassador. “Release the prisoner to our custody. We will pass judgement as we see fit, on our own terms."

Ambassador Tarquin bowed low, hair a wet flop over his forehead. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” Face obscured by the bow, he shot Chaghan a pointed look, pale blue eyes sharp. It sent him right back to the southeast Nikara coast the evening before, that dark, damp stone room they’d stuffed him in, lantern light glaring into his eyes. Keep your end of the bargain, heathen. Do this, and all will be well. 

Chaghan held his gaze. Considered everything on the line. Everything he had to lose. The meagre amount he had to gain.

It would be worth it. He had to believe it would be worth it.

After all, what was a little more blood staining his soul?

Ambassador Tarquin backed off, just as the Speerly guards approached. They seized Chaghan, taking an arm each, and hauled him out of the room, numb feet barely brushing the floor.

The Speerly dungeons were, all in all, pretty similar to every other kind of dungeons he’d had the misfortune of finding himself in. Dark, dank, and miserable, cramped cells reinforced with rusted steel bars, outfitted with meagre stone benches. After the scorching heat outside, the cool darkness was almost a balm. The stone walls dripped with moisture, little whitish stalactites forming on the low ceiling. It seemed as if the dungeons had been carved directly into the rock beneath the palace. That, at least, was a little interesting. 

A scraping noise caught his attention. Chaghan looked down and found a rat gnawing at the toe of his boot. He kicked it away, disgust roiling in his stomach.

Gods. They’d better not keep him here for long.

He wasn’t sure what to anticipate. He’d prepared himself for the likely interrogation, as well as the looming possibility of torture — after all, you could never be certain. From what he’d been told, the latter didn’t seem likely. But then again, Chaghan hadn’t known many men who, if born wielding fire in their hands, would be able to resist the temptation to use it. 

He wondered what it would be like, to be burned piece by piece. His hands clenched and unclenched anxiously behind his back, fingers buzzing, losing their fight to maintain circulation. 

Voices echoed down the hallway, making his ears perk up. Chaghan stilled, slowing his breathing. Listening. Two voices — two men. One low, melodious — the Prince. Another, unknown, older. Not one of the guards who’d brought him, nor the one who’d been on duty, greeting the others as they’d entered. They stopped talking just as soon as they drew close enough for him to be able to make out their words.

A good sign. They couldn’t be planning to kill him immediately, then, if they bothered keeping their voices lowered.

He kept his gaze lowered and placid as two sets of footsteps stopped beside his cell. A clank, a metallic screech that made his ears ring, and then one of them stepped inside.

It was not the Prince. This man wore a long, pale robe in Nikara style, hem brushing his shoes. He hummed, thoughtful, as if considering a pig at a market. Then, he crouched down so they were eye to eye.

Chaghan had to fight to keep his expression neutral. He recognised this man, in a terrible, furious rush. Adrenaline made his head fuzz, made his heart pound. His legs stiffened, readying to bolt, but there was nowhere to go.

The Gatekeeper considered him. His eyes were sharp and piercing as a fist through ribs. His ageless face showed no hint of emotion. 

Chaghan’s blood was ice. He couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to, frozen with terror, flooding hot with rage. Every part of him itched to spill this traitorous, murderous bastard’s guts on the stone, to fry his mind, to destroy him, as he’d destroyed—

Fingers grasped his chin. Gentle, not the iron grip Chaghan had expected. The Gatekeeper tilted his head slowly to either side, eyes roaming over his face. Melancholy passed over his expression like a dark cloud.

Then, he released him. Stood up, brushing off his hands, as if merely touching the Ketreyids’ kin had dirtied them. He turned to face the Prince, and shook his head with a grim twist of his mouth.

Prince Altan stared back at him, eyes wide in confusion. He looked down at Chaghan, brow furrowed. Conflicted.

He didn’t look much like a Prince at that moment, Chaghan thought. His crown was nowhere to be seen, shoulder-length dark hair tied hastily back from his face, stray locks almost curling at his cheekbones. He wore a simple, sleeveless tunic with no hint of the flashy ornamentation from the palace hall, and held himself stiffly, primly, arms folded behind his back. He looked like a student, learning from the master. Someone accustomed to following, rather than leading.

A coward, Chaghan thought viciously. 

He would never have wanted for anything, raised in a palace like this. Of course he would be accustomed to following orders. He’d had his entire life dictated for him, a neat, paved path to follow. Sheltered. Safe.

The Prince watched the Gatekeeper’s movements, stepping back as he stepped forward, moving out of the cell. The Gatekeeper shut the door behind him with a clunk and a jangle of keys, striding back down the corridor, a man whose mind was made up. Altan didn’t follow. He stayed, hesitating, frowning on the other side of the bars. Those unnerving scarlet eyes held Chaghan’s gaze, pinched at the edges with something pained. 

Chaghan’s chest tightened. His fate was sealed now. He could do nothing to change it. 

The only thing that might save him was the judgement of Altan Trengsin.

He hoped the Prince would open his mouth. Question him. Demand answers. Explanations. History. Give him a chance to spin a tale worthy of his mercy.

But what would be the point?

The Gatekeeper was here, in the palace. Chaghan had been expecting to find him on the island — rooting out the last of the Trifecta was the only reason he’d been sent South in the first place — but he’d been told to look for a weakened older shaman, a shade of the monster he’d once been, crippled by the loss of a third of his soul. He’d been expecting to find a man in hiding. 

He hadn’t been expecting the Gatekeeper to be stable, emitting an aura of raw power, comfortable enough amongst Speer’s ruling family that the Prince deferred to his judgement. 

Without a doubt, the Gatekeeper knew exactly why Chaghan was here. He wouldn’t risk leaving him alive.

That traitor would tell Altan everything he cared to know about the Trifecta’s storied history with the Ketreyids, as the ashes of what had once been Chaghan dissipated on the salt breeze. Or, more likely, he wouldn’t bother to. He hadn’t even needed to speak to sentence Chaghan to death. If Altan trusted him that much, the chances that he’d care to question why seemed vanishingly slim.

He could only pray that the Hesperians had placed their bets on the right horse. Prince Altan has a soft spot for wayward shamans, they’d said. Play up the helplessness, and he’ll be putty in your hands.

Whether he decided to play it up or not, Chaghan was helpless. Without access to the immaterial world, cut off from his anchor twin, he was all bark and no bite, a wolf without teeth. A wolf being slowly starved of oxygen, heart squeezing painfully in his chest with each beat, every sense dulled, every breath laboured. A wolf on borrowed time.

Altan’s eyes narrowed. His gaze flicked down to Chaghan’s bound wrists behind his back. His jaw tightened. He backed away from the bars, retreating down the hallway after the Gatekeeper in long, quick strides. Those voices echoed again, hissing whispers. Chaghan felt a tiny, foolish spark of hope.

With any luck, the Prince’s soft heart would be his salvation, as surely as it would be Speer’s downfall.

Chapter Text

Dawn sunlight streamed through tall windows. Carved wooden panes cast the light into geometric shapes, splayed bright across the stone floor. Chaghan watched the way the shapes moved as the sun slowly rose in the rose-tinted sky, rippling, catching just slightly on the hints of unevenness in the ancient tiles. He stirred, face-down on the bed, stretching out aching limbs. His fingertips buzzed with strange, wary adrenaline as he trickled back to himself, thoughts slowly rearranging into something coherent. His heartbeat quickened.

Last night hadn’t been a dream after all, then.

He’d expected the arrival of the Speerly guard eventually, jolting him out of his uncomfortable doze with a squealing clatter as the gate opened. He’d expected the look on the guard’s face, the grim downturn of his mouth, the averted eyes. He’d expected to be pulled to his feet. The guard had shoved him face-first against the wall; he hadn’t resisted.

The click of unlocking manacles had made him freeze. Slowly, he pulled his arms forward from where they’d been pinned behind his back. His shoulders were stiff, muscles between his shoulder blades pinching with pain. The blood flow slowly returned to his hands in a startling rush of pins and needles.

“Prince’s orders,” the guard said when he turned around, in response to Chaghan’s wide-eyed stare. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “They can stay off if you don’t make trouble.”

Chaghan had laughed, hoarse and disbelieving. He’d twisted one of the golden bands around his wrists. “I’ll try not to.”

No bags over heads, this time. The guard had steered him out of the cell with a hand at his elbow, through the empty dungeons and up slick stone steps, into the dark quiet of a back hallway of the palace. He said nothing, not even when Chaghan tripped up the stairs and nearly fell on his face, cursing his stiff legs, his shaky, unresponsive muscles. 

A Hesperian would have laughed. The Speerly only watched him, patient and wary. Chaghan tried not to think too hard about that fact.

The palace was a maze, one single, sprawling storey, annexes and covered walkways and moonlit courtyards brimming with glossy leaves, humming with insects. Chaghan had tried to keep track of the route, but the bracelets and the exhausting journey were taking their toll — it was hard to think at all with the incessant pounding in his head. Hardly a strenuous walk, but it left him out of breath all the same.

They stopped by a tall doorway, the door already ajar, revealing a modestly sized room flickering with warm light. The guard released his shoulder, gesturing into the room. “Go on.”

Chaghan had given him a wary look. The guard rolled his eyes. 

“If we wanted to torture you, we would have done it in the dungeons.” The guard raised an eyebrow. “I can put you back in your cell if you’d prefer.”

He’d been too exhausted to argue. For once, he had obeyed Qara’s advice. Just do what they say, and keep your big, stupid mouth shut.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, the door swung shut behind him, locking with a heavy clunk.

The room was much nicer than the dungeons — nicer, in fact, than any sleeping arrangements he’d had in recent memory. Modest, for a palace, but still grand, with the same arching wooden beams on the ceiling as the main hall. A covered brazier smoldered in one corner, illuminating the room with a soft red glow. Candles were arranged on a stone table, casting their golden flickers onto the orange-hued walls, the dark wooden furniture, the slim-framed bed.

Oh. An actual bed. Every other thought had evaporated. Chaghan had dragged himself across the room and collapsed onto the sheets, asleep before he’d even thought to pull off his rat-chewed boots.

Now, everything hurt, a dull, pounding ache spreading through his limbs. He regretted being awake, but was keenly aware that trying to sleep for any longer would be foolish as well as pointless. Time was a limited resource. He needed to use it wisely.

The first thing he did was seize the metal jug of water — left on the stone table beside a couple of tin cups, next to a waxy puddle of burned-down candles — and drain the entire thing in one go. 

After that, gasping, wiping water from his chin, he dared to glance in the mirror. A mistake. The Hesperians could have done a slightly less thorough job making his captivity look convincing. He looked as if he’d been mauled, then dragged backwards through a muddy forest for good measure. Wincing, Chaghan pulled his fingers through his hair, catching on knotted tangles, brownish mats where dried blood had crusted into it. That wouldn’t do. There was a basin in the corner, alongside a few towels and a helpful second jug of water. It took longer than he would have liked, but eventually he’d scrubbed himself relatively clean.

Towelling off his damp hair, he paused. A pile of clothes had been left on the dresser beside the basin, clean, crisp linen, neatly folded. He ran his fingers over the fabric. Dark indigo, almost black, accented with panels of golden fabric in intricate square patterns.

He looked down at his grey tunic in its crumpled heap beside the basin. Still mostly intact, if a little frayed and stained. It would last him a little longer. Besides, this clothing was made for Speerlies. Chaghan held up the light tunic, frowning at the unfamiliar flaps and ties, trying to figure out how he’d go about putting it on. Best not to attempt it, at least not yet. He didn’t feel like making a fool of himself.

Beyond the practical considerations, stubborn pride dug its heels in. His own clothes were fine. He wouldn’t surrender what small sliver he had left of his own agency so easily. Even if it did smell like stale sweat and seabird shit. He pulled the old tunic over his head.

A sharp tug to the door handle revealed it was still locked. He gave it a rattle. Sure enough, after enough bothering, the door clunked and swung open, revealing the same guard from the night before. He fixed Chaghan with a tired-eyed look.

“If you’re hungry, you’ll have to wait until the rest of the palace is awake.”

Chaghan peered over his shoulder. The hallway was empty, the air invitingly cool. He glanced back at the guard. “Am I a prisoner, or not?”

The guard sighed. “This is the guest wing.”

“So…?”

“Technically, no. But—”

“Good.” Chaghan shouldered past him. “I’m going to stretch my legs.”

The guard’s mouth worked, gaping like a landed fish. “You can’t just—”

“I’ll come right back. Where am I going to go? Do you expect me to run to the beach and start swimming?”

The guard looked unamused. Chaghan wondered if anyone had actually tried that before. If they had, they’d been fools. Those currents had felt unforgiving on the boat ride over.

“Very well,” the guard sighed. “I will accompany you. I’ve been ordered not to let you out of sight.”

“The Prince’s orders again, I take it?”

The warning look that earned was just on the edge of dangerous. The guard’s dull scarlet eyes were red-rimmed. He didn’t look like he’d slept.

“No,” he growled. “The Queen’s.”

Ah. Chaghan swallowed. It seemed that Prince Altan wasn’t the only person taking the Gatekeeper’s word to heart.

He stepped out into the hallway, hearing the guard’s footsteps follow at a close clip behind.

The palace was beautiful in the early morning sun. Chaghan had expected the seat of Speerly power to be a grim, dark place, roaring with flame, bristling with metal. The throne room hadn’t been far off what he’d been picturing. But in this section of the palace, beyond the initial first impressions, the architecture was graceful and decadent. 

Complex carvings festooned the roof ridges, carved into spiralling shapes, coiling dragons and rearing phoenixes, painted in bright hues of turquoise, red, and gold. The roof tiles were jade-green, almost matching the hue of the rustling trees and broad-fronded ferns clustered around the walkways. The walls were smooth, painted in earthy oranges and fiery reds. He followed a covered wooden walkway through what seemed to be a sprawling garden, drinking in the dizzying unfamiliarity of it all, the new scents on the breeze, the cackle and shriek of unfamiliar birds in the boughs above.

A whump of an impact made his steps slow. Something hard against something slightly softer, rhythmic strikes in repeating patterns. Chaghan rounded the corner, peering through a stand of dense bamboo.

A lone figure stood in a clearing before a canvas training dummy. He wielded a weapon Chaghan hadn’t seen before — some kind of three-pronged spear, solid metal, flashing in the sun as he spun it deftly in his grip. It almost resembled a fishing trident, although this was far more sturdy, its prongs spaced to slot between human ribs.

The Prince was a sight to behold. His form was perfect, ripped straight from a Nikara combat scroll, movements precise and deadly; he wielded the weapon as if it were another limb, solid and gleaming like the rest of him. His dark, sleeveless tunic was untied, strings loose around his waist, revealing a sliver of his chest beneath a silver half-moon pendant, brown skin glistening with sweat. The ground at his feet was well-trodden, short grass worn away to naked earth in places. He came here often.

It had been a lucky guess, coming back here. Chaghan had spotted the clearing on the walk over last night, the dummies and weapon-racks half hidden in foliage, and had committed it to his foggy memory. A perfect place for a young noble to find some solitude.

The Prince whirled, spinning the trident in one fluid motion and pinning it straight through the dummy’s heart. He took a step back, wiping sweat from his eyes, panting.

“You train like you’re expecting a war to break out at any moment,” Chaghan mused. 

Altan looked up and met his eyes, one hand raised to his forehead against the sun’s growing glare. He didn’t look surprised to see him. How long had he known he was there?

“Well,” he said, shrugging, “that is the whole reason you’re here.”

Chaghan froze. A thread of panic knotted in his chest. Surely not. Surely he didn’t… 

Altan’s lips tugged in a lopsided smile. “My aunt would never approve of taking in the Republic’s stray shamans otherwise. Every good strategist needs tricks up their sleeve. Don’t worry, I’ll see you’re put to good use.” He placed a foot on the dummy and wrenched his trident free from its chest, slung the weapon across his shoulder, then ducked into the shade of the covered walkway. He emanated so much warmth that Chaghan could feel it from a good three feet away; he smelled of smoke. “How did you find your room? Comfortable enough, I hope?”

Chaghan tried to remember how to breathe. Did the Prince have to make so much eye contact? It was one of Chaghan’s own favourite intimidation tricks, but right now even he found it stifling. Those irises were so bright. So intense. 

Gods. He should speak. It wasn’t hard. Just open your damned mouth. 

“It was fine, thank you,” he rasped. His mouth felt full of sand; he swallowed uselessly. “I slept better than I have in weeks.”

Altan’s eyes softened. “Glad to hear it.” His gaze shifted downwards, skimming across Chaghan’s shoulders, down to his wrists, where his sleeves didn’t quite hide the glint of gold. Everywhere his eyes roamed left a trail of heat across Chaghan’s skin. He suddenly found himself very warm. Altan’s eyes flicked back up to Chaghan’s face. “You don’t have to keep wearing those rags, you know.”

The heat simmering beneath his skin turned to ice. Chaghan scowled, folding his arms over his chest. “I like my rags just fine.”

Altan shrugged, unsurprised. “Suit yourself. If you change your mind, I’ll have our seamstresses measure you up.”

His words felt routine, pre-rehearsed. How many shamans had Altan taken in before? How many were hiding in the palace? It wasn’t something Chaghan had really considered in earnest until now.

“Those inhibitors will need to stay put for a while longer,” Altan said. He nodded towards Chaghan’s wrists. “Not my choice, I’m afraid. We haven’t had a shaman from the Hinterlands join us before. We need a better idea of what you can do before we can risk unleashing you.”

“You mean you’re scared of me,” Chaghan said flatly.

Altan’s eyebrows raised. “Not at all.”

Then you’re a fool.

“Someone certainly is. The man you came into my cell with, then?” Chaghan tilted his head. “Who is he to you?”

“An advisor to the Queen.” Altan’s voice hardened. “And the wisest man I’ve ever known. Jiang Ziya could have had you killed with a word. Be grateful he didn’t.”

Chaghan hummed. “Why didn’t you let him, then?”

Altan frowned at him for a long moment. He sighed through his nose, looking away. “I’m not in the habit of judging by appearances. What one man considers dangerous, another may consider useful.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t expect you to prove it.”

“And how should I do that? I can hardly give you a demonstration.”

“Give it time,” Altan said, unhelpfully. “I’m sure you’ll find a way. In the meantime, you should try to settle in.” His expression softened, looking over Chaghan’s thin frame. “You must be hungry.”

Chaghan opened his mouth to object, but found he couldn’t. He was hungry — starving, in fact. The space beneath his ribs felt like it had been hollowed out with a knife, and hadn’t looked much better in the mirror. He’s been drifting like a ghost the past few days, so lost in a numb, hazy fog of greyness that the hunger had barely registered, sweeping straight through him. Now that food was a distinct possibility — and, judging by the faint smell of cooking on the breeze, a close possibility — his stomach responded all at once, clenching in a painful growl. He winced.

Altan smiled, with that strange, pinched quality to his eyes. “Come on. You’ll take breakfast with me.”

When he turned to walk away, Chaghan followed, falling into step a couple of paces behind him.

Altan slowed his steps until they were walking side by side. He frowned, glancing back towards the guard, who had begun to follow. “You can leave us.”

The guard hesitated. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. Queen Hanelai’s orders were quite clear. For your own protection.”

Altan snorted. He glanced sideways at Chaghan. “My aunt thinks you’re going to throttle me.”

“I could,” Chaghan retorted.

“You could try,” Altan said, “and I’d throw you over my shoulder like a bag of rice and toss you into the ocean.”

“Fair enough.”

Breakfast was an interesting affair. Chaghan spent a long time prodding hesitantly at the contents of his bowl, not quite sure what was what. Sweet rice congee was familiar enough, studded with chunks of some unknown reddish-pink fruit and pale berries. On the other side, a heap of mashed, starchy something. Long strips of golden, fried fruit that was oddly savoury. A couple of little crispy fish, head and tail intact, which Altan tossed whole into his mouth. Every so often he would glance over at Chaghan’s bowl, that imperious gaze assessing his progress, like an eagle trying to feed a fussy chick. 

They sat around a small circular table beside a window in the Prince’s own quarters, which felt far too intimate for Chaghan’s liking, even despite the guard’s presence — posted up against the far wall, eyes on the ceiling, as if he’d rather be anywhere else. Chaghan swallowed a lump of fried fruit, sympathising.

“So, where are all your other shamans?” he asked Altan, breaking the silence. “Surely you can’t keep them all in the palace. Imagine the chaos.”

Altan smiled. “We did try that at first.”

“And?”

“Chaos. Your prediction was right.”

Chaghan hummed. “They usually are.”

“We have other arrangements now. I’ll show you at some point,” Altan said, leaning back in his chair. His own bowl had long since been finished. “Tomorrow, maybe. I’ll be busy this afternoon, so you’ll have to entertain yourself for a while.”

Chaghan nodded, stirring his congee, which had congealed into an unappetizing goop. He couldn’t help but wonder what Altan’s other shamans were like. If they’d survived on the mainland for long enough to find their way to Speer’s shores, they must be powerful. Loyal, to boot. Who wouldn’t be? The Prince would be their savior as much as their commander. 

Another thorn in his side to consider, when the time came. How many of them were there? How much of a fight would they put up? Chaghan was confident in his abilities, but he was still only one man. He’d have to plan carefully to avoid being overwhelmed—

“You’ll like them,” Altan said, cutting through his reverie. His voice was low and careful, keen eyes on the side of Chaghan’s face. “The Cike, I mean. For assassins, they’re pretty friendly.”

Chaghan blinked back at him, suddenly cold. “Assassins?”

“We have to put you to use somehow.” His lips tugged in a small smile. “Even wayward shamans need to earn their keep. And Speer has plenty of enemies to keep you busy.”

Perfect. So the unknowable quantities of powerful, loyal shamans were trained assassins, to boot. 

Chaghan wanted to kick himself. He should have known this. If he’d been given the proper time and resources, he would have come prepared. And he certainly wouldn’t have volunteered to throw himself to the wolves, bargaining his life upon their mercy.

It was done now, in any case. At least this wolf seemed somewhat predictable.

Really, Chaghan wasn’t sure what all the fuss surrounding Altan Trengsin was about. The Hesperians had spoken the Prince’s name with such reverence, fear lacing their voices, as if they were speaking of a monster of mythos rather than a mortal man. Right now, sitting contented, reclining in a sunbeam, Altan struck Chaghan as overwhelmingly… normal. Intelligent and even-tempered. Perhaps a little intense, but hardly anything to mythologise. 

He couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer. He had to know.

“Why take in foreign shamans at all?”

Altan looked surprised. “I already told you. They’re useful. They’d go to waste otherwise.”

“But you could always just… train your own. You know how to reach the gods. You Speerlies favour the Phoenix, but if the diversity of your abilities is a concern, I’m certain you could try calling another god.” 

Altan gave him a wry look. “I don’t think the Phoenix would appreciate that. Besides, it’s not like calling other gods is easy. If we tried to build new disciplines from scratch, we’d be at a huge disadvantage. Our forces would be lopsided, strong on one end, weak on the other.”

“Call it a question of loyalties, then. Aren’t you ever concerned that one of your Cike might turn on you? They’re Nikara by birth, and even I know the relationship between your little island and the mainland is hardly stable.” Chaghan drummed his fingers on the table. “Seems to me like you’re opening yourself up to being attacked from the inside.”

Altan regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“They’re loyal,” he said flatly. “I don’t doubt that.”

“Maybe you should.”

“I don’t.” He folded his arms over his chest. “They have nowhere else to go. Speer is their home now, as much as it’s mine.”

“Maybe so,” Chaghan breezed. “But cornered animals can be the most dangerous kind, can’t they?”

Altan closed his eyes for a moment, running a hand through his hair. 

“Believe me,” he sighed, “I’ve heard all of this before. My aunt was skeptical at first. Her advisors, even more so.”

“And what about you?” Chaghan dared to lean a little closer across the table. “Don’t tell me you’ve never considered it. The right price can buy anyone. People betray their homes all the time.”

The Prince’s eyes sharpened, scarlet gaze burning into him. 

Chaghan cursed himself silently. He’d crossed a line. 

He’d never been any good at this — at winning people’s trust. He’d never needed to, before. In the Republic, he and Qara had always kept their distance from people, staying away from settlements. When they couldn't, he’d always been armed even without a weapon, and was more than capable of defending them both. People didn’t need to like him. In fact, usually, Chaghan preferred it when they didn’t.

This was different. He needed to gain Altan’s trust. He couldn’t take these damned bracelets off himself. He’d already tried a dozen times.

“Would you?” Altan asked, voice hoarse. “Would you betray your home, for the right price?”

“I’m a Naimad,” Chaghan said quietly. “Home and family are the same word, in our language.” He swallowed, thinking of dark eyes, a long, glossy braid. Small, warm hands clutching his own. “For my family, I would do anything.”

Altan held him with that fierce, pinning gaze for a moment longer. When he looked away, a weight shifted off Chaghan’s chest.

“Good,” Altan said, without a hint of the roughness his voice had held. He pushed his bowl away and stood. “I’ve taken up enough of your morning. If you’re finished…”

Chaghan nodded, taking a shaky breath before moving to stand. That conversation had dried up the last of his remaining hunger; his stomach felt like a cold rock. 

They stepped out of the room into the bright sunlight of the hallway. People had started to mill around the palace now that the sun had climbed past the horizon — servants balancing laundry baskets on their hips, accountants juggling scrolls and papers, noblewomen in bright layered dresses and shell sandals, arms linked, chattering as they walked. They dipped their heads in deference to the Prince, but avoided Chaghan’s gaze entirely, as if he didn’t exist. He had to imagine the sight of their Prince dragging around some wide-eyed foreigner was a semi-regular occurrence.

“Report back here tomorrow morning,” Altan said to him. “I’ll show you around the Cike’s compound then.”

“Yes, General.”

“Save it for tomorrow.” Altan paused, an odd look crossing his face. “And the proper title is Commander. Although, none of them actually call me that.”

“Mm, a sign of poor discipline. You’ll need to fix that before the war breaks out.”

A passing noblewoman’s eyes widened in alarm. Altan smiled at her, then shot Chaghan a half-hearted glare.

When she’d passed, he leaned down to speak close to Chaghan’s ear, voice low. “Try not to ruffle any more feathers. The people are already unsettled.”

Chaghan did his level best to ignore the shiver that voice’s proximity sent through him. “Why?”

“Princess Runin. She’s been gone longer than we anticipated, although with luck she’ll return within the week.” Altan’s expression soured. “Damned betrothal negotiations. They’ve been going on for months. Kid’s having a fucking nightmare.”

Ah. He remembered. The fiery Speerly princess’s hand had been promised to the Yin family’s youngest son for years now. It had been a point of friction — and plentiful gossip — amongst the citizens of the Republic. Chaghan was privately shocked that the arrangements were still standing. He was about to say something to that effect, when he glanced down the corridor and locked eyes with a woman he’d never seen before.

No. He had seen her before. Not in the flesh, but in the Sorqan Sira’s memory — a younger, sharper version of her, brimming with power, red lips twisted in a vicious sneer, eyes as golden as a serpent’s.

The Vipress was here. She was coming straight towards them.

Chapter Text

The prisoner looked miserable.

That was the only word that came into Altan’s mind, standing beside the bars to his cell. The boy’s thin frame was slumped on the stone bench, curled in on himself, as if trying to shrink even further. Long white hair hung in a limp tangle over his face, the beginnings of a bruise mottled red on his cheekbone from where the Hesperian guard had struck him.

Luckily for that guard, the Queen disapproved of burning people alive in the throne room.

Jiang crouched in front of him, taking the boy’s chin in his fingers. He tilted his face from one side to the other, deep in thought. The boy barely reacted, although Altan could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the poorly concealed panic in his strange, pale eyes. He was afraid. Altan had to suppose that most people would be, in such a situation, but this fear seemed… different. More raw. Like a prey animal cornered by a wolf’s jaws. As if he knew he was facing death itself.

When Jiang stood up and turned to face Altan, his face was ashen. He shook his head. Altan’s heart sank, stomach knotting tight with confusion.

Without a word, Jiang walked away. Altan hesitated. He couldn’t help it.

The boy in the cell stared back at him. He recognised that look. Someone who understood that they teetered on the knife-edge of oblivion. Someone who understood that there was only one thing left that might save them.

All of the Cike had looked at him like that, at some point or another. They’d all come to him with no other options, with nobody to plead their case. Most of them had been ready to die, resigned to their fates, their eyes dull and lifeless even though their hearts were still beating.

The fire that had filled this prisoner in the throne room, that glib, self-destructing spark of rebellion, had been snuffed out. He looked like a battered doll, a puppet with its strings cut. Killing him might be a mercy.

Still, Altan couldn’t shake his burning curiosity. He glanced behind the prisoner’s back, at the golden flash of his inhibitor bracelets. If they were going to sentence a shaman to death, Altan had to at least know why. 

He set off after Jiang at a quick pace.

“Jiang,” he hissed, to the man’s retreating back. “Slow down. Tell me what you saw.”

“Not here,” Jiang whispered back. He didn’t turn around.

Altan scowled, but bit his tongue anyway. 

When they’d climbed the staircase out of the dungeons, emerging into the darkening hallway, Jiang didn’t stop walking. He continued all the way out into the gardens, shoulders stiff. He stopped beneath the shade of a large, rustling tree, pinching the bridge of his nose with a great, world-weary sigh.

Altan lingered a few paces behind him. He wanted to push, impatience bubbling hot, but reigned himself in. Prodding Jiang when he was in the wrong mood was never wise.

“We can’t let him live,” Jiang said. “It’s too dangerous.” He cursed under his breath. “Hanelai might have told me he was a damned Naimad. Could have saved the trouble, let the Hesperians deal with him.”

Altan tried not to grind his teeth. “He could be useful. You don’t know—”

“I know everything I need to know,” Jiang said sharply. He turned to face Altan, and his stony expression softened. “I understand you want to give them all the benefit of the doubt, but not this time. Trust me. It isn’t worth it.”

“Then tell me why.” A plaintive, childish note crept into his voice; he tried to swallow it down. “You don’t have to be so mysterious about it.”

Jiang held his gaze, considering. Then, he exhaled a long breath through his nose. “Fine.” He sat heavily on the stone bench beside the tree. It was one of the Queen’s favourite spots during the day. Altan wondered if it gave Jiang some form of comfort now, to sit beside the spot on the bench Hanelai liked to frequent, thumbing through papers while sipping her morning tea.

The nature of their relationship was no secret, but they’d never officially married. Something about the optics of it all. It was fine for Hanelai to have her lover by her side as she walked the palace and sat in meetings, as long as he was sheltered under the title of Advisor.

Marriage was meaningless, really. Just an agreement between two households. A certain amount of loyalty, of duty, in exchange for benefits on both sides. Caring for the other person, as Altan had been told, was optional.

Thank the gods.

“During the war,” Jiang began, “Daji and I made some… hard decisions. Necessary sacrifices. For the benefit of the country, mind, but we made them all the same. Certain people benefitted from them less than others.” He looked up at Altan. “Certain people who would now very much like to see us dead, alongside all those who harbour us.”

“You mean the Naimads?”

Jiang shrugged. “Any of the hundred clans, really. We destabilised the whole region. Wiped entire groups off the map.”

Altan’s jaw had wound so tight it was giving him a headache. He looked away, glaring at the floor. 

“You think it’s monstrous,” Jiang said softly. “You’re right. That boy has every right to hate us. Every right to want revenge.”

“He never said that.”

Jiang chuckled. “Dear child. Think about it. Why would he have come so far south, if he wasn’t looking for us?”

“Your war ended twenty years ago,” Altan said. His voice came out rough. “He could have been telling the truth in the throne room.”

“He could.” Jiang stood. He crossed over to Altan and laid a hand on his shoulder; Altan resisted the urge to shrug him off. “I’m not willing to take that chance. The risk is too great.” He swallowed. “Too much to lose.”

There was sincerity to Jiang’s words, but not nearly enough. There was some buried truth he was holding back. Guilt had crept into his voice, but something else lurked behind it, deeper, darker. A shadow of the man he’d been during the Second Poppy War. Altan prickled.

“You don’t want to face the consequences of your own actions.”

“I would take the consequences,” Jiang said. A sad smile flitted across his ageless face. “If it were only my own safety on the line. The people of Speer don’t deserve to pay for our mistakes.” He squeezed Altan’s shoulder. “Don’t let it trouble you. I’ll see to it.”

Altan almost let him walk away. Almost.

“I still outrank you, Jiang.”

Jiang froze, back turned to him, one foot on the walkway. “What?”

“You’re only the Queen’s advisor. I’m the Prince.” Altan raised his chin. “My word weighs more than yours.”

“You want to play this game?” Jiang chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re Hanelai’s nephew, not her heir. Your title is name-only, just like mine.”

“She’ll hear me out.” Altan was certain of it. His aunt had never refused to listen to his opinion before.

“Perhaps. But make no mistake, she will trust my judgement in the end.” Jiang shot him an odd, pitying look. It only made the fire in Altan’s belly burn brighter. “Don’t be naive.”

Altan squared his shoulders, anger flaring. “Do you really think I’m naive, Jiang?”

It was a long while before Jiang spoke. When he did, he kept his tone carefully neutral. “I think you’re drawing similarities where there are none.”

“And I think you’re acting like a coward.” Altan shrugged. “Why don’t we agree to disagree?”

Jiang’s eyes narrowed. He turned away. “Fine. Bend the Queen’s ear, if you insist. Just don’t expect things to go your way, this time. Everyone’s luck runs out eventually.”

Altan watched him walk away, until his tall, pale-robed shape disappeared into the growing darkness.

Then, he turned and headed straight for Queen Hanelai’s quarters.

Altan knew that look in Daji’s eyes meant trouble.

She slipped through the crowded hallway towards the two of them, people parting in her wake like shoals of fish around a cruising shark. Her gaze was keen and bright, a smile on her red-lacquered lips. In another life, she might have made a breathtaking Empress — shining in a long Nikara-style dress and jade beads, gold silk brocade accenting the serpentine hue of her irises. On Speer, he’d only ever known her as an eccentric advisor to the Queen, favouring mainland fashions just a few years out of date. 

Beside him, the prisoner — guest, he corrected himself — had frozen stock-still. He seemed pinned to the spot, hands balled into tight fists by his side. Daji could have this effect on people, but this seemed like an ingrained response. It was the same way he’d looked at Jiang the day before. Absolute terror. Certain doom.

“My, my.” Daji’s voice was honey. She smiled up at Altan, eyes sparkling. “A real, live Naimad. I never thought I’d see one again. How delightful.” She leaned in towards the boy at his side. “When Jiang told me, I didn’t believe it. Yet here you are, all the way down from the frigid north. I’m surprised you haven’t melted in the heat.” Her head tilted, glossy black bun shining like polished ebony. “What’s your name?”

Altan realised he should probably intervene, but he’d quite like to know, too. They’d spent all morning together, and they hadn’t even made proper introductions. His etiquette tutor would be mortified. 

The boy at his side trembled. His face was ashen, eyes wide. His jaw worked, muscles straining under his skin, as if he was trying to keep it clamped shut.

“Don’t play coy,” Daji purred. Her eyes were so lovely, dark and hypnotic. Altan wrenched his gaze away. “There’s nothing to fear. Tell me your name.”

“Suren,” the boy ground out through gritted teeth. He winced, growling in frustration. “Chaghan Suren.”

“There,” cooed Daji. She tucked a wisp of white hair behind his ear. His limbs were locked too tightly to respond. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” She smiled softly, voice shifting so low Altan could barely hear it. “Jiang was right. The resemblance really is stunning.”

“That’s enough,” Altan cut in. The boy — Chaghan — shot him a wide-eyed look. “Don’t terrorize my guest, Daji.”

Daji chuckled, lifting a manicured hand to her lips. “Oh, my. Apologies, Your Highness. I didn’t realise you’d staked a claim on this one.” She winked. “Do be careful. The north is a savage place. Even little snow-foxes have vicious claws.”

Altan scowled. He felt Chaghan’s confused stare on the side of his face. “Not personally. For the Cike.”

“Ah,” Daji sighed. “Your little menagerie. Of course.”

“Don’t call it that. They’re soldiers, the same as any other.”

Daji’s face softened. “Look at you. I remember when you didn’t even come up to my waist. Now you’re all puffed-up, playing commander. They really did ruin you at Sinegard.” She reached up and pinched his cheek, nose scrunching with affection. “And yet I swear you get more handsome every day. How do you manage that?”

“Speerly magic,” Altan said flatly.

Chaghan stared between the two of them, that pinched look of confusion shifting into slack-jawed bewilderment. 

“Darling, stop mauling the poor boy.” Jiang materialised at Daji’s shoulder, sparing Altan a weary smile. He saw Chaghan take a startled step backwards in his periphery. “His betrothed won’t thank you for it.”

Daji’s perfect lip curled in an irate sneer. She dropped her hand from Altan’s cheek. “Ugh. Why must you always ruin my fun, Ziya?”

As good an opening for escape as any. He glanced at Jiang, hoping to convey his gratitude. Jiang’s face was impassive. The embers of tension still lingered between them, but this seemed like somewhat of a peace offering. 

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Altan said smoothly, stepping away. He tugged Chaghan back gently by his elbow, who stumbled as if only just remembering he had legs. “Busy schedule.”

“I’ll bet.” Daji’s salacious grin felt downright criminal. “Have fun, boys.”

They peeled themselves away from Jiang and Daji. Altan felt both of their gazes burning on the back of his neck; he didn’t remove his hand from Chaghan’s elbow.

“They don’t mean any harm,” he said, after they’d rounded a corner and ducked behind a wide pillar. “They’re just a little… intense.”

Chaghan had a far-away look in his eyes. His shoulders were tense. There was something brittle about his posture, about the way he held himself, ribs heaving like an animal about to bolt. Altan could feel the sharp jut of his elbow through the sleeve of his tunic, the faint tremor running through him. 

He was so cold beneath the thin fabric, frigid like he’d just been dragged out of the ocean, despite the climbing heat in the jasmine-scented morning air. An odd urge tugged in Altan’s chest. He wanted to take those thin hands in his own and warm them, let some of his own excess heat bleed into where it was needed.

He shook off the impulse. This shaman was a stranger — and flowery names or no, he was their captive. The gold shining at his wrists was proof of that. Even a well-meaning touch would be an invasion, a threat. 

Even if he hadn’t been their captive, it wasn’t as if the two of them were allies. He recognised the distant look in Chaghan’s eyes all too well. It wasn’t just fear. There was anger there. Hatred. 

Jiang and Daji were monsters to him — to his entire clan. Of course he was afraid. Of course he’d hate anyone who associated with them. 

Carefully, Altan pulled his hand away. 

A little of the tension unwound from Chaghan’s shoulders. He looked up from the middle distance and met Altan’s eyes. He looked almost startled, as if waking from a dream. As if he were seeing him for the first time.

Just then, the guard rounded the corner, armour rattling. 

Chaghan blinked, and the spell was broken. That split second of vulnerability Altan had seen was gone, smoothed over hastily. His eyes cast about, seemingly grasping for something to say.

“So.” Chaghan managed a grin. “You’re betrothed?”

Altan grimaced. He was getting sick of that word. “We’re not talking about that. Not today.”

A slight raise of eyebrows, but Chaghan didn’t push. Altan took a deep breath.

“I’ll have to leave you here,” he said, giving the guard – loitering awkwardly a few paces away – a pointed look. “Feel free to go wherever you like, just be back by sundown. There are paths out of the palace grounds that lead all over the island.”

“I’ll try not to get lost in the jungle.”

Altan scoffed. “Speer’s hardly large enough for that.” He paused. “But you should stay out of the forest, anyway.”

“Don’t tell me.” Chaghan smiled wryly. “It’s haunted by vengeful spirits?”

“Close. It’s haunted by wild pigs with sharp tusks and big appetites. And I’d hate to see you get eaten on your first day here.” Altan glanced down the corridor. He could see his tutor milling about in one of the courtyards, her foot tapping impatiently. Shit. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll see you then.”

He didn’t linger to hear Chaghan’s response, if any came. He didn’t glance over his shoulder to see if Chaghan’s eyes followed him.

No matter how much he might want to.

Sitting through etiquette lessons, Altan had decided, was worse than torture.

How many different, specific greetings did the Hesperians need? How many implements for eating a meal? Why was everything such a pointless, ridiculous ritual?

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t paid attention in History lectures. He knew enough about Hesperian culture to hold a damn conversation. His Hesperian was fine, despite how the language grated against his tongue. 

The problem seemed to be his personality. His tutor kept telling him he was being too stiff. Too imposing. He needed to be a gentleman. The concept felt as foreign as it did invasive.

Why should he have to force himself into that mold? Why should he have to soften himself for a girl he’d never even met?

“It’s a very exciting day today,” his tutor chirped, pale gray eyes shining. She spoke in Hesperian, as she insisted upon for their lessons. Her light brown hair, the same shade as a deer’s coat, had a slight wave to it; her face looked mostly Nikara, but there was an odd, sharp elongation to some of her features that was distinctly not. “You’ll be seeing your betrothed for the first time.”

In response to Altan’s blank look, she smiled. “Not in person, of course, but the second best thing. The delegates from Snake Province delivered her portrait yesterday. It will be good for you to get familiar before your first official meeting.”

Gods. That. He’d been trying not to think about it, but the event loomed on the horizon like a dark cloud. At least it was being held on Speer. One last gasp of familiarity, before the mainland negotiations began.

The portrait was an unwieldy thing, a huge gilt-framed canvas that two servants had to juggle between them. It almost got stuck on the doorframe coming into the room. 

Rin would have burst out laughing at the sight. Altan looked at the empty chair beside him and found himself missing her, sudden and fierce. 

For the first few days she’d been gone, he’d barely been able to sleep. Attending Sinegard Academy was one thing — Altan had been there himself, after all. It was a known quantity. 

The Yins’ palace, the seat of the integrated Republic, was not. It was crawling with Hesperians, nobles, dignitaries, wealthy traders and grey-robed priests of their Divine Architect. Full of people who were repulsed and fascinated by shamanism in equal measure. At Sinegard, their abilities could be reduced to rumors, swept under the rug, politely ignored. But the Hesperians knew. They wanted to know more. Wanted to find out what made them tick.

He forced himself to stop thinking about it. If she needed help, she’d have sent word. They’d sent a whole squadron of the Queen’s best soldiers to Arlong with her, and Altan knew she was more than capable of defending herself when she needed to. She was as safe as she could be.

A white sheet was whipped off the portrait. Altan stood and crossed over to it, leaning in close. 

Lady Lilliane Adams was… fine. Perhaps she was pretty, for a Hesperian. He couldn’t really tell. Her eyes were a muted shade of green, skin fish-belly pale, with a long, sharp nose and thin, plum-coloured lips that curved in a faint smile. Her hair was flaxen, gold-painted highlights shining in the sun, pinned up into a pile on the top of her head, little tubes of ringlets scattered across her broad forehead. In one hand, she held an open book; a dove perched on her shoulder, its head bowed against her neck demurely. 

She looked young. Perhaps a little older than Rin’s age.

He wondered what she’d make of him. Not that it mattered. Their union was pre-ordained, a transactional agreement in exchange for bolstered treaties and trading rights. Her rank as the daughter of Snake Province’s Governor equaled his own as the Queen’s nephew, in the Hesperians’ eyes; ergo, they were a perfect match. 

Really, if the Hesperians were so afraid of Speer’s army, they should value its heirs more highly. Snake was one of the strongest provinces, with deep-running ties to the Republic’s naval and trade capacities — but didn’t Yin Vaisra have a daughter? Rin, the Queen’s daughter and heir, was betrothed to the President of the Republic’s youngest son, not his eldest. 

Altan snorted. No, there’d be no chance of that. Vaisra wouldn’t risk his favourite son having to produce dark-skinned, half-shaman heirs.

That was another aspect he didn’t like to think about — this wan-faced stranger, someday bearing his children. He swallowed a tide of nausea.

Was Lilliane happy with this arrangement? Did she know anything about Speerly culture? Did she know anything about him? 

Perhaps she had the same impression as the majority of Sinegard’s students seemed to have. Perhaps she thought he was some savage, half-mad beast.

He should have sympathised. He found he didn’t.

His tutor kept talking, giving some long-winded spiel about Lilliane’s family history, her education, her breeding. He let the words wash over him, not bothering to try to catch them, lost in a cold haze of dread. Soon enough, this girl was going to be his wife. Her pale eyes stared back at him from the canvas. How could he ever bring himself to touch her?

Altan emerged from the lesson with nothing to show for it except a bitter taste in his mouth and a migraine brewing behind his eyes. So many hours left in the day. Too many. All he wanted was to retreat to a dark room and smoke until he was numb. The Phoenix pressed against the back of his mind, an angry lick of flame. Always so tempting, to surrender to it — the fire or the drug, both had the same comforting effect.

He settled for returning to the clearing in the gardens and moving through combat forms until his mind cleared.

Across the sea, the sun was setting. Chaghan walked along the beach, stepping over chunks of sea-smoothed volcanic rock and barnacled shards of old shipwrecks. The sand was white as snow, so fine that it slid like desert dunes beneath his boots. Colourful shells gleamed like scattered gems; little crabs popped bright red faced out of them and scuttled away as he passed.

He could just make out the faint, grey line of Snake Province’s coast on the horizon. It seemed a world away now. 

Somewhere past that blurry horizon was half of his soul. 

Chaghan felt Qara’s absence like a missing limb. Every so often, he’d feel a faint twinge of pain out of nowhere and wonder, for a brief moment, if their connection had re-established itself, if she was trying to send some kind of message. If they were hurting her.

They’d promised they wouldn’t, if he did as he was told, but a promise from a Hesperian’s mouth meant nothing. 

After all, they’d promised not to attack Speer. Yet, here he was, a trap waiting to be sprung.

The anchor bond would already be faint, muffled by their distance, but these damned golden bracelets had cut him off entirely. Walking along the sand felt like stumbling blindfolded, as if they’d cut out one of his eyes, deafened one of his ears, severed nerves and tendons and left him to figure it out. 

He came to a stop by a jutting cliff of dark rock, glistening with sea spray. He looked out at the crashing waves, and considered.

“It’s getting dark,” called the guard from behind him.

Chaghan looked back over his shoulder at him. “I can see that.” 

He peered around the corner of the cliff. There was a small cove beyond it, a shelf of rock pockmarked with rockpools, sheltered from prying eyes. He stepped around the edge of the cliff. 

Behind him, the guard gave a sharp whistle. “I’m supposed to keep you in sight.”

Chaghan peered around the rock at him. “I’m taking a piss. You can watch if you like, but you’re not missing much.”

The guard rolled his eyes. “Fine. But if you take too long, I’m dragging you out of there.”

“Wow. Is that how you treat all your guests?”

The guard made an irritated noise, but didn’t move to follow. Chaghan ducked back around the corner. 

Pressing his back to the wet stone, he took a breath, willing his heartbeat to slow. Concentrated on the crash of the waves, trying to expand what limited amount of his consciousness that he could. It snagged on something — a soul, glowing faintly.

He whistled, long and low, pitched just beneath the waves. A human wouldn’t hear it.

A squalling cry came from above. Chaghan stretched out his arm; a seabird alighted on it, ashy grey feathers with a white head and clumsy yellow feet, beady black eyes assessing him. He stroked a finger over its puffed breast feathers, and leaned in close, whispering against the side of its head.

The words were Naimad; they’d be unintelligible to anyone but Qara. How she chose to relay them would be up to her. The Hesperians would have no choice but to take her at her word. 

When he raised his arm, the bird dove low against the sea with a flap of its wide wings, then climbed steadily upwards into the bruise-purple sky. Chaghan watched it until it was a tiny silhouette, a flick of mud against the scarlet eye of the setting sun, heading northwest towards the mainland.

He thought of the last time he’d seen his sister, before they’d been ripped apart. Qara’s eyes, those dark pools of desperation, her hands clutching his own, afraid to let go. She’d put a hand to the back of his neck, tugging him down, pressing their foreheads together.

Come back to me, she’d whispered.

He felt the ghost of her warmth, the weight of those words in his chest. Hesperia betraying Speer didn’t matter. The looming deaths of the Speerly royals didn’t matter. He was doing this for her. 

Whatever the cost, it would be worth it.

Chapter Text

Altan woke the next morning in a groggy haze. 

A glance towards the window told him he’d overslept. Shit. The sun had already been up for more than an hour. Hauling himself out of bed, he pulled some clothes on, ducking in front of a mirror to examine the state of the dark circles beneath his eyes. Not great. He didn’t look like he’d slept.

Frankly, he didn’t feel like he’d slept. He should have stopped after the first few drags of his pipe — it had been enough to settle his screaming nerves, to make his eyelids start to droop. But that old craving had been gnawing at his bones, clawing at the inside of his ribs like a living thing, and he’d wanted to shut it up. So he’d kept going, chasing a new high as the last one ended.

It didn’t feel the same anymore. Each time, it was shorter, less clean, less sweet. It calmed him less, made him more erratic without it. Made the Phoenix and the memories louder, on the days he tried to do without.

A knock came at the door. Altan cursed under his breath, abandoning the ties of his vest and striding over to it. The servants knew not to bother him before a certain hour in the morning. This had better be important.

He swung the door open, scowling, ready to admonish whatever poor soul stood on the other side.

Chaghan stared at him from the corridor. He looked Altan up and down, then took half a step backwards. “I, um.” He cleared his throat. “I can come back later.”

Altan stared back at him for a moment before the realisation registered. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Right. Of course, I told you to come this morning.”

He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. What a foolish mistake to make. He’d need to pull himself together, soon, before his looming obligations came knocking.

Chaghan hesitated, lingering in the open doorway. “Are you… alright?”

“I’m fine. Long night, that’s all.” Altan attempted a smile. “Give me a few minutes.”

He closed the door, then crossed over to his bedside table and shut the pipe in a drawer. Maybe the damned thing would stay there for longer than a few days, this time.

Once he’d cleaned himself up a little and dressed properly, he opened the door again. Chaghan had settled on the edge of the low wall between the corridor and a courtyard, facing out towards the rustling foliage. The sunlight caught in his white hair.

The same guard from before had accompanied him. He shifted awkwardly in his armour, avoiding Altan’s gaze. Altan stared at him a little longer, just to make sure.

Chaghan looked up as he approached, an inquisitive tilt to his head. “You know, I saw the funniest thing earlier.”

Altan frowned. “What’s that?”

“A one-eyed Nikara brat absconding from the kitchens with two sacks of sugar. Slipped right through this one’s fingers.” Chaghan nodded to the guard, who was looking at the floor. “I did think about trying to stop him, but, well.” He gestured down at his thin frame. “I didn’t feel like breaking a leg.”

Altan cursed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Damn it, Ramsa. Today of all days?

“Good to know,” he managed. “I’ll handle it.”

“Am I to gather he’s another of your… What did she call it? Menagerie?”

“Ramsa isn’t a shaman. He’s just a nuisance.” Altan began walking down the corridor, quietly pleased when Chaghan fell into step beside him. “Although he makes damn good bombs.”

The walk to the compound was a long one. Out through a small, ancient door in the garden wall — built as an emergency escape route out of the palace for the royal family — into a thick bamboo grove, which quickly turned into overgrown forest. Altan knew the route well, glancing back every so often to make sure Chaghan didn’t get lost. It was always difficult for first-timers. To the uninformed eye, it looked like nothing more than one of the many pig trails that snaked through the forest, grown over with tall grass. At one point, Chaghan tripped over a tall root, cursing in his own language. Altan turned and caught his wrist just before he could tip over a well-hidden ledge.

“Careful,” Altan said. A couple of loose rocks tumbled over the ledge and disappeared with a clatter. “If you fall, you won’t come back up.”

Chaghan didn’t reply, busy staring over the ledge at the drop below. The palace was built on a hill; behind it, the softly sloping earth started to give way to stony, tree-covered crevasses, threaded through with thin, twisting rivers. As soon as Chaghan seemed steady on his feet, Altan released his grip on his arm.

“You’ll get used to it,” Altan breezed. “Ramsa insisted I carry him over this part. It wasn’t easy. He’s heavier than you’d think.”

They made their way over the rise, heading down the slope towards the compound. Altan knew they were getting close when the first blackened posts started jutting out of the ground. He hopped over the charred remnants of a fence, offering a hand to Chaghan for him to do the same. Chaghan didn’t take his hand, instead half-falling over the fence with the grace of a wounded gazelle. Altan tried not to snort. 

Finally, they emerged into a clearing. Grass shoots poked through old cobblestones, charred clusters of houses overgrown with moss and vines. There was a lump of greenery in the corner which had once been a well, but had long since dried up. 

“What is this place?” Chaghan’s voice was quiet. When Altan turned to face him, he found Chaghan’s face wan, features drawn and anxious, as if he’d seen a ghost.

“An old village. Firebombs cleared it out twenty years ago.” Altan ran a hand over the blackened wood of a collapsing house. “Most of the island was rebuilt, but not this place. Nobody wants to live here anymore.”

“Is it cursed?”

“No,” Altan shrugged. “Not by anything except bad memories.”

An old helmet lay on the ground, nestled amongst a patch of nodding wildflowers. Its sharp black metal prongs had long since rusted over. Altan tore his eyes away.

“It’s further through here,” he said to Chaghan. “Come on.”

They continued through the blackened houses and overgrown streets, until they came to a large square building. It had once been the seat of the village’s power — its trading hub, market, administration building, and school, all rolled into one. Now it stood against the smaller buildings, a dark, imposing monolith. The forest seemed to respect its former importance. Only a few stray vines climbed over its exterior. 

From the outside, it looked completely empty. However, anyone with keen enough eyes would notice the signs of regular upkeep, the doors and windows replaced with new, freshly-lacquered wood, the well-maintained hinges and bolts, free of the rust that consumed everything else.

His own tiny sliver of the kingdom. Looking up at it, in all its shabby, deteriorating glory, he couldn’t help but feel a warm fuzz of pride.

“It doesn’t look like much,” Altan said, as Chaghan folded his arms beside him, squinting up at the building. “But we’ve—”

Chaghan held up a hand, looking over at him sharply. “Someone’s here.”

Altan frowned. He hadn’t heard anyone else but the two of them — three, with that guard the Queen insisted upon. The Cike would be inside. They didn’t loiter around the village. He paused, listening, as Chaghan stared around the village, looking for something only he could perceive. 

Footsteps on the cobblestone. Someone running. Altan felt a stab of panic when he saw the messenger round the corner, panting, doubling over with his hands on his knees.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” the boy gasped. “The Queen told me to send word immediately.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” 

They weren’t expecting any trouble. Ankhiluuni pirates harassing the southern coastal villages, maybe? He’d ready the Cike. They’d been cooped up for too long — they’d be itching for some real combat.

“It’s the Princess,” the messenger panted. “She’s returned.”

It was bad form to leave one’s guest unattended, particularly when you had to leave them in the middle of a potentially dangerous forest, but Altan was reasonably certain Chaghan could handle himself on the way back. If he couldn’t, that guard had better be good for something.

He’d set off for the palace at a run.

Ducking back into the shade of the thoroughfare, nobles whispering as he weaved between them, Altan took a moment to comb the leaves and twigs out of his hair before pushing open the doors to the main hall.

Queen Hanelai stood in the center of the room in her usual long dark gown, unadorned save for a simple crown and a couple of strings of beads. Her arms were wound tight around her daughter, holding her close, as if she could never be convinced to let go again. She murmured soft words in the Speerly tongue against Rin’s hair. Altan tried to gauge Rin’s expression, but it was difficult with her face pressed into her mother’s bosom, obscured apart from the looped braid pinned up at the back of her head.

Rin sniffled, pulling back just a little. Hanelai cupped her cheek, kissing her forehead, which brought another wave of tears. Concern twisted, a hot knife in Altan’s gut. What was she crying for? What had happened on the mainland?

If the Yins had mistreated her…

Rin looked up and caught his eye. She disentangled herself from her mother’s embrace, wiping her wet face hastily, and squared her shoulders before crossing over to him.

“Your Highness.” Altan ducked his head in a bow. It had been months since he’d last seen her. She looked older and younger at the same time. “How was your trip?”

“Fine,” Rin said in a wavering voice. She lifted her chin. “I trust you’ve been keeping well?”

“Quite well, thank you. Was the Yins’ hospitality all they promised?”

Rin snorted. “Oh, that and more.” She cleared her throat, gathering herself. “I mean, yes. Very, um… Different.”

Altan cocked his head. He stayed in place. Waiting.

The thin veneer of Rin’s composure broke. She half-laughed, half-sobbed, diving forwards and wrapping her arms tight around his chest, impacting with enough force to make him stumble.

“You’re so dumb,” she said, muffled in his tunic. Her tears soaked through the fabric, a wet spot against his sternum. “Missed you.”

“You, too.” Altan put his arms around her trembling shoulders, feeling the warm, small weight of her. He rested his chin on the top of her head, closing his eyes, drinking in the moment.

He remembered it so clearly, the day they’d met.

He had been eleven years old, skittish and wide-eyed, scared of his own shadow. It had been so long since he’d lived in the palace with his parents that, years later, it felt like a different place — both larger and smaller than he remembered and utterly overwhelming, full of noise and colour and bright, unexpected things. He’d decided he liked the servants’ corridors, and the big, shady tree behind the bamboo thickets in the gardens. Those places were dull, quiet. Undisturbed. He could slip away from the crowds, away from the Queen’s downturned mouth and Daji’s fussing hands, and sometimes, nobody would notice him for whole days at a time. 

One day, when Altan had slipped out of his room before sunrise and made his way to the shaded tree, he’d found someone else there, too. A girl, younger than him by at least a couple of years. She sat with her back against the tree’s wide, gnarled trunk, staring up at the whispering leaves, completely silent.

He’d left her alone, and had found somewhere else to chase his solitude.

The next time he’d seen her, she’d been lying on the grass in the gardens. It had been late afternoon, with the smells of lunch slowly dissipating on the warm breeze. He’d watched her for a little while from the shade of a wide walkway pillar. Her eyes were closed, so it had felt safe to stare.

She looked like his aunt. They had the same nose, the same pointed chin, the same determined downturn of their mouth. He’d wondered if she was asleep.

“I know you’re there,” she murmured, and he’d frozen to the spot, suddenly guilty for no discernible reason. The girl sat up, tossing back her braids, and had squinted into the shadows towards him. “It’s okay if you don’t want to come out. The palace scares me too, kind of.” She hesitated. “My name’s F— Um. Runin. But people call me Rin. It’s shorter.”

Runin. The Princess — the Queen’s daughter. Lost to them for so many years, and only just returned home. Everyone in the palace was talking about her.

Altan had forced himself out of hiding. He faced the Princess and folded in a bow.

Rin’s face scrunched. “Don’t do that.”

He stared at her, confused. Wasn’t that what royalty deserved? What they wanted?

She patted the grass next to her. “You can sit with me, if you want.”

Not phrased like a command, but he should obey anyway. Altan walked over and sat cross-legged in the grass beside her. Rin stretched out, arms folded behind her head, watching the sky with a contented glaze to her eyes.

“It’s pretty here,” she said softly. “Smells good, too.” She glanced up at him. “You’ve been here a while, right?”

He nodded.

“Do you like it?”

Altan thought about it. He thought of the Queen and her sad eyes, Daji’s overbearing, perfumed embraces that he always squirmed out of, Jiang’s distance, the occasional brief pat to his shoulder. Thought about the alternative. He nodded fiercely.

“That’s good,” Rin sighed. She eyed him for a moment longer. “I think we’re cousins. Are we?”

Altan shrugged.

“I haven’t had a cousin before. Only a step-brother, and he was just a baby.”

He shrugged again. 

“You don’t like to talk much, do you?”

He looked down at her, expecting a frown. Instead, her expression was unfazed. It didn’t seem like she cared one way or the other. They were just existing in one another’s orbit. She didn’t look at him like the adults did, that poorly-veiled guilt, like he was something that needed fixing. She hadn’t known him any other way.

Altan had flopped down into the grass beside her. They’d watched the clouds all afternoon, until the sun had started to set and they’d been called inside. The entire time, they hadn’t spoken a word to each other. He decided he liked Princess Runin.

She’d been distraught the day he’d gotten his Keju results back. She’d sulked for days, glowering at the floor, not talking to him. 

On the day Altan had been packing to leave, Rin had appeared in the doorway, arms folded, face scrunched in a familiar frown.

“So. You’re going, then.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Of course you do.” She shrugged. “We have tutors here at the palace. If they knew enough to get you to pass that test, surely you could just stay here. You don’t need some stuffy mainland school.”

“I have to go.” He’d concentrated on folding clothes. Calming, simple routine. “It’s the first time they’ve ever offered a place to a Speerly. Besides, the Republic would never respect me without it.”

“Who cares what the Republic thinks of us?”

“I care.” Altan had looked up at her. “You should, too.”

“But you don’t want to go.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.” Rin crossed her arms, scowling. In that moment, her resemblance to the Queen had been striking. “You’re always going on about duty. Things we need to do. Why can’t we do things we want to do?”

With a sigh, he’d tossed a half-folded shirt onto the pile and walked over to her. Rin avoided his gaze, brows knit tight, dark eyes on the floor. She’d been fourteen then, almost an adolescent, but her eyes were still the shade of brown he’d come to associate with childhood. Altan put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m going to come back,” he said quietly. “They let the students go home over New Year’s break.”

“It’s too far away,” Rin mumbled. “You’d spend most of the break getting back here.”

Altan knew she was right. He’d been trying not to acknowledge the fact. Secretly, he’d been terrified of returning to the mainland. The thought of it all — from the bobbing deck of the ship on the way to the coast to the utter loneliness of Sinegard Academy, surrounded by pale, unfamiliar faces staring at him like he was some exotic animal — made him want to crawl into somewhere dark and quiet and stay there until the world forgot he existed.

But he was sixteen, which was as good as an adult, and he was the Prince of Speer. Not an experiment, not a charity case. Not a coward.

He could do this. He had to.

“You’ll be joining me soon enough, anyway,” he told Rin. “Just a couple of years, that’s all. Then you’ll be a student, too. We’ll see each other every day.”

Rin sniffled. Her face was obscured under the dark curtain of her fringe. “You don’t know that.”

“Of course I do. You’re going to ace the exam, the same as I did.” Altan smiled. “Sinegard won’t know what hit them.”

Rin had laughed then, a wet, off-kilter sound, and pulled him into a hug.

You and me, he’d thought then, fierce and certain. Someday, we’ll burn that place to the ground.

In the present moment, Rin’s arms squeezed around his ribs like she was trying to suffocate him. There was nowhere else Altan would rather be. She held him like that for a moment longer before finally letting go, pulling back to swipe at her eyes again.

When her face was somewhere approaching dry, Rin peered up at him. “Did you get taller?”

“I think you just got shorter.”

“Asshole.” She frowned. “You’ll never believe it, but Nezha is nearly as tall as you, now.”

“Mm. I could still take him.”

Rin gave a wet chuckle.

A nervous throat-clearing made her turn around. Altan looked up to find one of the guards who’d accompanied Rin to Arlong. She held a black-lacquered wooden box, its sides studded with several large holes, painted with the cobalt dragon emblem of House Yin.

“Your Highness.” The guard dipped her head. “Where shall I, um, put this?”

The box made a snuffling, keening noise. Something scraped at the wood from the inside. Rin grimaced. Altan shot her a confused glance.

She walked over to the guard, who placed the box on the floor. Gingerly, she slid the lid open and reached inside.

The creature Rin produced from the box’s depths was not a dog. It couldn’t be. It seemed entirely made of brown and white fluff, with a snubbed nose, floppy ears, and dark, imploring eyes that seemed to stare at both sides of the room simultaneously. Rin set it on the ground; it skittered across the tile, circling her feet and yapping.

“What,” Altan started.

Rin’s face scrunched. “Don’t ask.”

The little dog wandered up to one of the royal guards, standing stiffly against the wall. It sniffed him cautiously, then proceeded to cock a leg and piss on his foot. The guard stiffened, eyes wide. Altan was impressed by his resolve not to punt it clear across the hall.

On the other side of the room, Jiang guffawed.

“Can you execute a dog for treason?” mused Daji from beside him.

“Is it staying in the palace, Runin dear?” Queen Hanelai’s face was perfectly composed and neutral, but the strained tremor in her voice gave her away. She was trying very hard not to laugh. “Perhaps I should advise the courtiers not to wear open-toed sandals.”

Rin scooped up the little creature. “I’ll find somewhere for it, mama.” She gave Altan a meaningful look.

His heart sank. Tiger’s tits. They couldn’t give Ramsa a puppy. He’d be too powerful.

Rin’s stare was resolute. Uncompromising.

Altan heaved a sigh, and dipped his head. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

They got halfway across the palace before Rin insisted on taking a detour via the gardens. 

“The problem isn’t that Nezha’s still being an asshole,” she panted, ducking beneath a swing of Altan’s trident. She’d knotted her skirts up between her legs and shrugged off her stiff overshirt; it lay in a crumpled heap of red satin beside the dozing puppy, which she’d tied to a small tree with a bit of string. “It’s that he’s being too nice. It’s weird.”

Altan hummed, dodging a swipe of her sword.

“Like, it loops right back around to being an asshole. And it’s not real. He’s obviously just trying to trick me into liking him so this whole thing is easier.” Rin huffed. “Before you ask, it’s not like I’m not trying. I let him talk at me about boats for two hours last week. Two hours!”

“Long time.”

“I felt every minute of it. He’s just trying to act charming like his father, but he’s no good at faking it. It’s funny, actually. Like watching a baby seal trying to swim.”

Their weapons met with a clang, sending a tremor through Altan’s arm all the way up to his shoulder. He grinned. “You’ve been keeping up with your exercises. That’s good.”

She blew her fringe out of her eyes. “You pestered me enough about it before I left. Besides, if I hadn’t, I think I might have burned all their stupid tapestries.” Rin grumbled. “Give them a taste of their own hospitality.”

Altan raised his eyebrows, but didn’t press. She’d tell him when she was ready.

“What about your friends from Sinegard? They were there, weren’t they?” He tried to pull their faces out of his memory. It had been so long since he’d met them. “The Chen kid and the girl.”

“Kitay and Venka,” Rin corrected. A smile tugged at her lips. “Kitay was wonderful, as always. Venka’s still sour about the whole thing, but she nearly bit the head off one of those Divine Architect nuts for bothering me, so. Progress.”

Altan frowned. “They were in the palace?”

“Nezha’s mother had a whole temple built for them on the grounds. She dragged us to worship ceremonies every week.” Rin sprung out of his range, darting around him and digging a painful elbow into the muscle between his ribs and spine. “You still leave your back open.”

Altan whirled on her, striking out with the blunt end of his trident. Rin laughed and skittered back, the same dance they kept rehearsing.

“She’s actually a believer, as well,” Rin said. “It’s not just for show. She thinks that Chaos and the Divine Architect are real. Started trying to preach to me over dinner. Me.” She snorted. “I should have offered to show her the Phoenix then and there, but Mother wouldn’t…”

She trailed off, distracted by something on her periphery. Altan took the opening, sweeping her legs out from under her with a deft swipe of his trident; she yelped and tumbled backwards into a sprawled heap.

Altan slung his trident over his back, offering her a hand. “You still get distracted too easily.”

Rin glared up at him. “I wouldn’t be if there wasn’t some freak staring at us,” she hissed, and flung her hand towards the covered walkway.

Altan straightened up, peering into the shadows. Chaghan leaned up against a pillar, watching them, his expression unreadable. The shadows clung beneath his eyes, in the hollows of his cheekbones, lending him a haunted, unearthly quality. He was staring straight at Rin. 

“There you are,” Altan said, ducking into the shade with him, after he’d pulled Rin to her feet. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.”

“I didn’t, no thanks to you,” Chaghan replied, without looking at him. He cocked his head at Rin. “The once-absent Princess, I presume?”

Rin stared between them. She looked down at Chaghan’s gold-bound wrists, then groaned, tipping her head back. “Tiger’s tits, Altan. Another one? I thought Mother said—”

“Rin, this is Chaghan,” Altan said, speaking over her. Rin folded her arms, unimpressed; he ignored her. “Chaghan, this is Princess Runin.”

“A pleasure,” Rin said drily. 

Chaghan’s gaze sharpened. He stepped down off the raised boards of the walkway, drifting over to Rin, who watched him warily. The way he studied her reminded Altan of Jiang, of the way he could be sometimes, that strange distance in his eyes, staring straight through. 

His hand shot out and caught Rin’s wrist. She startled, but he held her firm, bringing her hand up so he could peer at it, palm-up. Altan frowned, wondering if he should intervene, but Rin was easily strong enough to put Chaghan on his ass if she wanted to. She caught Altan’s eye as Chaghan leaned in to inspect her palm. 

What the fuck, she mouthed over his bowed head.

Altan shrugged. He wanted to see where this was going.

Chaghan hissed through his teeth. “Oh. That’s a bad omen.”

Rin stared at him. “What?”

“Well, your life line and heart line are within two-thirds the length of one another. What phase was the moon in, when you were born?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Ah. A new moon. It’s so obvious.” He clicked his tongue. “Invites a choleric temperament.”

Altan scoffed. Rin’s head whipped around to stare at him, ruby eyes full of betrayal.

Chaghan dropped her hand, looking up to the sky. “The north wind will blow cold on the night of your wedding.” He looked back down at her. “Don’t expect children right away.”

Rin gaped at him. Her cheeks darkened; she looked as if he’d slapped her. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Altan’s jaw tightened. He stepped forwards, moving close behind Chaghan and clapping a firm hand on his shoulder. “He’s just fucking with you, Runin.”

“Mostly,” Chaghan gave a thin, indecipherable smile. “Although this Nezha character sounds rather unsavory. I could be right.”

“It won’t happen again.” Altan squeezed Chaghan’s shoulder, perhaps a little harder than he needed to. He felt Chaghan stiffen against him, his poorly-concealed grin sobering, throat bobbing in a nervous swallow. Rin glared, eyes a faint red glow, but seemed to temper herself. 

Good. He didn’t feel like sweeping their new Seer’s ashes off the floor just yet.

He took his hand off Chaghan’s shoulder, moving to stand between the two of them. “I thought there was a guard with you?”

“Oh. Yes. I gave him the slip in the forest.” Chaghan turned towards the walkway. “He’s just caught up.”

A moment later, Altan heard pounding footsteps and rattling armour. The guard appeared, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. “My Prince,” he panted. He saw Rin and ducked into a low bow. “Princess Runin. My deepest apologies.” He glared at Chaghan. “I think he climbed a tree.”

Altan turned to stare; Chaghan smiled wanly and shrugged at him.

“Right,” Altan said. “I hope you’re ready to go back the way you came. We have a delivery to make.” He crossed the clearing and scooped up the puppy. It flopped bonelessly in his arms, tail at a furious wiggle; he tucked it under one arm. “They’ll be glad to see you again, Rin. I imagine you’ll be glad to see them, too.”

Rin grinned. “You have no idea.”

Chaghan stared at the dog in Altan’s arms. His face was doing something Altan had never seen before. “What…”

“Don’t ask,” said Rin and Altan, in unison.

Chapter Text

The walk between the palace and the Cike’s compound felt shorter, the third time around. Chaghan lingered a few paces behind Rin and Altan, hearing the guard’s heavy footsteps behind him, closer than he’d been before. 

He tried to look at the path ahead, to make sure he didn’t trip over any stray roots or tangles of vines, but he found his gaze kept gravitating back to one thing. The dark, glossy braid over Rin’s shoulder, swaying as she walked, almost long enough to meet the small of her back, unpinned from the loop she’d kept it in while sparring.

Chaghan knew how much effort she’d have to put into maintaining it, the arm-aching strain of washing all of that hair every week or so. He knew she would wake up early each morning to comb out and rebraid her long tresses. He knew, because he’d been doing it for his sister for the majority of their lives.

Rin did not look like Qara. Nevermind that she was only a little taller, or that the hues of red in her hair shone the same in the sun, or that the hard, forged-steel look in her eyes was so familiar it made his heart ache.

They were wildly different. Rin was fiery, free with her words; Qara had always been quieter than him, so much so that their mother had thought for years that she might never speak aloud. Rin’s skin was almost as dark as Altan’s, her eyes a dull garnet; Qara was a little more tan than Chaghan, but still pale, with eyes like a falcon’s, a deep, lovely brown.

Qara would choose him over everything. Rin was a stranger. One he owed absolutely nothing.

Chaghan kept that thought in mind as he watched her, the way she bumped shoulders with Altan as they walked, the way she leaned in and whispered words he couldn’t make out, glancing back at Chaghan every so often over her shoulder.

She found him unnerving.

Good, he thought. Someone in this family has some sense. 

They picked their way through the abandoned village. Upon approaching the building, their steps slowed. Rin glanced up at Altan — when he nodded, she bounded up to the door, rapping her knuckles hard against it.

Almost immediately, the door opened. On the other side was possibly the largest man Chaghan had ever seen. He was so tall he had to stoop to fit into the doorway. His hair was an odd shade of gold, although he didn’t look Hesperian; carpets of it furred his exposed arms, which seemed as thick as Rin’s waist. He looked like he was about to reach down and crush her head like a walnut.

Instead, a big, boyish grin split his face. “You’re back.”

“Hi, Suni.” Rin leaned up into his arms, and was enveloped completely by his embrace. He stepped back, tousling her hair gently. “Are the others home?”

“Nowhere else to be.” Suni looked over her head, that lopsided grin still on his face. “Good to see you, too, Altan. Been a while.”

Slowly, his gaze drifted over to Chaghan. The smile slipped off his face.

“We have a new recruit,” Altan said. He crossed over and put a hand on Chaghan’s shoulder, his touch as warm and heavy as it had been in the gardens. Chaghan tried not to flinch. “This is Chaghan. He says he’s a Seer.”

Suni’s thick eyebrows raised. “Huh.” He ducked out of the doorway and approached. Chaghan felt a flaring impulse to bolt, but Altan’s grip held him firm. Suni held out a hand; warily, Chaghan took it, and was almost wrenched off his feet when Suni gave his hand a firm shake. “Well, any friend of Altan’s is…”

Suni trailed off. His dark eyes lingered on Chaghan’s wrist. 

“Oh,” he said softly. He looked at Altan, confused. “Why does he…”

“My aunt is paranoid.” Altan’s smile was strained. He hefted the puppy tucked beneath his arm, passing it into Suni’s careful hands. “We should get this thing inside.”

Suni grinned, petting the creature with a giant paw. Against the enormity of him, it looked like a dandelion tuft. “Ramsa is going to lose his mind.” He smiled up at them. “Come inside, lunch should be ready.”

Altan gave Chaghan’s shoulder a firm squeeze before letting go. It took Chaghan longer than he’d have liked to collect himself. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth, and followed them inside.

When the guard moved to follow, Altan turned at the door, facing him. “You stay here.”

The guard spluttered. “My Prince…”

“These are my men. They won’t let anything happen to us.”

The guard looked like he was about to argue, but Altan shut the door on him.

He looked at Chaghan from the other side of the doorway, then glanced down the dim corridor towards Rin and Suni, who had already outpaced them, chattering away.

When Altan approached him, Chaghan pressed himself back against the wall, lowering his gaze to the floor. The flagstones were dusty. Fascinating.

“You won’t do that again, will you?” Altan’s voice was so soft. It felt like a punch.

Chaghan opened his mouth, but no sound came out. This close, Altan’s warmth was overbearing — heat rolled off his chest as if he had a furnace in place of a heart. Hot-iron fingers brushed up under Chaghan’s chin, just the barest touch, guiding his chin up so that he met Altan’s eyes. 

His gaze was like staring into the sun. Chaghan desperately wanted to look anywhere else, but found himself unable to.

“I want to give you the benefit of the doubt,” Altan murmured. “But make no mistake, I do expect your loyalty. Both to me, and to my family. That, in the gardens? That was a warning. If you disrespect the Princess like that again, you will pay for it, shaman or not.” His thumb brushed across Chaghan’s chin. “Understood?”

Chaghan blinked rapidly. His heart was hammering like a small bird’s. “Alright. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked if you understood me.”

“I understand.”

Altan smiled, a slight upward quirk of his lips. Chaghan found his gaze lingering there longer than it should have. “Good.”

He pulled back, and the burning intensity of the moment ebbed to a cinder. Chaghan tried to catch his breath.

“It’ll be good for you to meet the others.” Altan turned away, heading down the corridor. When Chaghan’s legs decided to obey him again, he followed. 

The compound was as dull and dark inside as it was outside. Dark wood beams hung overhead, supporting swaying braziers on chains; the deep gray stone walls seemed to swallow light, even where the wooden shutters had been flung wide to invite it in. Chaghan’s footsteps echoed insolently, even as he tried to keep his step light.

He felt the golden circlets’ weight then, more keenly than ever. How he longed for weightlessness, to slip into the shadows and melt his consciousness down, to float out amongst the immaterial world, untethered, unthreatened. Free.

The material world was so drab by contrast. So unappealing. 

The sound of chatter echoing down the hallway intensified as he approached a wide, bright archway, hung with stitched-together scraps of coloured cloth. Pushing aside the curtain, Chaghan found himself in a large, high-ceilinged room that could only be described as homely. 

It was part living space, part kitchen, with rugs and threadbare tapestries thrown in haphazard piles across the flagstones, piles of cushions in every spare corner, and scattered heaps of books and scrolls. A great clay oven took up one corner, with nearby benches of wood and stone scattered with cooking implements and half-chopped ingredients. At the center was a round mahogany table, clearly once a beloved heirloom, now covered in deep gouges and scorch marks. One leg seemed to have been blown off by an explosion.

Around the table, on an arrangement of mismatched chairs and stools, sat an equally mismatched arrangement of people. 

Suni had folded himself onto a tiny stool beside Altan’s chair. Rin sat on Suni’s other side, talking with her mouth full, gesturing vividly with her chopsticks. A huge man — not quite as immense as Suni, but broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, easily more than a head taller than Chaghan himself — hefted a platter of thick-sliced roast pork onto the table to a ripple of grateful murmurs, jostling amongst the heaped bowls of other foods on the table. Thick noodles in brown sauce, roast chicken legs, slices of the fried fruit Speerlies favoured, braised fish in soup, a platter of wilted leafy greens, glistening with oil. A number of the dishes looked familiar, but different. A chaotic medley of culinary favourites from across the Republic, using Speerly ingredients. 

A thin young man with a hairline mustache and bushy ponytail of reddish hair reached over for the pork, but was foiled by the grabbing fingers of an eyepatch-wearing kid no older than fifteen. Chaghan recognised the boy’s victorious cackle from the commotion outside the palace kitchens that morning. 

“Hey.” A man’s booming voice made Chaghan’s shoulders jump. He looked up to find the broad-shouldered stranger watching him, dark eyebrows heavy across his eyes. He bore a striking resemblance to a number of the bandits Chaghan had come across on the way south — coarsely handsome, square chin studded with stubble, black hair scraped back into a bun. “You gonna stand there all day, or what?”

The rest of the table turned to stare at him.

Gingerly, Chaghan approached, keeping his head down. He took one of the free seats on the other side of Rin, Altan, and Suni. He didn’t dare look up at them.

He was reminded of a scene he’d watched play out during his and Qara’s journey south. They’d been passing through a forest, and had stopped to watch a macaque with a missing hand trying to join a troop. Each time it approached, trying to groom or forage alongside the other animals, it was driven away by bared teeth and shrieks of denial. He’d found it funny, at the time. Now, he too felt like a wounded creature, trying in vain to fit in with an unfamiliar pack.

The broad-shouldered man took a heavy seat beside him. He didn’t look at Chaghan, instead focusing on piling as much food as he could into a bowl and tipping it back into his mouth.

“So,” the man said, through a mouthful of pork. “Who’s your god?”

Chaghan blinked at him. “What?”

“Your god,” the man huffed, waving an impatient hand. “Which one do you summon?”

“I don’t.”

“No shit. Not with those clunky fucking things on you.” He flicked the bracelet at Chaghan’s wrist, sending an unpleasant ring through his bones. “What can you do normally, then?”

When Chaghan didn’t respond, he snorted.

“Don’t be shy. It’s not weird to us. Say whatever, and we’ve probably heard it before.”

Chaghan narrowed his eyes. “I doubt that.”

“Y-you should try meeting Aratsha,” stuttered the man with the ponytail. When Chaghan looked at him, he seemed to shrink in on himself. “When he’s back! H-he’s escorting ships right now.”

“He summons a water god,” said the broad-shouldered man. “Either river or ocean. I’m not actually sure. Really gets into it, either way.”

“What do you do, then?” Chaghan asked.

“Me? Can’t you tell?” The man grinned, baring sharp lower canines which jutted against his lower lip. “I summon the god of pigs.”

Chaghan levelled a blank look at him. He rolled his eyes.

“I summon the fighting spirit of a very angry boar.” He pointed across the room, where a bizarre nine-pronged rake was leaned against the wall. Its handle was stained with old blood. “Means I’m very good at killing things. Not as exciting as the Phoenix, but it does the trick.”

“Exciting is one word for it,” Rin mumbled. 

“So…?” The man gestured at Chaghan, eyebrows raised expectantly. “What god do you summon? No judgement here.”

“Although if you can set fire to stuff with your mind like Rin and Altan can, that would be pretty cool.” The teenage boy with the eyepatch hoisted the puppy onto the table from his lap, and watched as it lunged at his bowl of pork with unrestrained glee.

“Ramsa.” Altan gave him a stern look. “Get the dog off the table.”

Ramsa gave him a look as imploring as the puppy’s, but Altan stayed firm. He heaved a sigh and pulled the animal back into his lap.

“I don’t summon any gods,” Chaghan said flatly.

The others stared at him.

“Altan said you were a shaman,” Suni frowned. “You must do.”

“I said he was a Seer,” Altan corrected, not looking up from his bowl. “He can sense people coming from a distance. That’s as much as I’ve gathered.”

“Congrats,” boomed the man at Chaghan’s side. “You can hear good. Unegen can do that too.”

The ponytailed man gave him a shifty look, nodding. “C-can you shapeshift, too, then?”

“Shapeshift?”

“I turn into a fox.” Unegen squinted at the table. “Well, technically I turn into a human, but people usually prefer when I say it the other way around.”

“I don’t do that.” Chaghan felt their curious eyes burning into him. He hunched his shoulders. “I have some degree of premonition, as Altan mentioned, but it’s… less now.”

“So if we took these bracelets off you, what would happen?” The boar-god man grinned at him again.

“I would explode all of your brains with my mind.”

They all stared at him for a moment, stunned. Then, the boar-god man started to roar with laughter. The others joined in with startled snorts and chuckles. Only Altan did not react. He didn’t even look up.

“Oh, Great Tortoise,” sighed the boar-god man, wiping tears from his eyes. He clapped Chaghan hard enough on the back to make him cough. “Good one. What’s your name, wise guy?”

“Chaghan.” His name came out strained.

“Baji.” He gave a broad, affable smile. “Good to meet a new one. Feels like it’s been forever. We kind of gave up hope, after…” 

The table fell quiet. Chaghan could feel the tension in the room, a palpable, thick quality to the air, lingering on his tongue. It tasted like grief.

Baji cleared his throat. “So, the Queen wanted a new fortune-teller?” He looked over at Altan, whose gaze hadn’t shifted.

“Something like that,” Altan said to his bowl. 

“What do you mean you don’t summon gods?” Rin was staring at him, eyes sharp. “That’s the entire basis of shamanism.”

“In the south, yes. In the north, we do things differently.” Chaghan smiled. “We know the truth of the universe. The sixty-four gods are merely some of the actors on its great stage. When you look beyond them, you open your mind to different possibilities.”

She looked unimpressed. “Such as?”

“I have visited beings capable of reading fate and destiny. I’ve seen visions of the past, and of the potential future. I’ve communed with animal spirits. With the lingering dead.”

Altan looked up at him. Chaghan’s mouth dried immediately, but he continued. 

“You southern shamans think you are unlocking the keys to the universe, when you invite your gods to share custody of your soul. Unfortunately for you, such a bargain cannot benefit you forever. We avoid making deals entirely. We go straight to the source, and further still.”

“You can tell the future?” Ramsa gaped at him. “How come you got captured, then?”

Chaghan frowned. “It isn’t that simple. You think of the future as a path, yes? A road to your destiny? It may have branches, but you can tell, at a glance, where each path may lead.” 

“Uh-huh.” Ramsa’s single eye squinted. “You’re gonna tell me it’s not.”

“It’s more like an ocean,” Chaghan elaborated, ignoring Ramsa’s smug look. “The being I consult with may help me to read the flow of the currents, but those currents are constantly shifting. And the Talwu isn’t exactly forthcoming. It takes years of training to be able to interpret a Hexagram into anything resembling sense.”

“So what you’re saying is it was a skill issue?”

“I’m saying they took me by surprise,” Chaghan grumbled. 

Ramsa snickered.

“Happens to the best of us,” Suni said, with a placid smile. “I think what you do sounds nice.”

Chaghan snorted. Suni’s smile remained.

“I mean it. Must be nice not having to hear the gods screaming in your head all the time.” His smile turned into a grimace. “Mine is… loud.”

Rin patted his arm with a sympathetic glance; Suni put his big, hair-thatched hand over hers.

“How come Altan plucked you from the Hesperians’ grasp, then?” Baji asked. “I mean, no offence, but I could toss some bones on a fire and read the future off those. Why do we need you?”

Chaghan looked across the table at Altan. The Prince’s gaze was distant, lingering somewhere on the far wall. His eyes were glazed over. Lost in thought.

“I don’t know,” Chaghan admitted. “Perhaps he just wanted to see if his gamble would pay off.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Ramsa said, leaning over to him, “I wasn’t even meant to be here. I was on a ship bound for somewhere else before it blew up. Aratsha found me half-drowned.” He sighed dreamily. “Good times.”

“Y-you say that like you had nothing to do with it blowing up,” Unegen countered.

“It wasn’t my fault they’d put all their gunpowder in one place!”

“I think it’ll pay off.” When Altan spoke, the table immediately drew quiet. He shrugged, gaze lingering on Chaghan. “We’ve been adrift for too long. It would be good to know which direction the winds of fate are blowing in.”

“I don’t think he’s reading any winds with those cuffs on him,” Baji said flatly. 

“It isn’t me who needs convincing.”

Suni scratched at his wrists. Jagged white scars ringed both of them, arcing tendrils climbing up his forearms. “I remember what it was like,” he murmured. “Like being underwater. Everything was grey. Muffled.” He looked up at Chaghan, his eyes dark, sorrowful pits. “I’m sorry.”

Chaghan squirmed. Suni’s sympathetic gaze felt like a needle being pushed between his ribs. He looked away. “It’s fine. No different to how it would be without them, really.”

That seemed to cut the conversation off clean. 

Beside him, Baji cleared his throat, picking up Chaghan’s empty, untouched bowl and piling it with food. He pushed it back in front of him. 

“Don’t know how it is in the north, but in Nikan it’s an insult to the chef when you don’t eat what’s given to you. So…” Baji gave him a pointed look. “Unless you want to meet my rake.”

Chaghan ate in silence.

The Cike celebrated Rin’s return for the majority of the day. They sat around the wooden table for hours, even after the last of the bowls had been polished clean, swapping stories that could only be described as bizarre. Chaghan stayed quiet, letting them ignore him, allowing their voices to wash over him like lukewarm waves. 

He’d given up trying to understand exactly what it was the Cike did. Their uses seemed incredibly specific — too flamboyant and noticeable for large-scale battles where Suni and Baji’s strength could be put to good use, but not quite flexible enough for extremely sensitive, small-scale operations. It seemed their group was frequently split for different purposes — at any given time, in each of the stories they told, at least one member of the group seemed to be absent.

That was another point that boggled his mind. Without Rin and Altan, the Cike appeared to consist of only five men. 

He’d been expecting more — when he’d slipped away from the table that afternoon and started poking around the rest of the compound, Chaghan had searched for the evidence of them. He had found nothing but spare rooms gathering dust. 

One of the rooms seemed to have been freshly cleaned, when he pushed the unlocked door open and peered inside. Items had been piled neatly in one corner by an open window, laid out on a cloth sheet. Chaghan crouched by the pile, inspecting it. Nikara-style clothing with a light blue cloud-pattern motif. When he moved the clothing aside, he found a stack of what seemed to be old letters, crumpled by water damage. The topmost on the stack was the worst for it, so stained  and damaged as to be almost unreadable, the ink bleeding out of the characters in a watery splay. A short message had been scrawled in a shaking hand.

I’m sorry. 

A skitter of light footprints behind him made Chaghan look up. He turned around to find a fox standing on the other side of the room, its bright yellow eyes fixed on him.

There was a small pop, and the fox became a man. The transition was immediate and startling. Unegen’s eyes were just as sharp as they’d been seconds before.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. The tremor that had been in his voice before had evaporated; now it held strong, quiet but fierce. 

Chaghan stared back at him, still crouching, holding the crumpled letter in one hand. “Whose room was this?”

“That’s not your concern.”

Chaghan scoffed. “Well, it will be soon, if I’m meant to be joining you.”

Unegen tipped his head to one side, as if listening for a small animal under snow. “It’s Cike business. You aren’t Cike. Not yet.”

“You make it sound like there’s some elaborate joining ritual.”

“There is. It involves making Altan trust you.” Unegen’s eyes narrowed. “And I don’t think he does, not yet. Which means we can’t, either.” He gestured towards the door.

Gritting his teeth, Chaghan set the letter back on the pile and exited the room. He didn’t stick around to see if Unegen emerged after him or not.

He paused in the hallway, hearing shouts through a cracked-open window. The window looked out into a large, paved square courtyard at the center of the compound. Rin and Altan stood on opposite ends of the courtyard, with Baji standing between them; the remainder of the Cike had gathered around the edges like spectators. Chaghan couldn’t help but stay to watch whatever this was going to be. 

“Alright,” Baji boomed, “you both know the rules. No contact. Whoever lasts the longest is the victor.”

“You’re going down,” Rin crowed from the side closest to Chaghan. She bounced from one foot to the other, full of energy, stretching her fingers out on either side of her.

Altan, by contrast, was utterly still. His eyes were closed; he almost looked like he was meditating. Or praying. 

When he opened his eyes, they were such a bright red that Chaghan could see it even from a distance. They almost seemed to glow. 

Altan smiled, bringing his hands up in front of him, cracking his knuckles as if readying for a fist fight. “Show me what you remember.”

“Ready,” Baji called. He raised a hand and stepped back. “Begin!”

Chaghan expected them to run at each other. They didn’t. Instead, they opened their hands and produced torrents of moving flame. 

He stepped back, startled, feeling the heat on his face; against the wall of the courtyard, the rest of the Cike did the same, loosing whoops and bursts of laughter.

He had heard tales about the Speerlies’ abilities. Before they’d left for the south, Bekter had been all too happy to provide Chaghan and Qara with a gruesome firsthand account of how he’d acquired the scars that plastered his face and body. They wield it like it’s a part of their soul, he’d said, a grin stretching the leathery ruin of his face. But don’t worry, little cousins. Douse them with enough water, and they turn into wet cats. Their fire doesn’t help them when they have a blade in their guts.

Easier said than done. Anyone who came within thirty feet of either of them right now would be turned into a stick of charcoal.

Watching Rin and Altan, it was so incredibly obvious why the Trifecta had allied with Speer in a bid to win their war. An average Speerly may have enough control of the flame to light a hearth without flint, but a trained shaman was exquisitely deadly. An army of them would be unstoppable.

The flame flowed like liquid, shifting as they sculpted it into different forms: tendrils which whipped out, making the other duck and dodge, then twin dragons that lunged at one another, twirling in a midair dance as intricate as it was beautiful. Rin moved forwards first, balls of flame gathered around her fists which she flung at Altan; he dodged easily, moving into her range. He extended a hand and summoned a blade of fire into his palm, so strong it looked solid. Behind his shoulders, fiery wings flared. He looked frightening. He looked divine.

Of course the Hesperians feared the Speerly royal family. Of course they wanted to send a shaman to deal with them ahead of their main invasion force. 

These people were forces of nature. No conventional methods could be trusted to take them down. An arquebus might do the trick, but as deadly as they were, the Hesperians’ favourite weapons were slow to reload. If an artilleryman didn’t manage to kill them in one shot, it would be over in seconds. 

As the match went on, it became clear that Altan’s grasp of the flame was more solid than Rin’s. At one point, when she whipped a tendril of fire towards him, instead of deflecting it with one of his own, he seized it, barehanded, and pulled it clean out of her grasp as if it were made of rope.

The air smelled like cooking flesh — he’d burned himself, but in the split second it had taken for him to pull it away from her, the fire had obeyed. 

Chaghan wondered if it was something to do with the way each of them had been trained. Altan was older — he’d had more time to become accustomed to his gifts. They’d probably just had an excellent teacher. Maybe the Queen herself was a shaman of their caliber. 

But there was something off about the way Altan fought. When Rin’s fire burned him, Altan didn’t react. He didn’t even flinch. He dodged her attacks, but it seemed mainly to be for her benefit. This held no real danger for him. He trusted the fire like an old friend.

Altan’s victory was inevitable. One of his attacks caught the back of Rin’s leg — she yelped and held up a non-burning hand, and Baji stepped forward as the flames died away. He seized Altan by the wrist and held up his hand, as if he were a champion pit-fighter. 

“Winner!”

The Cike’s cheers rang across the courtyard. Rin grimaced, putting a hand to the back of her knee, where the flame had melted clean through her pant leg. Altan was by her side in an instant. She let him kneel beside her to inspect the burn, leaning on his shoulder for support as she balanced on one leg.

“Not too deep,” Altan said, looking up at her. The glow in his eyes was gone; he looked pained. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Rin said, patting his shoulder. “Just need to get used to it again, that’s all. Being cooped up with the Yins made me too soft.”

“Mm. Your reactions were slower, this time.”

She swatted his arm lightly. He grinned, standing up and leaning down to gently knock their foreheads together. 

“You’ll beat me soon enough.”

“Fifteen times in a row is pretty soul-crushing, you have to admit.” Rin poked him in the chest. “I’ll get my revenge when you least expect it. When you’re a wizened old man, I’m gonna put you on your ass.”

Altan laughed, quiet and musical. It was the first time Chaghan had heard it. He wanted to hear it again.

He pushed himself away from the window. No reason to linger. He knew what their range was, which techniques they favoured. He knew enough to figure out how best to combat them, should the need arise — but that would only be a last resort. Best to kill them in their sleep. He didn’t like his chances of ever returning to the mainland otherwise.

He’d almost succeeded in getting out unnoticed when Suni caught him by the door.

“You’re leaving?”

Chaghan froze, one hand grasping the door handle. “Uh…”

“We were just about to start the bonfire.” Suni’s giant hand clapped onto his shoulder. Chaghan cursed silently. Too late. “Come on. Baji’s going to roast an entire pig. You can’t miss it.”

Chapter Text

The bonfire wasn’t held in the courtyard. The Cike filtered out into the village square outside the compound, conversation flowing as they hefted pieces of broken furniture which they deposited in a heap. Wood was gathered from storage sheds on the village outskirts and added to the pile, along with reams and reams of papers. Classified information, Chaghan guessed, fuming silently. He would have liked to take a look at those documents. Smart of them to get rid of it now.

He watched their proceedings from the stoop of a hollowed-out house, sitting on the stone steps. Across the way, he could see the Speerly guard sitting in the same spot on a house that mirrored his own. He looked like he’d just woken up from a nap, red-eyed and irritated. Chaghan gave him a wave, and received a scowl.

As soon as it was all piled up, and a fat suckling wild boar had been spitted, oiled, and seasoned, the Cike stood back, admiring their handiwork.

“You sure you want to do this?” Baji’s voice was low as he leaned into Altan; if they hadn’t been close by, tucked into the shadow of the house Chaghan sat in front of, he wouldn’t have heard them. “We can wait longer, if you need to.”

“No, we should do it now,” Altan responded. He hesitated for a moment. “I… would have preferred…”

Baji sighed. “Yeah, me too. But you know how the Seal works.”

Chaghan froze. He’d heard that word before. The implications were as confusing as they were alarming.

“He’s good where he is,” Baji continued. “Let him rest. This is… for us. He’d understand.”

He heard Altan clap Baji on the shoulder, before they moved out of the shadows. Baji disappeared through the main doors of the compound.

Starting the blaze was a trifle for the Speerlies. They each sent an arcing spit of flame up on either side of the bonfire; the motes landed in unison, fire bursting out from each side and quickly climbing. Within minutes, the fire was at full roar. Chaghan could feel the heat of it against his side, could smell the building smoke, flames casting long, eerie flickers off the abandoned buildings clustered around the square.

Ramsa had set the puppy on the ground, coaxing it to spin in circles around his legs with scraps from the lunch table, which he’d stuffed into both bulging pockets. “I was thinking of names for him,” he called to Rin. “What d’you think of Explosion?”

“A bit on the nose,” Rin said. She’d moved to stand beside Altan, who was watching the little dog warily, as if it was going to launch itself into the flames. Privately, Chaghan thought it might.

“Hmm. Death?”

“Better.” Rin tapped her chin, considering. “The Yins had a littermate they called Bin-Bin. I’ve been calling it Yin-Yin in my head.”

“That’s undignified,” Ramsa said. “He’s clearly a war-dog. He needs a name which will strike fear into our enemies’ hearts.” He paused. “Bang-Bang?”

“Overcomplicating it,” Altan said. “You need something snappy.”

Ramsa’s eyes widened alongside his grin. “I’ve got it.”

Altan raised an eyebrow.

Ramsa splayed his hands like a showman. “Bomb.”

“That’s it.”

Beside him, Rin wheezed.

“Do you like your new name, Bomb?” Ramsa scooped the dog up, bouncing it like a baby. The little creature lunged for his face, licking his nose. “Who’s a terrifying omen of doom? It’s you!”

The doors to the compound opened, and the gathered Cike drew quiet. Baji emerged, holding a cloth-wrapped bundle. It looked similar in size to the small pile of personal effects Chaghan had seen in that empty, clean room; he remembered the smell of it, old, fresh-swept dust, jasmine drifting in through the window, the clinging remnants of incense. Baji approached the fire, and nodded over to Altan, who came to stand beside him. The Cike watched him, attention rapt.

“We don’t have a body to burn,” Altan said. His voice echoed in the square, commanding and solemn. “In the event a warrior’s body is lost, Speerly custom dictates the burning of their last effects in order to release their spirit.” He looked around his gathered men. “Is there anything you wish to say, before his spirit passes on?”

The gathered Cike exchanged silent looks. There was a certain nervousness to it. Nobody wanted to be the first to speak.

“He always listened.” Suni’s ponderous voice broke the silence. “Even when his god was loud. I appreciated that.”

“He was funny,” Ramsa said. “Helped me do a lot of things I wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. Like turning Unegen’s eyebrows blue.” He smiled. “I won’t forget that.”

Across the fire, Unegen glared half-heartedly. He remained silent.

“He was gentle.” Rin’s voice was quiet. She’d wound her arms around herself. “He never wanted to hurt anyone. I remember…” She hesitated. “I remember how scared he got, when he felt it coming. He wanted to stay. I wish…” 

She ducked her head. For a moment she didn’t speak.

“I just wish I’d been there, at the end. I wanted to say goodbye.” 

Suni put an arm around her as she fell silent. Altan stared into the fire. Chaghan couldn’t read his expression; the wavering shadows cast by the flames obscured it. He turned and nodded to Baji.

“See you in the next life, crazy bastard,” Baji said, with a small, sad smile. He passed the bundle over to Altan.

“We cast your memory to the flames, so that you may live on in the ashes.” Altan stepped forwards, close enough for the flames to lick his arms. Gently, he laid the bundle on the fire. Flames climbed up, consuming it almost immediately. “From ashes we come. To ashes we return.”

For a moment, all was quiet and still. A cool breeze blew through the village, whistling through the charred frames of the houses. 

Baji clapped his hands together. “Right. Now that’s over, it’s time for the actual main event.” He adjusted the spit on either side of the bonfire and hoisted the pig into place.

“You could have waited five minutes,” Unegen grumbled.

“What? He just sent us a message.” Baji grinned. “This pig is for him. And frankly, if we didn’t eat it, we’d be disrespecting his memory.”

The burgeoning sunset cast rays of gold and red through the ruined village, cloudless sky stained with hazy grey by the plume of smoke produced by the bonfire. The fire had burned down substantially, reduced to a tame glow. Chairs and cushions had been dragged out of the compound, and the Cike sat clustered around it, reclining, full-bellied. 

Chaghan perched on the outskirts of the group, happy to sit on bare cobblestones. The ground in the north was always rock-hard, anyway. He was used to it.

Across the fire, Altan and Rin sat together, leaning into one another. Her head was pillowed on his shoulder, eyes closed, dozing after an exhausting day. Altan had draped a blanket over her shoulders. He hadn’t bothered finding one for himself. He sat awake, staring into the fire, with the same glazed, distant look on his face Chaghan had seen earlier.

“Hey.” Suni’s voice caught his attention. The man was sprawled on the cobblestones a few feet away, head propped on a pillow, staring into him. “You never told us how you got here.”

“Through the forest,” Chaghan said flatly. “With my legs.”

Suni didn’t laugh. “You’re not from Nikan, are you?”

“No.”

“And the Hesperians still caught you?”

“That’s right.”

“How?”

Chaghan sat back, stretching his arms out behind him and putting his weight on his palms. He looked at Suni for a long moment. Nobody else was paying them any attention; most of them were half-asleep. “You first.”

Suni looked up at the sky, sighing. “It was my own fault. I… had been trying to contain my god for a long time. A woman from the Order of the Divine Architect found me. Said they could… fix me.” He shrugged. “I guess it worked for a while.”

“Why come to Speer, then?”

“I was on Ramsa’s ship. It was a prison vessel.” He swallowed. “To be honest, I was glad when it sank. I wanted to die.” A small, listless shrug. “That’s a funny thing about humans. We don’t just stop living when we want to. Instinct keeps you fighting. Makes you tread water. Wakes you up when you start to drown.” He looked over at Chaghan, and his eyes were warm. “I’m glad I didn’t die back then. I’d forgotten what having a family felt like.”

Chaghan said nothing. He shifted, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Do… Do you have a family?” Suni’s voice had turned careful. “Did you, before?”

He risked a glance up, feigning looking into the fire. In reality, he was gauging Altan’s attention. The Prince hadn’t looked their way, but there was a new sharpness to his gaze as he watched the flames burn down. He must have been listening.

“I did,” Chaghan said slowly. “A big one. Although, to tell the truth, most of them would be happy to pretend we weren’t related.”

“Sounds like mine.” Suni chuckled. “Is that why you left them? Did you come south to find something better?”

Chaghan snorted. “No. I knew there was never anything worthwhile in the south.” He sighed through his nose. “The north likes to keep up with developments in Nikan. They might affect us eventually. And while the immaterial realm can answer many questions, it can’t answer all of them. Nothing beats having men on the ground.”

He hesitated, staring at his boots. Wondering how much to say.

When he looked up, he found that Altan’s attention had shifted. He wasn’t directly looking at Chaghan, but his gaze was closer, lingering somewhere amongst the cobblestones between them. If Chaghan spoke, he’d hear it. He’d probably believe it, too. 

The Hesperians’ words rang in his mind. Play up the helplessness. 

It wasn’t like he had to say everything. He just had to say enough to paint a picture.

“They caught us on the outskirts of a city in Snake Province. We wouldn’t have been there at all, but… I got impatient.” Chaghan swallowed. “I wanted to get it over with, find what we needed and go home. That was a mistake.”

In reality, that city had been their goal from the start. They’d been told where to find the Hesperians by the Sorqan Sira. Told what to say, when they approached them. What to offer as a bargain.

Qara had been hesitant. Afraid. We don’t have to do this, she’d whispered into his ear. 

But he’d insisted. The Sorqan Sira’s word was law. If they disobeyed, if she found them again — no, when she found them again — her wrath would rattle the heavens. No choice. Not then, not ever.

It’ll be alright, he’d said, squeezing her hand. They need us alive.

Qara’s look of fear hadn’t dissipated. She’d followed him anyway.

“Did they try to fix you, too?” Suni’s eyes were dark pits beneath his drawn eyebrows.

“I don’t think that was ever their intention.” Chaghan’s throat was suddenly dry. The words stuck. He frowned, frustrated, and tried again. “They were… curious. They didn’t know what we were. It was new for them. Exciting.”

When they’d agreed to the testing, the Hesperians had looked like children being presented with a new toy. Their pink faces had shone with naked glee.

It had been part of the bargain. The Order of the Divine Architect wanted to understand Chaos in all of its forms. They had promised not to break anything permanently — after all, the Governor still had need of his abilities. Even if their words meant nothing, Chaghan had told himself, the Sorqan Sira had known this would happen. She had given it her blessing. They may have only been Naimads, but they were still her kin, and they’d proven themselves to be loyal, powerful assets. She wouldn’t throw them into anything they couldn’t handle. Her judgement was sound.

He had only begun to question that judgement when they’d strapped his limbs down and shoved a needle into his neck.

“There were more of you?”

Chaghan looked up. He’d been asked a question. Focus, idiot. Don’t get lost in it.

“You said we.” Suni was frowning. He’d sat up now, and the full weight of his attention was on Chaghan. “How many of you were there?”

“Only two. It was myself and my sister.” He let his voice waver. “We are… We were bonded. A ritual conducted not long after our birth. Stronger together.” The Hesperians, gray-robed and sharp-eyed, looking between them. Tilting their faces to examine their similarities. Noting down their differences. “Our ability to feel one another’s pain was something they found deeply fascinating.”

He remembered it too clearly. The echo of Qara’s screams through the wall. The bright lash of pain a second later. A Hesperian had stood beside him with a stopwatch, her face utterly impassive while he writhed.

It had almost been a relief when they’d welded the bracelets onto his wrists. At first, Chaghan hadn’t felt any different. He’d been confused, until they’d wheeled in the device, all gleaming, boxy steel and coils of dull copper. It had hummed with a force that made the fine hairs on his arms stand up. 

A young woman bent over him, where they’d strapped him to the metal table, affixing thin rubbery strings between the bracelets and the machine. 

“Open your mouth,” she’d told him with a smile like poisoned honey, brandishing a small, curved pad of rubber. “We don’t want you to break your teeth.”

He had stared up at her, mind blank, heart pounding in his throat despite his best efforts to stay calm. The reality of the situation had sunk in. What was about to happen. What was currently happening. 

Everything in him had screamed. Survival instincts rearing, clawing, desperate as a rabbit in a snare. Get out. Get out get out get—

“Did they do it in Baghra?” Suni asked him, in the present.

Chaghan blinked. He forced his breathing to slow. “What’s Baghra?”

“A prison.” Suni shrugged. “I guess that answers my question, though.”

“I… don’t think it was a prison. They didn’t take me anywhere far. It looked strange, though. I hadn’t seen a Nikara building like it before.”

“Strange how?” Suni’s voice was strained, hesitant.

“I don’t know. Mostly, I only saw the inside of one room.” He paused, trying to remember it, despite the way his mind bucked at the effort like a flighty horse. “It was stone. Very clean. No windows. The room I was in must have had three or four tables, all different sizes. And there were many more rooms than the one they put me in. I don’t know if they were occupied or not.”

He hadn’t stopped to consider it, at the time. His mind had been elsewhere, overloaded with fear and adrenaline, then numb and grey, panic boiled down to something muffled and distant.

“I assumed the Hesperians had built it for their Order to examine shamans. Although it didn’t look like one of their buildings, either.” He huffed a humourless laugh. “Whatever that place was, it was certainly efficient. Although I’m not certain why they’d build it so close to the coast. Perhaps for ease of transport.” He glanced up at Suni. “Maybe that’s where your ship was…”

He froze.

Over Suni’s shoulder, across the cobblestones, Altan was staring straight at him. 

He looked murderous. 

Chaghan’s blood turned to ice. 

Shit. What in the gods’ names had he said? He focused on his boots, drawing his knees against his chest, and tried not to panic. The rage on Altan’s face had been terribly clear. He’d crossed some invisible line without even noticing, and now—

“It’s getting dark.”

Altan’s voice from above him made his limbs lock, like a small creature spotted by a predator. He swallowed thickly, glancing up. The fury had vanished from Altan’s face, replaced with a perfect blankness that was even more terrifying. 

“We should be heading back,” Altan said. He nodded behind him, where the guard was standing, stifling a yawn. “Curfew.”

“Right,” Chaghan said numbly. He glanced over at Rin, and found her curled up on a pile of pillows. “Isn’t she—”

“She’s fine here for now. I should take you back, though. You are my guest, after all.”

Chaghan opened his mouth, then closed it with a wordless nod. He stood, willing his knees not to buckle, and followed Altan into the shadows.

The silence was excruciating.

He didn’t dare look behind him, although he knew Altan was there, moving close behind, his steps as quiet as a prowling tiger. They took their time picking their way out of the darkening forest out of necessity — the shadows made the arching roots and knotted vines underfoot even more perilous, despite the wavering light cast by Altan’s flames, summoned into a tame whirl in his palm. 

Chaghan peered through the shadowed trees, to where he knew the drop was waiting. He half expected Altan to march him to the ledge and push him off it. Although, if he wanted Chaghan dead, there were much quicker and more entertaining ways for him to go about it. He’d demonstrated some in the courtyard that afternoon. 

Altan hadn’t spoken a word since they’d set off, but Chaghan could still feel his anger, the same as he’d felt it in the gardens. This time, though, he had absolutely no idea what he’d done to cause it.

Did Altan suspect he’d been lying about his experiences on the mainland? If so, why didn’t he just come out and say it? Altan didn’t strike him as the type to stay silent in such a situation. If he suspected dishonesty, he’d demand the truth. He’d been raised to expect nothing less than unquestioning obedience.

Then again, Chaghan had to admit, he’d only known the man for two days. There could be any reason in the world for his anger. He’d learned at a young age that trying to understand why someone might be taking their rage out on you didn’t make a beating hurt any less.

All Chaghan had to do was keep his head down and not say anything else inflammatory until he was safely back behind a locked door. Easy. He could manage that.

He focused on his breathing, on his uncomfortably loud and clumsy footsteps, until they arrived back at the palace, ducking back through the small wooden door into the gardens. The familiar cool shadows of the guest wing corridor made him breathe a sigh of relief. The guard moved ahead, unlocking the door to his room with a click. 

He almost bolted inside immediately, but no matter how terrifying he found Altan right now, he was still the Prince. Chaghan turned to face him. 

Altan wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were dull, that poppy-brightness somehow faded; he was staring blankly into the middle distance. There was a slump to his shoulders that Chaghan hadn’t seen before. He usually held himself so proudly.

“Um.” Chaghan cleared his throat. “Thank you for… today.”

Altan didn’t respond. His hands fidgeted at his sides, clenching into fists before going slack again. After a moment, he nodded, jaw working silently. He hadn’t blinked in a long time.

“Well… Goodnight.” Chaghan turned away.

The moment he did, Altan’s hand shot out and caught his wrist. 

Chaghan’s first impulse was to try to wrench himself away, but he’d never summon the strength. All he could do was wait, nerves thrumming, heart a rabbit-quick beat in his chest.

“Are you sure about what you saw?” Altan ground out. 

Chaghan turned to look at him. Altan was glaring at a nearby plant as if he wanted to incinerate it.

Mouth dry, he nodded. “As sure as I can be. There were drugs involved.”

Altan’s eyes met his. Chaghan felt as if he was being cut open, spread apart, squirming organs on full display. He held still. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Altan nodded slowly. He released Chaghan’s wrist. “It doesn’t change anything, what they did. Do you understand that?”

Chaghan blinked. His heart sank. Of course. Every shaman coming to the island would have had their own sob story. He wasn’t special. “I… I know.”

Altan turned away from him. “You should get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Chaghan tried to summon words, but they didn’t come. He nodded, stepping inside and closing the door. It locked soundly behind him.

He stared at the ceiling for a long while before sleep decided to claim him.

Chapter Text

“Don’t be afraid.”

Altan had learned to hate those words. Without fail, they always meant there was something coming worth being afraid of.

His aunt’s fingers ran gently through the fuzz of hair on the back of his head as they walked side by side. Even now, almost a month after his return, it was still as short as it had been kept in the laboratory. His aunt had told him he could grow it out, if he wanted, but Altan wasn’t sure. The tickle against his ears when it grew too long put him on edge. After two weeks back in the palace, the first thing he’d been able to find the words to ask for had been a haircut.

Hanelai held a flame in her other hand, lighting the dark stone corridor. They passed carvings of people, life-sized reliefs, lined up upon the walls on either side of them. Speer’s past rulers, immortalised in stone, stretching all the way back to the First Queen who guarded the entrance beneath the palace. Their unseeing eyes seemed to blink down at him in the flickering firelight. Altan shivered, shrinking against his aunt’s side. 

It was so cold down here. Not like the warm sunlight of the rest of the island, still shining somewhere high above their heads. These tunnels had never felt the sun’s warmth.

He recognised one of the carvings as they passed. Queen Mai’rinnen Tearza, the stone of her relief pockmarked by centuries of age. He only recognised her by the flat blankness of her face, the ridges where her features had been chiseled away. The only ruler Speer’s population had ever rejected. Further along was his grandfather, as stern-faced as Altan remembered. Over his chest was a bird with spread wings. The emblem of the Phoenix’s choosing. He hadn’t been born into royalty. He’d been chosen for rule by their god, and when their god made a choice, it was not ignored.

Further still, the carvings came to an end. The second to last relief, before his aunt’s likeness, was an outline of a man. Hardly formed, just a vaguely humanoid shape. It had never been finished. Now, it never would be.

His father had never gotten the chance to reign.

They kept walking. Eventually, the stone began to warm, until Altan’s breath no longer misted in the air. They reached the end of the corridor. There, the passage opened out quite suddenly, expanding into a vast circular room. It didn’t seem as if people had carved this place — it must have existed for a long time before anyone found it. Curved rock glistened with exposed minerals, his aunt’s firelight casting colours against the walls, purples and yellows and bright shimmers of silver. 

Against the far wall was a huge bas-relief of a bird. Its wings were splayed wide, magnificent and terrible, one mad, furious eye staring back at them. It was easily five times his size.

This was the Phoenix’s domain. As they set foot past the periphery and descended the shallow stone steps, Altan felt the change in the air, the sudden, fuzzy lightness of it, the way his limbs felt floaty and disconnected. The sensation was familiar. He felt the itch of a craving that had been carved into his bones.

Hanelai approached the carving, her steps light across the coarse, pale sand that covered the floor. Altan followed her lead. When she folded into a deep bow before the carving, he did the same.

When Hanelai rose from her bow, her face was solemn. She gazed down at him, grief in the deep ruby of her eyes. “You wanted to see them,” she said softly. “They’re here.”

Altan frowned up at her. He looked around. He didn’t feel any presence except the god’s. No lingering spirits haunted this place. There was nobody else here except them. 

Hanelai smiled, soft and sad. “No, my love. Here.” She gestured to the ground at their feet. 

Altan stared down at the sand. He could make out tiny fragments of white shell in it. It was so fine a grain, so pale, it looked almost like…

He dropped to his knees. 

“We all return here eventually,” Hanelai murmured. “One day, I’ll join them. So will you.”

Altan ran his fingers through the ashes, trembling. His eyes felt hot; his vision blurred, turning his hand and the ashes into one amorphous, greyish-brown blob. He didn’t want to blink.

Hanelai moved away from him. “I’ll… give you time. If you need me, I won’t be far.”

He held his breath as long as he could. His lungs couldn’t resist forever — the burning in his chest forced him to take a ragged gasp, which lurched out as a sob. Tears muddied the ashes, making them clump together. When he wiped his face, the sharp grains of bone on his fingers stuck to his wet cheeks.

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. He had known they were dead the moment he saw his aunt waiting for him alone on the pier, a crown on her head and pity in her eyes. It had been foolish to let himself hope for anything different, but when he’d been alone in that awful place, it had been the only thing that had kept him from losing his mind. He’d lain awake for days, staring at the ceiling, trying to picture the exact curve of his mother’s smile.

Altan couldn’t remember it now. He couldn’t think about anything but the weight in his chest, cracking his ribs, crushing his heart. He folded against the floor, pressing his face into the ashes, his chest against his knees. An agonised howl tore from his throat. 

It hollowed him out. When the grief ebbed away, it left only an aching, empty chasm. He was nothing. He felt as if he might blow away like an ember, getting smaller and smaller until the last bit of light in him winked out.

Hello, little one.

That voice. Altan knew that voice.

He had prayed, in the laboratory, because there hadn’t been anything else to do. Sometimes, that voice would whisper back inside his mind. It would tell him sweet lies, make impossible, wonderful promises. Altan hadn’t thought it had been real. It had been a trick of his lonely imagination, an after-effect of the drugs they’d forced into his blood.

But here it was again. Solid and tangible, wrapping around him like warm wings. He felt as if he could reach out and touch it.

I knew you would come, said the Phoenix. You’ve been so brave.

Altan shook his head, forehead pressed to the ashes. He hadn’t been brave. He’d been a coward, and the Phoenix knew it. All he’d done was what they’d told him. He’d given up fighting. It hadn’t done the others any good.

I would give you the world, child. All you need to do is ask. Speak your desire, and together, we will achieve it.

He opened his mouth, but couldn’t find his voice. Only a dull, dry croak escaped.

What was there to want? That place was already gone. The Hesperians had destroyed it.

Altan sat up, staring down at the ashes. The island was different now, upon his return. Villages destroyed, towns half-empty, half-burned, even years later. The weight of grief lingered like a fog. So many dead. So much suffering. So much pain.

What had it been for? Why? 

“The people that did this,” he whispered, hoarse and faint. “I want to make them pay.”

The Phoenix laughed, mirthful and terrible, ringing through his bones. Its power surged through him, a bright, wonderful flame. Altan looked down at his hands. He was burning.

He hoped he might burn forever.

And so you shall, my little warrior, his god whispered back. So you shall.

He was picking at his nails again.

It never helped anything. It wasn’t even destructive enough to soothe him, not really. Still, the bright bead of blood from his cuticle was a little satisfying. Altan turned his hand over, examining the burns left there from his duel with Rin the day before, seared scarlet across his palm. Training at dawn hadn’t helped. The blisters were raw. He dug the nail of his thumb into the center of his palm, and felt the pain radiate up his forearm.

There was a rustle of fabric, distinct from the rustle of leaves above his head. Altan dropped his hands to his lap as Queen Hanelai sat on the bench beside him, papers tucked against her chest, a steaming cup of tea held delicately in her fingers.

In the early morning light, the shadows beneath her eyes were pronounced. Faint scars shone against her cheeks. Sometimes, it was hard to believe that his aunt had led armies. Not today.

She regarded him carefully for a moment, eyebrows pinched in a familiar frown. She set the tea and papers aside. Her hand came up to the side of his face, thumb stroking beneath his eye.

“You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?” Hanelai’s voice was gentle. “Perhaps we should try a new remedy. I’ll speak with the physician.”

“I’m sleeping fine.”

She smiled in the way she always did when she knew he was lying.

“You wouldn’t come to me so early if there wasn’t something wrong. You can tell me, you know. Keeping it tied up in your chest will only make you feel worse.” 

Altan sighed through his teeth. Hanelai waited, calm and patient. Her hand moved to the back of his head, petting his hair softly, the way she had often done when he was a child. He hated to admit how soothing he still found it.

“Are you…” His voice came out wavering. He swallowed the weakness down. “Are you certain the laboratory was destroyed?”

Hanelai’s hand stilled. “Of course. The Republic agreed to tear it down after they found you, when Snake Province was reclaimed from the Federation.” She tilted her head. “Why? Are you still having those dreams?”

Altan shook his head, although the answer to that question had never changed. “I just… I was told by someone that it might still be standing.”

“Told by who?” Hanelai frowned. When he didn’t respond, she dropped her hand. “The Naimad? Altan, you know we can’t take him on his word. He might say anything he likes.”

“I don’t think he was lying.” The tremor in Chaghan’s voice had sounded all too real. “He knew things that only someone who’d been there would know. Said the Hesperians were… using it. Taking shamans there for testing.” His fists balled in his lap, knuckles shining through skin. “If that’s true…”

Hanelai’s hand settled over his own. Her weathered skin was the same shade as his.

“If that’s true,” she said steadily, “then they would have been lying to us for more than a decade.”

Altan nodded. The edges of his vision hazed red.

“Let me look into it,” Hanelai said. “We only have the Naimad’s word to go on. We need more concrete evidence before anything can be raised.” She sighed. “We can’t risk sending our scouts. It could be misconstrued. Better to act through an intermediary. I’ll arrange an audience with Moag.”

Altan balked. “You’d trust a pirate over our prisoner?”

“We have no way of knowing he’s telling the truth. Moag respects coin, at the very least.”

“What reason would he have to lie?” When Hanelai gave him a long look, Altan continued. “From a strategic standpoint, it makes no sense. He’s powerless. He has nothing to gain from lying to us. Moag would force us to play by her rules. Even if we pay her whatever price she cares to name, we’d have no guarantee her information was genuine.”

“I have known Moag for decades,” Hanelai replied, voice firm. “She is a venomous snake, but I know how her mind works. I can work alongside her. That boy is a mystery, and a dangerous one. You would do well to remember that.” A frown flitted across her face, a ghost of Rin’s likeness in it. “Having something in common is no basis for choosing allies. You must learn to disconnect your own feelings from your decisions. For the good of your people.”

Altan caught his indignant retort right before it rolled off his tongue. Sleeplessness and the lingering opium in his blood had made him numb, reckless. Insulting the Queen wouldn’t be worth the temporary satisfaction.

“I understand that,” he said carefully. It still came out slightly nettled.

Hanelai hummed, a neutral sound. She shuffled her papers, taking a sip of tea before spitting it out onto the grass, grimacing. It had been stewing for too long as they’d been talking — the contents of her cup were a murky, bitter green.

“Here,” Altan said, standing and taking the cup from her hand. “I’ll make you another.”

Hanelai smiled up at him. “Thank you.” Her thumb traced over his knuckles as she passed the cup over. “Try not to worry yourself. I’ll look into the matter. In the meantime, you should be preparing for the visit.”

Altan’s mouth soured. He bowed his head, tightened his fingers around the cup, and made a beeline for the kitchens.

Time passed more quickly than he’d have liked. Days dragged into weeks, the once perfectly blue skies darkening with thick, heavy clouds that made thunder rumble and leaves bristle, forcing people to duck into cover or be pelted with raindrops as fat as berries.

Despite the darkening skies, the palace was abuzz with life. Excited and nervous chatter filled the halls in equal measure; the cooks and seamstresses and decorators had flown into a frenzy, trying to discern how best to put on a display of Speer’s culture in a way that the Hesperians could digest. Both figuratively and literally. The Hesperians had awfully weak stomachs.

Nobody consulted Altan about any of this, which was fine by him. He was only the show pig, after all, not the farmer looking to win a prize. He watched Hanelai and Daji walk the hallways with a gaggle of staff at their heels, giving orders and making sweeping gestures around the palace as the scribes’ brushes worked furiously.

Normally, the tense, frantic atmosphere might have put Altan on edge.

Right now, though, all he could feel was a pleasant, heady sort of numbness.

A couple of weeks ago, Hanelai had put a hand on his arm as he was retiring for the night and suggested, in subtle tones, that he might want to think about reducing his opium intake before the Hesperians came to visit. Altan had nodded wordlessly, then returned to his room and smoked until the world melted away.

His aunt meant well, but she had never understood the intricacies of Altan’s dependance. Too much, and he’d tip over into apathetic oblivion; too little, and he crumbled into a paranoid, nervous wretch. On the balance, he decided he would rather the Hesperians meet the former man, rather than the latter. Numb blankness would serve him well. Falling apart would not. 

No wonder opium was so strictly prohibited on the rest of Speer. They were a nation traumatised by war. Twenty years later, most of the towns and villages still bore the scars left by Mugenese firebombs; entire neighbourhoods stood empty, half-blackened, farms overgrown, feral animals roaming the forest. 

Opium was the opposite of grief, of pain, of loneliness. Opium curled sweet tendrils of smoke around its drinker like a lover’s embrace, whispering gentle nothings. You’re safe, it whispered. Everything is alright. Life is beautiful.

If given the chance, Altan suspected Speer’s entire population would be hopelessly addicted. 

Queen Hanelai knew this better than most. With the exception of her nephew, she had no tolerance for anyone who so much as touched the stuff. Opium smugglers were executed without mercy; addicts were imprisoned until they dried out, with no sympathy given for their torturous withdrawals.

She had tried to curb Altan’s addiction the same way, when he’d been returned from the laboratory. But he had only been a child, thin and weak, and the drugs the Mugenese had plied him with had been strong. The pain had been excruciating. He’d sobbed and begged. He’d felt like he was dying.

The Queen’s iron resolve had broken. She’d made a covert deal with Ankhiluun for just enough opium to be shipped directly into the palace to keep him sane, and had said no more about it. 

It was hardly a point of pride. Altan would throw his entire supply of opium nuggets off the pier if he had any choice in the matter. But right now, the risk of doing without was simply too great. When the high started to wear off, the memories bled through, a poorly-staunched wound which refused to heal. He barely slept anymore. Each time his eyes slid closed, he found his heart racing in anticipation of the drug ebbing out of his system, giving way to vivid nightmares that left him gasping, drenched in cold sweat.

Altan had been making progress over the past few years. Slowly but surely, he’d been cutting his rations down, growing more accustomed to seeing the world with clear eyes. It had been satisfying, to not feel the urge to reach for his pipe first thing in the morning, last thing at night. His moods had been growing more stable. Rin had noticed. She’d told him how proud she was.

Chaghan’s words at the Cike compound had set all of that progress ablaze, ripping away the scab that had been tentatively forming and leaving him to bleed out.

Altan wished he hadn’t been listening. The images lingered, a foul black cloud that didn’t shift no matter how much smoke he inhaled. He’d wanted to scream, when he’d heard it. He’d wanted to kill something. 

He knew what he had to do. Every nerve sung with brutal, singular purpose. 

That place had to burn, along with everyone who’d ever been involved with keeping it standing. 

We could do it, you and I, the Phoenix hissed, eager and salivating. Take a boat. We don’t need to wait for Moag’s spies. Justice requires nobody’s blessing but your own.

Not yet. For now, he would have to smile and roll over and play nice for the Hesperians. Let them think him tame. A hidden knife cut deeper, after all.

He’d barely seen Chaghan since that night. When Altan did come across him, it was only in brief, fleeting moments in hallways or corridors, their paths crossing only for a moment. Chaghan didn’t speak to him; he only made the briefest moment of eye contact, just long enough for the appropriate, deferential nod, then fixed his gaze on the floor again until Altan passed.

That didn’t really surprise him. After what Altan had overheard, he more than understood.

Every new member of the Cike had gone through something similar shortly after their arrival on Speer. They’d be full of energy for the first day or so, but after that, they’d deflate like a punctured dirigible, shrinking in on themselves, shutting themselves away in their rooms to find whatever solace they could. There was no helping it. Time was the only remedy that ever seemed to work.

Even so, when he’d escorted Chaghan to his room that night, Altan hadn’t been able to help the words that came out of his mouth. That empty, pathetic platitude he’d been plied with for the past decade.

It doesn’t change anything.

A comforting lie. It had felt somehow appropriate to say it at the time, but afterwards Altan suspected Chaghan understood their falsehood as well as he did. 

Words did not undo the past. Altan would remain broken forever. His parents would remain dead, alongside Chaghan’s sister.

When he returned to the mainland to tear that wretched place to the ground, he’d take Chaghan with him. Vengeance would be sweeter with an eager audience. Altan could imagine how the flames might reflect in those cool, pale eyes. He could imagine how Chaghan might smile to hear those scientists scream.

For now, though, he would leave Chaghan alone. Let him lick his wounds as he needed to. When he was ready, they could move forward.

Until then, daydreams would have to be enough.

Four days before the Hesperians’ ship was due to arrive, the usual shipment of indigo dye arrived late at the central harbour, and the palace seamstresses flew into a frenzy. The Queen had decreed that every member of her household be in attendance for the ceremony — as such, in the space of four short days, the seamstresses needed to measure and tailor for everyone dragged into attending. To Altan’s surprise, that included the Cike. Which meant, for an afternoon, Altan had to herd his collection of strange foreigners into the palace and watch over them as the seamstresses worked, tutting and frowning at their odd proportions. 

He didn’t dare try telling them about Aratsha. Their heads might have exploded.

When they were satisfied, each member of the Cike was handed their own bundle of ceremonial clothing and shooed back to their compound. 

Altan had seen them to the garden gate, then had taken the final bundle of clothing the seamstresses handed him and headed towards the guest wing.

The guard on duty in front of Chaghan’s door had been nearly asleep on his feet, dull-eyed, suppressing a yawn. He’d straightened up hastily at the sight of Altan, dipping his head. 

“My Prince.”

Altan nodded to him. “He’s here?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Good.” When the guard didn’t move to unlock the door, Altan arched an eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you going to unlock it?”

The guard blinked. “There’s been no need to lock it in the first place, Your Highness. He’s not come out for days.” When Altan stared at him, he stammered, “O-of course, we have kept vigil at all times. There would be no chance of—”

“That’s fine,” Altan said, waving a dismissive hand. “You can stand down for now.”

“Ah…” The guard swallowed. “If you’re going inside, my Prince, I should really…”

Altan gave him a long look. “Do you think I'm incapable of defending myself?”

“N-no, sir—”

“Do you believe this prisoner is capable of physically overpowering me?”

“Of course not, my Prince.”

“Then you’re going to stay here. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” The guard’s mouth pulled unhappily. “If you require anything…”

“You’ll be the first to know.” Altan gestured for him to stand aside; he did, chin tucked low. Then, Altan stepped forwards and knocked on the door.

It took a while for Chaghan to answer. When he did, the door opened only the slightest crack. Altan could make out a sliver of his pale, suspicious face peering through, before his eyes widened, and he opened the door fully. Chaghan ducked his head in deference.

“Your Highness.” His voice was flat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Altan held out the dark bundle of material, beads rattling. Chaghan looked down at it, brow furrowed.

“These are for you,” Altan said. “For the ceremony in a few days’ time.”

Chaghan blinked. “I… hadn’t expected to attend.”

“The Queen insists. We need the entire household. That includes you.” Altan shrugged. “Something to do with making sure the island looks recovered. We need to look like we’re worth taking seriously. That only works if the hall isn’t half empty.”

The frown didn’t shift from Chaghan’s face. He looked like he was trying to swallow something unpleasant. “Do we know how many Hesperians will be in attendance?”

“The Governor of Snake Province and his daughter, alongside the Ambassador, at the very least. They said to cater for ten, but knowing Hesperians, we’re expecting twenty.” Altan paused, assessing the poorly masked tension in Chaghan’s expression. “It’s just for appearances. You won’t be expected to speak to any of them. But while you’re there, you’ll need to wear these.” 

He pushed the cloth bundle against Chaghan’s chest. 

“I guessed your measurements, so they might be a little loose. You should see if they fit. Seamstresses want any changes making today.”

Chaghan was still frowning. Altan felt a tug of impatience.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Chaghan answered quickly. “I just…” He sighed, looking down at himself. He still wore the simple grey ensemble he’d come to Speer wearing. “I’ll… have to ask someone to explain it. This clothing style is… unfamiliar.”

Altan frowned. “I’m here, aren’t I?” He looked over Chaghan’s shoulder, nodding to a wooden screen in the corner of the room. “Do what you can. I’ll correct whatever you get wrong.”

Chaghan’s fingers tightened in the fabric. He took a deep breath in through his nose, before nodding his assent. When Altan pushed into the room, Chaghan stepped back, looking down at the clothing for a moment longer before heading over to the screen in the corner. Altan gave the guard outside one final glance before shutting the door behind him.

For a room that had been well-used for the past two weeks, the place was strangely spotless. Only the crumpled sheets and slight, musky tang of human sweat gave it away as a place anyone had spent any time in. Candles gathered dust in the corners, unlit for days. 

“What do you do in here all day?” Altan asked.

“Not much,” Chaghan responded hesitantly, from behind the screen. He’d hung his clothes over the top of it; an afternoon sunbeam from the window behind it illuminated the wood, casting his slim silhouette through. “Mostly, I meditate.”

Altan snorted. He’d never had much luck with that, himself, despite Jiang’s endless attempts. “That works for you?”

“Yes. It’s… not as exciting, without the immaterial world to slip into, but it passes the time.”

A vague memory of Chaghan’s explanations of his abilities at the Cike compound surfaced. Altan tried to push past the parts that stuck in his mind. The lingering dead. “You can just go there whenever you like, then?”

Chaghan made a small, frustrated noise. Through the wood, Altan could see him struggling with the double-layered trousers. “Usually, yes. I used to spend most of my time there, actually. I prefer that world to this one, when I have a choice.”

Jiang had managed to help him achieve that perfect ascension only a brief handful of times. It had never lasted long before the Phoenix had taken notice and smothered him with its attention, and Jiang would have to pull him right back down again and douse whatever fire he’d accidentally started. 

Chaghan was so familiar with the border between worlds that he could slip past it at will, allowing his soul to float untethered, straight past the gods’ reach and out to somewhere quiet and untouchable.

Altan scoffed. Wouldn’t that be nice?

A shuffle of feet made his attention snap up. Chaghan stood before the screen, fumbling with the belt at his waist, which he’d knotted clumsily in an unfamiliar fashion.

“Seems fine,” said Altan, stepping forwards a couple of paces to inspect him more closely. “Spread your arms.”

Chaghan hesitated for only a moment before obeying. Good — the sleeves of the stiff over-tunic weren’t too long.

Altan hummed. “Well, you made a mess of the front, but you managed alright with the rest of it.” 

Chaghan dropped his arms to his sides. He adjusted the knot at his waist again, frowning. “It’s not the most straightforward thing in the world.”

“It’s ceremonial. It’s not supposed to be.” Altan stepped forwards until he was close enough to reach out and take hold of Chaghan’s belt, prying the end out of his fidgeting hands, which had suddenly gone very still. “The over-tunic is the worst part. You’ve gotten everything else mostly right. Main thing is how you’ve wrapped it. It’s right side over. The way you’ve done it is reserved for the dead.”

“Right,” Chaghan said faintly. 

“It’s not that hard once you know what you’re doing.” Altan tugged the knots of the belt undone so that the garment fell open in a loose drape off Chaghan’s shoulders. He tutted beneath his breath. “You’ve tied your vest on the wrong side, too. It’s meant to correspond. Easier if I just show you.” 

Chaghan didn’t object. Altan wasted no time on it, tugging the thin ties undone with practised efficiency.

When the last came loose, he tried not to stare. 

Chaghan’s skin was as pale as paper, his stomach a soft, flat concave below his ribs; there was a layer of wiry muscle, but it was thin, stretched taut. There was so little to him that Altan could see those muscles twitching under his skin with each small movement. Little pink scars were scattered like ink flecks. Altan wondered what had left them. They didn’t look surgical. Chaghan wasn’t a fighter, clearly, but it seemed he’d seen his fair share of combat. A deep arrow-gouge sat just above the jut of his hip. Altan felt an impulse to smooth his thumb over it.

Was his skin soft? It looked soft. 

Stop it, Altan admonished himself. You’re not a teenager. This time, there’ll be consequences.

He flexed his fingers against his palm, then seized the loose string hovering at Chaghan’s waist and wrapped one side of the vest over the other. His curled fingers brushed Chaghan’s bare skin. 

Gods. It was soft. A ripple of gooseflesh had spread out from where Altan had touched. 

He looked up and found Chaghan watching him, his expression unreadable. The long, pale line of his throat bobbed in a swallow.

The jut of his hip would fit so nicely against Altan’s palm. He looked like he barely weighed anything. It would be so easy to fit his hand there. To pull him in, set his mouth against the sharpness of his collarbone. 

It had been so long since he’d tasted someone else’s skin. So long since he’d allowed himself anything at all.

It didn’t matter that Chaghan was soon to be one of his Cike. It didn’t even matter that they barely knew each other. If anything, those things would be a bonus. If Altan wanted this kept secret, what reason would Chaghan have to disobey? 

Altan pulled the vest closed and knotted the ties with quick, military precision. He did the same with the overtunic, laying it left side over right, ensuring that the embroidered panels lined up. Looping the knot at the waist so it hung nicely, the way he’d been taught. He stood back, assessing.

“There. Just try doing that by yourself a few times before the ceremony. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Thank you,” Chaghan murmured. He ran a hand gingerly over the shell beading. 

He looked good in dark colours. The deep indigo and maroon linen was a stark contrast to his bloodless cheeks, and the white shell beading in geometric patterns across the front tied it together nicely, the same shade as his hair.

Altan’s fingers twitched. He wanted to know what that hair felt like, sliding between his fingers. Balled up in his fist.

“It’s fine,” Altan said stiffly, wrenching his gaze away. His skin burned. “Someone will fetch you when it’s time for the ceremony. All you have to do is stand there.” He paused, halfway to the door. “And I’ll have someone bring you some sandals. Those boots have definitely seen better days.” 

Altan shut the door behind himself as he left. He gave the guard a swift nod. Then, he went to the gardens and stood in a bamboo thicket and recited prime numbers under his breath, the way he’d learned in Sinegard, until those fever-hot images left his mind.

Chapter Text

The stiff woven collar around Altan’s shoulders felt like a yoke.

He fought the urge to adjust its weight. It didn’t help — it was heavy no matter how he repositioned it, braided palm leaves layered with shell and bone beads, hues of flame, silver, ash. The bright red plumes of feathers on each shoulder buffeted in the wind. High above, a storm was on its way. 

Rin stood beside him, back stiff, hands clasped in front of her. Her overskirt was woven of the same leaves as his collar, a snug weight around her waist, like a diving tether. She kept shooting him flitting glances.

That morning, she’d been the one to fetch him. She had taken one look in his eyes, and she’d known. No matter how she tried to mask it, she couldn’t hide the disappointment in her eyes.

Beneath the opium haze, the Phoenix screamed. 

They dare come to our home, its muffled shrieks rang. Traitorous fools. Burn them where they stand.

Two days ago, the report had come back from Moag’s spies. There was, indeed, a facility still standing on the coast of Snake Province. A facility that seemed to have a functioning pier, with boats flying flags from all across the Republic moored there.

Queen Hanelai stood abreast of Rin and Altan, on the edge of the stone steps leading up to the palace. Her gown was the colour of old blood; its back was embroidered with a shrieking phoenix, golden wings spread wide over her shoulders, one ruby eye glaring out. Her face was painted with the pale ashes of their ancestors, mixed with tallow, swirled in imitations of smoke. Her red-dyed lips held no hint of a frown, but Altan could read the fury in her expression regardless.

She looked like she was going to war.

Murmurs rang out from the path below. Movement. The flower-girls standing on either side of the path uphill to the palace shifted to attention, leaning forward with braided garlands of red and white blooms in hand. Lady Lilliane Adams crested the hill.

Rin’s hand brushed the back of his own. Altan relaxed his fingers from their tight curl; she hooked her fingers around his own and squeezed tight for a brief, bright moment.

“We cannot act yet,” Queen Hanelai had told him two days prior, her firm voice leaving no room for argument. They had been in her private quarters, sitting on either side of a desk, the report splayed out before them. Altan had glared down at it, imagining the papers going up in smoke, an awful truth reduced to flaring embers. “This requires delicacy. Act in anger, and we risk jeopardizing everything we have rebuilt over the past twenty years.”

Nothing was ever rebuilt, Altan had thought, the words poised on his tongue, bitter as poison. You rule a kingdom of ruins. Aren’t I proof enough?

“We will weather this storm,” Hanelai had said, leaning close. Her voice dropped into something low, something that she might have imagined was comforting. Altan hadn’t looked at her. “But while there is uncertainty, I must ask you to stay put. You will not leave Speer. There will be no rogue efforts, no mobilisation of your forces. You will wait for my approval before anything is done. For your own protection. Is that clear?”

Complacency isn’t protection. It just makes us an easy target.

He’d nodded, without a word. His aunt’s face had softened. She’d laid a hand over his own on the table. 

“There will be no mainland negotiations until this matter is settled. They will not take you from us. I promise you that.”

The Hesperians were none the wiser. They had disembarked their little vessel and walked onto Speerly soil like they’d already claimed it. Lady Lilliane murmured her thanks in Nikara to the flower-girls, ducking her head to receive wreath after wreath, until her neck was swathed in so much red she looked like she’d just devoured a raw animal.

Rin’s fingers squeezed his own once more. Then she let go.

Lilliane’s father, Governor Adams, drew ahead of her in a few puffing strides. He’d only collected one wreath, and his face was the same shade as the blooms. He folded into a bow before Queen Hanelai. 

“Your Majesty.” His rumbling Hesperian grated Altan’s ears. “It is an honour.”

Queen Hanelai dipped her head. “A pleasure, Governor.” She looked to Lilliane, who had ducked into a deep curtsey. “This must be your lovely daughter.”

Liliiane’s face was bright with sweat. Her golden curls stuck to her forehead; her eyes gleamed, a deeper shade of green than her portrait had suggested, matching the Nikara-made silk pattern of her Hesperian-style dress, frothy white plum branches against bright emerald. Both greens were still duller than the rustling island foliage.

“Your Majesty,” Lilliane said. She spoke in Nikara. “Thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

Queen Hanelai’s lips twitched. She glanced behind her shoulder. Her eyes met Altan’s.

That was his cue. His feet felt weighed down with rocks, but he dragged himself forwards.

Lilliane’s eyes widened. Her plum lips curled into a broad, genuine smile, rosy cheeks crinkling against her eyes. She curtseyed again, the bizarre hump of her skirt billowing around her. 

“Your Royal Highness.” Her Nikara was smooth, almost unaccented. “I am humbled.”

When she rose, Altan ducked his head. She held out her hand. Suppressing a muted wave of revulsion, he leaned down to kiss her knuckles. 

“My lady. Did you have a pleasant journey?” He spoke in Hesperian, if only to prove that he could.

“Quite pleasant, thank you.” Still, she insisted on speaking Nikara. He felt a distant twinge of irritation. “The sea is so beautiful here. It sparkles like diamonds. You must feel lucky to wake up to such wonders every day.”

Altan wanted to scowl, sure there was some taunt there — but Lilliane’s expression was open, betraying no hint of malice or humour. 

Of course. She wouldn’t know his history. She wouldn’t know a single thing about him.

He glanced to her side, to the Governor, who was watching him with an odd stillness, as if he were a wild animal about to pounce.

There was a man who understood him.

“Your Royal Highness,” the Governor said, too late. His bow was just a little too shallow for Altan’s liking. He seemed to be trying to cling to some veneer of youth; his thinning hair had been scraped furiously over the naked patch on the top of his head, although sweat had made it bunch into greyish-blond ropes. His mustache was gravity-defying, stiff with wax, drooping in the heat. “An honour to meet you, as well. I have heard so much about you.”

Altan’s jaw wound tight. Have you, now?

Queen Hanelai drew in front of him again, one hand to the small of Rin’s back. “Governor. Lady Adams. If I might introduce my daughter, Princess Runin.”

The pleasantries went on. Above, there was an almighty crack, a rumble of thunder. Behind Lady Lilliane, one of her maidservants hurried to open an umbrella — Lilliane ducked underneath it just as the first drops of rain started to fall. She aimed a sheepish grin at Altan from beneath its shadowed canopy.

“It seems the island has given you its customary welcome,” the Queen murmured, holding up a palm to feel the splattering raindrops. “Shall we move indoors?”

The reception Speer had put on for the Hesperians was a remarkable feat. Thick garlands of blooms and greenery had been strung from the rafters of the largest ceremonial hall, with long wooden tables dragged in and arranged into rows alongside low benches. A great bronze bowl had been placed in the center of the room within a large square dip perhaps half a meter deep into the floor, piled with charcoal and firewood. Braziers burned low, smoky air sweet and heady with incense, filled with murmuring chatter. 

There must have been a hundred people in this room; it still looked half-empty. It had clearly been made for more.

Chaghan lingered in a shadowed corner, watching the little groups of people as they formed and dissipated. A note of tension hung in the air. Uncertainty. The air felt electric, charged, like the hair-raising static before a storm rolled over the plains. 

He had spent an unfortunate amount of time that morning trying to recall how Altan had tied the formal garments. When he tried to peer into his memory, all he could recall of the moment was the Prince’s proximity. Something about it had made his limbs lock like cornered prey, useless, able only to watch as Altan’s deft hands worked. 

For days before that, Chaghan had done almost nothing except stare at the ceiling of his room and try to determine how best he might go about killing the Speerly royal family.

He’d have to wait until nightfall. The Speerlies were never defenceless, but sleep would be as good a chance as he would get. All it would take would be one absent-minded guard forgetting to lock the door, and he would slip out of his room one night. A knife would be easy enough to find; no point trying for something flashier. When it mattered, one needed to stick with what they knew.

Finding Rin would be the key. Subduing her would not be easy — she was strong — but if he took her by surprise, he had a chance. Nobody in the palace would risk using the fire on him if he could maneuver her as a shield. Altan certainly wouldn’t. He loved her above anything else; that much was obvious. He wouldn’t risk losing her.

If he could bargain Rin’s safety for the removal of his cuffs, perhaps Altan might take the bait. Act desperate enough, and Altan might merely think him mad, rather than dangerous. A fatal mistake. Altan’s fire was fast, but Chaghan had honed his killing power since he was a child. 

A few seconds would be all it would take. A little longer, for an experienced shaman; but these were southerners, after all. They had no mental fortitude. They flung the doors of their minds wide open for their god — it would not be so hard for Chaghan to slip through.

The Gatekeeper and the Vipress made more difficult prey, stable and powerful as they seemed to be. Separating them would be the key. He had been puzzling over how to approach that when the knock at the door had come, and Altan had stepped inside.

It felt ridiculous to be afraid of Altan. He was just a man, after all — and it had been a very long time since Chaghan had needed to fear mortal men. 

But then the searing heat of him had been close, too close, and Chaghan’s legs had refused to let him move back, and he had made the mistake of looking up into those eyes. Those awful eyes. No emotion had been held there, not even anger — just a flat, alien emptiness that sent a cold shiver down Chaghan’s spine. Pupils reduced to pinpricks, the smell of smoke coming off his hair, as if he’d just walked out of a burning building.

He had realised in a matter of seconds that his flimsy plan wouldn’t work. Altan would see straight through whatever pretense he could muster. Chaghan would be dead before he could open his mouth to bargain.

For a moment, in those first couple of days, Chaghan had thought he had been building an understanding of Prince Altan. Piecing together a picture of a stern but gentle man, who moved and spoke with purpose. Who cared enough to take mercy on a helpless stranger.

A thin pretense. It had come away, and Chaghan had been faced with an uncommonly powerful shaman whose limits and intentions he couldn’t hope to guess.

Perhaps the Hesperians had been right to fear him.

He sighed, shifting in his uncomfortable sandals. Across the hall, the Gatekeeper and Vipress stood, trading whispers as servants refilled their cups with sweet wine. They had dressed in the Speerly fashion, colours dark and drab so as not to attract undue attention, but their being at this gathering at all was a remarkable affront to the Hesperians. No doubt they would be recognised. Not that the Hesperians could do anything about it today, without provoking a war they would rather avoid. 

The Vipress’s amber eyes met Chaghan’s over the lip of her cup. She gave him a wry, ruby smile. 

Baji had sidled up beside him. His presence was at once a comfort and an irritation. “Standing creepily in the shadows is kind of your thing, huh?”

Chaghan tore his eyes from the Vipress to regard him. Baji looked about as comfortable in his stiff formal garments as Chaghan felt. “You’ve tied your belt wrong.”

Baji shrugged. “So? Nobody’s going to be looking at me. All the focus is going to be on the happy couple.”

Chaghan opened his mouth to say something along the lines of well, a large foreigner amongst a hall of Speerlies does rather stand out, but decided to save his breath. After all, Baji was right. The Hesperians and the Speerlies only had interest for one thing tonight — however their official introduction went, nobody would be able to help paying attention to Altan and the Governor’s daughter. 

He hoped so, anyway. The Hesperians’ attention was something he desperately wanted to avoid.

“Sure you don’t want to join the freak squad?” Baji jerked a thumb across the room to where Unegen, Ramsa, and Suni had clustered in a mismatched circle. There was a sizeable gap left between them and the nearest gaggle of Speerly nobles. 

“I’m fine here, thank you.” 

Chaghan would rather jump off the pier than risk one of the Cike overhearing a Hesperian talking to him. Even if it was only a small risk, it wasn’t one worth taking.

Baji shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you change your mind, we’re not hard to spot.” He grinned at Chaghan. “And try to take that sour look off your face. We’re in for a spectacle tonight, however it goes.”

Somehow that did little to comfort him.

He watched Baji walk away, just as the great doors to the entrance of the hall opened and the Speerly royals entered in all their magnificence, followed closely by the wide-eyed Hesperians. 

To his dismay, Chaghan recognised several faces. The Governor of Snake Province, a tall, stout older man whose thick shoulders and upright posture spoke of a lifetime of military training; a handful of diplomats who he’d glanced before in passing, following the Governor like ducklings; and Ambassador Tarquin, lingering at the back of the group, his flop of reddish-blond hair combed over his wide forehead, pale eyes bulging as he took in the room. 

The Ambassador’s wandering gaze dragged over to Chaghan’s shadowed corner. Chaghan pressed himself further back against the wall with a silent prayer. Tarquin’s eyes didn’t linger on him. With any luck, amongst the festivities, he might not even notice Chaghan was here.

He could only hope that would be the case. Weeks had passed on the island now, and he had so little progress to show for it. The Prince and Princess distrusted him, and the Cike weren’t much better; the former Trifecta were established and powerful, and would relish the opportunity to destroy him if it presented itself. Around his wrists, the gold bracelets burned with cold fire, heavy with failure. With guilt.

Pull yourself together, he told his hammering heart. You’ve faced worse odds and come out the other side. What’s the difference now?

The difference is that she’s not here, whispered a cruel voice in the back of his mind. And for the first time in your life, you are truly and utterly alone.

Chaghan forced himself to take a deep, steady breath. Despair would not help him. He needed to look past it.

Chin up. Maybe the Hesperians will make some awful social blunder and the Speerlies will burn them to a crisp here and now. 

As he watched, Governor Adams fumbled his cup of wine and nearly spilled the entire thing across the table.

Not that distant a prospect, then.

The ceremonial fire burned bright. Around the great brazier in the center of the room, shamans stood with pouches of alchemical dust that, once thrown onto the flames, would send them flaring up in dazzling colours, a new shade for each compound. Assembled nobles had taken their seats; Altan’s searching gaze found the Cike, clustered around one of the far tables, grinning over at him like fools.

He paused. No sign of their Seer. Chaghan’s white hair should have stood out amongst them like a flare at sea.

“This is exciting,” Lady Lilliane whispered in Hesperian from beside him. Altan turned and found she was addressing her father, speaking in hushed tones as the shamans started to move.

The Governor only grunted in response. He took a long draught of his wine, leaning back in his seat beside the Queen.

Lady Lilliane looked back into the flames, undeterred. In the firelight, Altan noticed the faint lines on her face, bunched around her cheeks, crinkling with her smile. She looked older than her portrait had suggested — still young, but the years were noticeable. Perhaps in her late twenties, rather than barely into them as Altan had once thought.

A flare of heat hit his face. The show had begun.

As the shamans around the fire began to sculpt, the flames took shape. A great bird — the Phoenix in miniature — spread its fiery wings, beak open in a silent screech, accompanied by a trill of woodwind and a bone-rattling thrum of drums. 

Beside him, Lilliane jumped back in her seat. Her fingers dug into the cloth of Altan’s sleeve; Altan turned to stare at her, and found her enraptured by the flames.

She glanced over at him, looked down, then took her hand off his arm. “Sorry!”

He arched a questioning eyebrow. 

“It just… took me by surprise,” she laughed in Nikara, cheeks flushing. “So realistic. Your artisans are remarkably talented.”

Surely she knew it wasn’t simply a trick of the powders. All of the Republic’s children knew about Chaos and the Divine Architect. Altan searched her face for any hidden joke, but came up empty again. He frowned, turning back to the flame.

The flames took the shape of an island. Speer’s coastline, illuminated in shades of green and a purple so dark it was almost black. A single mountain, taller than the rest of the range that made up its spine — a thunder of drums, and then the mountain turned molten amber, a simulacrum of lava billowing down one side of its slope.

“Ooh,” Lilliane murmured to her father. “I’ve read about this. The dormant volcano at Speer’s heart — they say the western side of the island, where we are now, was once totally uninhabited, scorched black by pyroclastic flows. The earliest people had to make do with perching amongst the gorges and mangroves to the east.”

A female figure arose from the flame, crowned by a mantle of white bone. The First Queen — her name, unlike her legend, had been long since lost to time. She approached the volcano and knelt at its burning feet. From the pluming smoke at the top of the mountain, the Phoenix erupted from the magma. The First Queen bowed low in deference. When it did not strike her down, she climbed to the mountain’s peak. There, she approached the bubbling pit at its center — and flung herself into it.

The room fell dark and silent for a moment.

Then, a bright burst lit the ceiling. The First Queen was reborn, soaring from the lava, borne up on wings made of flame. She burned in a hundred colours. Nothing could be made of her face, in the vague detail lent by the flickering flame, but Altan could imagine how she might have looked. Radiant with joy. Sundered by grief.

What the fire did not show was the true extent of the First Queen’s sacrifice. Before she had entered the fire, she had been carrying a baby in her arms. Only after her child’s death, in a fit of grief and desperation, had the Queen made an offering of herself.

“An exciting tale,” Lilliane’s hushed voice came, “but not much truth to it, I imagine. The Phoenix deity is widely considered to have begun as a much tamer thing — a household deity, something to pray to when burning land for crops or boiling drinking water. A patron god, rather than an obstacle to overcome.”

“It was both,” Altan cut in, in Hesperian.

Lilliane and the Governor both stared back at him.

“The Phoenix was always worshipped on Speer,” Altan said. “Its fire was the beginning of our civilization, but it limited us all the same. It wanted a part of Speer to burn, always. When the First Queen made her sacrifice, she took the fire into herself. It has resided in us ever since.”

Lilliane blinked, awed. “That’s… fascinating. Could you—”

“Please excuse my daughter, Your Highness,” drawled Governor Adams. His mustache lifted in a smirk. “The Gray Company believes in the virtue of a closed mouth and an open mind. The Divine Architect did not see fit to bestow the former blessing upon my Lilliane.”

Lilliane’s face fell. She went quiet, drawing her hands into her lap, and didn’t speak again for the rest of the performance.

After the last of the fire show had died away, those wondrous shapes and colours melting back into the usual amorphous pop and crackle of flames, dinner was served. Altogether blander than usual, Chaghan thought, but still good fare. A shame his stomach was too tight to attempt much more than a couple of mouthfuls.

He’d distanced himself from the Cike, deciding they drew far too much attention for his liking, and had instead perched on the edge of a sparsely-populated table. Chewing a tough bit of pork, he divided his attention between the Hesperians — gathered on the table at the head of the hall, at a right angle to the other arranged tables, awkwardly maneuvering their chopsticks — and the Trifecta — sitting in plain view on the table closest to the recessed square containing the fire pit. He was faintly surprised nobody had recognised them yet, but perhaps the Vipress had put some sort of contingency in place years prior. Chaghan could imagine her leaning close to speak into a younger Governor Adams’s ear. You do not know my face. 

The Gatekeeper’s abilities were frightening, yes — the memory of his fingers plunging through Tseveri’s ribcage never failed to make Chaghan go cold, no matter how many times he replayed it — but of the two of them, the Vipress was by far the more terrifying opponent. He’d had a taste of her abilities on his first day in the palace — that pinning yellow gaze, that voice that seemed to ensnare and envelop him, slipping through the cracks in his mind’s defences, prying out answers that he’d never meant to give. 

Without power of his own to resist her influence, she might order him to do anything she liked. Take up your blade, she might whisper. Slit your own throat. 

In another life, Chaghan thought bitterly, the Trifecta might have succeeded in their efforts to retake the continent. Their betrayal of the North might have meant something. Tseveri’s death might have meant something.

But instead, they had sat on their hands and let the Republic spread like a foul disease, while they hid away on their little island and played at having a family.

How dare they? 

That was the thought that stayed with him, stoking in his chest like a hot coal, through the multiple courses pushed in front of him. He barely touched anything. After most people’s bowls were emptied, the servants rushed about to clear them away. Cups were refilled with sticky sloshes of wine. People rose from their seats to mill about and talk; Chaghan seized the opportunity to reclaim his shadowed corner. 

He was loitering there, nursing a half-empty cup of wine and a bellyful of resentment, when the Hesperian Governor’s daughter’s eyes had landed on him, green and glittering. She cocked her head at him like some kind of strange, brightly-coloured tropical bird. Slowly, she began to saunter his way, skirts swishing.

Shit. He shrank back. Don’t come over here. There’s a hundred more interesting people in this room.

Too late. She was making a beeline straight for him. He looked away, pretending to be very interested in a nearby potted palm.

“Good evening,” she said, in very formal Nikara. Chaghan stared. He’d never been addressed like that before. 

He felt a prickle of suspicion. He’d never met her — the Governor seemed to enjoy keeping her at a distance — but surely, her father had told her about his plans for Speer? Surely she understood that her engagement with the Prince was nothing but a play-act?

But her face was open, guileless, with only a vague smile playing at her lips. 

Chaghan frowned. “You… don’t know who I am?”

The young woman looked startled. “Um… No. Should I?” She winced. “I’m so sorry. I only had time to research the Prince’s immediate family. Are you a member of the royal household, as well?” 

He gave a thin smile. “Not by blood. I’m the royal fortune-teller.”

“Oh!” A grin lit up her features. “What are your methods? I’d be interested to know — they use so many different techniques on the mainland. I imagine it has something to do with the fire. Bones, perhaps? Or different lengths of reed? Sticks? Seeing what burns down first?” She chuckled. “Ah, but that’s rather reductive, isn’t it? I’m certain your methods are just as fine-tuned as they have on the mainland.”

When he didn’t reply, the woman’s eyes widened in alarm.

“I haven’t even introduced myself! Forgive me.” She ducked into a shallow curtsey. A couple of nobles had turned to stare; Chaghan felt his skin prickle. “Lady Lilliane Adams of Snake Province. But you can call me Lilliane. If you like.”

“It’s… a pleasure.”

Lilliane beamed. “How should I address you?”

Chaghan wilted. He really did not want to be having this conversation. A quick glance over Lilliane’s shoulder informed him that his suspicion was correct — Governor Adams was watching them like a hawk. As Chaghan watched, he gave a very small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. 

He focused back on Lilliane.

“Usually people don’t address me at all.” Chaghan smiled at her. “I am but a messenger of forces beyond this world. My own name is unimportant.”

Lilliane’s mouth made a silent ‘o’. She nodded slowly, as if he’d just said something very profound. “I suppose you must know the royal family quite well, then?”

“I suppose I must.”

“Would you, um…” Her hands fidgeted with the strange poof of her skirt. “Would you mind telling me a little about the Prince?”

Her immediate overfamiliarity was so jarring that he vaulted straight over being offended and landed in some kind of confused, reluctant pity. She was like an ornamental bird that had never been released from its cage and was now hopping pathetically across the ground, wings too weak to fly.

“I… would imagine you’d prefer to find those things out by yourself.”

Lilliane winced. “Oh, I would — but I do rather keep putting my foot in my mouth. And I tried to look up what I could before the journey, but records of the Speerly royal family are quite poorly kept.” She frowned. “Perhaps it’s rude to presume, and ruder still to go over the Prince’s head, but… I don’t know. I thought you might be able to speak frankly with me. Nobody else seems to be doing that at the moment. It’s all very… sudden.”

“I was of the impression this had been planned for months.”

“A rather short span of consideration, when you consider that this arrangement is meant to last the rest of our lives. The Princess and Yin Vaisra’s son knew one another for years before their betrothal was announced. Before today, I had never so much as set eyes on the Prince.” 

Lilliane bit her lip. Her gaze had gone distant, settling somewhere on the other side of the room.

“I had hoped for a rather less formal introduction, but my father has been so bullish about the whole thing. He insists on doing it all through the proper channels, which, as far as I’ve gathered, consists mostly of standing around stiffly and not saying much of anything at all. And I would quite like to get to know the man I’m meant to be marrying before we find ourselves… entangled.” 

Chaghan made a face. Lilliane turned to look at him, and let out a surprised burst of laughter.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, clapping a hand over her mouth. “It’s been a long time since I’ve come to a function! I seem to have forgotten my propriety.”

“If you want to know the Prince, I suggest you speak with him,” Chaghan said flatly. When she gave him an owlish look, he rolled his eyes. “He’s really quite normal. Ask a question and he’ll give you a straight answer.”

Lilliane looked reluctant. “I… Yes. You’re right.” Her shoulders sagged. “I just… He’s rather intimidating, don’t you think?”

Chaghan snorted. “Gods. You Hesperians are frightened of everything.”

“I didn’t mean it that way!”

“Then how did you mean it?”

She huffed. “It isn’t that I’m afraid of him. I’m afraid I’ll… say something stupid. And then he’ll look at me like I’m an idiot, and…” Her voice faltered. “I just want him to… like me.”

Lilliane was looking across the room, her dejected gaze fastened on Altan. Under the warm glow of the braziers, he was breathtaking — a vision of crimson feathers and maroon fabric, his skin shining like burnished bronze. He stood beside Rin at the heart of a small crowd — she was speaking, he wasn’t. His eyes seemed to cut right through the people vying for his attention, as if they weren’t there. Unfocused, glassy. He seemed to be looking somewhere over Chaghan’s shoulder. At the same time, he didn’t seem to be looking at anything at all.

“I don’t think you can make Altan like you,” Chaghan said. When Lilliane’s face crumpled in his periphery, he turned to look at her. “I think he either likes you or he doesn’t. Don’t bother pretending. He’ll see right through it.”

Lilliane licked her lips nervously. She nodded. “Alright. I think… I think I can do that.”

Above, the braziers flickered, then grew dim. Down in the lowered pit at the room’s heart, the ceremonial flame flared brighter. A steady drumbeat reverberated against the walls. Woodwind and low, arcing strings began to plot out a rhythm. Conversational murmurs turned into excited, hushed whispers; the crowd around Rin and Altan dissipated as they looked at one another. He tilted his head, a questioning gesture. She nodded. When he held out a hand, she took it.

A hush fell over the gathered crowd. They followed the Prince and Princess across the hall, halting at the edges of the pit in the center as Rin and Altan descended the steps. 

Their dance felt like it had been rehearsed for years. There was no firm stance to begin, no set starting point — rather, they simply fell into the rhythm of it, moving around one another as if by pure instinct. It felt as if the music obeyed their movements, rather than the other way around. Fluid and graceful, like paired birds in flight. Like twin, leaping flames. It was the same way they sparred; the same way their fire had interacted, coming together and falling apart again, each clash a bright whirl of scarlet feathers and rattling seashell. 

“My word,” Lilliane breathed. “They’re rather good, aren’t they?”

Good was not the word for it.

Rin ended a fast-stepping pirouette with a leap that seemed as if she might sprout wings and take flight. Altan caught her just before her feet touched the ground, hands beneath her ribs, floating her gently down to the ground. She turned and grinned up at him. He smiled right back. It was the first time Chaghan had seen him smile all evening.

They were not good. They were radiant.

People started to descend into the space as the music picked up, pairing off and moving with the ebb and flow of the drumbeat. Lady Lilliane watched, hands clasped before her bosom, entranced. Chaghan took the opportunity to remove himself from her periphery. Just in time, it seemed — a few moments later, Rin and Altan broke apart, and the Prince ascended the steps to offer a hand to Lilliane. After a moment’s stammering hesitation, she broke into a grin and nodded, taking his hand and letting him lead her down into the pit. 

Lilliane was not nearly as talented a dancer as Rin. That didn’t seem to matter to Altan — tonight, he seemed to have endless patience. He moved slowly, letting her steps follow his, taking her hands to maneuver her. She was terribly awkward at first — but then, slowly, her stiff, jerky movements began to melt, becoming languid like candle-wax. He pushed, she moved, following his lead with bright, eager eyes. The rhythm quickened. Her mouth pressed into a thin, determined line as she followed his steps, watching their feet. Once, she faltered, tripping over one of her ridiculous satin shoes and stumbling over to one side. Altan didn’t move to correct her. He merely waited, still and impassive, until she had collected herself and nodded, ready to try again.

Perhaps that was the key, Chaghan thought. Not innate talent — but effort. A matter of will.

As Lilliane’s steps became more confident, her movements more fluid, something seemed to shift in Altan’s gaze. Not so detached and stony, anymore. Instead, he actually seemed to be seeing her. It wasn’t quite approval, not yet — but it was something. A seed that might grow, if given time.

It seemed cruel, letting them carry on like this, when nothing could ever come of such a doomed union. The Governor watched from across the room, his face as stiff as if it had been carved from marble. Chaghan wondered how he would break the news to his daughter, once their business was settled.

Chaghan exhaled a long breath through his nose. He took a sip of wine, looking away — and met the pale, pitiless eyes of Ambassador Tarquin.

Dread filled him. He took a backwards step, but found his back right up against a table. Nowhere to go — not quickly enough to do it without making a scene, anyway. He slowed his breathing and waited for the inevitable.

Tarquin settled beside him, separate enough to look like he’d simply had his fill of dancing and was taking a moment to rest.

When he spoke, his voice barely carried above the music.

“You’ve been quiet. We were starting to think they’d put you out of your misery.”

Chaghan’s jaw tightened. He lifted his cup before replying. “They have me under a rather tight watch. It has been difficult to find a moment away.”

“One bird,” Tarquin hissed. “You send one bird and then nothing for two weeks.” He snorted. “I don’t know why I ever thought allying with savages would be a good idea.”

“You need us.”

Tarquin scoffed. “We need them gone.” He brought his cup to his lips. “I could send two dozen artillerymen and have the job done in half the time.”

“Your weapons would never be fast enough. You have not seen them fight. I have. Believe me when I tell you this is the only way, without provoking the war you seem so desperate to avoid.”

“The Governor’s choice, not mine. Something about not wanting to waste natural resources.” Tarquin straightened up. He was not a tall man — he was only about an inch or so taller than Chaghan. Whatever intimidating effect he’d been aiming for was slightly dimmed by this fact. “Whatever you do, just do it quickly. Your darling sister is becoming a liability.”

“What do you mean?” Chaghan’s heart quickened, blood pounding in his ears. Qara was clever. She wouldn’t do anything to compromise herself. “If you touch her, our deal is off.”

“A pity that’s not your decision to make,” mused Tarquin. “The two of you are— what was it? Anchored? Chaos devilry, but rather convenient, as it turns out.” A rancid smile split his face. “If we decide you’ve had long enough, it’ll be easy enough for us to pull the plug whenever we like.”

Chaghan seethed. Where had they got that information? 

If they’d pulled it out of her by force, Chaghan was certain he'd have felt it. Their Bond ran deep. That had to count for something.

But the look on the Ambassador’s face was awfully smug. He hadn’t just taken a guess. He was certain.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Chaghan growled. “She is the kin of the Sorqan Sira. If you harm her, you will regret it.”

Tarquin hummed, turning to face him. He leaned close enough for Chaghan to smell the sour tang of alcohol on his breath. This far away from the central buzz, nobody had seemed to notice them.

“A word of advice, boy?” Tarquin grinned, displaying yellowed teeth. “Don’t threaten the man who holds your life in his hands.”

Chaghan glared at him. He wanted nothing more than to crush the man’s fat, pink head like a ripe grapefruit. His grip tightened to a painful vice on his cup.

“Tell me you have a plan, at least,” Tarquin murmured. He sounded almost bored.

“Of course I have a plan.” The Gatekeeper and the Vipress surfaced in his mind, dark, cackling figures against a field of blood. “There are… conditions that I had not anticipated. Give me time.”

“We have. Do you think the Governor wanted to drag his daughter to this mosquito-infested hole?”

“A little longer, then. You have the time to spare. Your negotiations will take months, yes?”

“There’ll be no negotiations,” Tarquin drawled, rolling his eyes. “Try to keep up. That rabid thing they call a Prince is not coming within a hundred miles of the Governor’s abode.”

There was disgust in Tarquin’s voice, yes, but an amount of fear, too. The same fear all the Hesperians had shown, when they spoke about Prince Altan.

“Why?” Chaghan whispered. “What is it about him that frightens you so?”

Tarquin blinked, disgust roiling with surprise. “Don’t you know?” When Chaghan didn’t respond, a sneering smile spread across his face. “Oh, but we know that one better than any of them. He’s the blueprint. The entire reason the Governor was so set on avoiding all-out war. The Mugenese had almost figured it out, by the time we had to shut their operation down. Governor Adams merely means to finish what they started.” Tarquin gave him an assessing look. “Quite the same principle we’re employing with you, after all. Why destroy an element of Chaos, when you understand how it may be leashed?”

A hand clamped down on Tarquin’s shoulder. His mouth shut with an audible click. 

Over Tarquin’s shoulder, Altan’s eyes burned like coals. There was a faint sizzling noise — beneath Altan’s fingers, the fabric of Tarquin’s embroidered suit-jacket had begun to blacken.

“Ambassador.” Altan’s voice was perfectly even, perfectly composed. “You’re missing the festivities.”

Tarquin swallowed. A bead of sweat trickled down his wide forehead. The fear in his eyes sent a hot, vicious thrill of satisfaction through Chaghan. 

“But of course,” Tarquin smoothed, extracting himself from Altan’s vice-grip. Altan immediately interposed himself between Tarquin and Chaghan. “My apologies, Your Highness. I merely wished to… congratulate our mutual acquaintance on his newfound freedom.”

The Ambassador shot Chaghan one last knife-sharp look. Then, he turned and retreated back towards the fray.

When he was gone, Altan turned to regard Chaghan. His gaze was cool, not quite detached — an ember of fury still burned there, although the flames were smothered for now. “Are you alright?”

Chaghan exhaled a sound between a breath and a laugh. He lifted his cup to his lips and found it empty.

“Here.” Altan pried the cup from his stiff fingers, replacing it with his own, full one. Chaghan didn’t think twice before taking a too-large swallow.

The wine burned in his throat. Chaghan winced, looking at the floor. “You should be with your betrothed.”

“I think she’s quite happy where she is.” Altan looked out towards the pit, where Lilliane was laughing, twirling arm in arm with Speerly noblewomen to the rhythmic claps of the crowd. He settled against the table beside Chaghan, their shoulders not quite brushing. “Besides, I’m not married yet, am I? They don’t own me. I can spend my time as I see fit.”

“Still,” Chaghan snorted. “I would be surprised if you chose to spend it with me.”

Altan’s eyes flickered over him, raking him up and down. “Perhaps you should be surprised, then.”

Chaghan’s mouth dried up. He was reminded, abruptly, of the moment in his room — himself and Altan, alone. Heat, proximity. The brush of Altan’s fingers against his bare skin. How terribly warm he’d felt. A wildfire, contained within a man.

Fire, by its nature, was not driven purely to destroy. Fire was only ever driven to consume.

A soft throat-clearing made them both look up. Lilliane stood before them, blonde curls plastered to her forehead, bosom heaving, pink-cheeked and glowing. A fan fluttered in one hand, breezing her hair about her face. She aimed a smile at Chaghan, before focusing her gaze squarely on Altan. She squared her shoulders almost imperceptibly.

“Your Highness,” she breathed. “I wondered if you might accompany me to take the night air. The dancing was wonderful, but I find myself rather overheated — a little rain might be welcome.”

Whatever had been starting to open in Altan’s gaze now slammed abruptly shut. He straightened up, features settled, neutral. “It would be my pleasure.”

Lilliane beamed. When he offered his arm, in the manner Hesperians fancied, she was all too happy to take it. They left the room through the back door, which had been propped slightly ajar to allow the rain-scented night air to flow through the stuffy hall.

Chaghan watched them go, arm in arm. After an appropriate few minutes, he followed.

He didn’t notice the figure at his back, tailing him out of the room like a serpentine shadow.