The rest of the Shoniin repeat the mantra, and the words linger in my ears, familiar somehow. I know I heard them long ago, chanted by a withered voice in my memory, but I’ve heard them recently, too.
“That’s what you yelled from the top of the Sky Palace,” I say with a start, “the day you freed me from the zurig.”
Temujin hops down from the boulder and takes a seat beside me. “It was my mother’s favorite mantra. I thought it would make a good motto for the Shoniin.”
“It does,” I whisper, my voice scratchy. “It’s been years since I thought about how we burned the dead in Verdenet.” In Ashkar, the dead are wrapped in linseed oil cloth and buried in large mass graves, sometimes twenty deep. The last time I saw a funeral pyre was when my grandfather died, the year before our village burned. We danced around the flames for hours, until my skin was coated with soot and the straps of my sandals cut into the backs of my ankles.
The memory makes my heart twinge with nostalgia, but also burn with fire—melting away the skin the Sky King and his empire foisted upon me. Until I can almost feel the girl born of sun and sand underneath. A girl made of flame and smoke and heat.
Temujin steeples his hands and stares into the blaze. “There are many things we’ve been required to forget. Pieces of ourselves we’ve been forced to leave behind. But the Lady and Father’s story is your story too. More than any of ours.”
His words click into place inside of me—like a key sliding into a lock. This is who I am. Who I’ve always been. Before the monster. Before the Kalima. Before any of it.
According to Southern legend, Night Spinners speak for the dead. Our starfire is an embodiment of their wrath—a way to punish the wicked and exact revenge. That’s why I fought so hard to avenge my parents during my time in the Kalima. And that’s why being stripped of my power was such a devastating blow. The stars aren’t just an ability; they’re myfamily.The only connection I have to my past. If I’m able to carry them with me, I’m not so alone.
Why did I let this slip away? How did I lose sight of this most integral part of me?
“Thank you for this, for making me come,” I say softly.
Temujin clutches his hands to his chest. “Are you admitting I did something right?”
“I don’t know if I’d gothatfar … but maybe you’re not all bad, deserter.”
“None of us are,” he says, looking me dead in the eye.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE DAYS RUSH AWAY LIKE A RAGING RIVER,TRAPPING MEbeneath the current and washing me toward my impending mission. Which, on the one hand, is terrifying; there’s a good chance I’ll drown when I’m forced to wade into the depths of the darkness in Ashkar. But, on the other hand, the sooner I plunge in, the sooner Serik will be released.
I spend almost every waking hour practicing in the temple, accompanied by Temujin, who shouts reassurances and prods me when I fail.
“Stop holding back,” he says when I lose control of the starfire for what feels like the millionth time. “Kalima powers are like any unstable emotion: sadness, anger, fear. You’remorevolatile when you keep it coiled inside. You have to release the pressure or you’ll explode. Rather than focusing on the danger, think of Orbai’s near-fatal injuries, think of the abandoned shepherds, think of our people suffering in Verdenet, and unleash your fury and frustration. Embrace the darkness and let it burn through you. Discover the depth of your power so you will know the limits of your control.”
I stare at Temujin for a long moment. No one has ever dared me to face the monster head-on—that’s a battle they assumed I would lose. But maybe he’s right. I will never win if I’m too afraid to fight. I will never resurrect Enebish the Warrior unless I bury Enebish the Destroyer—for good.
I bring my hands to my chest and focus inward, on the monster thrashing beneath my skin. But instead of singing it to sleep like I always do, I bellow a war cry and hurl a sledgehammer into the iron bars of its cage.
The spools of night leap back into motion, so fast and feverish that they feel like barbed wire slashing across my skin. I throw my arms wide, catch hold of a distant star, and slam my fists to the ground. Then I do it again. And again. Never worrying about my accuracy, trusting my hands know what to do. Heat pulsates through my skin in waves and my throat burns. I can’t tell if I’m laughing or screaming or crying. I feel wild. Terrified. Rapturous.
When my power eventually peters out, my legs crumple as if my bones have turned to liquid, and I lie there gasping, exactly as I did after my first attempt to wield the night. Only this time, everything is tingly and swimming and there’s a glorious stillness in my mind. It lasts less than a minute, but for that blessed minute, there’s no monster. No shame. Not even a fragment of the nightmare that’s plagued me ever since I cut out the moonstone.
Just me.
A delirious laugh sputters from my lips. Why didn’t I try this ages ago? Why did Ghoa never consider thatusingmy power would be the most effective form of controlling it? It seems so obvious now. Like the wolves that long ago stalked the shepherds’ flocks across the grasslands. When our ancestors tried to run them off, their attacks grew more frequent and violent. But as soon as they began capturing the wolves and training them, allowing them to hunt our enemies on the war front, they became an immeasurable advantage. Dangerous, but one of the greatest strengths of the Ashkarian army.
As I could have been.
Temujin drops to his knees at my side, practically vibrating with excitement. “That was incredible. We’re going to change the face of this entire war.” He continues babbling, but the smile has already dropped off my face. Because this is about so much more than wielding the night in the safety of a temple. I have to do it out there. In Ashkar. For deserters.
Go. Before you do something you can’t take back.
“I think you’re ready for a different sort of training,” Temujin says after three days of flawless night spinning.
I assumed this meant I’d join Inkar and the other Shoniin in the sparring rings, but Temujin leads me to his tent in the center of the encampment. It’s a towering purple structure with little golden elephants embroidered across the silk walls. I rub one tenderly, and it whisks me back to my childhood in Verdenet, where the massive beasts are used to haul goods to and from the markets. They can’t survive this far north, and I wonder if Temujin picked this fabric on purpose. If the sight of them stirs something in his chest too.
He reverently touches the elephant beside mine. “A little piece of home. A reminder of what we’re fighting for.”
That’s how all of the Shoniin describe the rebellion. They’re not fightingagainstthe Sky King or anyone else. They’re fightingforthe refugees, for the exploited warriors, and for the Protected Territories.
