Jealousy coils around my chest until it’s difficult to breathe. I still remember how it feels to ride into battle—the rumble of the horse beneath me, the power of the Lady of the Sky coursing through my blood, knocking my bow and swinging my saber, my body whole and strong, a weapon in itself. I should have been battling the Zemyans with her. I’m every bit as brave and skilled as Ghoa. My power even stronger.
I am a Night Spinner, able to paint the sky with blackness and call down starfire like rain. It’s a rare and dangerous ability—and the reason I rose through the ranks so quickly. Before me, the only other Night Spinner in the Imperial Army was a woman named Tuva, who perished in the Battle of a Hundred Nights. When the king tasked her with keeping the sun from shining until the Chotgors, who occupy the frozen steppes north of Ashkar, agreed to join the Protected Territories. He claimed it would be harder for them to fight in the dark. And it was. But the strain on Tuva was too great. As soon as the fighting ceased, she collapsed—her bones hollowed out and her skin burned to dust. I know it’s treasonous, but if the king were truly the “ruler of the sky,” wouldn’t he have known that would happen? Wouldn’t he have prevented it?
Kalima warriors are not depthless wells of power, but candles, burning slowly down. We must use our abilities in careful measures and allow our strength to rebuild or we risk guttering the flame. As such, we must be fearsome soldiers in our own right and carefully consider when to call upon the Lady of the Sky. I thought I had achieved the perfect balance. I thought I was invincible.
Everyone did.
I self-consciously touch the moonstone, then I reach for Ghoa’s saber on the table. The carved bone handle feels so familiar andrightbeneath my fingers, but when I try to lift the weapon, pain crackles through my ruined arm.
Reminding me.
Iwasstrong. I’m not anymore.
The sword clatters to the table and I retreat to the chair beside Ghoa. My eyes fog with tears I don’t want her to see, so I ask question after question, hoping to distract her.
And myself.
“Tell me more of the battles. Who is your second? How many of the Kalima did you lose? How much ground did you gain?” Serik groans, but I ignore him. If Ghoa describes everything in enough detail, it will feel as if I’d been there. As if I’m stillliving.
Ghoa gives me a sympathetic look and lets down her hair. It shimmers in the firelight—lacy strands of frost nestled in rippling russet waves. As she finger-combs the tangles, she says softly, “For the last two years I’ve spoken of nothing but battles and death. Can’t we speak of something cheerier? Tell me of life here at the monastery.”
I look down at my hands. Of course she doesn’t wish to speak of war. She just returned from living it. And she probably thinks she’s doing me a kindness, avoiding any mention of my former life. But Iwantto remember. I want it so badly, my eyes refill with tears. I pretend to cough, then wipe them away on the back of my wrist.
Ghoa’s thick brows lower as she looks from me to Serik, but I’m not about to tell her I’ve been sneaking out and toying with the darkness. Or how I dream, day and night, of returning to the Kalima. How I despise the whitewashed walls she fought so hard to secure as my refuge.
Ghoa forces a cough and calls across the room to Serik. “How is the most irreverent monk at Ikh Zuree?” She chuckles, but he doesn’t crack a smile, despite having laughed when I made the same joke less than an hour ago.
“Still irreverent.”
“Have mercy, Serik. I was teasing.”
“As was I.” He bares his teeth in the world’s most spiteful sneer.
Technically, they’re cousins, but they were raised as brother and sister—and they certainly fight like it. Ghoa’s family took Serik in when he was five and Ghoa was nine, shortly after his father was sentenced to Gazar, the notorious prison mine beneath Sagaan, for peddling outlawed Zemyan weaponry. His mother was so consumed by grief and humiliation, she stopped eating. And sleeping. And caring for her son.
Ghoa and Serik got on well enough, even after he turned eleven and was allowed to enlist. But as the years passed and he didn’t develop a Kalima power, they became like oil and water. By thirteen, Ghoa’s parents recalled him from the war front. Everyone knows war is more dangerous for the magic-barren. To ensure his safety, Ghoa’s father, the Imperial Treasurer, secured Serik this esteemed position at Ikh Zuree—an honor reserved for noblemen’s sons. But if Serik is telling the story, the honor might as well have been a death sentence. And in his eyes, Ghoa is just as guilty, since she didn’t oppose her parents’ decision.
“Please don’t be like this, Serik.” Ghoa’s voice sounds as frayed and ragged as my penance robes.
Serik doesn’t notice. Or, more likely, he doesn’t care. “Don’t be like what? Unless you’ve decided to release me from my vows to the New Order so I can reenlist, we have nothing to discuss.”
Ghoa pinches the bridge of her nose. “You know I can’t do that.”
“You can! You’re captain of the Kalima. You can do anything under the skies, yet you refuse to do the one thing I truly want.”
“Think of your mother, wasting away in her sickbed. Losing you would destroy her, and my father would never forgive me for killing his only sister.”
“Why are you all so certain I would die?” Serik demands. “I’m a good warrior. And my Kalima power could still present. Sometimes it’s delayed.”
Ghoa gives him a withering look. “No one develops a power at nineteen.”
“What about Miigrath? He was twenty-one and became the strongest Sleet Slinger in Ashkar’s history.”
“Miigrath was a king! He united the thirteen clans, formed the Kalima, and drove the Zemyans back to the coast. You will never accomplish feats so grand. Which means your power wouldn’t be worth having, even if it did present.”
“You don’t know that.” Serik looks to me, and I want to encourage him, truly I do, but I avert my eyes and fiddle with my waist tie. The latest any member of the Kalima received their gift was fourteen. And Ghoa’s right—these powers are largely useless. Only able to summon delicate snow flurries or light rain showers.
“I’m not afraid to fight,” Serik forges on. “You happily encourage every eleven-year-old in the empire to enlist. But not me. When I’m perfectly capable.”
