The Dragon Republic (The Poppy War #2) - R. F. Kuang Page 0,147

at Khurdalain, when he’d been burdened by a war that he would kill himself winning. This was the best possible version of him, the way she’d tried to remember him, the way he’d rarely ever been. The scars were still on his face, his hair was still messy and overgrown, tied back in a careless knot, and he still wielded that trident with the casual grace of someone who spent more time on the battlefield than off.

This was an Altan who fought because he adored it and was good at it, and not because it was the only thing he had ever been trained to do.

His eyes were brown. His pupils were not constricted. He did not smell of smoke. When he smiled, he almost looked happy.

“You’re here.” She couldn’t manage anything but a whisper. “It’s you.”

“Of course I am,” he said. “Not even a border skirmish could keep me from you today. Tyr wanted to have my head on a stake, but I don’t think even he could stand up to Mother and Father’s wrath.”

A border skirmish?

Tyr?

Mother and Father?

The confusion lasted for only a moment, and then she understood. Dreams came with their own logic, and this was nothing but a beautiful dream. In this world, Speer had never been destroyed. Tearza had not died and abandoned her people to slavery, and her kin had not been slaughtered overnight on the Dead Island.

She almost laughed out loud. In this illusion, their biggest concern was a fucking border skirmish.

“Are you nervous?” Altan asked.

“Nervous?” she echoed.

“I’d be surprised if you weren’t,” he said. His voice dropped to a conspiring whisper. “Unless you’re having second thoughts. And—I mean, if you are, it’s fine by me. If we’re being honest, I’ve never been too fond of him, either.”

“‘Him’?” Rin echoed.

“He’s just jealous that you’re getting married first while nobody wants him.” Ramsa shouldered his way between them, chewing on a red bean bun. He dipped his head toward Altan. “Hello, Commander.”

Altan rolled his eyes. “Don’t you have fireworks to light?”

“That’s not until later,” said Ramsa. “Your parents said they’ll castrate me if I go near them now. Something about safety hazards.”

“That sounds about right.” Altan ruffled Ramsa’s hair. “Why don’t you scurry along and enjoy the feast?”

“Because this conversation is much more interesting.” Ramsa took a large bite of the bun and spoke with his mouth full. “So what’s it going to be, Rin? Will we have a runaway bride? Because I’d like to finish eating first.”

Rin’s mouth hung open. Her eyes darted between Ramsa and Altan, trying to detect proof that they were illusions—some imperfection, some lack of substance.

But they were so solid, detailed and full of life. And they were so, so happy. How could they be this happy?

“Rin?” Altan nudged her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head. “I don’t— This isn’t . . .”

Concern crossed his face. “Do you need to lie down for a moment?”

“No, I just . . .”

He took her arm. “I’m sorry I was making fun of you. Come on, we’ll go find you a bench.”

“No, that’s not what I . . .” She shrugged him off and backed away. She was walking backward, she knew she was, but somehow every time she took a step she ended up no farther from Altan than she had been to begin with.

“Come with me,” Altan repeated, and his voice resonated around the room. The colors of the banquet hall dimmed. The guests’ faces blurred. He was the only defined figure in sight.

He extended his hand toward her. “Quickly now.”

She knew what would happen to her if she obeyed.

Everything would be over. The illusion might last another few minutes, or an hour, or a week. Time worked differently in illusions. She might enjoy this one for a lifetime. But in reality, she would have succumbed to Daji’s poison. Her life would be over. She would never wake up from this spell.

But would that be so wrong?

She wanted to go with him. She wanted to go so badly.

“No one has to die,” Altan said, voicing her own thoughts out loud. “The wars never happened in the first place. You can have everything back. Everyone. No one has to go.”

“But they are gone,” she whispered, and the instant she said it, its truth became apparent. The faces in the banquet hall were lies. Her friends were dead. Tutor Feyrik was gone. Master Irjah was gone. Golyn Niis was gone. Speer was gone. Nothing could bring them back. “You can’t