without discretion.
Then she sent them to attack Ashkar and his descendants.
“It’s worse than ever before,” Ghoa insists. “The Zemyans are like roaches. You stomp them and they do not flatten. You freeze them and they sleep until the ice melts. Again and again they rise from the dust with darker and deadlier tricks. They slew half of the 121st battalion just last week, outside of Chalida.”
“How?” I demand. “What happened?”
She purposely draws out the tension until I’m practically salivating. “They used their sorcery to disguise themselves as members of our own army. Then they circled around to the back of our ranks and slaughtered a good many of our infantry before we realized what they were up to.”
“How did you defeat them? How did you differentiate friend from foe?”
“How do you think?” Ghoa flashes her teeth and the temperature in the room plummets. “The Zemyans are weak due to their corrupt magic, so myself and the other Ice Heralds flooded the air with bitter cold. The imposters fell to the ground, their twig-thin bodies shivering and their bone-white skin nearly blue. Dispatching of them was simple after that.”
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 and right beneath my fingers, but when I try to lift the weapon, pain crackles through my ruined arm.
Reminding me.
I was strong. 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 still living.
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 I want to 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