The Final Strife

Warden of Truth—To preach and incite justice.

Warden of Duty—To nourish and maintain the land.

Warden of Knowledge—To teach and discover all.

Warden of Strength—To protect and enforce the law.

Warden of Crime—To resist and sow chaos.

—The Wardens’ Vows

Sylah lingered outside the maiden house, a joba seed between her finger and thumb. Her hand lurched toward her mouth, but she held off biting down, savoring the rawness of reality for the briefest of moments.

The maiden house faced away from the Ruta River, toward the plantation fields outside of the city walls, where, on a clear morning, you’d be able to see the lines of rubber trees and the specks of Dusters toiling in the sun. Some of the field workers were as young as ten, the age at which a Duster’s schooling was complete and they were deemed old enough to go to work.

Ghostings didn’t go to school at all. Instead, they were forced into service as soon as they could walk. Sylah had seen Ghosting children wandering around in beige uniforms too big for their bodies, their maimed arms hauling coal or sweeping courtyards with brooms adjusted with horizontal handles for their forearms to grasp.

Most cleaning tools had been adapted for Ghostings’ use. It wasn’t out of kindness; simply put, the Embers wanted the job done well. Occasionally a Ghosting would come across a tool that wasn’t adapted for them. It was why every Ghosting kept a pair of soft leather straps on their person, as tying the tool to their forearm was sometimes the only way to complete the task.

It wasn’t an uncommon sight to see a Ghosting child’s forearms strapped into a dustpan and broom, the implements bigger than their heads.

At least Dusters had ten years of childhood before they were assessed and categorized under one of the four guilds of the empire: strength, knowledge, truth, or duty.

If the empire needed more foot soldiers, you were assigned strength, even if you were crippled by malnutrition. If they needed teachers, you were assigned knowledge, despite having only a handful of years of schooling. If they needed Rippers, you were assigned to truth to tear down the flesh of your people while an officer watched. If they needed more field workers, you were assigned to duty, where your skin was routinely torn open by an overseer’s whip. It was where most Dusters ended up, laboring for cotton, rubber, or sugarcane.

Once your role was appointed, the guild mark was then branded onto your skin. A reminder of your worth.

Sylah scratched the grooves on the underside of her wrist. A memory roiled through her: of charred flesh, hot metal, and salty blood.

Papa had offered her the iron. She remembered how her hand had shook with the weight of it, the brand glowing red. She didn’t cry as she pressed the brand against her wrist, though she wanted to.

Papa hated tears.

“We need you to be able to blend in with Dusters when the time comes,” he said over the sound of her sizzling skin.

She was six years old.

Sylah bit down on the joba seed. The release of the drug washed away the smell of burning flesh from her memory.

She closed her eyes to the world around her, reveling in the euphoria. The atrocities of the empire were not the reality she wanted to see. Once, long ago, she’d been promised more. But no longer. Better to blunt the sharp edges of the realm with drugs.

This was all that mattered now.

—

The festive spirit of the Day of Descent permeated Sylah’s high as she weaved her way through the Dredge. She waved to a few children flapping kente flags, though one of them ran away in tears screaming that Sylah’s “mouth was full of blood.”

Once the peak of the drug had lessened, Sylah made her way to Loot’s in the center of the Dredge. She needed to pay back her debt to Turin, and this was the only way to do it.

“How’s it hurting, Fayl?” Sylah greeted Fayl, the watcher at the door.

“Easing up now you’re here, Sylah.” Fayl handed her a flask of firerum. His muscular arms were scored with intricate blue bloodink. Dusters weren’t allowed to write, but bloodink tattoos had become a small type of rebellion. The swirls, if you squinted really hard, almost looked like words. “You?”

“Flaming rough. I’ve seen piles of shit that I liked better than this day,” she grunted. The rum burned her throat, bringing her out of the joba seed numbness. “You not going like the rest?” She took another swig.

“Eyoh no, seen four Descents in my time. Saw Kalad make the Descent two decades ago. Made sure I had a prime viewing spot for him…” He raised his eyebrows. “If you get what I’m saying.”

“I always get what you’re saying, Fayl.”