The Final Strife

An almost imperceptible nod of understanding. “That’s okay.”

Sylah had never asked about Anoor’s own father, but she’d learned from Hassa that he died when she was just seven.

“Anyway, like I said, I think we should study the previous Aktibar. I’ll draw out the formations and we can study each one.” Sylah had memorized them all by the age of eight.

A strike later, Sylah was still trying to convey the simplest of approaches.

“No, believe it or not ‘more people’ isn’t the reason Harriat’s team won. Look at the way they moved. What is it called?”

Anoor screwed her face up. A dumpling puckered for steaming.

“I just told you, it’s called the center peel.”

“It’s confusing, you’ve drawn five blobs on the page. Can you not write the names beneath them until I understand them?”

“Just remember them.” Sylah started drawing out another strategy.

“Can you just put the names at the top of the paper? What’s wrong with that?”

Sylah exhaled through her nose. She closed her eyes and visualized the letters in her mind. Writing couldn’t be that hard, after all. She knew how to read, so it was just copying that exact pattern—

Anoor laughed, and it was like a shard of glass in her heart.

“What is that supposed to say?” Anoor still chuckled until she saw the look on Sylah’s face. Her mirth slowly turned to horror…then the worst thing…pity.

Sylah threw the pen on the floor and stormed out of the dressing room.

“Stop it, stop that right now,” Sylah hissed at Anoor, who had followed her into the bedroom.

“Stop what?” She laid her hand on Sylah’s lower back.

Sylah wanted to shrug her off, but she didn’t, she let her hand linger. There was something raw and vulnerable in the soft spot below one’s ribs.

“The pity, I can’t bear it.”

“I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you couldn’t write the common tongue. You manage to write the runes so well, I just didn’t think.” Anoor looked shocked. She should be; Sylah and Jond were probably the only two Embers who didn’t know how to write in the whole of the empire. “I don’t understand, why didn’t you go to school?”

Because she’d been taught by Dusters, and Dusters weren’t taught how to write, they barely got an education at all. Their schooling ended at ten years old when they went for their branding.

Anoor waited for Sylah to speak, to think.

“Papa…he didn’t know how to either, none of us did. So no one could teach us.”

Anoor nodded, though she clearly wanted to ask more. “It’s even more impressive that you picked up the bloodwerk runes so quickly.”

“Practice.” Sylah smiled.

“I wish…I wish you would tell me what happened to you.” Anoor must have seen something in Sylah’s face, as she quickly added, “Eventually, eventually.” She patted Sylah’s hand. “Every day we’ll do a strike of training, a strike of bloodwerk and a strike of writing. You’ll pick it up in no time.”

Gratitude lifted the corners of Sylah’s lips.

She’s giving me a gift, expecting nothing in return.The thought perturbed Sylah until she realized it was because this had never happened to her before. Her eyes shone as they met Anoor’s. Their eyes locked and a spark, not unlike the prickling of withdrawal, spread down her spine.

Anoor looked away first, her eyes slipping toward the paper Sylah had been drawing on.

“The shapes look a bit like a shantra board.” She tilted her head to the left as she surveyed the paper.

Sylah scoffed and opened her mouth to retort. Then she paused and grabbed Anoor’s wrists. “You have got a brain in there after all!”