The Final Strife

The difference between Dusters and Ghostings is that the clear-blooded failed where we will not. Four hundred years ago the clear-blooded rose up to fight the empire and they faltered in their execution. We will not falter. Our hands must remain steady as we wield the Stolen against the families that gave them life.

Red must fight red if we are to succeed in purging Embers from the world.

War will come: to bring order. To bring equality. To bring peace.

—Azim, leader of the Sandstorm, year 414

Hassa had watched the trial from the standing section at the back of the arena. She hadn’t wanted to attend—she found the trials a farce—but the elders had insisted. She needed to go give them her report.

Hassa hadn’t expected the satisfaction she got from seeing the Dusters’ team win.

Anoor Elsari, who would have thought you had it in you?she thought.

With the trial over, the Ghostings and Dusters were being herded out through the narrow entrances at the back, away from the Embers, who milled in their plush seats. Some had even brought full picnics with Jin-Eynab wine and stuffed dates. Hassa’s stomach growled as she looked at them.

Something sharp jutted her in the chin. She recognized the cold metal of a runegun and the metallic smell of old bloodwerk on the barrel.

“Stop milling around, Ghosting. Get going.” The officer pushed her roughly toward the exit.

The crowd of Dusters chattered excitedly.

“And then the one with the pink armor. Did you see her knock out the guy with the broken baton?”

“I was so impressed with the strategy of the winning team…”

“I knew they’d win…”

Hassa’s stomach soured. They were enjoying themselves. It was the reason Hassa hated the trials so much. In the face of entertainment Dusters forgot who the real enemy was.

Ghostings never did.

Hassa shouldered her way through a group taking bets.

“Watch out, you Ghosting runt!”

She bared her teeth at the man who spoke before she slipped away through the crowd. She’d been called worse. Despite their similarities, Ghostings were the most hated race in the empire. It was what the Embers wanted, it was why they still punished the Ghostings through mutilation. It segregated them, vilified them.

Hassa’s phantom fingers twitched. She so rarely felt the nerve damage there anymore, but occasionally the ghost of her fingers would reach outward, stretching toward the horizon. As if she could touch the sun.

As if she could burn.

—

Sylah waited for Anoor in her room. The Embers were keen to make acquaintance with the final forty competitors of the Aktibar. They needed to know who to bet on.

Sylah sat down at Anoor’s desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment. She wet the nib of the pen and rested the flesh of her palm on the paper like Anoor had taught her. It still quivered out of her grasp, but Anoor’s teachings over the last two mooncycles had already improved her ability to command the alphabet.

Warden of Strength, Jond Alnua. She drew the words out slowly, with care. Curling her words like Anoor had taught her.

What was she doing? This was dangerous. She lit a candle to burn the page.

“What are you writing?”

Sylah jumped out of her skin, one hand stilling her heart as the other turned over the paper. “Anoor! You scared the hairs off my skin. I am now bald. Everywhere.”

Anoor laughed, a delighted sound. “Sorry. Did you see? We won.” Anoor had taken off her armor, but she still held her helmet in her hand. She looked so different from the girl she had first met. Her eyes were lighter, still hazel, of course, but brighter, her face eager to smile. The exercise had improved her posture while keeping her envious curves, and she was sure-footed, confident.

“Of course I saw.” Sylah wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of the hug as it clanged into her. “Ow, get off, your helmet’s getting blood on me.”