The Final Strife

“Sylah, come on, we have to hurry up—why are you reading those?”

Sylah ignored her, flicking through the pages of her mother’s memoir.

“It’s missing. The most recent journal is missing,” Sylah said to herself. It would have journaled the years when Sylah was stolen. She swore. She’d have to take an older one and hope the Sandstorm were happy with that. Thankfully, the most recent journals for the other three wardens were there. Sylah shoved them into the blazer she wore. She was thankful for her flat chest. She hoped Anoor wouldn’t notice.

“What are you doing? Come help me.”

Red covers littered the ground between them until the floor looked as though it were covered in pools of blood.

“This one looks really old,” Anoor said, holding up a battered book.

“Yes, let’s take that one. Maybe that one too? It looks a little yellowed.”

“Okay, we should tidy up and go.”

The Ghostings were already on the move, putting the volumes back as quickly as they had scattered them.

“Thank you,” Anoor turned to them and said. They bowed their heads in response.

It was then that Sylah remembered what the library reminded her of. The Belly, Loot’s headquarters.

—

“Sylah, wake up.”

Sylah didn’t remember falling asleep, in Anoor’s bed of all places. Once they had returned to their chambers, the thrill of the day’s adventure was enough to carry them through into the early strikes of the morning.

Thankfully, Anoor didn’t notice the extra texts Sylah had stolen. Sylah pored over her mother’s journal, reading and rereading about her first few years as a disciple. The text was formal, dry, and very disappointing. When Sylah’s lids began to droop, her own bed ten handspans away seemed too far a journey.

“Sylah, wake up.”

“Fugh off.”

Anoor crawled over the bedcovers to Sylah. The four-poster was so big Sylah didn’t feel her presence until it was too late.

The journal smacked against her head with a thump. Sylah hoped it wasn’t one of the diaries she needed to take to the Sandstorm.

“I will kill you with my bare hands.”

Anoor was grinning above her. Her night scarf that protected her curls was wound tightly around her head. It was a fluorescent green that hurt to look at. Unpractical, garish, and completely Anoor.

“Have you found something?” Sylah groaned as she sat up.

“No.”

“Don’t tell me you woke me up to tell me you didn’t find anything.”

“Well…”

“I’ve changed my mind, I will kill you with a dagger, and peel your skin first.”

“The thing is…neither of the journals are that old. This one”—she waved the one she had used as a weapon against Sylah’s head—“is from three hundred years ago. It’s the oldest journal there. But nothing. It’s so mundane.” She giggled into her hand. “Except for this one sex scene.”

Anoor was scandalized, and her laughter had Sylah reaching for the journal. Together they read the passage together and laughed until they cried.

“He was as well-endowed as an eru in heat…”

“His balls were as hairy as a desert monkey’s back…”