The Final Strife

It was true, there was no way Anoor was going to win. Not against Jond or anyone else. But for a brief moment Sylah couldn’t help thinking of a world where Anoor did win—a Duster leading the empire. Anoor wouldn’t have the Sandstorm to guide her, but maybe Sylah could teach her. The thought unsettled her. She downed her drink. It burned her throat more than usual.

“After all, she was bred to be a decoy. A decoy for you. She was always going to be collateral damage.” Jond sipped his drink, assessing her.

Sylah’s stomach churned, and it wasn’t the firerum.

“And when I win, there will be more of that. We need to cleanse the empire, Sylah, rid it of the Embers that have brought so many Nowerks to their knees.”

There was that word again. That insult. It didn’t sound reclaimed on Jond’s tongue, it sounded cruel. Bitter.

“Is more violence the answer?”

Jond looked at her, his glass frozen in front of his lips.

“The Final Strife is here,” he eventually said.

Sylah nodded with less conviction than Jond’s fevered expression. She had always been so sure of her place in the Final Strife—that she was the blade on the neck of the empire. But when she closed her eyes, it wasn’t the wardens’ blood she had on her hands, but Anoor’s. Bright blue with life.