The Final Strife

Reporting sixty-seven Ghosting deaths from the sleeping sickness on Ardae night. The pyres were burned the following day beyond the plantation fields so as to not spread the disease. I oversaw them from afar, maintaining distance from the contagion.

—Memo to the Warden of Duty from Auditor Quol

“What are you doing?” Anoor came through the door in their training room, catching Sylah unawares. She pulled out her stylus and hid what she was working on behind her.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing; show me.” Anoor reached out for the glass orb with Sylah’s bloodwerk on it. It jingled with the shards of glass she’d placed inside.

Anoor inspected the runes. Sylah was really proud of it. It was a new invention she called a runebomb. At first her experiments were light-based, but this new version was more dangerous. It pushed the shards of glass outward once activated by Sylah’s blood. Shrapnel and light would stop anyone in their tracks.

Anoor dropped it on the floor and stepped on it, Sylah’s hard work crunching under her foot.

“Skies above! I just spent the last three strikes on that!”

Anoor pressed her heel in harder over the glass, shattering it to dust. Anoor raised her eyes to Sylah’s indignant expression.

“I didn’t teach you to bloodwerk so you could make things like this.”

“They’re for protection!”

“Protection against who?”

The Embers, Sylah thought.

Anoor continued, “Things like this only ever get used on Dusters, Sylah. My father was the general of the warden army, and the only people he ever fought were Dusters who couldn’t fight back. Uprisings at plantations are where their runebullets are spent. Those Dusters you showed me in the field, they’re the ones who will suffer.” Anoor’s mouth twisted. “The coups that the imirs stir up are deadlier, but they are fought with words and legislation.”

Sylah wanted to say that she’d never use the runebombs on a Duster. She’d spilled enough blue blood when she lost her family. But then she thought of Anoor and the side she resided on. Ember or Duster?

“How many of these have you created?”

Four.

“Just that one.”

“Good. It’s not up to you to choose who lives or dies, Sylah. Creating things like this”—she waved to the crushed glass like ice on the floor—“is the choice of death.”

The little kori bird has grown wise. She marveled at the change in Anoor. She never thought that learning about the atrocities of the empire could lead to such empathy. Maybe education played a bigger part than Sylah had realized.

Sylah thought on her words for some time.

A little later they were sparring, the runebombs forgotten. At least by Anoor.

“Move to your right…no, block again. Harder. Yes.” They had been practicing noon and night for the past week. Anoor was getting better, but she still couldn’t beat Sylah.

“Anoor, come on, stop holding back. You’re still too scared to hurt me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Anoor wiped the sweat from her brow.

“You can’t think like that. The combat round is based on first blood. Your opponent will be looking to make you bleed. Do you understand that? And you cannot bleed in front of them,” Sylah snarled at her.

“Watch me again.” Sylah demonstrated how to duck and parry away from an oncoming attack by feinting. It was a move adapted from the defensive motions of Laambe, and it helped Sylah avoid being sliced in the Ring more than once.

Anoor watched her move with interest. “Fine. Then stop holding back for me. Give me everything you’ve got. If you want me to learn the hard way, then you need to show me what it’s going to be like in that arena.”

She had a point. “Are you sure?”

“You’ve just asked me to hurt you. Should it not be both ways?” She cocked her head at Sylah and her curls bounced.