The Final Strife

Now she was trapped in a wardrobe among an offensive amount of glitter. She needed a seed more than she’d ever needed anything in her life. Corners were sharper, colors clearer; they hurt her eyes.

Why had she come here? The question bounced around the cavernous space in her mind.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Up

and

down.

The door opened and Sylah hissed at the bright light.

Like the moon, the girl’s face peered down at her, beaming from ear to ear. Her hair was a cloud of short brown curls around her face. There were smaller moons within the first—large round eyes, button nose, the perfect pout.

“Hello.” She waved, as if they were out for tea, not capturer and captive. Sylah hoped her eyes conveyed “fuck you.”

“You’ve made quite a mess in here. I’ll certainly have to clean that up before Gorn comes.” She picked up a pair of gaudy heels. “Oh, my favorite shoes!” She cradled them like a babe before placing each heel back on the shelf.

“Are you thirsty? Hungry?”

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

“Well, I can’t take your gag off until you promise not to scream. In turn, you have my word, as a citizen of the Wardens’ Empire, to not hurt you.”

It was like she was reciting the words from a book. She turned around and dragged in a tray of drinks and food. Sylah’s stomach churned and growled at the same time. If she was being really honest, she’d trade that tray and both her hands for a joba seed.

“Do you promise?” The girl held up a glass of water. Sylah’s throat was drier than the blue sand dunes of the Farsai Desert.

Sylah nodded once.

The girl sucked on her plump bottom lip and surveyed her. Then, with swift hands she reached forward and pulled off the gag. The runes released at her touch. The girl held up the water to her mouth and Sylah downed it in one gulp.

“Fuck you,” Sylah said, slamming her head against the girl’s forehead. Then she began to scream. “Help me, she’s kidnapped me!”

The girl, albeit a little dazed, threw herself at Sylah, her weight winding her.

“Get off.” Sylah was trying to breathe, but the girl was so damn heavy and Sylah was so weak from joba seed cravings.

“Stop it. Stop it!” She was trying to put her hands on Sylah’s mouth.

“Let me go, you lump.” Sylah bit on her hand as the girl tried to clamp it shut. Part of Sylah’s mind noticed that she hadn’t broken the skin. Damn it, she was hoping to prove the girl was a Duster.

“Please stop biting me. No, stop it. That hurts!”

“Just let me go, I’ll sign up for the Aktibar, and then, if you want, I’ll come back.” Of course she wouldn’t.

“You can’t. No, stop squirming, listen. You can’t because it’s over. The sign-up finished up half a strike ago.”

Sylah deflated. It’s strange how hope can fill you up. She had once thought joba seeds were enough. Enough to feel, enough to hide, enough to disregard the guilt that smoldered in her heart. But it wasn’t enough. Disappointment doused the fire that had sparked within her.

“A dancer’s grace, a killer’s instinct, an Ember’s blood, a Duster’s heart.” The words seeped out of her into the empty space where hope had bloomed. Eighteen years being a part of the Sandstorm, twelve years being trained and harnessed for their purpose. Gone, in one moment. The decision to sign up for the Aktibar had been robbed from her. All because of this bloodforsaken usurper in front of her.

“Anoor?” Knock. Knock. Knock. “Everything okay?”

The girl, who Sylah now realized was called Anoor, hissed at Sylah to shut up before going to answer the door. Sylah wasn’t screaming anymore. She was empty.