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Omonod Bay, 100 miles east of Speer.

One week after.

There was something peaceful about the sea at night. On the right night, out on the far horizon, where the black water met the overcast, moonless sky, you could look and look for hours and not see a single point of light. 

Looking out into it, Chaghan almost forgot where he was. For a moment, he was incorporeal, floating gently out into the dark abyss of the spirit realm’s unexplored corners, drinking in the blissful dark, the sweet silence. He’d spent more time in those dark corners recently than ever before. 

Something about them used to frighten him, when he was still young and testing the limits of his abilities. He’d hated how empty they were, the numb coldness that drained the feeling from his limbs and the thoughts from his head. He’d always gravitated back to Qara quickly, eager to curl into her warm side and put that place far away from his mind once again. He’d known, even back then, that those dark recesses were the domains of the dead.

He wasn’t afraid anymore.

A door opened, and suddenly he was present in the world of the material once again.

Enki stepped out onto the deck. He looked haggard. His brow was beaded with sweat, and his already-thinning hairline seemed to have retreated even further back on itself. He held a bucket of sloshing water and a damp rag. 

“How is the commander?” Chaghan asked.

Enki blinked at him as if he was speaking a different language. Then, the meaning of the question seemed to seep through. 

“Stable,” he sighed. In the thin light coming out of the door, his face was ashen. “Although I’m not sure how she managed it. She took such a large dose I was certain she’d—”

“She’s a Speerly,” Chaghan shrugged. “It’s in her blood.”

Enki opened his mouth, then closed it again. He nodded, not meeting Chaghan’s eyes.

“Speerly or not,” he said after a moment, “I’ll need to keep watching her at night. If she wakes in a panic, she could burn the ship down and take all of us to the bottom of the ocean.”

A part of Chaghan thought that sounded rather nice.

Still, he couldn’t ignore the dazed slowness of Enki’s blinks, or the way he swayed on his feet. The man was barely awake, and an incompetent physician was worse than none at all.

“You’re finished for now, then?”

Enki made a face. “I was just going to resupply.”

“Good,” Chaghan said. He held out a hand. “Give me those. I’ll take her from here, you need to rest.”

Something wary flickered in Enki’s eyes, despite the fatigue weighing him down. He held fast to the bucket and cloth.

Chaghan leaned forward. “You are of no use to any of us dead. And if you stay on your feet much longer, that is what you will be.”

Finally, Enki sighed, shoulders sagging.

“Do what you want,” he said, shoving the bucket towards Chaghan. “Just… brace yourself. It isn’t pretty.”

He didn’t need to brace. He pushed the door to the captain’s quarters open and stepped inside.

The smell of the air was so familiar, it felt like stepping wholecloth into a memory. The sweet, sickly tang of opium smoke, mixed with the reek of stale vomit and sweat. Nausea roiled in his stomach for only a moment before he swallowed it down with practised efficiency.

Rin was sprawled on her back on the thin cot, mouth slightly open, her eyes rolled back into her head. A thin stream of drool escaped the corner of her mouth. She didn’t stir as Chaghan approached, but he hadn’t expected her to. A dose as high as the one she’d taken would kill most people. Would have killed her, before—

That was what nobody understood about Speerlies. What nobody had understood about Altan. It had never been in his blood. None of it had, not before they’d put it there.

Chaghan suddenly wanted to scream.

How was this fair? How could this pathetic, mewling child possibly hope to replace Altan? The universe was playing a cruel joke; the universe had cheated them. Cheated him. All that work, all that hope, gone in an instant. That roaring flame, that hearth he’d grown to depend on so eagerly, snuffed out with a single breath. 

And their god. That terrible, cruel, capricious thing. It must have wept with joy when Altan burned. Chaghan could almost hear the Phoenix’s laughter, echoing in his ears. 

You foolish boy, it whispered, high and mocking. Did you really think you could save him?

He had, once. Perhaps it had been foolish, but he’d wanted so badly to believe it. 

The Nikara’s definition of religion did not fit the Naimads; the gods were understood, observed, but not worshipped. Altan had been as close to a religion as Chaghan had ever known.

And now he was gone. He was gone, and what was left? What had Altan died for? A girl he had barely known, had barely cared for — and, gods, care was a strong word for it. He had tolerated Rin, and at times, he hadn’t even managed to do that. She’d hardly been a Speerly at all, in his eyes. She’d hardly been anything to him. What right did she have to claim his legacy?

Naming her his successor had been a mistake. Altan hadn’t been in his right mind; he’d been drunk off his own pain, stumbling under the weight of command. He’d been in no fit state to make such a decision. Chaghan shouldn’t have let him.

She should have burned instead, hissed the Phoenix. A heavy, warm pressure weighed over him. You can still make it right. You can still avenge him.

Chaghan didn’t notice he’d dropped the bucket; he didn’t notice his hand close around the hilt of his hunting knife, drawing it slowly from its sheath. He didn’t realise how close he’d drawn to Rin until he saw his own shadow looming over her, long and eerie in the light of the oil lamp.

Rin had already done worse than Altan had ever managed. She’d snuffed out an entire civilization with a thought. He could only imagine how much stronger she would become when fully fledged. Power like that… it had no right to reign unchecked. Power like that would destroy them all.

She wouldn’t even feel it. She was so deep in the opium haze now that she wouldn’t feel a single thing.

It would be a mercy.

Do it, the Phoenix leered. You know you want to. 

Rin stirred. She mumbled something incoherent, eyes rolling in her head before settling, unseeing, on the ceiling. That unmistakable Speerly gaze stared straight through him. Pinprick pupils ringed with bright, poppy red. 

Above her, Chaghan froze. Something ached in his chest, a muted pang that quickly sharpened until it became almost unbearable. His grip on the knife wavered.

What was he doing?

The Phoenix’s presence lingered over his shoulder. Gleeful and expectant, like a child playing a prank. 

It wanted him to give in. This close, drawn up to the surface by Rin’s anguished subconscious, the Phoenix wouldn’t let her die from a simple flesh wound. His betrayal would be nothing but fuel for the fire. Nothing but sustenance for the Phoenix to lap at, like a tick, growing fat on blood and suffering.

Anger and disgust roiled in him, loud enough to drown out the shame.

He dropped the knife with a dull clatter.

The Phoenix gave one last cackle. Worth a try, it whispered.

Then, it was gone. 

The pressure in the room lessened. Chaghan took a shaky breath, closed his eyes, and tried to let the feeling pass through him. It lingered for longer than he would have liked. His chest ached like a hole had been carved into it. A sob lurched in his throat; he clenched his jaw shut, refusing to allow it to escape.

He pictured the dark, empty place where the sea met the sky. A taste of the end. A taste of peace.

When he opened his eyes, he could breathe again.

As if on cue, Rin spluttered, retched, and started choking on her own vomit.

Damn it, Enki. Chaghan seized her by the shoulder, rolling her onto her side – the physician had neglected to prop her up with anything. He patted her on the back firmly while she retched up the meagre contents of her stomach, the majority of which ended up in his lap.

“Sorry,” Rin murmured, half-conscious.

Chaghan ground his teeth. He said nothing.

By the time she’d finished, Rin had slipped right back into unconsciousness again. Chaghan wiped the vomit from her chin. He took a clean rag, dipped it in the remnants of lukewarm water still left in the bucket, and dabbed the sweat from her forehead. 

Gods, but she was so young. 

It didn’t matter how he felt about it. She was the last Speerly. She was the only legacy Altan would ever leave.

Even if nobody else believed in her, Chaghan knew he had to try.

The Night Castle.

Eleven months before.

No matter how many times Chaghan walked this path, it always made his hands shake.

It wasn’t as if today’s mission had been a complete disaster. In fact, by Cike standards, it had been a roaring success. The target had been eliminated; civilian casualties had been kept to a minimum. No god-induced madness, no loss of control, no witnesses. Even so, Chaghan couldn’t shake the tension from his limbs. Couldn’t escape the creeping feeling of dread, its cold fingers tracing up his spine.

Tyr had been reluctant to let this be the first test of Altan’s abilities as a leader. He’d told Chaghan as much before they’d set out; had given him the background information that, for the rest of the Cike, had been kept to a bare minimum.

Their target had been an escapee from the Mugenese research facility once stationed in Snake Province; a scientist, who’d up until recently done such a good job at learning Nikara language and blending in with their citizens that the Empire had lost track of him. Recently, though, an Empire spy had been able to draw him out of hiding. Now the Cike had him pinned down in a little village at the edge of Rat Province, a plump pheasant ready for the hunt.

“You can’t ask me to keep Trengsin from killing him,” Chaghan had said flatly. “I’m not suicidal.”

“Nothing like that,” Tyr had said. “Let him have his vengeance, but temper it if you can. Minimal collateral damage. The Empress wants her spy intact.”

Chaghan had scoffed at that. “Altan isn’t stupid enough to murder one of the Empress’s spies.”

Tyr’s face was stony. Chaghan’s mouth had suddenly gone dry.

“Like I said,” Tyr said after a moment, with an air of hasty finality. “Temper him. Don’t look at me like that, Suren; I know that you can.”

Chaghan hadn’t doubted that he could.

Whether he would or not had been up to his own discretion.

It hadn’t mattered in the end, anyway. By the time he’d found the spy it was already too late. 

Chaghan had familiarised himself with the village beforehand, had marked the location of the spy’s home and figured out the fastest way to get him out of there before any of the fray could reach him. It had taken him longer to recognise the man’s squat little house when it was on fire.

He had frozen in the alleyway, ducking around the corner of another building. The neighbours had been smart enough to flee quickly; the thatched roofs of this village lit like kindling, and the twinkling cinders that carried on the wind had been enough to set the blaze spreading. Another house – the scientist’s, no doubt – was already ablaze, but this fire seemed to roar with a fury all its own.

The door had burst open, and a half-burned man had tumbled out. He dragged himself across the cobblestones away from the house, whimpering. Chaghan noticed, with a lurch, that his lower half was completely blackened. His face was familiar. The Empress’s spy.

Altan emerged from the doorway after him. He was wreathed in flame, although his own hair and clothes remained perfectly untouched; in the dancing light of the fire, his skin shone like polished bronze. He hadn’t bothered to draw his trident. Chaghan knew he wouldn’t need it for something so trivial as this. Great wings of flame spread over his shoulders. He was beautiful, magnificent. 

He should have stopped Altan. It hadn’t been too late; the spy’s burns looked severe, yes, but they may have all been surface level. Tyr could have explained them away, could say he got caught in the crossfire. The Empress would not have smiled to hear it, but it would still have counted as a success. All that they needed to do was deliver him with his heart still beating.

Chaghan should have stepped forward. He didn’t. Fear and awe had rooted him to the spot, as if he were observing a sacred ritual. Disturbing this would be unwise, and not least because, in this state, Altan would not think twice about turning him into a stick of charcoal.

“Please,” the man said. His voice was dreadful, reedy and broken. He might have already been screaming for hours. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Altan’s voice was so soft. Chaghan suppressed a shiver. “What for?”

The man keened. Chaghan had heard that noise from Altan’s quarry before: he was trying to cry, but the tears were evaporating as quickly as he could produce them. At that distance, the roiling heat coming off Altan’s body would have been unbearable.

“I’ll do anything,” the man pleaded. “I swear it to you. Anything you want.”

“Anything?” Altan asked.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Anything.”

Altan might have smiled — behind the veil of flame, it was hard to tell. He knelt between the man’s charred legs, leaning down over him until their noses almost touched. The man flinched, trying to squirm away from the heat, but Altan’s hand shot out and grasped him by the chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.

Altan’s face twisted into an inhuman snarl. “I want you to burn.”

His white-hot fingers rammed into the man’s ribcage. For a moment the man sputtered pathetically. The smell of cooking meat filled the air, as steam billowed from the man’s open mouth. Then Altan withdrew his clenched fist. The man slumped back, skull cracking against the cobblestone. His eyes were stock-still, wide open in horrified disbelief.

Altan stood, and for a long moment he gazed down at the corpse with wide, unseeing eyes. His hand was blackened up to the wrist with burned blood. Chaghan shifted in the shadows, and Altan’s head snapped up. Their eyes met.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Chaghan’s heart pounded; his fingers buzzed with some kind of incomprehensible energy. Altan’s eyes were wild. He looked like an animal disturbed from a feeding frenzy. Chaghan wondered vaguely if he was going to lunge at him.

Slowly, deliberately, Altan opened his fist. There, sitting in his palm, fresh and red as a plucked berry, was the man’s heart. It beat once, spurting an obscene gush of blood over Altan’s wrist. 

Then, he curled his fingers inwards around it. The heart instantly shrivelled and blackened. Altan’s fingers squeezed, until it crumbled and turned to ash, then to steam, then to nothing at all. 

Chaghan stared, speechless. For a moment it was all he could do to breathe.

“Report,” Altan barked, and Chaghan snapped back to his senses.

“The target is dead,” Chaghan said breathlessly. He fought to wrest some control back over himself, even as Altan strode towards him. Altan had put out the flames wreathing his body, but that made him no less dangerous. “The others have fallen back. Shall I call Aratsha to douse the fire?”

Altan stopped a foot from him. He glanced up at the burning houses, as if only just noticing them. 

“No,” he’d said, as he moved past Chaghan. Their shoulders didn’t brush. “Let them burn.”

Now, standing at the edge of the training courtyard, Chaghan felt that same, breathless fear.

Altan hadn’t relaxed since they had returned. He’d gone straight to the practise dummies, had taken up a blunted staff, and had proceeded to beat the everloving shit out of them. This was not an uncommon occurrence for Altan — in fact, with the exception of his pipe, this seemed to be his happy place. Chaghan couldn’t tell if he was elated or brimming with rage; perhaps he was both. Altan’s bare chest steamed in the light mist of falling rain. His staff sent cinders flying with each hard impact against the dummy’s waxed canvas.

Chaghan cleared his throat. Abruptly, Altan’s movements stopped. He cocked his head to the side, not quite looking up.

“Quite the show today,” Chaghan said, forcing a lightness into his tone that he didn’t feel. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Tyr sent you, didn’t he?” Altan’s question was dangerously flat.

Chaghan swallowed. He understood this by now: the calmer Altan sounded, the louder the Phoenix screamed inside his head. Certainly not elated, then.

“Not directly,” Chaghan said. He stepped out into the courtyard, palms up in surrender. Altan’s eyes flickered over him, bright scarlet. “I’m only curious. You did know the man you killed was the Empress’s spy, yes?”

Altan snorted. He turned back to the dummy and continued his assault.

“We were instructed to take him alive,” Chaghan pressed. “He was valuable.”

“He was a traitor,” Altan spat. “A filthy fucking coward.” He punctuated each word with a vicious strike. “Men like that don’t deserve to breathe.”

“The Empress wanted him.”

“The Empress should have better taste.”

“You forget yourself, Trengsin.”

Altan’s movements stopped. Chaghan felt his heartbeat in his throat, but it was too late to backtrack now.

Chaghan raised his voice. “You are Cike. We are the Empire’s soldiers, not self-proclaimed executioners. Like it or not, you had no right to judge that man’s guilt. You had no right to take his life.”

Altan was silent for a long moment. With each second that passed, Chaghan felt his pulse tick up a little faster. He stood his ground. Kept his breathing steady, even. 

When Altan finally spoke, it was so quiet Chaghan barely heard it.

“Do you know how he got the cricket out of hiding?”

Chaghan shook his head, though Altan wasn’t looking at him.

“Of course Tyr didn’t tell you,” Altan sighed. “You think you know so much.”

“Tell me, then.”

Altan looked at him. His gaze was a terrible thing, devoid of any emotion. “Guess. Go on.”

“I…” Chaghan’s voice faltered. He didn't like where this was going. “Altan—”

“Children.” Altan’s voice didn’t waver. “He traded him children. For years.”

“I didn’t—”

“At first it was just orphans,” Altan continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Then it became anything he could get his hands on. Children from the neighbouring villages. His own daughter. Nothing special, just plain Nikara brats. The cricket must have been so disappointed. But he took them anyway.”

Chaghan fixed his gaze on the floor. Whatever was coming next, he didn’t want to know.

“Eyes up,” Altan snapped. “You wanted to hear it. Look at me.”

Trembling, Chaghan obeyed. Altan’s stare was steely; he’d set down the staff. Steam poured off him, rolling off his squared shoulders. 

He could not be weak. Altan hated weakness. He only enjoyed Chaghan’s submission when he purposely invited it. Standing here silent, shaking like a beaten dog, would only serve to make Altan angrier.

Chaghan raised his chin, clenching his hands by his sides. “What did he do with them?”

Altan’s gaze held his for a moment, then slid off him. His eyes darted back and forth, as if reading text in small print; he focused on nothing but the empty middle distance. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Altan murmured, as if to himself. He gave a small, listless shrug. “That place is gone now.”

Chaghan released a held breath. “You burned it.”

Altan blinked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. It’s gone now. Clean.”

“Good,” Chaghan said. He took a step forward, tentatively closing the gap between them. “That’s good, Trengsin. Tyr will be pleased.”

Altan scowled. It made him look younger. “Tyr knew.”

“Perhaps,” Chaghan said. “Do you think he would have sent you if he hadn’t expected you to find out?”

Altan seemed to chew on that for a long moment. Eventually, the tension in his shoulders and jaw uncoiled. He ran a hand through his hair. Much of it had come undone from its tie, shaken loose by his efforts against the training dummy, and hung about his face in wild, dark locks. They curled just slightly in the rain. Chaghan couldn’t resist reaching out a hand to brush one carefully behind his ear.

Altan’s hand came up to grab his wrist. His grip wasn’t tight; he only held Chaghan there, firm and certain. His fingers fit neatly against the burn scar he’d left there in the valley, some months before. An echo of that same unyielding touch, scorched red into the skin.

“What will you tell Tyr?” Altan asked.

Chaghan smiled. “Whatever you want me to tell him.”

Something like pride flickered in Altan’s eyes. His other hand moved to the back of Chaghan’s skull, pulling him into a kiss. It was surprisingly gentle, at first; but with Altan, the gentleness rarely lasted long. When Altan pulled away, he nipped Chaghan’s lip sharp enough to draw blood. He’d barely pulled away by a few inches before he dove forward again, this time pressing biting kisses up the column of Chaghan’s neck.

“Run along, then,” Altan said, in between bites to his jawline. “Go and tell Tyr all about the terrible, accidental fire.”

“We just couldn’t stop it,” Chaghan was grinning like an idiot; he couldn’t help it. “Tried to extract the spy, but it was too – hot––”

“Awful shame.” Altan squeezed his hip. He leaned in close, pressing his lips against Chaghan’s ear. “And once you’ve told him, you come right back to me.”

“Yes.”

“What’s that?”

Chaghan closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Altan smiled. He pushed Chaghan away, then picked up his staff again. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

This was an abject failure. Tyr would be irritated; the Empress would be furious. It would be months before they’d risk putting Altan in charge of an operation again. Chaghan was an excellent liar, but there was only so much suspicion his lies could assuage. 

Right now, though, with this giddy, buzzing adrenaline rushing through his blood, Chaghan couldn’t bring himself to care all that much.

Khurdalain, eastern Tiger Province.

Three months before.

Chaghan hissed as the needle bit into his skin.

“Fucking hell,” Qara winced. Her grip on his arm tightened; her face had gone grey. “You had to refuse the milk of the poppy?”

“I need him lucid,” Altan said, from the other side of the desk.

Chaghan shrugged one shoulder, and Qara rolled her eyes before her face screwed up in pain again.

It was an awkward position to be in. Altan’s cramped, makeshift office didn’t have room for creature comforts of any sort; there was only the rickety desk, a single battered chair, and heaps and heaps of papers, maps, and blueprints, tacked across the walls and strewn over every surface. Chaghan had settled on the edge of the desk, Enki leaning over him; it hurt to hold himself up, pain screaming up his arm and abdomen from the gouges and arrow wounds the Mugenese had left, but he wouldn’t suffer the indignity of lying down on the desk. Altan’s notes were already crumpled and bloodstained enough beneath him. 

Qara had slumped onto the single chair, one arm wound tight around herself while the nails of her other hand bit into Chaghan’s forearm. She hadn’t loosened her grip on him since he’d returned, holding on like she was afraid he’d disappear again any moment. 

Enki’s fingers pinched the edges of a particularly wicked wound together. Chaghan’s vision blurred at the edges; his jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt. Qara made a small keening noise.

“Sorry,” said Enki ruefully, looking up. He’d only just started; this was going to take a while. He gave Chaghan a wan smile. “Try to pretend I’m not here.”

“Focus,” Altan said. His voice was firm; he gave Chaghan’s shoulder a brief, sharp squeeze. Chaghan was hopelessly grateful for it. “Tell me again. Spare no detail.”

It was easy to block out the pain, with those red-hot eyes on him. It always was.

Enki continued to stitch, as Chaghan ran through the details of his journey again – slower, more thorough, rifling through his memories for little details that he knew Altan would want to know. As he spoke, Altan’s gaze drifted. Piecing it all together in his mind, mentally following the path Chaghan had laid out for him. For them both.

When he’d finished, Altan was silent for a long while. He nodded slowly to himself.

“Alright,” he said, voice low. “Good.”

Qara blinked owlishly at him. “...That’s it? That’s the ‘weapon’ you sent my brother away for all those weeks to retrieve?” She scoffed, leaning back with a hand pressed over her abdomen. “The Gatekeeper. Gods, Trengsin. If we were that desperate, you should have just told all of us to swallow a handful of opium and get it over with.”

“It’ll work, Qara.” Chaghan’s voice came out tight, words clipped. The gauze Enki was winding around his ribs made it hard to breathe. “You know what he did at Sinegard.”

“Sinegard is gone,” Qara snapped. 

Enki cleared his throat. All three of them turned to look at him.

His gaze darted between the three of them, then down to Chaghan’s bandaged torso. “If there’s nothing else…”

“Leave us,” Altan said, waving a dismissive hand.

“Thank you,” Qara said to Enki’s retreating back. He shot a brief, distracted smile over his shoulder at her.

When he’d closed the door behind him, Altan stepped away from the desk and began to pace the length of the room like an agitated tiger. Gingerly, Chaghan sat up straight; Qara was at his side instantly, putting a warm, steadying hand on his back.

“It isn’t too late,” she murmured into his ear, speaking in Naimad. “We don’t need to stay.”

“Yes, we do,” Chaghan whispered. Altan’s pacing slowed; he seized Chaghan’s sketched layout of the Chuluu Korikh from the desk and pored over it hungrily. “Where else would we go?”

He felt Qara’s stare on the side of his face, but didn’t turn to meet her gaze. He already knew the look he’d find there: an all-too-familiar frustration, tinged with hurt.

“Anywhere,” she whispered. “We can survive anywhere, you and I.” Her eyes flickered towards Altan. “I understand how you feel, but this is a fool’s game. You were never a fool before.”

“Qara,” Altan said, not looking up from the schematics, “give us the room.”

She stared at him for a moment, then looked back towards Chaghan, her dark eyes huge. Chaghan felt her stab of panic as if it were his own. Their brief reunion had been a gasp of air after hours spent submerged in a freezing river. She was terrified of going back under again. 

He took Qara’s hand and squeezed it.

“Go on,” he murmured. “I’ll see you in a moment.”

Qara hesitated for a heartbeat longer before the fight went out of her, slim shoulders sagging in defeat. She dipped her head, pulled her fingers free from Chaghan’s grip, and ducked out of the room, closing the door silently behind her.

Altan set down the map. He ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed at his temples. 

He looked awful. In the two months Chaghan had been gone, the shadows under Altan’s eyes had deepened to a sickly purple, his once-bright skin now ashen and dull. The room held the sweetish tang of old opium smoke, barely masked with sweat and blood. 

“She isn’t going to cause problems for us, is she?” Altan glanced back towards the door.

Protectiveness prickled at the back of Chaghan’s mind. He forced it down. Altan wasn’t quite mad enough yet to start turning on his own soldiers. He had to believe that, at least. 

“No more so than usual,” he replied, keeping his tone light. “She’s wary. Give her some time to get used to the idea.”

Altan didn’t bother with a response. He padded back over towards Chaghan and settled against the edge of the desk. When Chaghan reached out and brushed his fingertips over his shoulder, Altan didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into the touch, shifting to press his warmth against Chaghan’s side. 

It reminded him of the Ketreyids’ hunting dogs, sleek and lovely black things with long legs and sharp eyes. The way they’d flock back to their handlers after a long period of separation, tails wagging, eager to press their flanks against their owners’ legs, leaning in for a kind touch. Affection kindled warm in Chaghan’s chest; he couldn’t help but smile.

“Didn’t miss me too much, then?”

“Shut up,” Altan replied, entirely without heat. He took Chaghan’s hand in his own – that familiar grip, hot and crushing, as if he were trying to meld their bones together through their skin. Some emotion made his mouth twist; his hair hung over his eyes. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Chaghan thought of the frenzy outside of the gates. He’d been barely conscious by the time Altan had reached him, but he remembered the look on Altan’s face so clearly. Confusion and terror, mixed with that familiar, blood-curdling rage. He’d moved faster than Chaghan had ever seen him move before. He’d cut the Mugenese soldiers down like grass. Dried blood still clung to his clothes, to his trident, propped up in the corner of the room. His skin had burned so hot on the ride back to the gate; reigning in the fire must have felt like torture for him.

Guilt bubbled under Chaghan’s skin. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Nice to see you, too.”

Altan made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a growl. He released Chaghan’s hand and lunged at him, wrapping both arms around his midsection and pushing him back against the desk. Chaghan gasped at the agony of it. Altan’s arms were like a vice, squeezing tight around bruised organs and cracked ribs. The momentum made the desk sway slightly, creaking on its rickety legs.

Chaghan petted feebly at Altan’s arms, wheezing for breath. He half expected to see a furious Qara burst in through the door, white-faced and trembling. 

After a moment, Altan’s grip loosened just enough to let him breathe again. Altan didn’t apologise. He didn’t say anything at all. He’d jammed his face into the junction between Chaghan’s shoulder and throat, his breath hot and moist against Chaghan’s collarbone, taking deep, shuddering breaths like he was trying to drink all of him in. For a long moment, it seemed to be all he could do.

“You smell like horse,” Altan choked out eventually. Despite himself, Chaghan burst out laughing - he instantly regretted it. His ribs burned.

“Flatterer,” Chaghan said. He stroked Altan’s hair off the sweaty nape of his neck, keeping his motions smooth and slow, the same way he’d once learned to calm a flighty stallion. Up close, the scent of stale opium was stronger. “You smell like smoke.” 

Altan laughed, a strange, off-kilter sound. Chaghan felt something wet against his neck. He swallowed, heart racing. Tentatively, he brought his arms up to wrap around Altan’s shoulders, feeling the tremors that wracked through him.

Outbursts of emotion were always rare for Altan. He relished his own pain, both mental and physical; he didn’t express it, rather, he preferred to hoard it, to age it like a fine vintage. For him, it was fuel. Pain and rage and hatred made the Phoenix salivate, made the fire flow smooth and burn hot, made Altan into all he’d ever wanted to be: a human conduit, terrible and beautiful. 

Nothing was capable of breaking Altan Trengsin. He was invincible: that was the fiction that everyone believed. Chaghan had even believed it himself, once.

There was no beauty in this. There was nothing deific in the man — boy, really — currently clinging to Chaghan’s midsection, shoulders quaking, heaving in wet, ragged gasps against his collarbone.

This was not a kind of pain Altan knew how to metabolise. It was a wholly unfamiliar failure, a bottomless, crushing well of frustration and despair. It was ugly. It was pathetic. There was no worse state for a commander to be in. 

Chaghan had always known that Tyr’s decision to name Altan his successor had been a mistake. It had been obvious from the day he’d met him – that dark, rangy Sinegard boy who’d come striding into the Night Castle like he belonged there, his hair clipped short, his face unscarred but still, somehow, battle-weary. He’d hated Altan back then. Hated the way Altan held himself like a tight-coiled spring, hated the way his eyes had followed Tyr when he spoke, always bright, always eager for the next order. 

Here, Chaghan had once thought, was a well-trained dog, a lethal, sharp-toothed creature, whose natural instincts had been honed for years to play whatever role his handlers wanted from him. Altan performed excellently under instruction. He’d honed his pain to a sharp, shining edge, and they had loved him for it.

But as commander of the Cike, Altan had no ceiling, nothing to anchor him. Nobody to tell him what he should be. Now, he was cracking under the weight of the post he’d been so eager to prove himself worthy of.

There was no victory in being right. Instead, Chaghan felt like he’d swallowed a dull, cold stone.

He didn’t want to be right. Despite everything, despite knowing the way it would turn, he had wanted to believe in Altan. He’d surrendered himself to it. He’d put his heart on the altar.

Now the mythos had been stripped away. Only the man was left.

Whatever came next, there was no going back now. Not for either of them.

Gradually, Altan’s tremors subsided. He pulled away, turning to scrub at his face; his eyes were wet. “Gods, Chaghan,” he said roughly. “It’s been a fucking nightmare.”

“I gathered as much,” Chaghan replied.

“Nobody listens. Not the Cike, not the Warlords…” Altan’s grip on Chaghan’s waist tightened a painful fraction. His other hand was tight on the edge of the desk, knuckles going white. “They want us to fail. They want me to fail. I can’t…”

His voice faltered, mouth twisting. He looked so helpless, all of a sudden. Chaghan put a careful palm against the side of his face; Altan reached up and held his hand there, leaning into it. He shifted to kiss the base of his thumb.

“I can help,” Chaghan said softly. He cocked his head. “Want me to make them listen?”

Altan looked thoughtful for a moment. He gave a small, wry smile, and shook his head. “Unfortunately, the country needs the Warlords’ minds intact.”

Chaghan hummed. “A shame. The Cike, though…?”

This wrung a chuckle from Altan. Chaghan felt a small thrill of pride.

“I see we have a new recruit,” Chaghan said. He remembered the girl’s brown, freckled face peering through the doorfame, her dark eyes wide, before Enki had unceremoniously shut the door on her. “Skinny little thing, isn’t she? I didn’t know we were taking in strays.”

When Altan didn’t respond, he pressed again. 

“Nothing wrong with it. We need the numbers, and she’ll train up fast enough. What is she, a refugee? Let me guess, she stumbled upon her god by accident, and now she has nowhere else to go?”

“You’re not far off,” said Altan. His voice sounded strangely tight. “But she’s not a refugee. She trained at Sinegard. And she’s a Speerly.”

Chaghan faltered. “...What?” His hand dropped to Altan’s shoulder. “That… that shouldn’t be possible.”

She looked young — at least two years younger than Altan, and he’d been the youngest of them in that wretched laboratory. And, if Chaghan remembered correctly, the girl’s eyes had been brown.

Altan gave a helpless shrug. “I know. Still, here she is.”

“Can she call the Phoenix?”

“She did once. Apparently she turned an entire regiment of crickets to coal in Sinegard. Kept burning, couldn’t put herself out.” Altan snorted. “I’ve never seen her manage more than a candle flame.”

There was an odd sort of stiffness in the way Altan held himself now. Chaghan understood. He’d been the Last Speerly for so long. Now, suddenly, that moniker no longer applied.

“I imagine you’ve already considered the implications of this,” Chaghan said.

Altan raised an irritated eyebrow. “Don’t say it.”

“What? It’s only natural.” Chaghan shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind. It would be your duty, after all —”

Altan clapped a hand over his mouth. Chaghan snickered.

“It’s not like that,” Altan said firmly. “She’s… a child. And she’s barely a Speerly at all.” He pulled his hand back from Chaghan’s mouth to claw anxiously at the edge of the desk again. “Jiang taught her to be a coward at Sinegard. She can’t channel her anger. I’m not even sure she has any.” Altan’s lip curled, as if this was the most unnatural thing he could imagine. “They told me she was a Speerly. Right now, she’s just a dead weight. And I don’t have the time to spend coaxing the Phoenix out of her.”

“Let me, then,” Chaghan said. “I don’t imagine it would take much to crack her mind open.”

“She’s stubborn,” Altan sighed.

“I can be very persuasive. Besides, we’re at war. She’ll feel the pressure to make herself useful soon enough. When she does, she’ll come to me.”

“I hope you’re right.” Exhaustion had crept into Altan’s voice; he leaned forward again and rested his head into the crook of Chaghan’s shoulder. Chaghan smiled slightly, combing his fingers through Altan’s hair.

He could take this, at least. He could take this one, small weight from Altan’s overburdened shoulders.

“I’m your Seer,” Chaghan murmured. “I’m always right.”

The Night Castle.

Eight months before.

As a Seer, Chaghan had spent a good portion of his life familiarising himself with rituals.

Most of the time, these had no distinct mystical purpose. The most powerful, widespread rituals were almost entirely to do with the mind – cultural, superstitious practises, which guarded against misfortune or invoked luck in ways that had nothing at all to do with the higher planes. The Nikara had many of these. Every other day seemed to be some festival of the dead, or of war, or of fertility. Nights where they needed no excuse to dance around bonfires, run shrieking through the town streets, and set entire pigs to roasting, heedless of the waste. 

Southerners, he understood, were hedonists. They could never be content to simply observe and understand their small place in the cosmos. They needed distraction, needed an outlet for their tangled and messy desires. In this way, they constructed small everyday rituals of their own, each combination unique to the individual. These might be as harmless as brewing a morning tea, or as brutal as getting drunk at the end of a long shift and knocking their wife’s teeth out. 

Sex was little more than another of these rituals. He had to suppose it had another purpose, usually – that being the creation of children – but the majority of it seemed to just be about pleasure, about indulging the base urges of the physical form. Chaghan’s own grip on the material world was tenuous, at the best of times; as such, for him, the concept had never held much interest. He didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

Altan changed this, the same way he changed many things — seemingly without even trying.

With Altan, it had never just been mindless rutting. Every night they spent together was a dance, a game, an intricate and delicate spell. There was always a certain danger to it. If Chaghan misstepped, or said the wrong thing, or simply failed to gauge Altan’s mood correctly, the whole tapestry fell apart. Something in those ember-bright eyes would shut off, and the door would close just as quickly as it had opened.

But when he got it right, the reward was always worth it.

“That’s it,” Altan murmured, fingers digging into Chaghan’s hipbones. “Keep your eyes on me. That’s good.”

It was impossible to look at anything else. In the room’s dim light, Altan’s eyes seemed to glow like coals. His skin glistened in the humid warmth, stretched out on his back, both hands guiding Chaghan’s hips as he bobbed up and down on his cock. Every so often, the taut muscles of Altan’s belly gave a tantalizing twitch, but he didn’t move to thrust up into him. He simply stayed put, keeping his hips perfectly still. The unspoken command was clear. I want you to work for it.

Chaghan suppressed a whimper. His thighs ached. Every time he drew close to reaching his peak – when the hot pressure of Altan’s cock inside of him became too much to bear, his own throbbing painfully in response – Altan had tightened his grip around his hips and held him still, just before the wave of pleasure had a chance to break. By now, Altan’s stomach was slick and shining, both their sweat mixed with Chaghan’s pooling precum.

It felt cruel. It felt delicious. 

“You’ve done so well,” Altan said. His voice was so lovely, soft and dark like velvet. “I know what you want. Don’t worry; I’ll give it to you. But, first…” One hand moved from Chaghan’s hip, trailing low and exhilarating over his stomach. “You need to do something for me.”

“Anything,” Chaghan panted. He was well past shame now; when he went to Altan, he hung his pride at the door. “I’ll do anything.”

Altan’s mouth quirked. “Good boy.” 

He reached down and stroked his palm over Chaghan’s cock. The touch was so brief, so fleeting, but after so long kept on the edge, Altan’s hot, calloused palm felt like heaven. Chaghan bit back a whine.

“Now,” Altan said, drawing his hand away. “Tell me the truth. You’ve been spying on us, haven’t you?”

Chaghan’s mouth dried up. No matter how many times they played this game, Altan’s hard-edged voice when he asked the question never ceased to send a small spike of panic up his spine.

“I…” He swallowed. “Yes.”

Altan’s eyes narrowed. His grip on Chaghan’s hips tightened, just a fraction.

There was no real danger here. This was a well-trodden scenario; Altan’s wrath was nothing but a play-act, a part of the scenery. Still, Chaghan felt the hot thrill of risk all the same. Like stepping right to the edge of a perilous cliff edge, just to poke your head over the side and marvel at the drop. To wonder what it might be like to fall.

“Those Ketreyids think that they own you,” Altan said. “Don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And are they right?”

Chaghan’s breath hitched. “No.”

“Correct. Tell me, who owns you?”

“You,” Chaghan breathed, without hesitation. “You own me.”

Altan smiled, with a rare, genuine warmth.

“That’s right, little bird,” he said, voice low with pride. His thumbs traced fondly over the jut of Chaghan’s hips. “I know you’ll send word to them tonight. Tell me what you’ll say, and I’ll give you what you want.”

This part could vary. By and large, Chaghan would usually tell him the truth. He would omit the most important details; he’d been trained too well to give those up so easily. But the shape of the words, the picture he’d paint, would be accurate enough. The words he murmured to Altan, here and now, would eventually be delivered to the Sorqan Sira.

It was treason. If the Ketreyids knew, if they ever found out — treaty be damned, they’d skin him alive for it.

But it was worth it, so worth it, to see the satisfaction glowing on Altan’s face.

“They think you’re dangerous,” Chaghan said. His voice came out tight and halting, hitching with each rock of his hips. “They told me I should kill you.”

Altan barked out a laugh, eyes glittering. “You think you could kill me?”

“I don’t…”

“No, you don’t. This is proof.” Altan seized his wrist, holding it up against Chaghan’s chest. Chaghan glanced down. In the dim light, the burn scar seemed to glow, red against his pale skin, a perfect imprint of Altan’s fingers wrapped neatly around his wrist. “You remember this, don’t you? Remember how you let me leave it there?”

“I – I remember.” That wave of building pleasure was rising again, slow and deliberate. It felt so close, he could almost taste it. His cock throbbed. “Fuck —”

Altan’s smile turned into something sharp-toothed and feral. “You tried to squirm away, but you loved every second. You’d like more, wouldn’t you? I can think of a few good places for them.”

He released Chaghan’s wrist, grasping at his waist, his chest, his thighs. Each hot, firm squeeze was electrifying; Chaghan could feel the Phoenix’s flames, barely restrained beneath Altan’s skin. It would take Altan no effort at all to burn him. The effort, he knew, was in holding back.

“Oh, gods,” Chaghan whimpered. “Yes, anything. Anything, just, please...”

“Maybe I will,” said Altan. His voice was rough; his hips hitched under Chaghan, pushing up to meet him. “Maybe I should cover you in them, send you back North to those savages. Let them see how I turned their little spy into my pet.”

The snarl in Altan’s voice – the image, the humiliation of it – made something in Chaghan snap. 

He lurched forward in Altan’s grip, mouth open in a silent cry; he managed to brace one trembling arm against the bed to catch himself. He hadn’t come yet, but it was a close thing, barely a hair’s breadth away. Every part of him ached for it, strained for it, desperate and wanting. Rational thought fled his mind. Now, he was only a body, hot-blooded and trembling. Shakily, he reached a hand down to wrap around his own cock.

Altan was too quick. He caught Chaghan’s wrist, holding it up against his chest the way he’d done before. His grip was bruisingly tight. 

“Keep that there,” he instructed roughly. He released Chaghan’s wrist. “Don’t move.”

Slowly, Altan’s hand came up to wrap warm around Chaghan’s throat. It felt so nice, Chaghan thought fuzzily. 

Altan was a tether, just like his Anchor bond, keeping him rooted firmly in the realm of the material. For once, there was nowhere Chaghan would rather be. And Altan had such lovely hands – beautiful, with broad, calloused palms and slim, nimble fingers, bitten-short nails and thin, silvery scars tracing delicately over brown skin. His grip was always so sure, so warm, and always just on this side of too tight. 

Altan’s fingers flexed, as if testing something — his grip tightened, a bite of pain. Chaghan tried to gasp, but all he could do was choke. Fear, then — a real, pulsing thrill of it, running hot up his spine. He felt Altan’s cock twitch inside of him.

The fingers of Altan’s other hand wrapped tight around his cock, pumping roughly. Chaghan whined in the back of his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. Every muscle tensed, like a bowstring held taut. He dared to bring a trembling hand up to Altan’s wrist, closing over the hand around his own throat, keeping it there—

The wave reared up high, and crashed. 

Blissful darkness. His head felt so very light, so empty; every nerve ending sung with fizzing pleasure, a perfect, harmonic chorus. Nothing else existed in the world. Nothing else mattered.

Chaghan was vaguely aware of being flipped over — brief, weightless vertigo, then the heavy press of the mattress against his back. Altan had pulled out of him, and now he pressed Chaghan’s knee up to his chest and pushed two oil-slicked fingers back inside — rough and unyielding after the smooth, velvet heat of his cock. Chaghan gasped at the sudden overstimulation, and when he felt Altan’s tongue against his softening cock, he couldn’t bite back a cry.

“Too much…” Chaghan pushed at Altan’s shoulder, against the top of his head, but he didn’t budge. “That’s enough, I can’t—”

“You will,” Altan growled. “You’re not done until I say you are.”

He pushed his fingers deeper, searching, crooking upward; at the same time, his lips closed hot over the tip of Chaghan’s cock. The wave of overwhelming pain-pleasure made him writhe, wringing out choked moans which strayed into sobs. Altan’s grip on his thigh tightened, bruising, holding him still.

Altan kept him there for a moment longer until he was satisfied, until Chaghan’s thighs and stomach were too exhausted to even tremble, until he was utterly slack in Altan’s grip. He was distantly aware of something hot and wet against his stomach — he looked down to see Altan dragging his tongue over the hollow of his belly, chasing the last drops of his seed.

“That’s for disobeying me,” Altan said. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; with the other, he squeezed his own cock, still as hard and heavy as it had been inside of Chaghan. A thick drool of precum leaked from the tip. Chaghan’s mouth watered at the sight of it, even though every part of him ached from exhaustion. Altan slapped him on the thigh. “Get on your knees.”

Altan fucked him then the same way he fought: brutally, efficiently, with no room for mercy. He grasped Chaghan’s hair from behind and pulled; if Chaghan had been any more lucid, he might have found the noise he made in response embarrassing. When Altan finished – spending inside him with a low, ragged groan – he lingered for only a moment, giving Chaghan’s hips one final squeeze before pulling out and flopping onto his back.

They both lay there for a long moment, panting and exhausted. Chaghan’s knees had already buckled; he collapsed onto his side, thighs aching and unbearably sticky. He felt Altan’s seed seeping out of him in a warm gush, lighting a sweet curl of pride low in his belly. 

This was one of the only times Chaghan was actually glad to have a physical body. Most times, it felt like nothing more than a necessary inconvenience, a thin, pallid shade of what he should be, forced to exist in a world he’d never found particularly intuitive. Now, spent and aching and bruised all over, it felt divine. Purposeful. His fingertips buzzed, tinged pink with a rare flush; his head felt delightfully airy, thoughts coming only in vague, wispy shapes, like clouds on a bright summer’s day. 

He brushed the hair out of his eyes, and peered over Altan’s shoulder to watch his face.

Usually, in the warm afterglow of their coupling, Altan would be relaxed. It was one of the only settings in which he could really, truly let down his guard, stretched out boneless, with the same open, glassy-eyed look he got from opium. Sometimes, if the mood struck him, he’d even be affectionate, rolling over and shifting close to trace the marks he’d left on Chaghan’s skin, pulling him into long, languid kisses. 

Those were Chaghan’s favourite moments, the ones he turned over in his memory on cold, far-flung nights: Altan, warm and contented against him, his soft, lovely voice like a lullaby, describing all the myriad ways in which, together, the two of them would fix this blighted world.

This was not one of those times. Altan’s expression was strangely hard, his eyes distant and unfocused as he stared up at the ceiling. Chaghan felt his stomach drop, unease crawling over his bare skin.

“Is everything alright?” Chaghan winced at the hoarseness of his own voice. He must have been making more noise than he’d thought. 

Altan didn’t respond. He didn’t even seem to have heard.

Chaghan stared at the side of his face. Carefully, he put a hand against Altan’s chest; when Altan didn’t stir, Chaghan traced his fingers gently over the scars that marked his skin. He made sure to avoid the scalpel scars. Those were on the long list of places Altan did not tolerate being touched. 

He wished, suddenly, that they were Anchored. Not that it would help him much now – it wasn’t as if he and Qara could simply beam their thoughts into each other’s minds like mirror-wells – but he still wished for the connection nonetheless. If they were Anchored, if their souls were bonded, perhaps he could take a fraction of Altan’s pain into himself. Perhaps he could somehow lessen the burden.

That wasn’t how it worked. He knew all too well that shared pain did not hurt any less. But the principle of it… having someone, anyone to share that experience with…

That was the worst part of Altan’s pain, he knew. It was lonely. Nobody remained on the face of the earth who really, truly understood. 

“Have you given it any more thought?” he ventured, watching Altan’s face carefully. “My suggestion, I mean.”

Altan blinked, seeming to come to. He arched an eyebrow at Chaghan. “Which one?”

“The Anchor bond.”

Altan seemed to consider for a moment. He propped his head up on his arms. “With you and your sister? Have you figured it out yet?”

Chaghan opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingertip drew circles against Altan’s sternum. “...Not yet. It might not be possible.”

Altan looked slightly annoyed. “Why bring it up then?”

“I just…” Chaghan cleared his throat. Why was he so nervous? “I thought it would… help. Having someone to share the load.”

“The load.” Altan’s voice was strangely taut. “Explain what you mean by that.”

His tone was so clipped that it sounded like he was berating someone during training, not speaking to a lover. 

Chaghan felt suddenly very aware of his own nakedness, of the sweat and fluids cooling on his skin. Smashed open, pried apart like an oyster, his pale, pulsing guts on full display. He wrapped his arms around his chest, and tried to speak again.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I just understand that the Phoenix is… strong. Loud.” His mouth worked silently; he prayed for the right words to come, but everything seemed to stick in his throat. “Of course, you are more than capable of handling it yourself, but there would be benefits to having an Anchor. The connection would be more… stable. Mutually beneficial.” He cleared his throat. “There are some amongst the Cike who would be capable. Willing, too.”

Altan laughed incredulously. “You think any of them could take the Phoenix? They aren’t Speerlies. It would burn them from the inside out. There’d be nothing left.”

Chaghan bit his lip. He wanted, desperately, to backpedal, to apologise, but he knew it wouldn’t help. Grovelling was weakness. Altan hated weakness.

But what could he say? What else was there to offer? Altan’s kin were all long dead, reduced to piles of bones, lapped clean by the sea against ashy sands. He suddenly regretted ever opening his mouth. 

Altan groaned, sitting up and running a hand across his face. 

“You know what your problem is?” he said into his hand.

Chaghan said nothing. He didn’t dare speak.

“You think this is a burden,” Altan spat. “Some yoke across my neck. Like I’m dragging it against my will, like I’m suffering. It’s far from that. It’s a privilege.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I expected you to understand. You can’t.”

“I do,” Chaghan said. His heart hammered in his throat. “Out of everyone here, of course I understand. You know that, I told you—“

Altan turned to stare at him. The furious disbelief on his face was enough to make Chaghan’s entire body go cold.

“You think we’re the same?” Altan had taken on an awful, condescending tone. It reminded Chaghan, with a lurch of nausea, of his cousin Bekter. “No. Your culture is still alive. Your family.”

Chaghan gave a thin, unsteady laugh. “They are not my family.”

“Of course they are. If you went back North tomorrow, they’d welcome you back with open arms. You would fit right in.”

“I would be their slave.” Absurdly, Chaghan found his eyes watering. He swallowed back a lump in his throat.

Altan rolled his eyes.

“Slave,” he sighed, getting to his feet. He crossed the room and fumbled with a pouch of opium. “I think we have different definitions of what that word means.”

Chaghan sat there, speechless, trembling with fury. Altan didn’t turn around, instead focusing on clearing out his pipe and dropping the nuggets inside.

“Is that what this is about?” Chaghan managed. “Are you jealous?” 

Altan’s shoulders stiffened.

Chaghan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“You shouldn’t be,” he said. “My family may be alive, but I wish every day they were not. I promise you, there is nothing to envy there.”

“Can’t have been that bad,” Altan shrugged. “You said there was some kind of pact, right? They can’t hurt you?”

“Oh, believe me, there are plenty of creative ways around that.” Chaghan laughed bitterly. “My dear cousin could tell you some choice ones —”

“I’m not envious that you spent half your life being their fucking dog,” Altan snapped.

Chaghan stared at him. His chest ached, a dull, stabbing pain, like being stabbed with a rusty blade.

“I don’t have to take this,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “I don’t need to take this from you.”

“Then leave.”

There was nothing Chaghan could say to that. The fight had been drained out of him; now, he only felt small, cold, and foolish. Silently, he pulled himself to his feet and wrenched his uniform back on; the shirt clasps and boot laces he didn’t bother with. He wanted to clean himself up — his skin was uncomfortably tacky, and there was an unpleasant, lukewarm wetness sliding down the inside of his leg, but he didn’t dare stay any longer than absolutely necessary, no matter how the sensation made his cheeks burn with shame.

As he left, Altan stretched back out on the bed, careless and graceful as ever. A wisp of smoke unfurled lazily from his pipe; he raised it to his lips and took a long, hungry drag.

Chaghan shut the door.

It shouldn’t have hurt. It shouldn’t.

And yet, it did.

He had known the risks of baring his soul to Altan, in exchange for a glimpse of Altan’s own. He’d known the risks of keeping that wound open for Altan to peruse his inner workings at his leisure, to reach in whenever he liked and take what he wanted, whatever he found useful, found helpful.

And this was hardly the first time Altan had lashed out at him like this. It wasn’t even the first time he’d done it for no particular reason. Sometimes, the fire burned so close to the surface that Altan’s short fuse became a hair-trigger. Devastating, yes, but short-lived. Manageable. 

He knew all of this very well by now. It didn’t make it feel any less like something sharp-toothed had closed its jaws around his heart, and was currently attempting to rip it out of his ribcage.

It took monumental effort to make it to his and Qara’s quarters. By the time he’d opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him, Chaghan wanted nothing more than to slide down into a heap and cry until he passed out.

“Chaghan?”

He froze.

Qara stirred in her bed from the far side of the room. His own side of the room was a mess, his bed unmade, the floor strewn with various papers and implements; hers was neat and organised as ever. She sat up to squint into the darkness, hair undone from her long braid. 

Her expression was unreadable in the low light; the frown she wore could have been one of frustration, irritation, or confusion. Probably, Chaghan thought, some combination of all three. The ache in his chest was so keen he was certain she could feel it, too. He tensed, forcing a carefully neutral expression. Bracing for her questions, her concern, her pity.

Qara only held out her arms towards him. “Come here.”

Relief flooded him, so sharp it was painful. He took a great, heaving breath, and went to her. 

Instantly, Qara’s arms wrapped around him; she pulled him back onto the bed with her. There was no coordination to it; she was half asleep and still wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, and Chaghan’s senses were so dulled that he could barely move, every muscle stiff and unresponsive. He ended up curled against her chest, boots still on. Qara didn’t seem to care. Her arms held warm and strong around his shoulders.

She didn’t ask what had happened. She didn’t say anything at all. She only rubbed soothing circles between his shoulderblades as he tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle his sobs. 

At some point, Qara began to hum: a soft, half-forgotten tune their mother had once sang to them when they were small. Chaghan recognised snippets of it when she would sing to calm her birds. When they’d come in from a storm with wide amber eyes and ruffled feathers, drenched and shivering, burrowing their heads against her neck for warmth. She’d stroke gently over their feathers, the same way she stroked his hair now.

He fell asleep quickly, and dreamed of cold, distant sand dunes beneath burning stars.

Khurdalain, eastern Tiger Province.

One and a half months before.

They were in Altan’s office again, now for the last time, ripping papers off the wall and scooping up scrolls in hasty preparation for their departure. They’d already gutted the room for useful materials — now it was down to the bare floorboards, disassembled scraps of furniture, and piles and piles of paper. The contents of a scattered, half-mad commander’s mind, laid out like a tableau. 

Looking at it all, it was easy to figure out at what point Altan had snapped. If he tried, Chaghan could probably pinpoint the exact day.

The majority of the documents were burned for good measure – Altan handled that with a few deft flicks of his wrist – but some were historical maps and reports from spies which might still be useful, or reams of notes in Altan’s messy, scrawled hand that, for some reason or other, he couldn’t bear to throw away. Chaghan handled these, assessing each one for its value before rolling them up carefully. 

He was eager to have something physical to do. The Talwu’s dire premonition still rang in his ears; his mind was still bubbling with potential interpretations like a pot left too long on the fire. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. It helped, having some purpose to put them towards.

They hadn’t spoken much about the Hexagram. There wasn’t much to say. All that bore repeating was this: they were either about to walk into a trap, or they had already sprung it and now it was far, far too late. 

Chaghan tried to ignore the cold dread pooling in his stomach.

“You should know,” Altan said from the other side of the room, “I’ve decided on a successor. If anything… If things go wrong in Golyn Niis.”

Chaghan exhaled. He’d been waiting for this conversation.

“Well, no need to be so formal about it. You know I accept.” He paused, scanning over a document. “Although I still disagree with your suggestion of Baji as my lieutenant. Qara would fare much better, and she’s already been filling in for me, so she knows the ropes. She’s more careful. Less prone to distraction. And I don’t particularly care if you think it makes the Cike look too ‘incestous’, whatever that means, she’s still the right choice.”

“It’s not you,” Altan said flatly. “It’s Rin.”

Chaghan turned around to stare at him. Altan hadn’t looked up; he picked up a diagram of a warehouse in one hand and incinerated it, paper curling into itself before turning to ash and steam. 

A month ago, this might have been Altan’s idea of a joke. 

“You really have lost your mind,” Chaghan muttered.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“Rin will act as commander in my stead,” Altan said, as if he hadn’t spoken. He raised his voice, a flat, loud timbre that invited no argument. “You will serve as her lieutenant. Do I make myself clear?”

“No.” His voice warbled; the word had spilled out before he’d been able to stop it. 

Altan’s movements stilled. His shoulders were held very stiff; he still hadn’t turned around.

It would be a mistake to argue. It would achieve nothing. Chaghan didn’t care.

“She isn’t ready,” he said. “You said it yourself. A month ago she could barely light a candle – now you’re entrusting the future of the Cike to her? To a child?”

“She’s not a child,” Altan snapped. “She’s powerful. She has potential. More potential than I…” He faltered for a moment, then turned around. His eyes were steely. “That’s why she needs you.”

Chaghan laughed, sounding more than a little manic. “She won’t listen to me. She hates me.”

“Doesn’t matter. She’s a Speerly, she doesn’t need you to be her friend.” Altan spat the word like a curse. “You know how to unlock her potential, so do it. If I’m not around, she’s your best shot at surviving this war.”

If you’re not around, I don’t care.

“Look,” Chaghan said, raising a placating hand. “I understand. She has potential, I admit. She could be a good shaman. Perhaps, one day, an excellent shaman. But she’s not a leader. You’ve seen the way she looks at you, the way she follows you around – you know that, just as well as I do. Nobody can teach you to command. You have to want it. She doesn’t.”

“I didn’t,” Altan snarled. “She will learn. You’ll make her learn.”

The girl’s face materialised in his mind’s eye. Round and soft-cheeked, her irises still that dark, muddy shade of brown. Chaghan could mold her easily, could turn her mind into putty and reshape something resembling Altan’s image from the clay. The plan was there, all the building blocks besides. Without Tearza’s ghost to hold her back, there was nothing stopping Rin from freefalling into the Phoenix’s fiery embrace. All Chaghan would need to do was give her a little push.

Normally, he would have absolutely no qualms in doing so. He’d broken enough minds by now that he was numb to it. Wails of helpless agony no longer bothered him.

But something about this particular idea seemed to… stick. Like trying to swallow a fish bone, too sharp, too angular. He thought of a memory that wasn’t his own. A cold, lonely stone cell. A single, distant star.

“Don’t ask me to do this.”

Altan crossed the room in a few slow strides, until their chests almost brushed. His fingers seized Chaghan by the chin, forcing him to tilt his head up, to meet his eyes.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, the difference between them. When they spoke freely with one another, when the lights were dim and they were the only breathing things in the room, they seemed one and the same – one creature, one beating heart, with the same wants, the same fears. The lines between their bodies and minds blurred, sweet and hazy.

The lines were starkly obvious now.

Altan had always been so much stronger than him; taller, too, by a good half a foot. So close, Chaghan had to crane his neck to meet his eyes. Heat poured off Altan’s skin. His fingers felt like red-hot iron.

He was used to Altan’s occasional bursts of anger — short, bright flashes that disappeared as quickly as they’d come — but this was not the same. This was the low, rolling boil of something that had been heating up for a very long time. Anything dropped into it now would die in seconds.

“I’m not asking,” Altan said. His eyes burned, bloodshot and red-rimmed; his voice had dropped to something soft and dangerous. “I’m telling you. And you will do it.”

“I just…” Chaghan’s voice came out thin and tremulous. He barely recognised it.  “I don’t think —”

“I’ve had enough insubordination to deal with these past few days. I won’t make an exception just because it’s you.” Altan’s fingers tightened. Much more of this and they’d leave bruises. “You’ll do it. Say yes.”

It was no use fighting. Talking back now – or even daring to roll his eyes – would be certain to end badly. Altan usually tried not to hurt him, even in the throes of his worst moods, but his resolve was so thin right now that Chaghan could almost see it, straining under the Phoenix’s influence, tearing like wet paper. 

The pain would be inconsequential. But when Altan’s rage subsided — and Chaghan had to believe it would — he would be devastated. He wouldn't let Chaghan get close to him again for weeks. That wasn’t a price Chaghan was willing to pay.

“Yes.”

Altan cocked his head. “What’s that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Altan didn’t smile. He released Chaghan’s chin, fingers trailing across his jaw as if in apology. Chaghan resisted the instinct to cringe away. “You’ll see. She’s strong. Brave. I trust her.”

Chaghan’s throat tightened. Why her? Wailed a small, plaintive voice in the back of his mind. Why her, and not me?

He shut his mind to it. No need for panic. This wasn’t the end of the world.

This was manageable. Needing a replacement commander was a hypothetical, worst-case scenario. If they kept their wits sharp, nothing would happen in Golyn Niis. The city was, most likely, already done for; if their enemy was long gone, what danger could there be?

Altan would come around. There would be plenty more chances to talk him down, once the immediate threat was handled, once the pressure crushing them all into the dirt had loosened. He just needed time. That was all. Chaghan could give him time.

“Very well,” Chaghan said, dipping his head. He kept his voice low and level, not challenging but not grovelling either. The same way he’d been taught to address the Ketreyids. “As you wish, Commander.”

Act like you’re part of the floor, his mother had told him once, eyes full of a guilt he couldn’t yet understand. Act like you know they’re going to tread on you, because it is the only use you have. 

Baolei Range, northern Ox Province.

One year after.

The miles fled like water beneath his warhorse’s hooves.

He reduced each day to its components: wake, eat, ride, sleep. Wake, eat, ride, sleep. The north star, shining bright even through a patchy carpet of cloud, was the only waypoint he needed. Provinces passed in a blur. Colours muddied, sounds muffled. Once or twice, someone tried halfheartedly to rob him; he left them as twitching heaps on the dirt, bleeding from their eyes and noses. 

By the time Chaghan had reached the second mountain range, his horse was showing signs of flagging. He knew he should slow his pace. At this rate, he risked riding the animal to death. 

Some time in the morning, he drew to a stop beside a shallow creek and dismounted. His mare snorted in great plumes of steam; her eyes were wild, nose dark with blood. He stroked a hand over the black velvety softness of her muzzle, and fed her a palmful of stale oats as an apology. She bowed her neck to drink, as he cast a glance around.

These mountains were probably beautiful. Great white shards of stone rose on all sides around him like crooked teeth, gnarled and windswept trees clinging to cliffsides, growing at odd, twisted angles. It was the sort of place he would have once enjoyed being alone, free from the suffocating press of other human bodies, free from watchful eyes, from distractions.

Loneliness lost its glamour when you had no other choice.

Chaghan knelt beside the stream, filling his waterskins. His own reflection looked strange, unfamiliar and ghostly. His hair had grown longer. With no time to cut it evenly, he’d had to braid it over his shoulder to keep it from falling into his eyes while riding. 

Looking at it now, against the familiar layout of his features, it reminded him of someone else.

He finished refilling the skins quickly, and didn’t look into the water again.

Once the horse had recovered somewhat, he swung himself back into the saddle. At this altitude, the paths became rocky and treacherous; more than once, the horse shied as rock slid away into a crevasse inches from her hooves. She was a Ketreyid mount, perfectly trained and well-bred, but days of overexertion and hunger had made her flighty. No amount of soothing murmurs or petting her neck seemed to help.

No time for caution. He pushed onward.

Three days into the mountains, he spied a glint of metal amongst the rocks.

The sun was setting; he should really have been looking for a cave or overhang to make camp. Night brought with it curtains of freezing rain that forced him to stop and rest, or risk potentially deadly hypothermia. Unfortunately, dying here was not an option he had the luxury of risking. But the tantalizing shimmer of metal, gleaming in the sun, held a promise of a reward – supplies and clothing, perhaps even food, if the remains were fresh. Plenty of scouts had gotten lost in the mountains recently. After the strips of dried meat he’d taken from the Ketreyid camp had run out, scavenging had become a necessity. And, like it or not, his pathetic excuse of a body still needed to eat.

He swung out the saddle again, taking his knife. After a moment’s deliberation, he looped the horse’s reins around a twiggy, malformed tree, just in case a distant rockfall made her startle.

Stopping had been foolish after all. There was nothing here but bones, skin stretched papery thin over a withered skull, a tattered grey uniform flapping in the breeze. Their supplies had long since turned to dust. Chaghan’s eyes narrowed in recognition. The glint of metal he’d seen hadn’t been a blade. Clutched in the skeleton’s hand was something he’d hoped never to see again.

It was an old model. He recognised the arquebus all the same.

Snarling, he aimed a savage kick at the skeleton’s hand. The whole thing snapped clean off and flew over the edge of the cliff, arquebus and bones one and the same, clattering down into the gorge with a sound like ringing gongs.

He stared after it. It hadn’t felt as satisfying as he’d hoped.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a howl.

Chaghan’s blood went cold. He snatched up the only useful thing on the corpse – a dusty tinderbox – and hurried back to where he’d left his horse.

He arrived just as the wolves did. The mare pulled against her reins, rearing and snorting, her eyes rolling in her skull. She lashed out with her back hooves, but there must have been a dozen of them: skinny, hungry-eyed creatures, their grey fur patchy and thin, pressing in on her from all sides. They were starving. Desperate. No amount of danger could make them back down now.

Chaghan lingered behind a jut of rock and tried to suppress his panic. He’d left his supplies in the horse’s saddlebags – right now, all he had on him was a tinderbox and a hunting knife. He could try to shout them down, but animal minds were less susceptible to abilities like his – that was why the Ketreyids still needed to use fire to ward off predators, when the steppe was hospitable enough to support them at all. If he waded into the fray now, there was every chance the wolves would simply tear his throat out.

But he couldn’t sentence his horse to death. She was a good mount, steadfast and loyal, and still in good health. Without her, he’d be stuck in these mountains for weeks. If he managed to get out, he’d have to steal a new mount, and horses were in high demand now. He might not be strong enough to even try. 

If she escaped now, there was no guarantee she would come back. It wasn’t as if he’d treated her kindly. She had no reason to be loyal to him.

The mare landed a kick against the largest wolf’s muzzle. In retaliation, it lunged for her hindquarters; teeth met flesh, and the horse let out a thin, terrible scream.

Fuck it.

Chaghan ducked behind the twisted little tree, pulled out his hunting knife, and sliced through the straining reins in one stroke.

Instantly, the horse pulled free. She bolted; the wolves gave chase. They disappeared down the valley out of sight, until the thundering hooves and gleeful barks faded into the distance.

He took a breath, and then another, until his heart had slowed from its frantic, painful beating. The tips of his fingers were numb; the hunting knife shook wildly in his grip. 

Focus, he told himself. It’s getting dark.

Of course he had neglected to look out for suitable caves along the path here. He’d been too reckless today, and now it was going to cost him. An hour was lost to searching, traipsing up and down the narrow, rocky paths, freezing in terror every time a tree rustled, every time his mind tricked him into thinking he heard howls echoing across the stone.

The overhang he found was not ideal. There was next to no cover, just a narrow shelf of rock jutting out above a rather perilous platform. He’d returned to the skeleton and, lip curling, had torn the thin grey remnants of its uniform away – having something to shield against the cold was worth the roiling disgust it brought. 

A stunted, leafless willow tree, sprouting from the side of the cliff just to the edge of the overhang, had been an obvious choice for firewood, but to Chaghan’s irritation it proved surprisingly sturdy. The greyish-brown bark was stubborn beneath the serrations of his knife, giving way to something green, tough, and fibrous. Sap leaked over his fingers. His knife got barely halfway through the trunk before exhaustion made his arm seize and his hand spasm; just like that, the knife slipped from his grasp. It fell into the gorge below, without even a sound.

It took every single bit of his willpower not to scream.

He stared down into the gorge, into the dark place where the depths of the earth were too great for the waning sunlight to find them, and felt a sudden, strong urge to simply step over the cliff edge and be done with it all.

Oh, it was such a nice thought to have. Comforting. Familiar. 

The fall would be exhilarating; a short, weightless limbo, followed by the inevitable crunching fist of gravity. He wondered, idly, which one of his bones would break first. How many he’d feel as they snapped, before everything faded away, grey pallour of the material world waning one final time into that lovely, dark nothingness he’d spent so long fantasizing about. 

An eagle’s distant cry brought him back to reality.

Duty. Legacy. Vengeance. Words he’d once put so little stock in that they seemed laughable. Now, they were all that mattered.

Chaghan closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled at the little tree for all he was worth.

Eventually, it tore free — slowly, spitefully, its roots digging hard into the rock like clawing fingers. It put up a great struggle. In the end, with one final, desperate yank, the whole tree uprooted. The momentum sent him reeling backwards; he nearly pitched clean off the other side of the ledge. It took a long time to calm his frantic heartbeat after that.

The wood did not burn easily. 

Without a knife, it was impossible to cut it into kindling. Its rubbery, sappy limbs would not submit to being shredded by hand, either, no matter how many blisters Chaghan gave himself trying. In the end, he gave up and started trying to light the entire thing on fire, with the help of the meagre, dusty shavings he found in the Hesperian tinderbox.

He looked up from the dying embers of his latest failed attempt to find that the sun had set. Only the very last waning dregs of light remained on the horizon, foggy and blurred; heavy clouds hung low above that last shimmer of colour, promising a night of wet, cold misery. The stars were completely obscured by cloud, and there was no moon to be seen tonight. A sudden, cold gust of wind blew through the overhang, scattering some of the tinder. All around him, shadows had started to crowd closer.

A shiver of dread went up his spine.

He focused on the little pile of tinder again. The flint and steel trembled in his hands; each time he struck them together, red sparks winked into existence, disappearing again as quickly as they’d come.

Wet droplets landed on the stone inches from his feet. It had started to rain.

No, no, no… 

“It won’t catch,” came a voice he recognised in his bones.

Chaghan’s grip on the flint and steel wavered dangerously. He tightened it, striking them together again.

The voice sighed. “It isn’t going to work. The wood’s too damp, and there’s too much wind.”

“I know that,” Chaghan snapped.

Replying to it was a mistake. It was always a mistake. But he was too exhausted to listen to reason right now. As long as he didn’t look at it, it would go away eventually.

He already knew what he’d see, if he were foolish enough to glance up and look into the darkness.

A figure wreathed in flame. A man caught in between life and death, in between existence and non-existence. A wretched, flickering shade, flesh scorched and blackened, falling away to reveal white bone gleaming beneath. An unrecognisable face, teeth bared in a permanent, painful grimace. Only his eyes remained intact. Terrible and beautiful, wrathful and sullen. Bright as poppy flowers.

It was not a ghost. Ghosts were real. This was an illusion born of Chaghan’s own, desperate imagination. He’d made the mistake of picturing it just once, a year ago; it had never let him forget.

It didn’t usually linger this long. Normally, it only ever appeared right at the edge of his vision, and only when he was in complete darkness, which meant almost never. If he kept his eyes averted and did not engage with it, the light ebbed away and faded as quickly as it had come.

Every time the sparks struck, the shade seemed to move a little closer. Chaghan could almost feel its heat against his skin. Just his imagination, but alluring nonetheless. The night’s chill was already soaking into his joints, making him shiver miserably. He ached to press closer to that illusory flame, but kept himself firmly in place.

“Why fight?” asked the shade. “You know it’s futile. There’s something so freeing about it, when you realise you won’t win. When you allow yourself to give up.”

Something vitriolic and bitter sat heavy on his tongue. He clamped his jaw shut and said nothing.

The shade sighed again, like wind through rattling bones. “You’re angry. I understand.”

It wasn’t real. The anger he felt was pointless. Indulging in this would be utterly, utterly pointless. 

“I’m sorry for leaving.” 

Bullshit, thought Chaghan bitterly. How could you be? You finally had an excuse to leave. You wouldn’t have been sorry at all.

The shade flickered closer. He felt its heat then, burning against his knee; it was just at the edge of his vision. It knelt down. Chaghan turned his face away, but the light of the fire pressed at his periphery regardless. Stubborn, impatient. Just like he’d always been.

“I am sorry,” the shade insisted. Its voice wavered, then broke. “I know you don’t believe it, but I did love you.”

A sick lurch in his stomach. Chaghan dropped the flint and steel, and pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes.

Enough now, he thought desperately. Please. That’s enough.

“I promise you, I did.” The shade put a charred hand on his knee; he felt its hot pressure, the crackling texture of its skin through cloth. “But you have to understand. I couldn’t come back. Not after… not after that. Not after they…” 

An awful, choked sound came from the shade’s burned throat. It sounded almost like it was trying to cry.

“I would have had to be your commander again. And I couldn’t. They took me back there, and I couldn’t stop them. I… broke. I wish I could have come back to you, but you would never have been able to look at me the same way.” A hollow, rasping laugh. “I couldn’t bear the image of it. Your revulsion. Your pity.”

Tears burned hot tracks down Chaghan’s cheeks; he dug his palms harder against his eyes, but it didn’t stem the tide.

“You aren’t real,” he choked out. “I would have… I looked everywhere, but I didn’t find you. If you had lingered, I would have found you. I would have done anything.”

“I know you would, little bird.” The shade’s voice turned soft. “You always had such faith in me.”

He couldn’t speak. His throat had closed up completely. It was an effort to breathe.

“Forgive me,” the shade pleaded. “I had to do it. That place was poison. Someone had to save her.” Its throat clicked in a swallow. “Someone had to save you.”

White-hot rage pulsed in the back of his mind. The force of it shocked him. 

Don’t pretend you ever thought about me for a second, he thought savagely. It was only ever about you. You, and her, and your stupid, selfish revenge. Burning the future to spite the past, just like you always did. You were never going to change. Why was I so desperate to believe otherwise?

“Please.” The shade pressed closer. “I love you. Why won’t you look at me?”

You aren’t real. You’re gone, and you’re never coming back. 

“That’s all I want. Just look at me once, and I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone.”

He couldn’t live with this. This was a cruel, sadistic twist of his mind, nothing more. It needed to be excised, needed to be banished. 

If looking at it would finally convince his subconscious that it was over, that nobody was going to come back from the dead, and that the dead had absolutely no interest in haunting him from beyond the grave… he could do that.

Agony clenched in his stomach. 

No, cried a smothered voice in his mind. Don’t do this. It’ll really be over then. No more chances. Not even a glimpse of a light in the dark. It’s so cold, don’t you remember? It’s so lonely.

Clinging to weakness was selfish. He could not afford to be selfish any longer. Someone needed to protect the last Naimads from Bekter’s wrath. Someone needed to pull together the disparate clans of the North. There was nobody else now. It had to be him.

Pain was not fuel, in this quest. Pain was a luxury, a pointless indulgence. This particular grief could have no place in the life he needed to carve for himself now.

The light pressed at his eyelids, bright, bright red. Wanting, searching. That charred, skinless face would be right up against his own now. He’d have to look right into those eyes, and watch them fade away for the very last time.

He took a ragged, shuddering breath, pulled his hands away from his face, and opened his eyes.

There was nothing there.

Only the dark, and the unlit wood, and the pathetic scattering of tinder. 

Chaghan stared into the dark, chest heaving. His breaths hitched, uneven; before he could stop it, he lurched into hoarse, wracking sobs. The wind howled; freezing rain blew sideways into the overhang, soaking him through in minutes. Bitter, overwhelming cold leeched the remaining energy from his shivering muscles. Eventually, he was too exhausted to even cry. He curled up into a tight ball, and huddled against the wet, rocky wall. 

The feeling had disappeared from his hands and feet. When he bit his lip, experimentally, it only brought a dull echo of pain. His thoughts slowed to a trickle.

This is it, he thought numbly. This is how I die. I’m going to freeze to death on this fucking mountain, and nobody is going to know. Nobody is going to care. 

A memory bubbled up in the back of his mind. 

A similar scene, some ten years prior: himself and Qara, small and skinny, huddled in a damp cave in some southern backwater. They’d only just escaped the clutches of a group of bandits; his wrists and jaw ached from the ropes they’d kept him bound with. Qara was hunched in the corner, wild-eyed and trembling like a small animal. Her face and wrists were bruised. He couldn’t look at her for too long without remembering, and being overcome with a wave of ragged, snarling guilt and rage. Those men had died screaming. It hadn’t been enough.

He’d been trying to light a fire. His hands shook with desperation, numb with cold. It had always seemed so easy on the steppe; why was it not easy now? Why now, when his sister needed him? 

Chaghan had struck the flints again and again. Still they did nothing. He clutched them in his small palm, feeling their sharp edges dig painfully into his skin. Tears welled uselessly in his eyes.

There was a shuffling from his side. Qara pressed in against him, holding out her hand, palm-up. Haltingly, he dropped the flints into her palm.

“You need to be more patient,” she’d said, her voice hoarse and toneless. “Too quick and they won’t strike. Slow at first, then-–” Qara struck the flints together in a smooth movement. A strong spark flew up, catching on the tinder. 

Both of them scrambled forwards, cupping their hands around the tiny blaze, blowing into it carefully until it kindled. The branches lit. Warmth spread across them both, soaking into their bones, soothing and vital.

“You’re better at this than me,” Chaghan had mumbled.

Qara shook her head. “No. You’d have got it eventually.” She smiled, a tiny, shaky thing. “Sometimes you just need a reminder.”

In the present, Chaghan blinked the rain out of his eyes. He stretched a numb hand across the floor and seized the flint and steel, stuffing it down his shirt; slowly, he dragged the branch back towards himself. Turning so his back faced the rain, he scrubbed at the ground with the remnants of the Hesperian clothing until a dry spot emerged.

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the tree branch in more detail. Silvery striations shone along its length, like tiger stripes. It was a birch, not a willow like he’d originally thought. Birch bark, he remembered with a jolt, made excellent tinder. He and Qara would always go out of their way to collect it when passing through birch groves on their way south; they’d learned to associate the sound of those papery, rustling leaves with warmth.

He lifted the branch to his mouth, and started stripping off the bark with his teeth.

It was slow going. The bark was tough, but with enough persistence it started coming off in long, thin strips, green flesh shining beneath. Eventually, he had a little pile of it. He didn’t bother trying to recover the soaked Hesperian tinder. Taking a few long, steadying breaths, he pulled out the flint and steel from where they’d been warming against his skin. They were promisingly dry.

Carefully, with every ounce of strength he could muster, he struck them together in a smooth, curved motion.

A spark flew. It caught the kindling. 

By some bizarre miracle, it started to burn.

Chaghan could have wept with relief. He didn’t. Instead, he piled the stripped birch branches into a small pyramid and blew gently at the kindling until the fire flickered upwards, licking eagerly at the wood. He huddled his hands around it protectively, as another gust of wind buffeted in; sheltered behind him, the fire survived. It grew steadily; he kept feeding it. Gradually, the feeling came back into his fingers. When the wind calmed and the fire was not at immediate risk of guttering out, he gave up on modesty and stripped off his soaked clothes, letting the flames dry his freezing skin bit by bit.

The flames leaped. For a moment, looking into them, Chaghan was reminded of a bright pair of eyes. Not Altan’s, this time. He thought of Rin. The grim, determined downturn of her mouth, the shadows under her eyes. The warmth and surprising strength of her hand, squeezing his own, the last time he’d seen her face. He’d been terrified back then, as he was still terrified now. He’d found himself really, truly alone, for the first time in his life, and had no clue where to start. 

She’d looked him in the eyes, held his gaze firm, and had told him to fight.

The fire lasted. Eventually, when the wind and rain had died away, he heaped his dry clothes over himself, curled up around the fire, closed his eyes, and slept.

He awoke when the dawn broke to a thin, glimmering sheen of frost on the ground. His breath misted in front of his face, and when he sat up, he had to pull his braid from the ground where it had frozen there during the night. 

A soft whinny from the ledge made him perk up.

His mare had returned. She stood, pawing at the ground, snorting in the cold. Her hind leg was held slightly off the ground, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

This time, when the wave of overwhelming relief hit him, Chaghan allowed the tears to come. 

He stumbled to his feet, tripped over several times while hastily dressing, and took up the horse’s slack, cut reins. She nosed against his shoulder while he pressed his face against her neck, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent. Southerners didn’t like the smell of horse all that much. To him, it smelled like home.

“Alright,” he told her, sniffling. “Let’s go.”

The Night Castle.

Eight months before.

It wasn’t hard to sneak back in that night. Altan hadn’t even locked the door after he’d left.

Wriggling out from Qara’s grasp had been the hard part. She’d made a noise of protest, face pinching, fingers twisting in the front of Chaghan’s shirt. He’d apologised, kissed her forehead, and gently pried her fingers free. She’d slipped right back to sleep, but that frown had stayed stuck on her face.  

Stepping back into Altan’s room, Chaghan was immediately hit with a wave of opium smoke. He’d grown to hate that sickly-sweet, cloying tang, the way it clung to Altan’s clothes and hair. The way it calmed him, made him happy, in a way that no human being could ever hope to achieve. 

Altan’s pipe was still smoking, abandoned on the floor beside the bed. It looked like it had just slipped out of his grasp, falling to the floor and spilling its ashy contents all over the stone tile. 

Of course, Altan wouldn’t have heard it. He was dead to the world, eyes closed, sprawled in a loose sideways curl. One rogue arm had been flung out off the side of the bed. He’d not even bothered to dress, content to stay naked, the bedsheet artfully draped over his waist just enough to preserve his modesty. Chaghan was reminded of some Nikara tapestries he’d seen, naked women in languid poses with cloth clinging improbably to their thighs and chests, and felt a muted impulse to laugh.

It could have been funny. Instead, the sight just made him feel a weary, bone-deep sadness.

You idiot, he thought, settling on the edge of the bed. You’re such a fucking mess. 

He brushed Altan’s hair back from his face, tucking a stray lock gently behind his ear. That angry red scar that slashed diagonally across his face — during the daytime, when Altan’s expression was set and firm, it made him look tougher. More capable, as if, by virtue of having survived great pain, he would do so once again. Now, against his soft, slack expression and slightly parted lips, it only looked painful.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, how young he still was.

Altan’s eyes moved behind his eyelids, and opened a tiny crack. Chaghan drew his hand back.

“You came back,” Altan whispered. His voice was scratchy, as if he’d been screaming himself hoarse.

“Of course I did,” Chaghan replied. He hesitated, feeling a shiver of unease. “I… can go. If you would rather be alone.”

“No. Don’t go.” Altan grasped blindly, until he found Chaghan’s hand. He held on with a tenuous, trembling grasp. Chaghan could tell that he was fighting to stay conscious. “I’m sorry. You were right. You’re always right.”

Chaghan’s breath caught. He didn’t dare to move.

“Stay here,” Altan slurred. “Please. I need you.”

“I’ll stay,” Chaghan said. “Don’t worry. Go back to sleep.”

Altan’s expression crumpled; he made a small, pained noise. Then, his eyes slid closed once again, and his face went slack as sleep claimed him.

He could leave. There was nothing keeping him here. In the morning, Altan wouldn’t remember a single thing.

Chaghan thought of the Sorqan Sira and her lined, pitiless face. That imperious black stare, boring into his skull. 

If you believe the Nikara shamans are dangerous, it is your job to put them down. She’d pressed a hunting knife into his palm, at the same time as she’d pressed one into Qara’s. Her thin mouth pursed. Both of you have a responsibility. A duty. Your fool mother was too lenient, and now your cousin Tseveri is dead. Your bloodline has made too many mistakes. This time, you will do it right.

Chaghan’s thumb traced over Altan’s throat. He felt the flutter of Altan’s pulse under his skin, that delicate, birdlike thing, thrumming warm and alive. His other hand brushed over the hilt of his knife, still strapped to his belt.

All it would take would be one, quick slice. Altan wouldn’t feel a thing. He’d bleed out in seconds, lost in the euphoria of his poppy drug. Chaghan and Qara would slip away in the night, and nobody would think to give chase. They could go home. They could go home.

One day, not too far away from now, the Phoenix would consume Altan’s mind. It would burn him from the inside out until nothing remained but a smoking, hollow shell. The thing he became would level Nikan. It would burn out the heart of the world, until all that remained was blood and ash and bone.

It would be kinder to kill him now. While there was still something of him left.

And yet.

And yet.

What good was there in going home? They would never win the Ketreyids’ respect. They would never be their family. That cold, bleak steppe, with its shining stars and thundering hooves of distant wild horses, would never again be the home Chaghan remembered.

There was no love to be found there.

When he thought of love, he thought of Qara, steadfast and patient by his side. He thought of his mother, with her sad, distant gaze, writing the treaty to protect the last of her kin with a scrawling hand, in her own lifeblood. 

He thought of Altan.

You could not love a star, not in the way that poets described true love. A star was cold. A star was distant. It could not, would not, descend from its perch in the heavens to love you back. If it ever tried, it would shatter upon the earth and burn out; your flimsy, human body would ignite in its heat and turn to ashes. The trying would destroy you both.

No. A star was to be admired. Perhaps wished upon. Never coveted. Never owned.

But even as he thought it, a part of him recoiled at the comparison. 

Altan had spent too much of his short life being compared to things that were not human. Beneath it all, beneath the god and the scars and the fire, that was all he was, and all he would ever be. Flesh and blood and bone. A fluttering pulse under Chaghan’s thumb. Fragile as any other living, breathing creature, with a mind and body so accustomed to being in pain that being touched gently seemed to hurt him more. The distance he kept from the rest of the world, Chaghan included, was more for Altan’s own protection than for anyone else’s. 

Cruelty inflicted by one’s own hand was always easier to stomach when you could step back a few paces until it was small and blurry. When you knew there was something infinitely, cosmically worse to compare it to. For Chaghan, it was the gods, in all their capricious, whimsical coldness, shaping the world like wet clay and laughing at the chaos they caused. For Altan, it was humanity.

There would be no easy end for either of them. Life would be short and cruel and devastating, and when Altan’s star finally burned out, it would feel like the world was ending. 

This was the price of proximity. The price of feeling his warmth, of marvelling at his beauty, even if just for a brief moment. 

It was a price he would pay gladly, again and again and again.

Chaghan pulled the blanket up around Altan’s shoulders. He lay down beside him on the mattress and curled into him, pressing a kiss to the warm skin between his shoulderblades. He leaned over and blew out the lamp, and settled into the quiet, sweet-smelling darkness, lulled to sleep by the steady pattern of Altan’s breathing.

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