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Chapter Thirty-Seven

Annora

As we continue our march north over the next three days, the dunes rise and fall like waves frozen in time.

I used to love the way the sand glittered in the sunlight, like millions of tiny jewels blanketing the earth. Now, it only reminds me of the blood that will inevitably be spilled here. Of the lives that will be lost in this meaningless conflict between our people.

Hematite fighting Hematite.

How did we let it come to this?

Over a century ago, this land was our shared home, but now it’s a graveyard waiting to claim us all.

Each morning brings another day of marching north, another day closer to House of Crimson territory.

On the fourth day, Asha pulls her mare to ride alongside mine and offers me her flask of water. “Here.”

I keep my eyes fixed on the horizon, watching the sun paint the sky in shades of crimson, the irony not escaping me.

“Rora, please.” Her voice softens. “I’m sorry I was so harsh the other day.”

Leather digs into my palms as I tighten my fingers around the reins of my horse, refusing to speak to her, refusing to cave to her ever again.

“Do you remember when we used to go to the sea with Father?” she asks, her voice gentle as she mentions the man neither of us has been able to forget.

Yes, I remember.

I remember everything, but she doesn’t deserve to know that.

“You can’t ignore me forever,” she says.

Watch me.

The next three days blur together as Asha brings meals I barely touch, books I won’t read, news I don’t want to hear.

She tries to engage me in strategy meetings, asks my opinion on battle formations. I give her nothing but silence.

On the seventh day after we left Bakva, she joins me in my tent and tries again.

“I’m still your sister, Rora. Nothing will change that,” she says, her eyes sad, her face pale. Always so pale.

Instead of speaking to her, I reach for the wine on the table next to me and pour myself a generous goblet full.

“Annora,” she begins, her voice more desperate than I have ever heard. “I wish you would speak to me. Please , speak to me.”

My fingers ache as I tighten them around the goblet—anything to distract from the ache in my chest.

She reaches across the space between us, her fingers stopping just short of touching my arm. “I know you’re angry with me—”

Wine sloshes over the rim of the goblet as I slam it down.

“Please,” she whispers, and for a moment, I see my sister again. Then, I remember the way she spoke to me when I brought her that letter.

So, I allow the silence to stretch between us, heavy with all the words I won’t say. Can’t say. Because speaking would mean acknowledging her, and I’m not ready to do that.

Asha’s shoulders slump as she stands and leaves the tent, closing the flap behind her.

My hand shakes as I lift my goblet and down all the wine. It’s not like me to hold a grudge, but I cannot give in to her this time.

As I pour another goblet of wine, memories flood in uninvited. The sound of my mother’s laughter echoing through our home. Asha chasing me through the garden. Our father teaching us to swim in the sea.

Back then, our mother’s eyes sparkled like stars. She’d sing and dance when she thought no one was watching.

I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against my knees. Those memories feel like they belong to someone else now. A different family. A different life.

After my father left, my mother’s songs stopped. Her eyes dulled.

And Asha...

My throat tightens as I remember how she’d hold me at night when I cried for our father. How she’d whisper that we still had each other and that nothing could break our bond.

But something did break it. Slowly, steadily, like water wearing away stone. With every cruel word from our grandfather, every bitter lesson about power and control, every hateful speech about House of Crimson, I watched my sister disappear.

And now she’s a stranger.

After two goblets of wine, I step out of my tent and tilt my head back, staring up at the night sky, where a tapestry of stars surround the moon.

How beautiful they are. How tranquil.

Do they know what is about to happen? Do they care?

I find an empty campfire and sit on a log, watching the flames throw shadows on the nearby tents.

Movement catches my eye as a woman approaches the fire—a Watcher, judging by the black armor and mask, though she is more petite than most I’ve seen.

She has bronzed skin and long black hair, but the henna adorning her hands commands my attention. The intricate lines create geometric patterns across her fingers, hands, and wrists, forming angular diamonds and sharp triangles.

“May I join you?” she asks.

I nod, shifting to make room on the log.

Firelight shimmers in her amber eyes as she settles beside me. “I’m Kythara.”

“Annora.” I pick up a stick, snap it in half, and toss the pieces into the fire. “Why do Watchers wear masks?”

She traces the edge of her mask as she explains. “They shield our identities from retribution or recognition in dangerous situations, allowing us to perform our duties without fear.” She drops her hand back to her lap. “And it sets us apart from other warriors and citizens.”

The explanation makes sense, even if the masks unsettle me. Behind each one could be a friend, a neighbor, someone I passed in the streets of Bakva a hundred times without knowing.

“Are you all from House of Silver?”

The firelight glints off her dark eyes as she nods. “Most of us are, yes.”

That means some of them could belong to House of Crimson, or even some of the other tribes.

“Do you miss it?” Kythara asks, her voice soft. “Your home?”

Does she mean Bakva or Sharhavva? Regardless, my answer is the same. I miss Sharhavva and Bakva. “Yes.”

“I think the hardest part of being a Watcher is not having a true home anymore.”

I’ve felt that same sense of displacement in the past. “I understand that feeling.”

“I’ve heard you help feed the poor in Bakva. That’s rare. Most nobles don’t concern themselves with common folk.”

“They’re people, just like us.” I poke at the fire with another stick, watching the sparks dance upward.

“I know.” From the pouch on her belt, she pulls out dates wrapped in cloth and offers me one.

I accept the sweet fruit, and for a moment, we sit in comfortable silence, sharing the simple meal.

“The patterns on your arms,” I say, gesturing to her henna. “They’re beautiful. Do you do them yourself?”

“No. A friend of mine does them for me.”

As Kythara explains the meaning behind a pattern on her wrist, Aleksander walks past our fire. Her words trail off as her eyes narrow, tracking his movement until he disappears between the tents.

“Pompous ass,” she mutters under her breath.

A snort escapes me before I can stop it.

“I knew I would like you,” she says as she offers me another date. “Here. This will sweeten the bitter taste his presence leaves behind.”

A grin pulls at my mouth as I accept the fruit. “So, you don’t like Aleksander?”

“My father trusts him completely, but I don’t. He reminds me of a lion. They may be beautiful to look at. They may even act tame, but they will bite off your hand the moment you think they’re your friend.”

I nod, thinking that describes Aleksander perfectly. How many times has he shown a glimpse of kindness, only to turn around and use his magic to control me?

“Your father?” I ask after a moment.

“Brathen is my father.”

He is?

Perhaps if they didn’t both wear masks, I might have seen the resemblance. But from what I can observe, they are vastly different. Brathen’s eyes are distant and full of shadows, while Kythara’s are not.

“Have you always fought for House of Silver?” I ask.

“No, not always. We will help nearly anyone for coin.” Her words carry no shame. Just simple truth.

How sad. That they would be willing to pick up their sword for almost anyone if the price is right.

I think of my own convictions, the things I would and wouldn’t do for coin, and wonder if life would be simpler without them.

But even as the thought forms, I know I could never live that way, selling my loyalty to the highest bidder.

Her eyes fix on the flames as she speaks again. “But my father believes in House of Silver. He thinks someone from our house should lead our people. And he wants what’s best for all of us.”

Unity and harmony are what’s best. Why can’t any of them see it as vividly as I do?

I poke at the fire with a stick again. “Do you agree with him?”

“Mostly.” She leans forward as she adds, “But I don’t believe in needless bloodshed.”

“Neither do I.” Again and again, I jab at the fire. “Do you think things could be different?”

She turns to me. “Maybe. With the right leader.”

“Who would that be?”

“Someone who cares for the people. Someone with a true heart.” Firelight dances across her as she stands and adjusts her cloak around her shoulders. “It’s late. We should rest.”

“You’re right.”

“Sleep well, Annora.” She offers a nod before turning away.