Page 43 of Four Ruined Realms (The Broken Blades #2)

Mikail

City of Loptra, Khitan

She is dead.

I close my eyes, then inhale the pain. With a single breath, I lock away yet another tragedy to the recesses of my mind. Maybe one day the dam won’t hold and I’ll burst with horrors—but for now I press on. I can’t alter the message. I can’t change reality. Daysum is dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I am not Lord Yama, the god of death who can send souls to be reborn. The only thing to do is to move forward. That’s the only thing to ever do.

I swipe at my eyes and fling the letters and decoding paper into the fire. Then I get to work. I’ve been through far worse. I’ll get through this.

As I planned, I code and write out my messages. I suppress all my sadness and load the carrier pouches, then slide a ten mark to the woman behind the counter. With that amount of money, she’ll pick the fastest, strongest birds. The ones that fly high enough to evade archers.

The gray-haired woman slips the tip into her pocket, then ties the pouches to the eagles. She removes their tethers and hoods and releases them one by one through the aperture in the ceiling.

I pay the total with my mind clear, yet my hands shake as I take the change. I stare at my fingers. It’s curious. I resolved to care more about the living than the dead long ago, but grief surrounds me, heavy as lead. Although I suppose my issue is still the living—how do I tell Sora?

I rub my forehead and wander back toward the dress house. I take the long way, hoping the words come to me. As I pass the marketplace, I pick up provisions, replacing what we lost in the sled. I haggle with the sellers because they expect it, but also because I’m in no hurry.

Once I have the goods purchased and couriered to the inn, I secure winter horses for tomorrow. There’s someone watching me, a spy. Euyn has gone on and on about how someone has been following us, and I suppose he was right. But they’re far enough away to just be observing.

I spin my dagger and consider spilling blood, but I’d be engaging the spy just to escape from this feeling. And I don’t kill for sport.

No. I have to go back to Sora and get this over with. I gave my word, and cowardice isn’t my way.

But how ? How do I take away the one thing she’s living for?

No matter what I say, she is going to fall apart. Even the sharpest blade has its breaking point. Only the Flaming Sword of the Dragon Lord never shatters.

I reach the dress house and lean against the side of the building. The pain in my chest is severe. Those same, invisible hands have me again, crushing my windpipe.

What would I want if it were me? Would it be better to know immediately or have a sister a little longer? And what words could be strung together to soften a death blow?

No one had to tell me I lost my family. I saw it myself—their mutilated bodies on the ground. I did, however, hear about my father. Ailor, who later adopted me, told me the entire rebel force had been slaughtered. No captives, no prisoners. But the Festival of Blood was such a mass tragedy, the scale so overwhelming, that the death of my birth father barely made an impact. Few sounds can be heard over an avalanche. Everyone I knew and loved was gone, and there’s a limit to how much sorrow you can feel at once.

It won’t be the same for Sora.

So I’ll just say it—simple as that. Sometimes when there are no words, any will do.

I imagine she’ll find some peace in the fact that her sister can’t suffer anymore. Pleasure house indentures typically die by a patron’s hand, their own, or, most commonly, laoli. The drug helps them get through their nights, and it’s all too easy to overdose. Though I’m not certain how Daysum died, in the end, I’m not sure it matters.

Without another thought, I stand straight. I open the door to the dress house and stroll in. Sora is still on the platform, the workers fussing over her beauty, particularly her eyes. Khitanese royalty wears purple the same way the Baejkins wear dark red. The shop girls keep calling her eyes imperial.

I take a breath, ready to tell her. But as I open my mouth, Sora picks her head up. She smiles at me, warm and unassuming.

And I choke.

I can’t do it. It’s not cowardice—or maybe it is. But she will never be the same once she knows. She won’t smile like that, maybe ever again. I can’t take that from her right now. If it were Ailor instead of Daysum, I wouldn’t want to know until my mission was complete.

It’s better to wait. I swear to myself that I will tell her when we leave Khitan. When she will have time to mourn and not be in both danger and grief together.

“It’s been ages,” she says with a smile.

“Far too long.” I smile back.

She laughs. One of the workers lifts the fur-lined hood on her new coat to show me, thinking we are husband and wife.

“Like it?” Sora asks, modeling the jacket.

“It’s delightful.”

I take a seat as if nothing is wrong, casually brushing snow off my pant leg. My eyes sting, but I smile. I’m suddenly glad I have twenty years of experience pretending to be something I’m not.