The Poppy War (The Poppy War Trilogy #1)

“There you are.”

She found Chaghan over the north wall. He stood with his arms crossed, watching as civilians poured out of Khurdalain’s dense streets like ants fleeing a collapsed hill. They straggled through the city gates with their worldly possessions packed onto wagons, strapped to the sides of oxen or horses, slung across their shoulders on poles meant for carrying water, or simply dragged along in sacks. They had chosen to take their chances in the open country rather than to stay another day in the doomed city.

The Militia was remaining in Khurdalain—it was still a strategic base that needed to be held—but they would be protecting nothing but empty buildings from here on out.

“Khurdalain’s done for,” Chaghan said, leaning against the wall. “Militia included. There’ll be no supplies after this. No hospital. No food. Soldiers fight battles, but civilians keep armies alive. Lose the resource well, and you’ve lost the war.”

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

He turned to face her, and she suppressed a shudder at the sight of those eyes without pupils. His gaze seemed to rest on the scarlet palm print on her cheek. His lips pressed together in a thin line, as if he knew exactly how the mark had gotten there.

“Lovers’ spat?” he drawled.

“Difference of opinion.”

“Shouldn’t have harped on about that boy,” he tutted. “Altan doesn’t tolerate shit like that. He’s not very patient.”

“He’s not human,” she said, recalling the horrible anger behind Altan’s power. She’d thought she understood Altan. She’d thought she had reached the man behind the command title. But she realized now that she didn’t know him at all. The Altan she’d known—at least, the Altan in her mind—would have done anything for his troops. He wouldn’t have left someone in the gas to die. “He—I don’t know what he is.”

“But Altan was never allowed to be human,” Chaghan said, and his voice was uncharacteristically gentle. “Since childhood, he’s been regarded as a Militia asset. Your masters at the Academy fed him opium for attacking his classmates and trained him like a dog for this war. Now he’s been shouldered with the most difficult command position that exists in the Militia, and you wonder why he’s not going to trouble himself with your little boy toy?”

Rin almost hit Chaghan for that, but she restrained herself with a twitch and set her jaw. “I’m not here to talk about Altan.”

“Then why, pray tell, are you here?”

“I need you to show me what you can do,” she said.

“I do a lot of things, sweetheart.”

She bristled. “I need you to take me to the gods.”

Chaghan looked smug. “I thought you didn’t have a problem calling the gods.”

“I can’t do it as easily as Altan can.”

“But you can do it.”

Her fingers curled into fists by her sides. “I want to do what Altan can do.”

Chaghan raised an eyebrow.

She took a deep breath. Chaghan didn’t need to know what had happened in the office. “I’ve been trying for months now. I think I’ve got it, I’m not sure, but there’s something . . . someone that’s blocking me.”

Chaghan assumed a mildly curious expression, tilting his head in a manner painfully reminiscent of Jiang. “You’re being haunted?”

“It’s a woman.”

“Really.”

“Come with me,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

“Why now?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer his question. “I need to do what he can do,” she said flatly. “I need to call the same power that he can.”

“And you didn’t bother with me before because . . .”

“You weren’t fucking here!”

“And when I returned?”

“I was obeying the warnings of my master.”

Chaghan sounded like he was gloating. “Those warnings no longer apply?”

She set her jaw. “I’ve realized that masters inevitably let you down.”

He nodded slowly, though his expression gave nothing away. “And if I can’t get rid of this . . . ghost?”

“Then at least you’ll understand.” She held out her hands. “Please.”

That supplication was enough. Chaghan gave a slight nod, and then beckoned her to sit down beside him. While she watched, he unpacked his knapsack and spread it out on the stone floor. An impressive supply of psychedelics was packed inside, tucked neatly into more than twenty little pockets.

“This is not derived from the poppy plant,” he said as he mixed powders into a glass vial. “This drug is something far more potent. A small overdose will cause blindness. More than that and you will be dead in minutes. Do you trust me?”

“No. But that’s irrelevant.”

Chuckling softly, Chaghan gave the vial a shake. He dumped the mixture into his palm, licked his index finger, and dipped it lightly in the drug so that the tip of his finger was covered by a light smattering of fine blue dust.

“Open your mouth,” he said.

She pushed down a swell of hesitation and obliged.

Chaghan pressed the tip of his finger against her tongue.

She closed her eyes. Felt the psychedelics seep into her saliva.

The onset was immediate and crushing, like a dark wave of ocean water had suddenly slammed on top of her. Her nervous system broke down completely; she lost the ability to sit up and crumpled at Chaghan’s feet.

She was at his mercy now, completely and utterly vulnerable before him. He could kill me right now, she thought dully. She didn’t know why it was the first thought that sprang to her mind. He could get rid of me now, if he wanted to.

But Chaghan only knelt down beside her, grasped her face by her cheeks, and pressed his forehead against hers. His eyes were open very, very wide. She stared into them, fascinated; they were a pale expanse, a window into a snowy landscape, and she was traversing through them . . .

And then they were hurtling upward.

She hadn’t known what she had expected. Not once in two years of training had Jiang guided her into the spirit realm. It had always been her mind alone, her soul alone in the void, journeying up toward the gods.

With Chaghan, she felt as if a piece of her had been ripped away, was clutched in the palm of his hand, being taken somewhere of his choosing. She was immaterial, without body or form, but Chaghan was not; Chaghan remained as solid and real as before, perhaps even more so. In the material world, he was gaunt and emaciated, but in the realm of spirit he was solid and present . . .

She understood, now, why Chaghan and Qara had to be two halves of a whole. Qara was grounded, material, fully made of earth. To call them anchor twins was a misnomer—she alone was the anchor to her ethereal brother, who belonged more in the realm of spirit than he did in a world of flesh and blood.

The route to the Pantheon was familiar by now, and so was the gate. Once again the Woman materialized in front of her. But something was different this time; this time the Woman was less like a ghost and more like a corpse; half her face was torn away, revealing bone underneath, and her warrior’s garb had burned away from her body.

The Woman stretched a hand out toward Rin in supplication.

“It’ll eat you alive,” she said. “The fire will consume you. To find our god is to find hell on earth, little warrior. You will burn and burn and never find peace.”

“How curious,” said Chaghan. “Who are you?”

The Woman whirled on him.

“You know who I am,” she said. “I am the guardian. I am the Traitor and the Damned. I am redemption. I am the girl’s last chance for salvation.”

“I see,” Chaghan murmured. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

“What are you talking about?” Rin demanded. “Who is she?”

But Chaghan spoke past her, directly to the woman. “You should have been immured in the Chuluu Korikh.”

“The Chuluu Korikh can’t hold me,” hissed the Woman. “I am a Speerly. My ashes are free.” She reached out and stroked Rin’s damaged cheek like a mother caressing her child. “You don’t want me gone. You need me.”

Rin shuddered at her touch. “I need my god. I need power, and I need fire.”

“If you call it now, you will bring down hell on earth,” the Woman warned.

“Khurdalain is hell on earth,” said Rin. She saw Nezha screaming in the fog, and her voice wavered.

“You don’t know what true suffering is,” the Woman insisted angrily.

Rin curled her fingers into fists at her sides, suddenly pissed off. True suffering? She had seen her friends stabbed with halberds, shot full of arrows, cut down with swords, burned to death in poisonous fog. She had seen Sinegard go up in flames. She had seen Khurdalain occupied by Federation invaders almost overnight.

“I have seen more than my fair share of suffering,” she hissed.

“I’m trying to save you, little one. Why can’t you see that?”

“What about Altan?” Rin challenged. “Why haven’t you ever tried to stop him?”

The Woman tilted her head. “Is that what this is about? Are you jealous of what he can do?”

Rin opened her mouth, but nothing came out. No. Yes. Did it matter? If she had been as strong as Altan, he wouldn’t have been able to restrain her.

If she were as strong as Altan, she could have saved Nezha.

“That boy is beyond redemption,” said the Woman. “That boy is broken like the rest. But you, you are still pure. You can still be saved.”

“I don’t want to be saved!” Rin shrieked. “I want power! I want Altan’s power! I want to be the most powerful shaman there ever was, so that there is no one I can’t save!”

“That power can burn down the world,” the Woman said sadly. “That power will destroy everything you’ve ever loved. You will defeat your enemy, and the victory will turn to ashes in your mouth.”

Chaghan had finally regained his composure.

“You have no right to remain here,” he said. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, but he raised one thin hand toward the Woman in a banishing gesture. “You belong to the realm of the dead. Return to the dead.”

“Do not try,” sneered the Woman. “You cannot banish me. In my time I have bested shamans far more powerful than you.”

“There are no shamans more powerful than me,” said Chaghan, and he began to chant in his own language, the harshly guttural language Jiang had once spoken, the language Rin recognized now as the speech of the Hinterlands.

His eyes glowed golden.

The Woman started to shake, as if standing over an earthquake, and then suddenly she burst into flames. The fire lit her face from within, like a glowing coal, like an ember about to explode.

She shattered.

Chaghan took Rin’s wrist and tugged. She became immaterial again, rushing headlong into the space where things were not real. She did not choose where they went; she could only concentrate on staying whole, staying herself, until Chaghan stopped and she could regain her bearings without losing herself entirely.

This was not the Pantheon.

She glanced around, confused. They were in a dimly lit room the size of Altan’s office, with a low, curved ceiling that forced them to crouch where they stood. Everywhere she looked, small tiles had been arranged in mosaics, depicting scenes she did not recognize or understand. A fisherman bearing a net full of armored warriors. A young boy encircled by a dragon. A woman with long hair weeping over a broken sword and two bodies. In the room’s center stood a great hexagonal altar, engraved with sixty-four intricate characters of Old Nikara calligraphy.

“Where are we?” Rin asked.

“A safe place of my choosing,” Chaghan said. He looked visibly rattled. “She was much stronger than I expected. I took us to the first place I thought of. This is a Divinatory. Here we can ask questions about your Woman. Come to the altar.”

She looked about in wonder as she followed him, running her fingers over the carefully designed tiles. “Is this part of the Pantheon?”

“No.”

“Then is this place real?”

“It’s real in your mind,” said Chaghan. “That’s as real as anything gets.”

“Jiang never taught me about this.”

“That’s because you Nikara are so primitive,” said Chaghan. “You still think there’s a strict binary between the material world and the Pantheon. You think calling the gods is like summoning a dog from the yard into the house. But you can’t conceive of the dream world as a physical place. The gods are painters. Your material world is a canvas. And this Divinatory is an angle from which we can see the colors on the palette. This isn’t really a place, it’s a perspective. But you’re interpreting it as a room because your human mind can’t process anything else.”

“What about this altar? The mosaics? Who built them?”

“No one did. You still don’t understand. They’re mental constructions so that you can comprehend concepts that are already written. To the Talwu, this room looks completely different.”

“The Talwu?”

Chaghan tilted his chin toward something in front of them.

“You’re back so soon,” spoke a cool, alien voice.

In the dim light, Rin had not noticed the creature standing behind the hexagonal altar. It walked around the circle at a steady pace and sank into a deep bow before Chaghan. It looked like nothing Rin had ever seen; it was similar to a tiger, but its hair grew two feet long. It had a woman’s face, a lion’s feet, a pig’s teeth, and a very long tail that might have belonged to a monkey.

“She is a goddess. Guardian of the Hexagrams,” Chaghan said to Rin as he sank into an equally deep bow. He pulled her down to the floor with him.

The Talwu dipped her head toward Chaghan. “The time of asking has expired for you. But you . . .” She looked at Rin. “You have never asked a question of me. You may proceed.”

“What is this place?” Rin asked Chaghan. “What can it—she—tell me?”

“The Divinatory keeps the Hexagrams,” he answered. “The Hexagrams are sixty-four different combinations of lines broken and unbroken.” He indicated the calligraphy at the sides of the altar, and Rin saw that each character indeed was made up of six lines. “Ask the Talwu your question, cast a Hexagram, and it will read the lines for you.”

“It can tell me the future?”

“No one can divine the future,” said Chaghan. “It is always shifting, always dependent on individual choices. But the Talwu can tell you the forces at play. The underlying shape of things. The color of events to pass. The future is a pattern dependent on the movements of the present, but the Talwu can read the currents for you, just as a seasoned sailor can read the ocean. You need only present a question.”

Rin was beginning to see the reason why Chaghan commanded the fear that he did. He was just like Jiang—unthreatening and eccentric, until one understood what deep power lay behind his frail facade.

How would Jiang pose a question? She contemplated the wording of her inquiry for a moment. Then she stepped toward the Talwu.

“What does the Phoenix want me to know?”

The Talwu almost smiled.

“Cast the coins six times.”

Three coins suddenly appeared, stacked on the hexagonal altar. They were not coins of the Nikara Empire; they were too large, cut into a hexagonal shape rather than the round taels and ingots Rin was familiar with. She picked them up and weighed them in her palm. They were heavier than they looked. On the front side of each was etched the unmistakable profile of the Red Emperor; on the back were inscribed characters of Old Nikara that she could not decipher.

“Each throw of the coins will determine one line in the Hexagram,” said Chaghan. “These lines are patterns written into the universe. They are ancient combinations, descriptions of shapes that were long before either of us was born. They will not make sense to you. But the Talwu will read them, and I will interpret.”

“Why must you interpret?”

“Because I am a Seer. This is what I’m trained to do,” said Chaghan. “We Hinterlanders do not call the gods down as you do. We go to them. Our shamans spend hours in trances, learning the secrets of the cosmos. I have spent more time in the Pantheon than I have in your world. I have deciphered enough Hexagrams now to know how they describe the shape of our world. And if you try to interpret for yourself, you’ll just get confused. Let me help you.”

“Fine.” Rin flung the three coins out onto the hexagonal altar.

All three coins landed tails up.

“The first line, undivided,” read the Talwu. “One is ready to move, but his footprints run crisscross.”

“What does that mean?” Rin asked.

Chaghan shook his head. “Any number of things. The lines each assume shades of meaning depending on the others. Finish the Hexagram.”

She tossed the coins again. All heads.

“The second line, divided,” read the Talwu. “The subject ascends to his place in the sun. There will be supreme good fortune.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Rin asked.

“Depends on whose fortune it is,” said Chaghan. “The subject is not necessarily you.”

Her third toss saw one head, two tails.

“The third line, divided. The end of the day has come. The net has been cast on the setting sun. This spells misfortune.”

Rin felt a sudden chill. The end of an era, the setting sun on a country . . . she hardly needed Chaghan to interpret that for her.

“We’re not going to win this war, are we?” she asked the Talwu.

“I only read the Hexagrams,” said the Talwu. “I confirm and deny nothing.”

“It’s the net I’m concerned about. It’s a trap,” said Chaghan. “We’ve missed something. Something’s been laid out for us, but we can’t see it.”

Chaghan’s words confused Rin as much as the line itself did, but Chaghan commanded her to throw the coins again. Two tails, one head.

“The fourth line, undivided,” read the Talwu. “The subject comes, abrupt with fire, with death, to be rejected by all. As if an exit; as if an entry. As though burning; as though dying; as though discarded.”

“That one is quite clear,” said Chaghan, although Rin had more questions about that line than the others. She opened her mouth, but he shook his head. “Throw the coins again.”

The Talwu looked down. “The fifth line, divided. The subject is with tears flowing in torrents, groaning in sorrow.”

Chaghan looked stricken. “Truly?”

“The Hexagrams do not lie,” the Talwu said. Her voice was devoid of emotion. “The only lies are in the interpretation.”

Chaghan’s hand shook suddenly. The wooden beads of his bracelet clattered, echoing in the silent room. Rin shot him a concerned look, but he only shook his head and motioned for her to finish. Arms heavy with dread, Rin cast the coins a sixth and final time.

“A leader abandons their people,” read the Talwu. “A ruler begins a campaign. One sees great joy in decapitating enemies. This signifies evil.”

Chaghan’s pale eyes were open very, very wide.

“You have cast the Twenty-Sixth Hexagram. The Net,” announced the Talwu. “There is a clinging, and a conflict. Things will come to pass that exist only side by side. Misfortune and victory. Liberation and death.”

“But the Phoenix . . . the Woman . . .” Rin had not received any of the answers she wanted. The Talwu hadn’t helped her at all; it had only warned of even worse things to come, things she didn’t have the power to prevent.

The Talwu lifted a clawed hand. “Your time of asking is up. Return in a lunar month, and you may cast another Hexagram.”

Before Rin could speak, Chaghan knelt forward hastily and dragged Rin down beside him.

“Thank you, Enlightened One,” he said, and to Rin he murmured, “Say nothing.”

The room dissolved as she sank to her knees, and with an icy jolt, like she had been doused in cold water, Rin found herself shoved back into her material body.

She took a deep breath. She opened her eyes.

Beside her, Chaghan drew himself up to a sitting position. His pale eyes were huge, deep in their shadowed sockets. His gaze seemed to be focused still on something very far away, something entirely not in this world. Slowly, he returned to himself, and when he finally registered Rin’s presence, his expression became one of deep anxiety.

“We must get Altan,” he said.

If Altan was surprised when Chaghan barged into the Sihang warehouse with Rin in tow, he didn’t show it. He looked too exhausted for anything to faze him at all.

“Summon the Cike,” said Chaghan. “We need to leave this city.”

“On what information?” Altan asked.

“There was a Hexagram.”

“I thought you didn’t get another question for a month.”

“It wasn’t mine,” said Chaghan. “It was hers.”

Altan didn’t even glance at Rin. “We can’t leave Khurdalain. They need us now more than ever. We’re about to lose the city. If the Federation gets through us, they enter the heartland. We are the final front.”

“You are fighting a battle the Federation does not need to win,” said Chaghan. “The Hexagrams spoke of a great victory, and great destruction. Khurdalain has only been a frustration for both sides. There is one other city that Mugen wants right now.”

“That’s impossible,” said Altan. “They cannot march to Golyn Niis so soon from the coast. The Golyn River route is too narrow to move troop columns. They would have to find the mountain pass.”

Chaghan raised his eyebrows. “I’ll bet you they’ve found it.”

“All right. Fine.” Altan stood up. “I believe you. Let’s go.”

“Just like that?” Rin asked. “No due diligence?”

Altan walked out of the room and headed down the hallway at a brisk stride. They scurried to keep up with him. He descended the steps of the warehouse until he stood before the basement cellar where the Federation prisoner was kept.

“What are you doing?” Rin asked.

“Due diligence,” Altan said, and yanked the door open.

The cellar smelled strongly of defecation.

The prisoner had been shackled to a post in the corner of the room, hands and feet bound, a cloth jammed into his mouth. He was unconscious when they entered the room; he didn’t stir when Altan slammed the door shut, or when Altan crossed the room to kneel down beside him.

He had been beaten; one eye was swollen a violent shade of purple, and blood was crusted around a broken nose. But the worst damage had been inflicted by the gas: what skin was not purple had blistered into an angry red rash, so that his face did not look human at all but rather like a frightening combobulation of colors. Rin found a savage satisfaction in seeing the prisoners’ features as burned and disfigured as they were.

Altan touched two fingers to an open wound on the prisoner’s cheek and gave a small, sharp jab.

“Wake up,” he said in fluent Mugini. “How are you feeling?”

With a groan, the prisoner slowly opened his swollen eyes. When he saw Altan, he hacked and spat out a gob of spit at Altan’s feet.

“Wrong answer,” said Altan, and dug his nail into the cut.

The prisoner screamed loudly. Altan let go.

“What do you want?” the prisoner demanded. His Mugini was coarse and slurred, a far cry from the polished accent Rin had studied at Sinegard. It took her a moment to decipher his dialect.

“It occurs to me that Khurdalain was never the main target,” Altan said casually, resting back on his haunches. “Perhaps you would like to tell us what is.”

The prisoner smiled an awful, bloody-faced smile that twisted his burn scars. “Khurdalain,” he repeated, rolling the Nikara word through his mouth like a wad of phlegm. “Who would want to capture this shit hole?”

“Never mind,” said Altan. “Where is the main offensive going?”

The prisoner glowered up at him and snorted.

Altan raised a hand and slapped the prisoner on the blistered side of his face. Rin winced. By targeting the prisoner’s sore, open wounds, Altan was making him hurt worse and more acutely than any heavy-handed blows could.

“Where is the other offensive?” Altan repeated.

The prisoner spat blood at Altan’s feet.

“Answer me!” Altan shouted.

Rin jumped.

The prisoner raised his head. “Nikara swine,” he sneered.

Altan grabbed the prisoner by a fistful of hair in the back of his head. He slammed his other fist into the prisoner’s already bruised eye. Again. And again. Blood flew across the room, splashed against the dirt floor.

“Stop,” Rin squeaked.

Altan turned around.

“Leave the room or shut up,” he said.

“At this rate he’ll pass out,” she responded, her heart hammering. “And we don’t have time to revive him.”

Altan stared at her for a wild-eyed moment. Then he nodded curtly and turned back to the prisoner.

“Sit up.”

The prisoner muttered something none of them could understand.

Altan kicked him in the ribs. “Sit up!”

The prisoner spat another gob of blood on Altan’s boots. His head lolled to the side. Altan wiped his toe on the ground with deliberate slowness, then knelt down in front of the prisoner. He stuck two fingers under the prisoner’s chin and tilted his face up to his own in a gesture that was almost intimate.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” he said. “Hey. Wake up.”

He slapped the prisoner’s cheeks until the prisoner’s eyes fluttered back open.

“I have nothing to say to you,” the prisoner sneered.

“You will,” Altan said. His voice dropped in pitch, a sharp contrast from his previous shouts. “Do you know what a Speerly is?”

The prisoner’s eyes furrowed together in confusion. “What?”

“Surely you know,” Altan said softly. His voice became a low, velvety purr. “Surely you’ve heard tales of us. Surely the island hasn’t forgotten. You must have been a child when your people massacred Speer, no? Did you know they did it overnight? Killed every single man, woman, and child.”

Sweat beaded at the prisoner’s temples, dripping down to mingle with fresh rivulets of blood. Altan snapped his fingers before the prisoner’s eyes. “Can you see this? Can you see my fingers? Yes or no.”

“Yes,” the prisoner said hoarsely.

Altan tilted his head. “They say your people were terrified of the Speerlies. That the generals gave orders that not one single Speerly child should survive, because they were so terrified of what we might become. Do you know why?”

The prisoner stared blankly forward.

Altan snapped again. His thumb and index finger burst into flames.

“This is why,” he said.

The prisoner’s eyes bulged with terror.

Altan brought his hand close to the prisoner’s face, so that the edge of the flame licked threateningly at the gas blisters.

“I will burn you piece by piece,” said Altan. His tone was so soft that he could have been speaking to a lover. “I will start with the bottoms of your feet. I will feed you one bit of pain at a time, so you will never lose consciousness. Your wounds will cauterize as soon as they manifest, so you won’t die from blood loss. When your feet are charred, coated entirely in black, I’ll move on to your fingers. I’ll make them drop off one by one. I will line up the charcoal stubs in a string to hang around your neck. When I’ve finished with your extremities, I’ll move on to your testicles. I will singe them so slowly you will go insane from the agony. Then you’ll sing.”

The prisoner’s eyes twitched madly, but still he shook his head.

Altan’s tone softened even further. “It doesn’t have to be like this. Your division let us take you. You don’t owe them anything.” His voice became soothing and hypnotic, almost gentle. “The others wanted to have you put to death, you know. Publicly executed before the civilians. They would have had you torn apart. An eye for an eye.” Altan’s voice was so lovely. He could be so beautiful, so charismatic, when he wanted to be. “But I’m not like the others. I’m reasonable. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want your cooperation.”

The soldier’s throat bobbed. His eyes darted across Altan’s face; he was hopelessly confused, trying to get a read and concluding nothing. Altan wore two masks at the same time, feigned two contrasting entities, and the prisoner did not know which to expect or pander to.

“Tell me, and I can have you released,” Altan said gently. “Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”

The prisoner maintained his silence.

“No?” Altan searched the prisoner’s face. “All right.” His flames doubled in intensity, shooting sparks through the air.

The prisoner shrieked. “Golyn Niis!”

Altan kept the flames held perilously close to the prisoner’s eyes. “Elaborate.”

“We never needed to take Khurdalain,” spat the prisoner. “The goal was always Golyn Niis. All your best divisions came flocking to the coast as soon as this war started. Idiots. We never even wanted this beach town.”

“But the fleet,” said Altan. “Khurdalain has been your point of entry for every offensive. You can’t get to Golyn Niis without going through Khurdalain.”

“There was another fleet,” hissed the prisoner. “There have been many fleets, sailing south of this pathetic city. They found the mountain pass. You poor idiots, did you think you could keep that a secret? They’re cutting straight toward Golyn Niis itself. Your war capital will burn, our Armed Forces are cutting directly across your heartland, and you’re still holed up here in this pathetic excuse for a city.”

Altan drew his hand back.

Rin flinched instinctively, expecting him to lash out again.

But Altan only extinguished his flame and patted the prisoner condescendingly on the head. “Good boy,” he said in a low whisper. “Thank you.”

He nodded to Rin and Chaghan, indicating they were about to leave.

“Wait,” the prisoner said hastily. “You said you’d let me go.”

Altan tilted his face up to the ceiling and sighed. A thin trickle of sweat ran from the bone under his ear down his neck.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll let you go.”

He whipped his hand across the prisoner’s neck. A spray of blood flew outward.

The prisoner bore an astonished expression. He made a last startled, choked noise. Then his eyes drooped closed and his head slumped forward. The smell of cooked meat and burned blood filled the air.

Rin tasted bile in the back of her throat. It was a long while before she remembered how to breathe.

Altan rose to his feet. The veins at his neck protruded in the dim light. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, like an opium smoker, like a man who had just filled his lungs with a drug. He turned toward them. His eyes glowed bright red in the darkness. His eyes were nothing human.

“Fine,” he said to his lieutenant. “You were right.”

Chaghan hadn’t moved throughout the entire interrogation.

“I’m rarely wrong,” said Chaghan.