by Ava Jae
“Tradition is a tenant every one of us honors, but so is progress.
“Dedication to progress is what gave us the nanite technology that strengthens us as a people—the technology that eradicated illness, quickly heals the wounded, and allows us to grow fresh food on even the most desolate land. The technology cools our homes in the southern lands, insulates them in the north, reinforces strength where we need it, and I’m sure it’ll do so much more in the future.
“Progress has given us peace through the unification of the territories—it’s what established a united government and an integrated system under a single monarch. It’s what said enough violence, enough division, and now progress will lead us into a brighter future. Progress will make the world a safer, more loving place for our children and our children’s children. It will bring us together in ways this world has not yet seen.
“I love this world and I love my people, but I believe it is progress—not tradition—that will lead us into a brighter tomorrow. We have so much to learn and so far to go, but we will do it together, as one people on one planet. This is our home, and together we will make it a better place for us all.”
The crowd off-screen cheers so loudly Asha has to stop. He smiles at the crowd and cameras and nods, lifting his hand as he raises his voice. “Thank you, thank you. Good night.”
The image freezes—Asha smiling endlessly at the crowd—and cheering stops. And for the first time, I can almost imagine Asha with Rani—two young people determined to change everything together. I can almost picture a younger, less-bitter version of the woman who calls herself my mother standing at Asha’s side. I can almost understand how they thought bringing me into this world would be the catalyst for something bigger than any one of us.
But they were wrong. Because Asha never made it back to Asheron after my birth—he never had the chance to announce my existence and declare me his inheritor. Instead, he was murdered at the edge of the capital and the woman who was supposed to be my mother disguised my eyes so no one would know the truth and left me with the Kits.
And maybe it was easy for her—maybe all I ever was to her was a symbol of a movement, of a change with a real chance to take hold and set the humans free. And maybe when that movement died with Asha outside of Asheron, it was easy to turn away and move on to a new plan.
One of waiting, and violence, and explosions, and blood.
“He was really going to change things,” I say into the quiet.
Deimos nods. “He was. He never directly explained what he planned to do—I suspect that was going to come after he announced you—but if you listen to what he was saying, it seems obvious. I’m almost surprised no one expected him to have a son with a red … a human.”
“Given how everyone treats Sepharon-human relationships like an unthinkably disgusting thing, I’m not that surprised.”
“Shae. That’s true.” He sighs and leans back on his arms. “Well, what was and could have been don’t matter—what matters is you’re here now, and it’s your turn to make a change.”
“I have to convince everyone to honor my inheritance before I can think about changing anything.”
“Well, shae.” Deimos smiles. “But convincing them to honor your birthright to begin with will be a change in itself—just the act of putting you on the throne spells a new tolerance Safara has never had.”
“I guess so.”
Deimos nods. “So, tomorrow what you’ll want to do is reinforce the connection between you and Sira Asha, and show them you’re a person who legitimately wants to make things better for everyone, shae? No one knows who you are right now, and half-bloods are spoken of like … well, you know. But if you go out there and show them you’re not as terrifying or monstrous as people have been led to believe, it could be the start of something good.”
“Sure. No problem. Just make thousands of people conditioned to hate me like me.”
Deimos laughs weakly. “No one said it’d be easy, but I think you can do it.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.” Deimos smiles and looks me over. “Stand up, will you?”
“What?”
“Just humor me.”
I frown, slip off his bed, and stand.
“Hmm … okay, I have an idea. Hold on.” He disappears into his washroom, then after a moment calls, “Come in here, would you?”
What is he blazing doing? I’m not sure I want to know, but I warily enter his washroom anyway. He’s pulled a floating flat cushion in front of him—one of the many seats placed along the counters bordering the room. And he’s holding something that looks vaguely familiar—a red, thick handle of some kind. It’s not a device we had at camp, so I’m not sure where I remember it from … did Kora use it once?
“What is that?”
Deimos laughs. “It doesn’t bite—come sit. I’ve done this before, so don’t worry.”
“Done what before?”
He slides his thumb over the handle and it buzzes. That noise—my breath catches as a chill washes down my spine. It wasn’t Kora I saw using it; it was one of the guards who prepped me for servitude.
Deimos must see something on my face, because he turns it off and places it on the counter. “What’s wrong? You look like I’ve just asked you to jump out the window. They’re just trimmers—you must have used one before, given how short your hair is …”
“Naï, I—” I take a deep breath and cross the distance between us, sitting on the cushion. “It’s fine. Just don’t make me bald.”
Deimos laughs weakly. “That’s not the plan—although I’ll bet you probably could pull off bald well.”
“Deimos.”
“Relax, relax.” He turns the trimmers back on. I grit my teeth against the buzz and grip my knees. This is fine. This is nothing like before. This isn’t a big deal.
Deimos hesitates. “Remember the haircut Asha had in the video?”
Shaved close on the sides and back, short but trim on top. It suited him. “Sha.”
“That’s what I’m doing. Just to visually connect you two a little more—I think the people will remember and make the connection quickly.”
Tension gathers in my shoulders and knots at my spine at the incessant hum of the trimmers, but I bite my lip and say, “Okay.”
“Okay. Hold still.”
The low, warm buzz hums against the back of my neck and skull as Deimos works. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, in and out, trying not to think about the last time I had my head shaved, trying not to picture the blood dripping down my neck, the low burn of the knife’s path under my jaw, the fear and deep-set ache of watching Kora’s men kill Day right in front of me.
It was so long ago, but with the hum of the trimmers against my scalp, it feels like this morning. It feels like right now.
But then Deimos rests his hand on my shoulder, and I’m not sure how he knows how uncomfortable something as simple as cutting my hair is, but he must have gathered because he squeezes my shoulder and some of the tension melts away. My skin buzzes beneath his hand, and it’s warm, and though my heart pounds harder, I’m not afraid. The iciness of the memory drips down my spine and disappears and I can breathe. I’m all right.
Sometime later, Deimos turns off the trimmer and says, “Done.”
I force my eyes open. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Stand and face the wall-to-wall wide mirror.
I’ve never had a tailored cut, not like this. I touch the soft hair buzzed close to my scalp on the sides—down to my skin above my ears and a little longer closer to the top. He didn’t touch the hair on top—even though it’s been growing in for sets, it’s still short—but with the shaping on the sides and back, now it looks purposeful. Like the length wasn’t just hair growing in from getting my head shaved but was meant to imitate a style.
And you know, it looks okay. I look even more like Asha. But also—it looks right on me.
“Suits you.” Deimos smiles.
I smile w
eakly and glance at him. “Thanks for your help.”
“Of course. Just do us all a favor and win this thing.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, and for the first time, I mean it. For the first time I want this—and maybe, just maybe, I believe I can do this one step at a time.
This is what I was born for, and I’m not running from it anymore.
Are Eros and I irreparably broken? It’s the question I wake with long before the suns rise—and long before I want to be awake.
Kissing Eros didn’t feel like kissing him the first time. It wasn’t breathless need and a wave of sparks under my skin—it wasn’t wanting more and not caring what it meant for just a breath.
I care for Eros deeply, and it hurts to acknowledge things are changing between us. But I can’t deny the truth. This time, kissing Eros felt like kissing a friend.
I run my hands over my face and sit up, grabbing the glass resting on my floating bedside table. Four quick swipes and I’ve opened Vejla’s feed again. I shouldn’t be looking at this, not when knowing the terrible truth will eat at me as long as there’s nothing I can do. But I can’t stay away, either. Elja is my home, and avoiding reality doesn’t make it less real.
The feed awakens. The riots are still going on—I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much of Vejla burn. I can’t stomach the live footage for long so I find some articles about it and read until my face is hot, my eyes burn, and my breath trembles in my lungs.
Dima imprisoned protesters peacefully speaking out about the nanite attack. And then he imprisoned those protesting their arrest. And now the people want his head.
It should be gratifying to see my brother fail so spectacularly after cycles of believing he’d be a superior ruler. But with my people suffering and my brother walking the edge of a blade, I can’t help but think this all would have been avoided if I’d just been a better Avra.
The dining hall is empty save for Niro and a couple of Lejv’s supporters when Eros, Deimos, and I grab our morning meal after their early jog. It’s a bit … uncomfortable … walking next to Eros and preparing to talk to him like nothing happened. Like we didn’t kiss and it wasn’t empty.
Eros doesn’t look at me much as we fill our plates with food, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the kiss, or because he’s distracted, or both. I imagine most likely both. But maybe it’s better that way—it’s important we focus on the task. I may have failed in Elja, but I won’t fail here. Eros must be the next Sira, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure he gets there.
Deimos piles his plate high with fruit, meats, and wraps and encourages Eros to do the same, but even after Eros’s plate is full, he barely picks at his food. Niro and the few others seem more interested in us than the food, so we ignore them until they leave.
“You should eat.” I nod at Deimos’s already half-empty plate. “I know you’re nervous, but this meal has to hold you over until tonight.”
Deimos nods. “Plus, we both just ran a ton—if you don’t eat, you’ll pass out midday.”
Eros grimaces, but he makes more of an effort to clear some of the food from his plate. Deimos calls a servant over and asks him to bring a plate to Mal in Eros’s room. I should ask Eros what he plans to talk about—get him thinking about what he’ll say, but he’s so anxious already and I don’t want him to stop eating altogether, so I wait until he and Deimos have finished their meals before broaching the topic.
“We talked about it last night,” Deimos says when I ask. “I showed him a couple of Sira Asha’s speeches.”
“Ah. Thus the new hairstyle.”
Eros shrugs. “He thinks it’ll help remind people of Asha.”
I nod. “It’ll help—not that you needed to given how much you look like him already, but it doesn’t hurt.” I glance over his black and gold clothing—regal, but understated. I glance at Deimos and he smiles.
“What do you think? Did I choose well?”
I nod. “You look like a monarch, Eros.”
“Great,” he mumbles. “Now I just have to figure out how to feel like one.”
“I don’t know, eran. Seems you’ve already got it down—anxious enough to toss your food and questioning whether this is merely a bad idea or an absolutely horrendous idea.” Deimos looks at me. “Am I close?”
I laugh lightly. “That describes it well, actually.”
Deimos grins. “Thought so. My father asked me to give a speech at a party once and I nearly lost my evening meal in front of hundreds of people.”
Eros groans and covers his face. “You’re not helping.”
“I know.”
“I’m certain you’ll be fine.” I touch his hand. Eros glances at me and bites his lip. “Think of it less like a speech and more like a dialogue. You’re just introducing yourself to the people and showing them you’re serious about inheriting the throne.”
“And it’ll only take a couple mos,” Deimos adds. “It’ll all be over before you know it, and we can return to the palace grounds and get drunker than the Star Festival.”
“Speak for yourself,” I say. “I’m not interested in completely losing my head.”
Deimos smirks. “We’ll see.” He turns to Eros. “Do you want to practice what you’re going to say first?”
Eros pushes his half-full plate away and stands. “Let’s just get this over with.”
We exit the palace grounds together, the heat of the suns warming me from the inside out. Eros is clearly anxious—biting his lip, taking measured breaths, tapping his fingers against his thighs—but to his credit, as soon as we pass the palace gates marking off the end of the complex, he pulls his shoulders back and swallows the nervous energy setting him on edge.
If I hadn’t seen him looking sickly all morning, I’d almost believe the anxiety had faded away entirely. But I don’t bring attention to it—last thing I need is to accidentally set him off again.
The streets are populated, as usual, but they seem not quite as full as I expected. Last time we traveled through Asheron—albeit before the explosion in Jol’s Arena and the destruction of the nanites—the streets were packed with people, so full Serek’s port had to slow to a crawl. Today, as we travel on foot, we bump shoulders with a few people here and there, but there’s more than enough room to maneuver. Is this because of everything’s that’s happened, or is something going on? Even when we’d arrived late in the set with Eros and Mal after rescuing them from the redblood rebels, the streets had been more populated.
I glance at Deimos—he’s frowning and looking around, too, and he’s been out here more than once after the explosion and nanite attack. Which means this is unexpected.
Which means, more likely than not, something is happening.
A voice echoes faintly through the streets, wavering in the suns-burned air. Too quiet to make out at first, but distinctly male, with a confident tenor and a projection that sounds … amplified?
We pick up the pace, moving quickly beyond the shops and stalls and toward the city center. The voice grows louder, and the closer we get, the more I am sure this isn’t just someone speaking loudly—this is someone speaking with an external amplification. It could be nothing—a vendor, a merchant, a protestor with an amplifier pressed to his throat.
Or it could be something significant.
Something like—
“Kafra,” Deimos curses. “I know who that is.”
Eros looks grim—our quick walk breaks into a jog as we dance around people not interested in the broadcast until we have to stop. Not because we’ve reached the center, but because a thick crowd of people blocks our way. And we’re still nowhere near the city square.
“It’s Lejv, isn’t it?” Eros presses his fist to his lips. “He beat us to it.”
I don’t want to confirm until we’ve seen him ourselves, but my stomach twists all the same. If it is Lejv and the people are already gathering like this to see him …
It takes all my self-control to keep the hot panic prickli
ng up my throat off my face. “We can’t get in there to see. Not unless we want to push through thousands of people for the next quarter league.”
Deimos scowls and glances around. He taps Eros’s shoulder, catches my gaze, and nods to an alley to our left. “Follow me.”
We do. I’m surprised—but also not—by how clean this space between shops is. The alleyways in Vejla were so packed with trash and debris it was dangerous to try to walk through—or, more likely, over—it. But here in Asheron, the black-brick streets are pristine, barely dusty, the stone still shiny under our feet. A warrior stands in the center of the alley and nods at us as we pass—keeping watch, I suppose.
And all the while, the voice that’s likely Lejv’s drifts over the crowd, still faint at this distance, but enough that I can grasp a few words here and there on the wind.
“Tradition is the backbone … a ruler who … stronger …”
“This way.” Deimos pats a silver ladder bolted to the side of whatever building we’re standing next to. The solider a few paces away watches us, but he doesn’t protest as Deimos and then Eros climb—either this isn’t prohibited, or he recognizes us. Probably the latter. I climb beneath Eros, my heart racing as I grip the warm metal rungs.
If this is Lejv like Deimos thinks it is—if he’s packed the city center so fully that even here, a quarter league out, the crowd is too dense to pass through—if he’s appealing to the people and he wins their favor …
This would be hard to bounce back from.
Deimos and Eros reach the edge of the building first, and the slump of Eros’s shoulders tells me all I need to know. I stand next to him and grimace at the massive crowd extending to the circle, where Lejv stands on the elevated steps of the Appeals Building. Orb-guides zip past our heads, and Deimos snatches one out of the air. It whirs in protest and Deimos taps its surface.