The Burning God

It’ll work,” Kitay said. “We’ve got allies.”

“Who?” Venka perked up. “How many?”

“Two,” Rin said.

“You assholes—”

“Rin brought the Trifecta,” Kitay clarified.

felt an aching burst of pride. She forgot sometimes how resilient Kitay could be. One would never have suspected it by looking at him—the archetypal reedy and anxious scholar—but he bore hardship with iron fortitude. Sinegard hadn’t worn him down. Even Golyn Niis hadn’t destroyed him. Nezha could never have broken him.

No, whispered the little voice in her head that sounded too much like Altan. The only person capable of breaking him is you.

Of course she’d wondered, often, whether the Hesperians were right. But she hated how Kitay spoke as if he’d already decided they were.

n. They rewrite the script of the world, just like you do. And they don’t need to sacrifice their sanity to do it.”

Rin had no rebuttal to that.

But was this really so surprising? Nostalgia gnawed Rin’s chest at the mere sound of Nezha’s voice. She wanted this familiarity with him back, too. Never mind that thirty seconds ago she’d been ready to kill him. His voice, his very presence, made her heart ache—she wished desperately they could be caught in a stalemate, that for just one minute the wars surrounding them could be suspended, so that they might speak like friends again. Just once.

Rin flinched at the sound of her name from his mouth this time. He said it with such violence.

“It’s a tragedy we’re on different sides, Kitay. You know that. We would have been so good united, all three of us.”

“We were united. And we were good. Your father had other plans.”

Jiang whistled. “Well, that’s not a prison.”

“It’s worse,” Rin said. “That’s a church.”

Jiang whistled. “Well, that’s not a prison.”

“It’s worse,” Rin said. “That’s a church.”

Daji and Jiang exchanged a look.

Rin couldn’t read it, and she didn’t like it. It was a look loaded with decades of shared history, with secrets and allusions that she couldn’t begin to understand.