Ira ducked through Adrisa’s waterlogged streets with a light foot. Hooded, of course, though only part of it on account of the pouring rain.

  It was out of fear for the face paint Maiya had taught her to wear.

  She had dismissed the idea at first—she couldn’t spend an hour applying makeup every time she wished to go out, after all. Nevermind that her handmaidens employed the tactic to great effect, but their situation was different.

  At least, she thought so. They put facepaint on for special operations, not as a day-to-day thing.

  Yet when Maiya had shown up wearing paint of her own, when Ira hadn’t recognized her until she’d spoken, Ira had swiftly changed her opinion.

  Though arduous at first, the task had become a habit. A ritual of sorts. Now she felt naked leaving her base of operations without it. It didn’t take much, as she’d learned. A simple altering of her cheeks, making herself look less regal, less obviously Kinjal royalty.

  It helped that she had shed her most distinctive feature—her anemic frame. And she’d done it with muscle, of all things.

  The scrawny arms and legs were gone, replaced by tight muscles and a body that seemed to effuse prana. Nearly unrecognizable from the stick she’d been a mere half-year prior.

  Had Maiya not thrown herself into training, forcing her body to adapt to the prana levels of the Ashen realm, Ira would never have believed it possible. Had it been anyone else, she would’ve written it off as suicide.

  But this was Maiya, and it wasn’t.

  The image of Maiya walking through that Gate into the Ash had been etched into her memory. She found herself revisiting that moment more and more with each passing day.

  Until she’d made up her mind.

  To relinquish the person she’d once been, in both mind and body. Her ideals were all that held true.

  In pursuing the Ash, she’d emerged remade. Reforged. Reimagined.

  If recent events had taught her anything, it was that one could never be strong enough. Nevermind her frail body. Nevermind the failed rebellion.

  A living god had been cut down by a single blow. If that didn’t prove just how fragile life was, what would?

  Strength built on bodyguards and handmaidens was meaningless.

  True power came from oneself. Power that could not be lost when all else failed.

  And while Maiya might’ve cursed the gods for her lack of talent, she didn’t truly understand what it meant to be talentless. Ira had not a shred of natural prana affinity within her; she’d known that from the outset.

  Even still, forcing herself to sit near an Ash Gate day after day had worked miracles. Pain was her constant companion. She’d come to love the soreness. And in return, her prana reserves had ballooned beyond anything she’d ever known.

  She doubted many lower-ranked Balarian warriors could match her now.

  Not content to boost her prana capacity, Ira had augmented her newfound vitality with training. The process had been slow, as ever, and she doubted she could best even the least of the Balarian Warriors, but it made her feel less helpless. Made her feel like she was in control.

  Of her own body, if nothing else.

  She wasn’t done, either. She fully intended to push on until she could step through an Ash Gate, just like Maiya. Exploring the Ashen realm as a human had once been a distant fantasy. Now , it was only a few steps away.

  Ira weaved around the military patrols and the roving bards—one of the few places in the Kin’jal Empire where such things could be found. It was one of the several reasons she had picked Adrisa.

  At last, she turned down a smaller street and pushed open the door that led into her base of operations, escaping the rain and the thunder that had joined it.

  Having been driven out of Sonam, Ira didn’t dare return there. The seat of Andros’ power had eyes in every corner, and while his spies were very much present in Adrisa, their numbers couldn’t compare.

  Adrisa suited her ambitions well. Though every bit as utilitarian as the rest of the Empire, its location at the crossroads at Kin’jal’s northern tip meant it saw plenty of traffic from Sai and Hiranya. That made it a trade hub—ideal for gathering information—but it also boasted a budding arts scene, excellent food and drink, and the sort of like-minded populace Ira could easily sway. It was exactly the sort of place Ira hoped to foster.

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  “Milady!” Irma cried. Ira tried not to flinch. She missed having Maiya at her side, and though she thought she hadn’t let it show, Irma seemed to sense it nevertheless. Ira mentally scolded herself. The girl was bright, ambitious, and fiercely loyal, if inexperienced. She had to remind herself that Maiya was the same at one point. No, Irma had all the traits Ira could ever ask for.

  “How go the preparations for the festival of light?” Ira asked, taking the seat behind the half-moon desk she’d converted into an office.

  “Quite well,” Irma reported. “The supplies have been seen to, and the legal matters have been ironed out with the city government. I’m afraid, however, that turnout will be limited. Adrisa simply isn’t as wealthy as Sonam.”

  “That is to be expected. It will not be a problem,” Ira said. “Send our agents to the streets. Tell them to give the homeless and hungry a bit of coin. Tell them that food and clothing will be waiting at the festival—to be distributed for free. The only requirement is that they show up.”

  Irma smiled. “I am relieved to hear that. This will solve both our issues. As expected of milady.”

  “There’s more we must do,” Ira continued, dismissing the compliment. “Our nation needs to change. We’re so obsessed with combat that fighting has become the measure of everything. We don’t consider whether a country can be respected as a trading partner or a friend unless it somehow also benefits us in war. That hunger for conquest is why my rebellion failed. I played to my father’s strengths. I focused so hard on military strength that I forgot the true core of the realm I want to build.”

  Irma nodded. Outside, the din of the rain increased and for a moment Ira let the peaceful sound wash over her. She was tired of being powerless. Yet every small step, every grueling session sitting near an Ash Gate, had pushed her closer to the person she intended to be. Strong of both mind and spirit.

  “We cannot afford to fail here,” she said, returning to the present. “Make sure the food and clothes are ready. Reach out to the city’s best artisans and some of the lesser-known ones as well. I want music everywhere. I want lively colors and boisterous stalls. If we teach everyone the value of culture and trade, we chip away at the stranglehold war has over our people.”

  “As you command,” Irma replied, before stepping away. “I shall begin the preparations immediately.”

  “I suppose this is where it begins,” Ira said, looking out the window.

  If people did not wish for war—if people desired art and peace more than battle—then Ira’s fight was already half won. It was her hope that, through this and a dozen other projects she was spearheading, sentiment would change. Slowly, of course, for change such as this took time.

  But Ira felt it would not take much. In such a socially starved culture, a single spark would be enough. Word would spread like a wildfire in a drought, and soon their day would come.

  When Andros is finally removed from his throne and we can show the world a better way, Ira thought darkly.

  They had to, for she could not allow a repeat of Ksaia.

  Even now, the memory of that day sent shivers up her spine.

  S-rank magic—magic that hadn’t been used in as long as anyone could remember thanks to Altani—had needed only one desperate, corrupt man to turn a city into nothing more than a smoldering ruin.

  She couldn’t let that happen again. The realm couldn’t afford it. Or the precedent it set.

  Imperator Andros gazed up at the inverted waterfall that flowed up to Alt Ashani’s floating island, hands clasped smartly behind his back. He ensured he looked suitably impressed—the spectacle was the pride and joy of the Altani’s crown jewel of a capital, after all. It wouldn’t do to ridicule it with a muted response, even if that was exactly what Andros felt about the whole thing.

  “I daresay there is not a city like Alt Ashani in any realm,” the prime mejai beside him said.

  “Indeed,” Andros replied. “To build a capital in a functioning city from the Age of Gods—a remarkable feat. But to maintain it? That speaks to your mastery of magic.”

  Though he cared little for the frivolity of politics, Andros would not be Imperator without knowing how the game was played. What purpose did waterfalls serve in the middle of a city? A wasted show of opulence. Considering this was an Imperium city, it spoke volumes as to their culture.

  The floating island the falls flowed into, however, was another story entirely. The city’s core provided a natural defensive advantage where only aerial assaults could threaten it. Rumor had it that Alt Ashani was still protected by ancient defenses and long-range magic from the Age of Gods. Magic capable of warding off slow-moving skyships. That alone made the city tantalizing to Andros. He noted every detail, planning already how he might exploit or conquer it in time.

  His companion, a scrawny man somehow capable of wielding magic that leveled cities, reported on the situation, his anxiousness audible in his voice.

  Andros listened, glancing down with contempt at the man’s slight frame. Mejai were weak in both body and spirit. He could break the man’s neck without a thought—no A-rank defense would save him here. Even still, such men were the reason the Altani had bested Kin’jal in every skirmish they’d fought.

  The thought made Andros’ blood boil. At least if they were honorable Warriors…

  “What is the commotion this time?” Andros asked, finding himself growing increasingly agitated.

  “It is the goddess Ashani, Imperator,” the mejai replied. “Her declarations against the destruction of Ksaia have split our people, and many refuse to continue this war. A substantial portion of our populace openly worships the goddess, erecting temples in her honor and pledging allegiance to her cause.”

  “They must be stricken with blindness, then. For what fool cannot see she allies herself with demons? The literal kind, that is.”

  The mejai hung his head. “They believe she would never ally with forces of evil.”

  Andros felt bile rise in his throat. Blind zealots, following a power figure, sparing not a single thought whether this so-called ‘goddess’ deserved such faith.

  And yet, there was little he could do to turn them from her. The truth was undeniable—deserving or not, Ashani’s mere presence moved people more effectively than anything Andros could match.

  “The council is evenly split on this issue,” the mejai went on. “Without a strong majority, I’m afraid this war cannot continue. And, if I may be honest, it is not only the faction openly in support of Goddess Ashani. Many of our people feel misgivings—even among the ranks who still favor action.”

  Andros’s jaw tightened. The Altani had the military might, the technology, and the magic to dominate the Known World. The only reason they hadn’t was this—spinelessness and internal division.

  He would not let that persist.

  “Then I must speak with the council,” Andros said.

  “I’m afraid outsiders are not allowed to sit in council,” the magi warned. “Not even you.”

  Andros scowled. “Spare me. Kin’jal is your ally, and I am its monarch. I demand one hour of their time. One hour is all I need. Worry not. I will change their minds.”

  He imagined, with a thrill, the day he would bend this nation of mejai to his will, extinguishing the last threats to Kin’jal dominance.

  The future of the Kin’jal Empire looked bright indeed.