An Ember in the Ashes

“This life is not always what we think it will be,” Cain says. “You are an ember in the ashes, Elias Veturius. You will spark and burn, ravage and destroy. You cannot change it. You cannot stop it.”
“I don’t want—”

“What you want doesn’t matter. Tomorrow you must make a choice. Between deserting and doing your duty. Between running from your destiny and facing it. If you desert, the Augurs will not stop you. You will escape. You will leave the Empire. You will live. But you will find no solace in doing so. Your enemies will hunt you. Shadows will bloom in your heart, and you will become everything you hate—evil, merciless, cruel. You will be chained to the darkness within yourself as surely as if chained to the walls of a prison cell.”
He moves toward me, his black eyes pitiless. “But if you stay, if you do your duty, you have a chance to break the bonds between you and the Empire forever. You have a chance at greatness you cannot conceive. You have a chance at true freedom—of body and of soul.”
“What do you mean if I stay and do my duty? What duty?”
“You’ll know when the time comes, Elias. You must trust me.”
“How can I trust you when you won’t explain what you mean? What duty? My first mission? My second? How many Scholars will I have to torment? How much evil will I commit before I’m free?”
Cain’s eyes are fixed on my face as he takes one step away from me and then another.
“When can I leave the Empire? In a month? A year? Cain!”
He fades as quickly as a star into the dawn. I reach out to grab him, to force him to stay and answer me. But my hand finds only air.
IX: Laia
Keenan pulls me to a cavern door, and I hang limp, my breath gone from my body. His mouth moves, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. All I can hear are Darin’s screams echoing in my ears.
I’ll never see my brother again. The Martials will sell him if he’s lucky and kill him if he’s not. Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it.
Tell them, Laia. Darin whispers in my head. Tell them who you are.
They might kill me, I argue back. I don’t know if I can trust them.
If you don’t tell them, I’ll die, Darin’s voice says. Don’t let me die, Laia.
“The tattoo on your neck,” I shout at Mazen’s retreating back. “The fist and flame. My father put it there. You were the second person he tattooed, after my mother.”
Mazen stops.
“His name was Jahan. You called him Lieutenant. My sister’s name was Lis. You called her the Little Lioness. My—” For a second, I falter, and Mazen turns around, a muscle in his jaw jumping. Speak, Laia. He’s actually listening. “My mother’s name was Mirra. But you—everyone—called her the Lioness. Leader. Head of the Resistance.”
Keenan releases me as quickly as if my skin has turned to ice. Sana’s gasp echoes in the sudden silence of the cavern. She’ll know now why she’d found me familiar.
I glance around at the shocked faces uneasily. My parents were betrayed from within the Resistance. Nan and Pop never learned who it was.
Mazen says nothing.
Please don’t let him be the traitor. Let him be one of the good ones.
If Nan could see me, she’d throttle me. I’ve kept the secret of my parents’ identities all my life. Telling it makes me feel hollow inside. And what happens now? All of these rebels, many of whom fought alongside my parents, suddenly know whose child I am. They’ll want me to be fearless and charismatic, like Mother. They’ll want me to be brilliant and serene, like Father.
But I’m not any of those things.
“You served with my parents for twenty years,” I say to Mazen. “In Marinn and then here, in Serra. You joined up the same time as my mother. You rose to the top with her and my father. You were third-in-command.”
Keenan’s eyes flash between Mazen and me, the rest of his face still. Work in the cavern halts, and fighters whisper to each other as they gather around us.
“Mirra and Jahan had one child.” Mazen limps toward me. His eyes go from my hair to my eyes to my lips as he remembers, compares. “She died when they did.”
“No.” I’ve held this in for so long that it feels wrong to speak of it. But I have to. It is the only thing I can say that might make a difference.
“My parents left the Resistance when Lis was four. They were expecting Darin. They wanted a normal life for their children. They disappeared. No trace. No trail.
“Darin was born. Then, two years later, I arrived. But the Empire was coming down hard on the Resistance. Everything my parents worked for was crumbling. They couldn’t sit by and watch. They wanted to fight. Lis was old enough to stay with them. But Darin and I were too young. They left us with Mother’s parents. Darin was six. I was four. They died a year later.”
“You tell a good tale, girl.” Mazen says. “But Mirra didn’t have parents.
She was an orphan, like me. Like Jahan.”
“I’m not telling tales,” I pitch my voice low so it doesn’t shake. “Mother left home when she was sixteen. Nan and Pop didn’t want her to go. After she left, she cut off all contact. They didn’t even know she was alive until she knocked on their door asking them to take us in.”
“You’re nothing like her.”
He might as well have slapped me. I know I’m not like her, I want to say. I cried and cringed instead of standing and fighting. I abandoned Darin instead of dying for him. I’m weak in a way she never was.
“Mazen,” Sana whispers, like I’ll disappear if she speaks too loudly. “Look at her. She has Jahan’s eyes, his hair. Ten hells, she has his face.”
“I swear it’s true. This armlet—” I lift my hand, and it glints in the cavern’s light. “It was hers. She gave it to me a week before the Empire caught her.”
“I’d wondered what she’d done with it.” The stiffness in Mazen’s face dissolves, and the light of an old memory flares in his eyes. “Jahan gave it to her when they got married. I never saw her without it. Why didn’t you come to us before? Why didn’t your grandparents contact us? We’d have trained you up the way Mirra would have wanted.”
The answer dawns on his face before I can say it.