An Ember in the Ashes

“Make soap, wash dishes, barter—yes. You’ve just described every freewoman in the Scholar’s Quarter.”
“You can read too,” Mazen says. When I begin to deny the charge, he shakes his head. “Empire rules be damned. You forget I knew your parents.”
“What does any of that have to do with helping the Resistance?”
“We’ll break your brother out of prison if you spy for us.”
For a moment, I don’t speak, though I feel a tug of curiosity. This is the last thing I expected. “Who do you want me to spy on?”
“The Commandant of Blackcliff Military Academy.”
X: Elias

The morning after the Augur’s visit, I stumble to the mess hall like a Cadet suffering his first hangover, cursing the overly bright sun. What little sleep I got was sabotaged by a familiar nightmare, one in which I wander through a stinking, body-strewn battlefield. In the dream, screams rend the air and somehow I know that the pain and suffering are my fault, that the dead have fallen by my hand.
Not the best way to start a day. Especially graduation day.
I run into Helene as she, Dex, Faris, and Tristas leave mess. She stuffs a rock-hard biscuit into my hand, ignoring my protests, and pulls me away from the hall.
“We’re late.” I barely hear her over the ceaseless beating of the drums, which are ordering all graduates to the armory to pick up our ceremonials—
the armor of a full Mask. “Demetrius and Leander already left.”
Helene chatters about how thrilling it will be to put on our ceremonials.
Dimly, I listen to her and the others, nodding at appropriate times, exclaiming when necessary. All the while, I’m thinking of what Cain said to me last night. You will escape. You will leave the Empire. You will live. But you will find no solace in doing so.
Do I trust the Augur? He could be trying to trap me here, hoping I’ll stay a Mask long enough to decide that a soldier’s life is better than an exile’s. I think of how the Commandant’s eyes shine when she whips a student, how Grandfather boasts of his body count. They are my kin; their blood is my blood. What if their lusts for war and glory and power are mine too and I just don’t know it? Could I learn to revel in being a Mask? The Augur read my thoughts. Does he see something evil inside me that I’m too blind to face?
But then, Cain seemed convinced that I’d meet the same fate if I ran.
Shadows will bloom in your heart, and you will become everything you hate.
So my choices are to stay and be evil or to run and be evil. Wonderful.
When we are halfway to the armory, Hel finally notices my silence, taking in the rumpled clothing, the bloodshot eyes.
“You all right?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“You look like hell.”
“Rough night.”
“What happ—”
Faris, walking ahead with Dex and Tristas, drops back. “Leave him alone, Aquilla. The man’s tuckered out. Snuck down to the docks to celebrate a bit early, eh, Veturius?” He claps me on the shoulder with a big hand and laughs.
“Could have invited a fellow along.”
“Don’t be disgusting,” Helene says.
“Don’t be a prude,” Faris retorts.
A full-scale argument ensues, during which Helene’s disapproval of prostitutes is vehemently shouted down by Faris while Dex argues that leaving school grounds to visit a brothel isn’t strictly forbidden. Tristas points to the tattoo of his fiancé’s name and declares neutrality.
Amid the swiftly flung insults, Helene’s gaze slides to me repeatedly. She knows I don’t frequent the docks. I avoid her eyes. She wants an explanation, but where would I even begin? Well you see, Hel, I wanted to desert today, but this damned Augur showed up and now...
When we arrive at the armory, students spill out the front doors, and Faris and Dex disappear into the crush. I’ve never seen the Senior Skulls so...
happy. With liberation just a few minutes away, everyone is smiling. Skulls I barely ever speak to greet me, clap me on the back, joke with me.
“Elias, Helene.” Leander, his nose crooked from the time Helene broke it, calls us over. Demetrius stands beside him, grim as always. I wonder if he feels any joy today. Maybe he’s just relieved to leave the place where he watched his brother die.
When he sees Helene, Leander self-consciously runs his hand over his curly hair—which sticks up all over the place no matter how short he cuts it.
I try not to smile. He’s liked her for ages, though he pretends not to. “Armorer already called your names.” Leander nods to two stacks of armor and weaponry behind him. “We grabbed your ceremonials for you.”
Helene goes for hers like a jewel thief for rubies, holding the bracers to the light, exclaiming at how Blackcliff’s diamond symbol is seamlessly hammered into the shield. The close-fitting armor is forged by the Teluman smithy—one of the oldest in the Empire—and is strong enough to turn away all but the finest blades. Blackcliff’s final gift to us.
Once the armor is on, I strap on my weaponry: scims and daggers of Serric steel, razor-sharp and graceful, especially compared to the dull, utilitarian weapons we’ve used until now. The last piece is a black cape held in place by a chain. When I’m done, I look up to see Helene staring at me.
“What?” I say. Her expression is so intent that I glance down, assuming I’ve put my chest plate on backward. But everything is where it should be.
When I look back up, she’s standing before me, adjusting my cape, her long fingers brushing my neck.
“It wasn’t straight.” She dons her helmet. “How do I look?”
If the Augurs made my armor to accentuate my body’s power, they made Hel’s to accentuate her beauty.
“You look...” Like a warrior goddess. Like a jinni of air come to bring us all to our knees. Skies, what the hell is wrong with me? “Like a Mask,” I say.
She laughs, girlish and preposterously alluring, drawing the attention of other students: Leander, who jerks his gaze away and rubs his crooked nose guiltily when I catch him looking, Faris, who grins and mutters something to an appraising Dex. Across the room, Zak stares too, the expression on his face something between longing and puzzlement. Then I see Marcus beside Zak, watching his brother as his brother watches Hel.
“Look boys,” Marcus says. “A bitch in armor.”
My scim is half-drawn when Hel puts a hand on my arm, her eyes flashing fire at me. My fight. Not yours.
“Go to hell, Marcus.” Helene finds her cape a few feet away and dons it.