Rasia charged the figure walking the edge of the training fields. In her rage, she carved ruts in the sand and approached with all the subtlety of a rampaging gonda. She howled his name. Kenji-shi no doubt heard her coming, but for whatever reason, he didn’t turn around to meet her blades. Her khopesh sliced through the air and froze at his hunched back.
“Fight me!” she demanded in frustration.
Kenji-shi lowered a clay flask and angled around to squint at her. “I’m not going to fight you.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Trying to get there.”
The flask shattered when Rasia sliced dragonsteel through the clay. Anticipating a reaction, she spun on her heels only to find Kenji-shi staring dumbly at that broken flask in his hand. She froze her khopesh at his neck, having forced herself to stop from killing him, again. She screamed in frustration.
He just stood there, even though his sword was right there at his waist.
“Do you want to die?!” she demanded.
Kenji-shi shrugged.
“Fight me!” she stomped her feet, stamping her boots into the sand. Still nothing. “Fight me, you stupid boneless limp dick kulo!”
That elicited a reaction. Shocked by Rasia’s coarse language, he crossed his arms and had the audacity to demand as if she was five-years till, “Five laps.”
“You’re not my tah!”
“Ten laps.”
“AHHHHH!!!!!!” She dropped her blades and went sprinting around the training field. It was the same stupid training field Shamai-ta forced her to run whenever he claimed she needed more constructive outlets for her anger. It was the same training field Shamai-ta used to train his kull. The same one where she’d go to fetch him for dinner when his sparring matches with Kenji-shi ran too late.
Kenji-shi had sat down atop the hill by the time Rasia finished her laps. She marched up to him darkly.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“I . . . yeah,” she said. Her words punctuated heaving breaths. She snatched up her khopesh and pointed them at him. She thought that with her armor and her blades, she could face him with better footing—if anything, the ground felt worse than when she confronted him naked in his serving room. She squeezed her eyes shut, and . . . and . . . she pressed her forearm to her face to stop the sudden tears.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Kenji-shi asked.
“I . . .” In that moment, she didn’t see that angry rage-filled person who had slammed her into a table. That person was a stranger. She saw Kenji-shi, who had always been so utterly patient and kind to her, and no matter what, was always willing to listen. The anger deflated out of her. “. . . yeah.”
She trudged over. She dropped down beside him and overlooked the training field that contained the sweat of so many memories. She wrapped her arms around her knees and mumbled, sarcastically, “Tah disowned me. My windship is in impound. The Grankull betrayed my kulani. His stupid tah wants him dead. Everything sucks.”
“Rasia—,” he paused. Then he looked at her, soft and sad and proud. “I guess it’s Rasia Dragonfire now.”
“No,” she hissed. The address cut a literal wound to the gut, hitting harder than when he popped her arm from her shoulder socket. Kiba-ta would never again address her with familiarity. Because Kiba-ta was the triarch of the family, most likely all her tajihs and cousins would follow suit. She couldn’t bear the formality, not tonight. “You’ve known me since my birthpour. Don’t start with that horseshit. You’ll always be Kenji-shi to me, even if I do chop off your head. That doesn’t make us any less family.”
“Rasia-po,” he said, still careful and unsure. ‘Poh’ was an address that adults used with the children of their clan. Kenji-shi had always called Rasia by it due to his close relationship with Shamai-ta. Only parents continued to use that address with their adult children, but the familiar felt good to Rasia in that moment. “Listen, whatever that little shit convinced you of—”
“No, you listen,” she snapped, swiveling and stabbing her forefinger into Kenji-shi’s chest. “When I was little, you always told my favorite stories. Now, it’s my turn to tell you one. And on the names of Shamaijen Kibakulani-Shiphull-Scorpionpath-Hunter Han-Dragonsbane-Dragonslayer-Heartgiver-Windbreaker, you will stay quiet until I am done.”
He raised a brow, and after a moment, gave a nod for her to continue. Kenji-shi knew her. He had always been family until they both sort of drifted apart after tah’s death. But surely, the person who had been a member of her birthing kull, who had raised her far more than any of her tajihs, who had mourned Shamai-ta as much as she had, would know she wouldn’t lie about something like this.
It was the third time that day Rasia told the story of her Forging, but this time she didn’t curate her words. She told him about everything: from the windship training to the sex to the assassins. She told him about the scavengers and about Timar. She told him about the dragon, smiling, because finally she had an audience who could truly appreciate the strategy of her hunt. Then she told him of everything that came after—of the farce of the re-interviews to the Council’s lies. She told him everything she could think of, except for Kai’s magic. Kai could tell that story himself.
“So,” she said punctuating the end of her tale. “I’ve had a very fucking shitty night. And I don’t want to kill you Kenji-shi, but I will, and now you know why. You deserve to at least know why. Whatever your relationship with Kai, that does not change the fact that despite what the Council says, kulani has earned his face. He earned his hunt. You had no right to lay a hand on him, and I demand a blood price.”
Kenji-shi was measured in his silence. The wind blew, and he automatically moved to shield her from the sudden dust. It reminded her of that day long ago, watching the kulls race each other at drills, when life had been fun, easy, and simple, before Shamai-ta had died.
Kenji-shi withdrew his sword and cut a straight line, up from his palm to his forearm, parallel to a scar from a former blood price he paid a long time ago. He mopped the blood with his shroud and then handed over the bloody cloth.
Rasia clutched at that cloth, a bloody item symbolizing that sometimes words could accomplish more than rage and violence. “Promise me, on Shamai-ta’s name, that you will never harm him again. If you ever do, the next blood price won’t be another cut on your arm.”
He let that arm bleed. It dripped a line of blood on the sand as he stared out at the training field. “Shamai-kull and I used to joke how we were fated to be friends. We often imagined how our children could be a kulani-pair. The laugh we got when you and Nico-po came out hating each other. I never thought . . .” he sucked in a breath. “The joke’s on me . . . I’ll never harm your kulani ever again. I promise, on Shamai Windbreaker’s names.” Then he smiled. “Rasia-po, he’d be so proud of you.”
She tackled a great hug about his waist. He wrapped her tightly in her arms. She couldn’t force the Grankull to believe her, or demand Kiba-ta change her mind, or bring Shamai-ta back to life, but she could always depend on Kenji-shi to listen. After a long night of lies and betrayals, finally, something that felt like a win.