An Ember in the Ashes: Chapters 7–13

This is what's become of the Resistance? This band of thugs and thieves? How did it happen? Only twelve years ago, the rebels were at the height of their power, allying themselves with the Tribes and the king of Marinn.

They'd lived their code—Izzat—fighting for freedom, protecting the innocent, elevating loyalty to their own people above all else.

Sana guides me forward, and a burst of cool air washes over me, fresh as spring after the stench of the catacombs.

“You don’t tell her what to do. Sana’s not some besotted recruit, she’s the head of our faction, and you—”

“When I got this tattoo, the Resistance was different,” she explains without my asking. “We were better. But things changed. Our leader, Mazen, told us we needed to be bolder, to go on the attack. Most of the young fighters, the ones Mazen trains, tend to agree with that philosophy.”

‘You’re bound to the code. Bound to aid any who—”

Another fighter comes to restrain me.

“To carry out the will of the Emperor.” I know these words better than my own name, I’ve said them so many times. “To keep away threats, internal and external. To protect the Empire.”

From among the battle-hardened youth there shall rise the Foretold, the Greatest Emperor, scourge of our enemies, commander of a host most devastating. And the Empire shall be made whole.

For obvious reasons, Taius didn't appreciate this prediction, but the Augurs must have threatened to strangle him with sheep gut, because he didn’t make a peep when they raised Blackcliff and began training students here.

Blackcliff may have started out as a place to prepare the future Emperor, but now it’s just a training ground for the Empire's deadliest asset.

“The Foretelling is truth. A truth you will soon face. You seek to run. You seek to abandon your duty. But you cannot escape your destiny.”

The missions, the rote viciousness, will wear me down until there’s nothing left of the boy the Augurs stole fourteen years ago.

You are an ember in the ashes, Elias Veturius. You will spark and burn, ravage and destroy.

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.

“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.”

How many Scholars will I have to torment? How much evil will I commit before I’m free?

My parents were betrayed from within the Resistance.

They’ll want me to be fearless and charismatic, like Mother.

They’ll want me to be brilliant and serene, like Father.

The Resistance doesn't tolerate weaklings.

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?

With liberation just a few minutes away, everyone is smiling.

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.

If Helene is whipped because of his depravity, I’ll hold off on deserting just so I can kill him.

I spent every leave training with Grandfather, enduring beatings and harsh discipline but gaining, in return, a distinct edge over my classmates.

To ensure the future of the Empire, the new Emperor must be at the peak of his strength, as Taius was when he took the throne. Thus do we turn to our battle-hardened youth, our newest Masks. But not all shall vie for this great honor. Only the greatest of our graduates are worthy, the strongest. Only four. Of these four Aspirants, one will be named the Foretold. One will swear fealty and serve as the Blood Shrike. The others will be lost, as leaves on the wind.

The school sprawls atop Serra’s eastern cliffs like a colossal vulture, a jumble of austere buildings enclosed by a black granite wall.

You have all the skills the Commandant would expect from a house slave. She’ll assume you’re illiterate.

Most Scholars who aren’t enslaved work menial jobs—as farmhands or cleaners or stevedores—backbreaking labor for which they’re paid next to nothing.

“Death before tyranny,” he says.

Wide silver bands that mark me as a slave adorn each wrist.

Only speak to the Commandant if she speaks to you. Don't look her in the eyes—she's flogged slaves for less. When she gives you a task, carry it out quickly and well. She'll disfigure you in the first few weeks, but you'll thank her for it eventually—if the scarring's bad enough, it'll keep the older students from raping you too often.

A visceral urge to flee sweeps through me, so powerful that I slow, stop, pull away from the slaver.

An Emperor is not an island. It takes thousands to run the Empire effectively. The city governors will report to you, but they'll mislead and manipulate you at every step, so you'll need a spy network to keep them in check.

“They are a fitting gift for an Emperor,” he says. “See that you earn them. Always victorious.”
“Always victorious.” I echo the Veturia motto, and Grandfather leaves to attend to his guests.

Helene never struck me as a Scholar sympathizer.

I try to look beaten and obedient, the way I know Martials like Scholars to look.

You have no name. No identity. You are a slave. That is all you are. That is all you will ever be.