“Should we go to their aid?” someone asked.

Dalain paused. “No. Row faster.”

Rin pulled her oar through the muddy water, trying not to imagine the worst. Nezha might be fine. Shayang hadn’t been a suicide mission—Nezha had been instructed to hold the fort for as long as he could before escaping into the forest. And if he were seriously injured, the Murui would come to his aid. His god wouldn’t desert him. She had to believe that.

Around noon, they heard a distant round of cannon fire once more.

“That’ll be the warship,” Ramsa said. “They’re trying to blow their way through.”

“Good,” Rin said.

Sinking the warship had perhaps been Kitay’s best idea. The Imperial Fleet couldn’t simply blast it to bits—the bulk of the structure lay underwater, where cannon fire couldn’t touch it. Exploding the top layers would only make it harder to extract the sunken bottom from the Murui.

Half an hour later, the cannon fire stopped. The Militia must have caught on. Now they would have to send in divers with hooks to trawl and clear the river. That might take them two days, three at the most.

But after that, they would resume their slow but relentless journey to Arlong. And without Tsolin, there was nothing left to stop them.

“We know,” Kitay said upon Rin’s return. He’d rushed out to greet her at the harbor. He looked utterly disheveled; his hair stood up in every direction as if he’d spent the last few hours pacing and tugging at his bangs. “Found out two hours ago.”

“But why?” she cried. “And when?”

Kitay shrugged helplessly. “All I know is we’re fucked. Come on.”

She followed him at a run to the palace. Inside the main stateroom, Eriden and a handful of officers stood clustered around a map that was no longer even close to accurate, because it had simply erased Tsolin’s ships from the board.

But the Republic hadn’t just lost ships. This wasn’t a neutral setback. It would have been better if Tsolin had simply retreated, or if he had been killed. But this defection meant that the entire fleet they had relied on now augmented Daji’s forces.

Captain Eriden replaced the pieces meant to represent Tsolin’s fleet with red ones and stood back from the table. “That’s what we’re dealing with.”

No one had anything to say. The numbers differential was almost laughable. Rin imagined a glistening snake coiling its body around a small rodent, squeezing until the light dimmed from its eyes.

“That’s a lot of red,” she muttered.

“No shit,” Kitay said.

“Where’s Vaisra?” she asked.

Kitay drew her to the side and murmured into her ear so Eriden wouldn’t hear. “Alone in his office, probably hurling vases at the wall. He asked not to be disturbed.” He pointed to a scroll lying on the edge of the table. “Tsolin sent that letter this morning. That’s when we found out.”

Rin picked the scroll up and unrolled it. She already knew its contents, but she needed to read Tsolin’s words herself out of some morbid curiosity, the same way she couldn’t help taking a closer look at decomposing animal carcasses.

This is not the future I wished for either of us.

Tsolin wrote in a thin, lovely script. Each stroke tapered carefully to a fine point, an effortless calligraphic style that took years to master. This wasn’t a letter written in haste. This was a letter written laboriously by a man who still cared about decorum.

All across the page Rin saw characters crossed out and rewritten where water had blotted the ink. Tsolin had wept as he wrote.

You must recognize that a ruler’s first obligation is to his people. I chose the path that would lead to the least bloodshed. Perhaps this has stifled a democratic transition. I know the vision you dreamed of for this nation and I know I may have destroyed it. But my first obligation is not to the unborn people of this country’s future, but the people who are suffering now, who pass their days in fear because of the war that you have brought to their doorstep.

I defect for them. This is how I will protect them. I weep for you, my student. I weep for your Republic. I weep for my wife and children. You will die thinking I have abandoned you all. But I do not hesitate to say that I value the lives of my people far more than I have ever valued you.

Chapter 28

The Imperial Navy was due to reach the Red Cliffs in forty-eight hours. Arlong became a swarm of desperate, frantic activity as the Republican Army hastened to finish its defensive preparations in the next two days. The furnaces burned at all hours, day and night, turning out mountains of swords, shields, and javelins. The Red Cliffs became a chimney for the engines of war.

The blacksmith sent for Rin the evening of the first day.

“The ore was a marvel to work with,” he said as he handed her a sword. It was a lovely thing—a thin, straight blade with a crimson tassel fixed to the pommel. “You wouldn’t happen to have more like it, would you?”

“You’d have to sail back to the island,” she murmured, turning the blade over in her hands. “Root around the skeletons, see what you find.”

“Fair enough.” The blacksmith produced a second blade, identical to the first. “Fortunately, there was enough excess metal for a backup. In case you lose one.”

“That’s useful. Thank you.” She held the first blade out, arm straight, to test its weight. The hilt felt molded perfectly to her grasp. The blade was a tad longer than anything she’d ever used, but it was lighter than it looked. She swung it in a circle over her head.

The blacksmith backed out of her range. “I thought you’d want the extra reach.”

She tossed the hilt from hand to hand. She’d been afraid the length would feel awkward, but it only extended her reach, and the light weight more than made up for it. “Are you calling me short?”

He chuckled. “I’m saying your arms aren’t very long. How does it feel?”

She traced the tip of her blade through the air and let it pull her through the familiar movements of Seejin’s Third Form. She was surprised at how good it felt. Nezha had been right—she really was much better with a sword. She’d fought her first battles with one. She’d made her first kill with one.

Why had she been using a trident for so long? That seemed so stupid in retrospect. She’d practiced with the sword for years at Sinegard; it felt like a natural extension of her arm. Wielding one again felt like trading a ceremonial gown for a comfortable set of training clothes.

She gave a yell and hurled the sword toward the opposite wall. It stuck into the wood right where she’d aimed, perfectly angled, hilt quivering.

“How is it?” asked the blacksmith.

“It’s perfect,” she said, satisfied.

Fuck Altan, fuck his legacy, and fuck his trident. It was time she started using a weapon that would keep her alive.

The sun had gone down by the time she returned to the barracks. Rin moved hastily through the canals, arms sore from hours of lugging sandbags into empty houses.

“Rin?” A small figure emerged from the corner just before she reached the door.

She jumped, startled. Her new blades clattered to the floor.