Page 3 of Eyes of Kings

“A worrying dream,” she says. “Though unrealistic. San-Er is too high above sea level.”

Calla’s hand floats up in the dark, brushing against Anton’s jaw. It’s scratchy, unshaven in the havoc of these last few days. When he smiles, his eyes crinkle,dimming the yellow. Since its appearance, she’s discovered something even stranger. Without really trying, she can pull from it. She focuses—a small, restrained breath to fill her lungs—and Anton leans toward her. He reacts the same way each time, as though by compulsion, and he’s yet to notice that Calla is responsible. The light dulls, sapped from its post behind his eyes. A pleasant tickle starts in Calla’s throat.

“Not the rest of Talin, though,” Anton says. His head droops into the dome of her palm. “Not Kelitu.”

Calla doesn’t pull for long. She breathes out, releasing her hold, and Anton responds by rolling away indolently. The light always comes back, in any case. It depends on how much she takes. The first time was an accident. She had breathed him in, and the crown on her head started to throb. His glow dimmed. Calla stopped, alarmed. After a few minutes, with Anton none the wiser, the yellow light was churning at full radiance again.

The next time, it was several hours. Calla had wanted to settle a hypothesis. She tucked her head into Anton’s shoulder while he stood surveying palace cleanup. A natural embrace; a gesture of comfort. Anton did not draw away, so Calla pulled, then pulled some more. Qi rushed into her body.So much qi. When she lifted her sleeves later, the scratches and bruises she had amassed during the coup were all healed.

“I don’t think Kelitu is flooding either,” Calla assures him.

Anton sits up. He doesn’t sense what she’s been doing to him, not then and not here. There has been no change in his manner anyway, no pallid appearance to suggest that she is taking away from his life force.

All the same, she should stop. He wouldn’t like it if he found out.

The Crescents at the door are still murmuring in conversation. For a moment, the both of them fall silent to listen, catching snippets about a patrol and the wall. Calla hasn’t been able to shake the Crescent Societies from watching her every move, monitoring what she does and who she talks to. San-Er hasexperienced violent upheaval. Calla Tuoleimi didn’t win the twin cities herself: she marched in after the Crescents already succeeded with their takeover. They want her to remember that.

But before the Crescent Societies can prove themselves lawmakers and leaders, they are criminals and cultists. Too much change is anathema… There will be wide revolt without Calla at the helm, without a visual and symbolic promise that San-Er’s factories shall continue to run, that coin continue to flow, that the millions living in this swell-tide of a capital continue to receive what they were promised as city dwellers. The Crescent Societies are unable to forget that.

“Today,” she decides, “we need to get rid of August.”

Anton is silent. He has his back to her now, so Calla cannot read his expression. Erratic rain strikes the window. She skates her hand along his bare spine—a soft touch, a reminder. He is warm.

“Is that wise?” he finally asks.

“You tell me,” Calla replies. “You’re my only general.”

“We have had very little time to plan. We would be going out with nothing but brute force.”

They have already waited longer than Calla wanted. It was a necessary interim to restore order to the capital, yes. The vaults were pried wide open. Employees who formerly worked under the Weisannas were paid a lump sum to stay put. Hands in the kitchen, eyes in the surveillance room. It was at Anton’s insistence—they needed a regiment keeping house, lest they returned after war was won and realized the capital had crumbled not from invasion but from sheer ineptitude. Water in the walls, water in the carpets.

The palace resumes operation and the shops open. The Crescent Societies have installed their people everywhere there used to be palace guards. Finally, at this point in time, a triage of the kingdom would focus not on the capital but on the tumor looming outside it, in the shape of August Shenzhi.

“We need nothing more than brute force,” Calla says. Her power thrumsfrom the assertion. Starting from her crown, surging through her bones, spreading in her limbs. Anton turns around, his eyes still aglow, and she laces her hands together to prevent taking more.

“Eigi Province is too open,” Anton warns. “August’s camp could hear us coming and initiate evacuation. They have multiple routes out.”

“He won’t flee. If he has not yet moved from Eigi, he wants a confrontation.”

“Yes,” Anton says. “And isn’t that strange? He must know that he has no defense against the crown. Why stay put?”

Calla has mulled over the same question. In these few days, she expected to hear news of him fleeing north. If she were in August’s shoes, she would get away from the capital. He lost San-Er: that much is undeniable. But the provinces are open for the taking. Most councilmembers are dead. The generals will serve whoever can pay, and August is heir to King Kasa’s legacy. He ought to move fast and secure a fringe province before Calla has time to convince its yamen otherwise. Settle for the demotion and rule in Gaiyu Province or someplace alike. Calla spared him his life when he surrendered. He should be so grateful.

So why is he stillthere?

A low creak, by the door. The Crescents are leaning against it attempting to eavesdrop, and Calla’s hackles rise in retaliation.

“I want at least a hundred of them,” she whispers, her volume dropping lower. “And weapons. They’re already distributing weapons across the twin cities, so I know they have them.”

The crown is powerful. But she still needs the shape of an army. She needs soldiers who can clear the path, or else Calla will tire herself out on the collateral that August inevitably positions in front of her. Every Weisanna in San-Er has fled to join August’s camp. He will have hundreds of soldiers. The Crescent Societies are not trained to fight against them, yet they are her only option. Calla has no time to run recruitment.

“Bibi can make the request,” Anton whispers in return. “But this early—”

“Anton,” she interrupts. “We can’t wait.Youwanted this. You asked for this.”

Calla only took up this mantle to get rid of August. What else could she have done? Eigi had been the end of the line. Despite every move Calla and Anton had played in the palace, the die was cast and August won. He’d had them hostage—at best, they would have been killed, and at worst, they would have been exiled into a miserable life with no legacy, no possessions. It was accepting that fate or it was waging war with everything Calla had.

A knock on the door.