ARTHUR

Most in Malais have souls--cores, they are called here--that have absorbed Godcore energy, called coric, over generations. Nowadays some human cores can generate coric on their own, like Godcores in miniature. People who can do so are called coricers. They are rare in every society; stormcoricers in particular are only native to Malais.

Arthur fiddles with his false-gold cufflinks, still staring ahead. His firecore has no known source. The god who spawned it is long lost to the pages of history, but a slew of firecored tyrants, mercenaries, and murderers over the centuries have ensured that people everywhere despise his kind.

And so, he thinks, they will despise my daughter.

“This should be a quick conflict,” someone says from behind him.

He turns, and on instinct, whips up a quick salute.

Commander Vonadieu returns it and pushes her way up next to him. Their sides brush as she mimics him and props herself against the bow’s apex. Arthur flinches away. He has read her interest in him plenty of times before, but he has never once been tempted to invite her into his bed, though his refusal has never stopped her from trying to seduce him. She has a husband and two young children. Her disloyalty irks him. That aside, he’d sooner gut himself than betray Fukashi and Cel.

“I do not think it will be so simple, ma’am,” he tells her in an amicable enough tone, despite his irritation. “The Busuruli came from Rajask, a brutal people. They will be no strangers to war, and I’ve no doubt they’ve watched us warily for years. It’s not like we’re sailing in under cover. They will be ready.”

Her lips quirk up. “I forget sometimes that you’re foreign. You articulate yourself so well.”

He buries his offense at the backhanded compliment beneath a chuckle. She probably doesn’t even realize the remark could be taken in such a way. “It might take some time, but we will be victorious, ma’am.”

“I’ve asked you to call me Vivienne.”

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. You are my commanding officer. Unlike your other junior officers, I’m not able to get away with such things.”

I am not white, he doesn’t say. I am not Malroix, even though my documentation calls me half-blooded. And more for his own peace of mind: Thank the Ancient Spirits my Cel is so pale they can barely tell the difference.

“And yet you are the one I wouldn’t mind to hear it from,” says Commander Vonadieu with a meaningful sigh.

Arthur can’t help the downward twist of his lips.

“You are married,” he reminds her.

She shrugs, still looking out over the sea. Merfolk play in the waves below as the ship cuts across The Knell. “It was a business arrangement between our parents.”

“Be that as it may, I hear Leopold is quite dedicated to you, and I have a partner of my own that I am quite dedicated to.”

“Do you?” Her eyebrows shoot up as she turns.

“I will marry him soon, I think.”

She turns a glare on the horizon. As they sail closer to their destination, Arthur can make out the elaborate bridges connecting the outer islets of Busurul, and the towering pink walls surrounding the Primrose Palace on the largest island at their center. Battle-anticipation winds up his spine, lifting the hairs on his arms. He has not spilled blood in years. He’s not likely to anytime soon, but some part of him thinks otherwise.

“You put me on supplies,” he says grudgingly, the only rebuttal he will allow himself.

She levels him with a mean grin. He is starkly aware that between the two of them, she is the taller. “We must sacrifice to grow,” she drawls in a way he knows she must think is enticing.

He does his best to look unmoved. “I suppose I best get used to it then.”

Her grin vanishes. She steps back from the pointed nose of the ship. “I believe you are meant to be at your post,” she says, “belowdecks.”

He salutes again. “Yes, ma’am.”

He can feel her furious gaze on his back as he disappears below.