ARTHUR

The child, a little girl, is screaming in agony. A woman, presumably her parent, is speaking in such quick Busuruli that Arthur can’t make sense of it, but he understands her worry. It makes his heart clench to think of Cel in such a position.

The runners had carted the little Busuruli girl to her mother. The child is missing an arm. Bandages stained dark with blood are wrapped around the stump left behind. No child should have to suffer such a wound, but Arthur is in no position to be picky. This is an opportunity he can’t pass up. He’d counted five runners and had seen only two people in the room before he’d ducked aside.

He’ll take those odds.

He whips the glaive around and steps back in. The women are huddled over the girl on the table, all of them frantic. No one even sees him enter.

He takes the glaive’s dull blade to the back of three necks before they catch on, has to gut another two women before one with a long scar across her nose gets between him and the child and spreads her arms wide.

“Do not!” she snaps at him.

“Which of you,” he enunciates carefully in Busuruli, having never before put the language to practice, “is the leader?”

“I am,” says the woman standing behind the table. She keeps one hand splayed across the child’s forehead. The little girl trembles violently. The bandages on her arm grow darker with every passing moment.

“She’s bleeding out,” he says. “I can stop the bleeding.”

The woman with her arms spread scoffs. “After killing my warriors? Hah! Right! You want to help!”

“Sister,” snaps the leader in warning, but she holds Arthur’s gaze. “How could you possibly help?”

He appreciates her brevity. Busuruli words feel strange in his mouth. “I’m firecored.”

“Oh? You don’t look it. Prove it!”

Arthur lets fire curl from his fist.

“Why’s it black?” the leader asks suspiciously.

He shrugs. “Had a bit of trouble in Rajask a while back. This was the result. It still burns, I assure you.”

“Who cares? You are Malroix!” snarls the sister.

“Simikee,” he corrects sternly, letting the fire fade from his fingers.

“An immigrant, fighting for the Malroix?” The leader huffs, drawing his attention back to her. She’s got that same stubborn look in her eyes as her sister. “How stupid of you.”

“You can change nothing from the gutters, which was my only other option” he tells her. “I would have a better life for my daughter than that, so I chose this.”

Her lips pinch, and she considers him for a long moment. “Give my sister the glaive,” she says, “and come help Nora if you truly can.”

Arthur hands over the glaive without hesitation. The sister snatches it from his hand then aims the bloodied blade at his throat.

“Kill me, and the child dies,” he says flatly.

“Sister!” the leader snaps.

The sister lowers the weapon, a sneer on her mouth and a fierce light in her gaze that tells Arthur she will be watching his every move.

He moves to the table and quickly removes the bandages off the child's arm. She’s barely conscious, but she whimpers when the last cloth is removed. There is rendered flesh and dark blood and bone visible underneath. Not one to waste time--he doubts she can afford to lose anymore blood--he places his palm over the wound and urges fire through his fingers. They turned black; equally dark flames crawl over the girl’s skin.

The child screams. Arthur feels the glaive’s blade return to the side of his neck, hovering a threat, but he doesn’t stop the fire until Nora’s wound is burned shut. She is unconscious by the end of it but no longer bleeding. Her mother speaks soothingly and kisses her sweaty forehead once the deed is done.

Arthur stands still. The blade cuts a line into his skin as he raises his hands. “The Malroix will flood you out with numbers. They will kill every single one of you, especially now that you have felled a commander” he says tersely. “I’m here to offer a kinder alternative.”

The leader glares at him, but there is a softness behind her eyes now. “What kinder alternative is there? Will the Malroix enslave us?”

“Imprison,” he says with an apologetic look. “There must be some containment in their eyes. Surrender your people. Agree to go quietly from this point on, and I promise that fifty of your people live. They will be war prisoners, but I will ensure they are treated humanely. In addition, I will make sure the Malroix treat the rest of your people to a proper burial.”

“You want us to surrender?” snarls the sister, still holding the weapon up. She barks a laugh. “Only cowards surrender!”

But the leader’s face has gone lax. She stares down at her child sadly. “Nora won’t survive the process, I fear.”

“Then I will keep her,” Arthur says without thinking.

Her head snaps up. Her eyes narrow. “...you?”

He nods, already too far gone to turn back. “My daughter is also firecored. We--I must keep her hidden. She could use a friend.”

As the leader mulls over this information, her sister huffs. “Or we could just turn you in!”

“Do so,” Arthur challenges, starting to get annoyed, “and I will personally burn all of Busurul to ash.”

“Could you?” asks the leader, her head cocked.

Arthur tilts his head, mocking. “Has history not proven our capabilities? The Burning of Firasi? The Great Fires of Ylna? The Ash Plague of Early Xai? I can assure you this: it only takes one of my kind to burn down a continent, much less a little island.”

She holds up a hand. “Enough. I get it, but…” She smoothes Nora’s hair. “I have a second daughter.”

Arthur shakes his head, a rejection. “One who is in perfect health, I imagine. I will only personally take on the one. My daughter would not tolerate two new siblings. The other will be treated humanely, as I said.”

“Yet Nora will have it better. I have always endeavored to treat my girls fair, despite them having different fathers.”

“Nora is a one-armed Busuruli who will be living among Malroix. Your other daughter may exist in captivity, but alongside her own people at least. I don’t think it’s a matter of competition. They will both have hard lives. I will care for Nora, though I can’t promise to treat her as my own. I will also look out for your other daughter and the remnants of your people. Do we have a deal or not?”

The leader contemplates for a long moment. “Sister,” she finally says, “by your estimate, how long do you think we have left if we stand our ground.”

Two days, Arthur thinks. The Malroix will pour soldiers onto Busuruli shores now that Commander Vonadieu is dead.

“Five days,” estimates the sister.

“How generous,” Arthur retorts.

“Shut up!”

He’s going to scar if she pushes that blade any deeper into his neck.

The leader comes around the table and shoves the glaive aside. She gets up in Arthur’s face, slightly taller than him but still short for a Busuruli. “My sister must be one of the fifty as well.”

“Done,” Arthur says without budging, “but you they will execute publicly.”

“Sister!”

“Agreed,” the leader says over her sister’s protest. She says it again, and Arthur feels victory settle into his bones. “Agreed.”