Meira’s shoulder dropped as she missed the target with the blast of flame she’d sent across the training arena. She tried to remind herself that she’d only been wielding for a couple of months, that it was fine that her blasts were weak or wobbly. But she hadn’t shed her perfectionism as easily as her uniform. The disappointment sank to determination, and she raised her hands again.

“Like a bow and arrow,” Kenna, her instructor said. Meira’s arms dropped again as she looked at the woman.

“You’ve used a bow and arrow?” she asked the fire wielder, unable to imagine the woman who so gracefully handled the flames, holding any weapon at all.

“Did you think we hunted by setting animals on fire?”

The blush staining Meira’s cheeks revealed she imagined something of the sort and the older woman laughed, the musical sound reverberating off of the training space walls.

Meira bit her cheek to keep from saying something else embarrassing, and moved her arms to position once more. Her left arm was outstretched toward the straw target, her thumb and first two fingers were open while the other two curled in, making the traditional fire wielding shape. Her right arm was pulled back near her chest, the palm raised toward the target, ready to push the energy needed to create the fire blast.

Unlike earth and air that were constantly around, fire and water wielding required the elements in some form. Most water wielders carried a flask with them; flame was somewhat harder. She hadn’t gotten the flint-striking-and-sending-a-flame-out-at-the-same-time thing down quite yet. A sturdy iron bowl was next to Meira, holding a small fire for her to draw from.

She pulled the string within her, connecting to the fire wielding energy that was flaring brightly, waiting for release. A flame sparked near her open palm. The intense heat of it no longer scared Meira, but felt like something she could control.

“Line up the target by your thumb,” Kenna said from behind her left shoulder, adjusting her arm ever-so-slightly. “Now, push!”

Meira sent shot her arm forward at the same time she let go of the sizzling tether within. The blast roared to life across the short space and struck true, consuming the hay bail quickly.

“Congratulations,” a voice called out flatly from behind her. She turned to see a tall woman in a dark uniform favored by Sorin’s people. Her dour expression made her appear similar enough to the brooding man.

“The Mek’are requests your presence.”

“I’m training,” Meira tried to protest, ignoring the tone that made it clear that this was not a request or social invitation.

Fiery eyes narrowed from under the hood of the sleeveless tunic she wore. The dark tattoos crossing her face enhanced them. Five circles of various sizes lay in a vertical line, running down her forehead to the bridge of her nose. Meira was pretty sure it had something to do with the planets based on similar drawings in the books she had seen. A surreptitious glance at the woman’s hands confirmed she was an air wielder; ruled by the planet Pleius then. The woman’s vaguely feral look continued with stylized triangles of ink curving from the outer corner of her eyes to the temples. A similar angular line had been inked onto her chin, drawing attention to the annoyance-pursed lips.

“I’m sure your instructor will understand,” the woman bit out, adding, “I have orders and will take you to him either way.”

Meira paused for a moment longer before she shrugged at Kenna, brushing her hands across her emerald trousers. The matching tunic gathered in the back and sides, creating a skirt of sorts that floated lightly behind her as she crossed to her disagreeable escort. The woman sighed deeply, flipping loose pieces of blonde hair back under her hood as Meira washed her feet of the dirt from the training facility. Meira tried to ignore her. It wasn’t her fault these people all preferred to be barefoot.

The blonde remained quiet as they walked, brushing off Meira’s attempts at conversation or questions. Her curiosity was burning. Though Meira’s relationship with Sorin had improved from its frigid beginning, she couldn’t imagine a reason for his request now.

“You’re Otsana, right?” Meira tried again, hoping to get something from the woman besides icy indifference. “I’m Meira.”

“I know who you are.”

“Right. Only Soul Wielder,” Meira said, with a small depreciative laugh. The other woman didn’t respond to her attempt to lighten the mood. They walked for a few more moments in thorny silence until the woman’s heavy steps stopped abruptly.

Otsana had halted in front of a set of double doors, her hands resting on the brassy handles. Meira waited. Her escort turned her head to gaze at Meira, anger smoldering in her tawny eyes.

“I know who you are because the villagers screamed out for you, for the Sprit Saint, as they were being slaughtered by your military.”

The look of horror on Meira’s face achieved whatever sadistic streak the blonde felt, and Otsana pulled open the doors, marching in without pause.

Schooling her features as best she could, Meira followed, stepping in to the sun-lightened room with a few blinks. tapestries hung along the walls and her toes sunk into a plush rug of blues and browns. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of six official-looking Juri’a standing around the central table with the Mek’are. She waved her hand awkwardly as the group focused solely on her.

“Soul Wielder,” Sorin greeted in Juri’a, “welcome to the war counsel.”

Meira looked around again and noticed the scarred and battered bodies positioned around the circular table. They certainly wore the name well.

“Why am I here,” she asked in the same language, hoping it was not the reason she imagined.

“You know the Khaantul Military and we need information.”

Her head shook deeply as her eyes pled with the man leaning over a large, hand-drawn map. His face was as hard as the lines across the table.

“It is to help our healers,” a fierce-looking woman to Meira’s left answered. She turned to look at the weathered woman, eyes anchored to the deep scar running across her forehead and right eye. The eye itself was milky white, like the crystal orbs in the Verena’s quarters.

“What is happening?” she asked the woman. Her gaze followed the woman’s hand as it pointed out a section of the map marked by four horse statues, carved of a deep green stone.

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Sorin cut in, taking over the explanation. His voice held a weariness from too many similar conversations.

“The Khaantul forces have been attacking along the western edge of the territory and pushing in from the north with a smaller group.” His hand moved to point out a single green horse mid-way through the territory. “That is why we are seeing more refugees coming into the city in the past weeks.”

Meira studied the map of the Juri’a territory, noticing the names of places she had heard others talk about. The four horses concentrated around Avad’ar and her mind tickled with memory. Dorian had talked about some rebel bases in the South that were causing issues for the command. She was pretty sure this was one they had been trying to ferret out.

“They are killing everyone,” the older woman said emphatically, “even healers.”

“The Khaantul Military doesn’t kill medics,” Meira said automatically, not looking up.

“I have three razed villages with dead healers that tell me otherwise,” a voice came from across the table. Otsana’s ferocity hadn’t tempered upon entering the room and Meira tried to tamp down on the image of people calling out to her as they died.

“There has been no mercy,” Sorin said, tone more even than his companion, “and we need to know how to stop it.”

They needed her, Meira realized. But it wasn’t for attacks or to hurt her friends like she had feared. It was to save their people. She would not hesitate to help with that; she couldn’t.

“How are the healers marked,” she asked.

Looks of confusion swept the table. One man held out his hands to show his wielding tattoo, and she realized her mistake.

“In the Empire, and most other places, medics or healers have a red circle on their uniform to indicate their position to the enemy.” There were murmurs around the table, someone adding that they would pinpoint their healers for more attacks. Meira continued, “It’s somewhat agreed upon to not kill medics; though the Vadeks and some other smaller groups don’t seem to care.”

“So you think a red circle would keep them from getting killed?” one leader asked, his hesitation clear.

“It would certainly help prevent misunderstandings,” Meira replied. An idea struck her. The group continued to debate her suggestion, but Meira didn’t hear them, focusing on her racing thoughts as she tried to consider all paths and pitfalls.

“Why don’t you teach them Khaantul?” She blurted out, the excited smile on her face sticking as she looked around at the rest of the group through their stunned silence. “It would help because then they can communicate with the military, they could ask for help if needed, and so on. It would help prevent a lot of misunderstandings and deaths, don’t you think?”

The heaviness of the silence finally reached her, breaking her smile at the edges. It was as if the room was doused in the snow of the Hygeks. Meira looked at the faces around the table, trying to get some sense of support, but their expressions had been carefully tucked away, eyes refusing to meet her own. Otsana wore her fury and betrayal openly, but Meira wasn’t surprised. Only the eyes of the general remained trained on her, face impenetrable.

Sorin pulled his burning eyes from Meira, looking at the rest of the group as he said, “We will pick up this conversation more later.”

The council members seemed eager for the dismissal, moving toward the doors without looking at Meira. She moved to join them, but stopped at the heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Not you, Soul Wielder.”

The weight of Sorin’s grip froze her in place until the door shut behind Otsana. He let out a heavy breath as he released her shoulder, turning to walk to a small cabinet tucked into the corner.

“I thought you were learning,” he said as he poured a glass of golden liquor from the elaborate decanter on top. His voice was tired, but held an edge of danger.

Meira made a noise to respond, but he ignored her, continuing his musings. “The Verena had assured me that you just needed time. That with enough training you would be an asset to us and ready to help the Juri’a.”

When he turned to her again, the disappointed anger had sharpened his features. It reminded her too much of her mother; the expression that she had spent a lifetime dancing around.

“Now I see that you can’t leave the Empire behind.”

Righteous anger flared in Meira. He was the one who brought her here.

“I am helping you,” she said. “I told you how to keep your healers safe, didn’t I?”

“And in the same breath you suggested we give into the very people causing the danger!”

Meira started for a moment, trying to find the essence of her mistake. The general moved to the window. She would have thought him to be casually observing if not for his whitened fingers around the sweating glass.

“I suggested the Juri’a learn Khaantul so that they can communicate in a common language,” she said, voice as carefully measured as her words. “You, of all people, should understand the value in that—you speak it!”

“You Khaantuls are all the same,” Sorin said bitterly, and Meira bristled further. “Your Empire is not the eminence you seem to think it is.”

He took a swig from his straining glass. Anger she’d been holding onto, since the Verena’s enemy comment weeks before, pushed from her throat in a wave.

“And what are you doing, huh? Sitting here in your palaces and refusing to work with one of the strongest powers in the region.”

Apprehension tickled at the expression on Sorin’s face, but she continued, the vitriol hard to stop.

“The Empire isn’t perfect, but if you really wanted peace for your people, you would do what you could to stop the fighting. Instead you’re stoking a war you cannot win and making it seem like being a part of the Empire is the end of the Juri’a.”

Meira began to walk about the small room as her thoughts gathered steam.

“There’s a treaty for Saint’s sake!” She threw up her arms, gestures as animated as her speech. “You act like the Empire is doing these horrible things, when your people agreed to the terms, but refuse to honor them. They have citizenship, access to the Empire’s resources.”

Meira listed what she could remember from her history lessons. The treaty had been long before her time, so she had only a vague understanding of it; but she knew enough to know that the bargain was a good one.

“And how do you think they get that citizenship,” Sorin pushed back when she took a breath.

Meira’s brow furrowed—anyone living inside the Empire got citizenship. Doubt niggled within her at the expression on Sorin’s face after she said as much.

His voice was nearly mocking as he explained, “Juri’a aren’t considered people by your Empire unless we renounce our ties. Unless we never wield again.” He threw back the rest of his drink with practiced ease. “Peacefully going about our business is apparently too much of a threat.”

Only tendrils of Meira’s control remained. She was tired of being treated as the problem when she’d seen the injuries her Khaantul soldiers returned with after the missions to subdue rebellions.

“Don’t tell me that everything is our fault when the Empire must react to the threats of the rebels staying in your region.”

The silence between them hung heavy. She waited for Sorin’s reaction, felt the pulse of fight readying between them. The energy inside her thrummed, waiting for an outlet. He looked at her inscrutably across the large map for a long moment.

“You really have no idea, do you?”

His tone held almost wonder, but with the poison of mocking pity.

“What do you mean?” she asked sharply. Sorin continued to look at her. A sneer rose from his lips.

“You don’t have a clue what your country is doing to people. The kinds of things they do to the outsiders they don’t trust.”

He circled the table, coming closer as the enmity in his voice grew.

“I have seen what they do to the Juri’a on the plains; to those spread out within your Empire. How they languish and starve. They cannot use their gifts and are treated like dogs, not citizens. And that’s the lucky ones.”

Meira tried to cut in, but his voice was booming with his own monologue as he explained all that he had seen of his people’s misfortunes.

“Let me ask you—how did you think your water wielder friend learned Khaantul?”

She stumbled with creating a response, realizing that in the many months she had known Kirsi, she hadn’t given it a thought.

“How did a poor orphan from the North learn another language when many in our own capital don’t speak it?” The mocking in his voice grew, “You can’t possibly have thought it was just for fun.”

Meira didn’t speak, the horrors that he was implying dawning in the back of her mind.

“There is no peace with the Khaantul because they will not let there be peace. Not until they destroy the Juri’a and anyone else who isn’t like them.”

Sorin emphasized the last sentence with a sweeping hand across the map, pushing the carved Khaantul horses from the space with a brutality that she knew was only a sliver of what burned within. His muscular arms rested on the now empty map. The weight of his truth hung heavily, dipping his head between his shoulders.

She had no answers for the questions he asked, and many more building in her mind. Without a word she turned, running for the doors and away from the stifling truth.