A man who died for what he believed in was a warrior.
A man who died for the people he loved was a hero.
What was a man who survived in failure?
Khan mulled the question over in the silence left by his wardens. He often wandered the halls of his mind, finding little else to do in the barren land he was born in; the only entertainnt in Victory was the preparation for war. Khan wasn’t made for war. He knew it from the first ti he held a training sword, the wood heavy and awkward in his small hand. A quill felt much better in his slim fingers, a smudgestick shaved to a needle point even better. But such an attitude was unacceptable for a Jas.
He didn’t understand his youngest sister. Alana shed sweat, blood, and tears to be acknowledged by their father. For what? The right to murder others to appease dubious traditions and protect the honor of barbaric people? To drag all of humanity into Victory’s pointless war?
He rembered the day she was introduced to the family. The night the duke officially recognized her as a daughter, she was invited for their table, a privilege she would have to endure years of strenuous training to experience again. She was a small thing, with thin limbs and shaking hands. He wouldn’t have been able to recognize her from any other waif if not for the eyes. The blue wasn’t exactly the sa as their father’s but the look in them was unmistakable. Fanaticism.
Khan adopted his mother’s dismissive attitude when it ca to the girl. Not because he was waiting for the newcor to prove herself but because he didn’t want her to get comfortable. He didn’t want her to fight for the honor of dying a senseless death. He wanted her to give up.
She didn’t.
He could never have imagined that trembling thing would be deciding whether he lived or died a decade later.
Rembering the conversation made his blood boil with the corroding heat of anger. It pressed against his good sense, urging him to lash out, no matter how useless a gesture. To turn the orderly closet they called a room into a reflection of the turbulence plaguing his heart.
The arrogance of those won. The ancestors-cursed audacity. They had no right to tell him how to live his life. To dean his sacrifice and his vision. The north had never given him anything other than pain. Physical. Emotional. ntal. It was a breeding ground for generational anguish. And yet, he still dedicated his life to saving the cesspit from itself. First, mapping the north in hopes of finally finding a path that led to developing a stable staging ground. Then…
He didn’t know all that he’d sacrificed in his cooperation with the estrazi, though surrendering his mind was sacrifice enough to be worthy of gratitude, not derision. They mocked him for his blind belief but only because they didn’t understand. Khan was anything but a believer; the blind traditions of the north made him skeptical of everything. He knew what his father would think. What Victory would demand. But the Khan of the past had decided to risk it all anyway. That could only an one thing: it was important. Moreover, he had seen proof that there was no other way and/or that there was no ti to search for other options. The him of the past would need to be sure.
His father understood that about Khan. The duke needed to oust him, but Khan knew, by the ancestors he hoped, they had an understanding. A mutual, if grudging from his end, respect. Khan must have believed that his sacrifice would cause his father to pause. To question.
But Lourianne To appeared.
Khan hadn’t personally witnessed their feats in the Witness Circle, but he’d heard plenty in the brief ti they were in the north. He knew how his father would react knowing he had an ally who could keep fighting after having her head removed. So long as there was a chance, Victory would fight. Lourianne To was their chance. She might have been an outsider, but she was Alana’s fiancé. An honorary Jas.
An immortal Jas would one day, perhaps sooner than later, lead the armies of Victory.
The people of the north would burn with what his mother called blood fever, a desire to shed kill so powerful it felt like a sickness, a fire in the blood that could only be quenched with violence. It didn’t matter if the ancestors themselves ca back from the grave riding on the backs of dragons to stand against them. Lou and Alana’s union was an on that would compel the fort to march. And, though the Jas were unquestioned, their power was derived from the people. His father might no longer crave war, but he would not deny the north its due.
That was it. The end. His failure. And yet, there was sothing in him, an insistent thought, a worm of dread, that said he couldn’t allow that. That this was too important to give in like he always did. He refused to believe his thoughts compromised by sinister agendas or arrogance. Lou asked him if he could only be satisfied saving the world. The answer couldn’t be further from her condescending assumptions. Khan would love nothing more to disappear into obscurity, but he couldn’t ignore what he knew.
If that made him a hero, it was a moniker he would endure, even if he didn’t believe his actions to be sothing so grand. He was a desperate man, fighting to survive as opposed to chasing glory.
Then there was Little Water.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Unlike the lady of the house, his new visitor didn’t barge in. “Co,” he called belatedly, unused to having any kind of power as a prisoner.
The door opened. The first thing Khan noticed was the steam that trailed into the room, lazily drifting past the end of his bed. A silver cart followed it, its well-oiled wheels not making a sound as it was arranged against the opposite wall.
A young man pushed it, expertly moving the unwieldly tool despite it being loaded with three large buckets of water, several more filled with brushes, bottles, towels, and several articles of clothing. Khan was used to children maturing quickly; grief aged people and Victory was full of grief. However, it was a false maturity, fanaticism taking the place of experience and dour reality snuffling their hearts.
The boy before him did not resemble the young soldiers marching to their deaths. Like them, he was strong, his purple jacket and dark slacks accentuating his lean physique, showing off a body filled with youthful strength and vitality. That’s where the similarities ended.
The boys of his ho walked with serious frowns that didn’t suit their round faces, their eyes dulled from exhaustion or grim thoughts. The boy before him stood tall. His features were placid, not because tragedy had stripped him of joy, but because he exuded calm. His common brown eyes shone with intelligence, and more impressive, hope.
It was the face of soone who knew, with their whole heart, that they had a bright future waiting for them and every day brought them closer to it.
“Good morning, Khan,” Earl greeted, the arc of his lips striking a perfect balance between hospitable and polite.
“Earl. What’s all this?”
“The lady has instructed to help you prepare for your eting with Miss Little Water.”
“I don’t need help.” Khan eyed the overflowing cart dubiously. He expected a bucket and a rag, not all…that.
“I will leave you to it if you desire, but I believe I can be of great assistance. Cutting your own hair can be rather difficult.”
Khan ran a hand through his hair, noting the knots throughout.
“I can also recomnd fragrance and styling options.”
“Is that normally what servants do?” The Jas servants had certainly never bothered.
“I aim to excel in whatever tasks my lady asks of .”
“Fine. You can…assist .” Not because Khan felt any more comfortable with the idea of the boy rubbing oil into his back or whatever he intended. One thing Lou made abundantly clear is that he would have to go through her to get anything done. Resentnt kept him from taking much interest in his future in-law before but now that he didn’t have a choice, he wanted to know everything.
Who better to answer his questions than her servant?
“Excellent.” Earl grabbed a wooden contraption from the bottom tray of the cart, Khan mildly fascinated as he pulled out three legs and a back, the oddly shaped block transforming into a small chair. “Please strip at your convenience.”
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