The figure is surprising, as few worship Mother Ya any longer. Young women of her tribe are encouraged to build relationships with Mother Shu, the facilitator of love, or Mother Ye, who protects babies in the womb. But, oh, how Yenni is drawn to this figurine. She runs her fingers along the smooth wood, lost in the pattern of delicate white flowers. So entranced is Yenni that it is a while before she notices—under the distant singing, soft bargaining, and pounding drums—that Weysh is growling.

Yenni spins around. “What is it?” Weysh is crouched low on the tiles as if ready to spring, and all of his sharp teeth are bared. No one is singing now, and the drumbeat has changed to something faster, urgent.

“War!” they cry. “Attack! Attack from above!”

The sky, once clear and blue, is now fully, impossibly, crowded with sleek, black war sphinxes.

The Shahanta Sky Fleet.

Weysh roars and, flapping his great wings, takes to the sky.

“Weh-sheh, no! They have arrows!”

The Shahanta may not have the population or the political heft of the Yirba, but everyone knows of their sky fleet. They are rigorously trained, all female, and attack with bows and fire runes. They have always filled Yenni with fascination, but now they fill her with fear. White focus runes are painted across their eyes, and they wear caps with tall white horns, in honor of their dragon kin who died three hundred years earlier. But dragon kin or not, they train their bows on Weysh, their focus runes glowing.

Weysh screeches and lets out a beautiful plume of fire, sending their mounts scattering. People scream and dash around Yenni as her eyes trail Weysh. The sky archers regroup quickly, but by the time they do, Weysh is above them. Acting on some signal Yenni cannot catch, the women fire all at once, sending a volley of arrows into the sky. Weysh pulls his wings close and dives, dodging them, then spreads his wings wide again and veers for the nearest cluster of archers, blasting them with fire. They fall, burning, from the sky.

Deep, booming war cries vibrate in Yenni’s chest and make the ground tremble. Foot soldiers charge up the market road. Yenni gasps. They wear Gunzu battle attire—shields and short spears, and little in the way of armor. Their chests are bare and they wear animal fur wrapped around their arms, legs, and waists, as if to say that excessive armor is unnecessary for a proper warrior.

One soldier grabs a trembling cloth seller and stabs him through the middle.

NO!