Hualin Or was north of Imperial, an island known for its history and art. It was where Nisong had come from. But I knew, just because I was ostensibly related to them, didn’t mean I’d have their support. I’d taken to wearing the style of Hualin Or just so I could get used to it before we landed – the elaborately trimmed robe with the long, billowing sleeves, belted with a sash. The sleeves seemed to get in the way every time I tried to eat, write or even turn around – getting caught in Thrana’s horns at the slightest provocation.

I held the flask of my father’s memories between my palms and looked into the open neck of it, watching the liquid swish inside.

“Are you sure?” Thrana asked from my side. “It makes you upset… and strange.”

“Strange? Why do you say that?”

She shrank back, her ears flattened to her skull. “It makes you not like yourself.”

“I don’t see that I have many choices. I need to know what my father knew, and he died before he could pass on his knowledge to me.” I’d spoken to Ragan, and he’d told me he wasn’t sure why the islands were sinking. He didn’t know who else would be Alanga nor when we could expect to meet more of them. Since he wasn’t a master yet, he’d not been allowed access to the monastery’s most restricted manuscripts.

I was Alanga, and I wasn’t looking to crush the populace or needlessly kill them. I didn’t see them as less than human; I wanted to help them. All my life I’d been told the Alanga were bad, that they only desired power. I’d seen them as a monolith, a single people. Thrana’s paper crane sat at the corner of the small desk in my cabin. I never wanted to make that sort of mistake again.

If my father had lied, if all the Sukais had lied – then who were the Alanga truly? Jovis, Ragan and I were all so different.

There were answers in my father’s memories.

“Make sure no one comes in,” I told Thrana, and then I uncorked the bottle and took a sip. The taste of the liquid was sweet and coppery; my vision blanked to white as soon as it washed over my tongue.