The bloodstained tents of Zezili’s army were an ugly harbinger for the dajian camp spread below them in the muddy valley. Massive fences and temporary housing had been allotted to this group for at least a century. Zezili sat at a makeshift table outside her tent, gazing across the valley as the dajians lit their fires and put out their laundry and belted out prayers to Para in the little green space at the center of the camp. She imagined these dajians as some monstrous horde of invaders, led by the sneering face of the Kai she had met on the other side, but her imagination failed her. The dajian camp here was enclosed by stout adenoak fences and peppered with guard towers staffed by local enforcers. Technically, these dajians belonged to the Empress herself and were available for rent to neighboring farms that relied on their labor twice a year for harvest and planting. The rest of the time, they served as parasites and brood stock, ensuring there was always another generation of laborers at the ready. Zezili thought the whole thing was a mess, but she liked cheap food, and dajian labor made that possible.

Every dajian she killed now reminded her of her country’s impending starvation and destruction. Surely the Empress understood the implications of these deaths?

Monshara approached Zezili in the dawn quiet – Zezili heard the squish of her boots in the turf and the huff of her bear first – leading her mount behind her.

“I have a delivery to make,” Monshara said, patting the leather canister at her hip: the map she’d received from the other side. “I’ll be back in the morning. You’ll have clearance from the towers by then to enter the camp?”

Zezili grunted at her and returned to her breakfast. The morning was chilly and her tea was weak. Summer’s balmy evenings were well past, and low autumn was upon them. The season also brought fog that sometimes blanketed the world for miles in every direction, so thick it was like breathing soup. The mist below was nothing compared to how it would be later in the month.

Monshara seemed to take the grunt as an affirmative and moved on past Zezili toward the rocky, scorched road.

Thoughts of fog put Zezili in mind of her childhood, and she remembered that her mother lived not far from this camp, in a little town called Saolina. Her mother, who knew how to make mirrors. Zezili dumped out her cold tea.

“Jasoi!” she called.

Jasoi stood outside her tent, throwing her dagger at a twisted stump littered in knife wounds. She had a good throw, and more often than not, Zezili found herself eating something from the pot that Jasoi had picked off with her dagger earlier in the day.

At Zezili's call, Jasoi turned. She yanked at her helm and swore. Her long hair had gotten tangled in it again.

“Cut it off,” Zezili said.