The tavern kept a twilight of brass and smoke. Lamps of pierced copper breathed slow halos along the carved cedar. The room smelled of cardamom, anise, and the salt of old sweat baked into rugs that remembered better nights. In the corner a man worried an oud until the strings sounded like thirst. Dice clicked. Tongues bargained. The hour did not hurry. Sukegei took a table that let his back kiss stone. He set the hookah stem between his fingers and watched the coal crust over with white. A soft draw. Ember woke. Sweet smoke climbed and folded upon itself like prayer. He let it reach his eyes and sting. He preferred it that way. The world is truer through a veil you choose.
The kilij rested across his knees, wrapped in a dull cloth that did not fool anyone who knew steel. The gauntlet slept on the bench by his hip. Its plates looked blind in this light, but script lived on them. Verse cut finer than hair. He did not touch it. He listened instead. Footfalls. Cloth. The weight a hard man puts on a heel. The small pride of a petty thief who thinks the world does not hear him. Sukegei heard all of it and decided none of it required heat. Zubaida had sent him to welcome an emissary of Hextor. He let the thought sit in his mouth like grit. A greeting duty. A cup and a seat for a foreign strumpet with winter in her pockets. He pinched the stem, drew again, and tasted honeyed smoke and a hint of citrus. The flavor tried to soften him. It failed.
What could the Shaitan gain from the dead. Their gods were bone and debt. Their cities kissed swamps that swallowed their own reflections. Their language walked like a procession of grieving priests. He knew the tales. He knew the smell. Cold meat and incense and the medicine of rot. The Lord of Light made glass and law. The dead made memory heavy as wet wool. He sipped tea that had gone to copper and kept still. A boy from the kitchens brought dates and almonds on a hammered tray. He placed them like offerings and waited for coin. Sukegei slid a piece across the brass. The boy bowed twice. Sukegei watched him go and wondered what kind of man he would become if the dunes remained hard. The Light likes a spine with proof.
On the far side, immigrants clustered in a pocket of their own noise. Sailors with wet eyes. River traders with court coin hidden in hems. Pale scholars who kept their hands clean and their servants dirty. Men who sold the news of other nations. Women who sold the faces that listened to it. They fed on the city and then wrote letters about its taste. He studied them as a mason studies a cracked wall. Not hatred for the stone. Hatred for the day the crack decides to widen.
He drew the Shaitan stillness around his mind and let his breath slow. The hookah whispered. The room uncoiled. He watched without looking. The old brawler near the door had a shoulder that would fail if pressed upward. The two caravan guards at the window would bolt at the first cry of fire. The scribe by the pillar drank water like a man pretending to be sober. None of them understood what a righteous blade can do to a room built on lies.
Why would Zubaida send him. Why him, and not a priest to make the smile sweet. Not an envoy with silk in the throat. She had said only this: meet them, listen once, and use the night if the night asks for you. He had bowed because obedience is the only freedom that matters. Yet the sand in him argued. He remembered famine. He remembered wives buying salt with their hair. He remembered governors who painted walls and left gates unbarred. Then he remembered Zubaida breaking a golden idol with a stone and handing the gold to widows before the priests could weep. She did not waste fire. She did not waste men. If she sent him to greet the dead’s mouthpiece, there was heat to be made.
The door lifted on its leather hinges. Desert air rolled through, carrying tar, camel, and the sour breath of the canal. No frost followed it. No corpse perfume. Not yet. A new pair came in and sat where the light kissed them just so. Not the ones. Sukegei watched their hands. Clean. Jewelry that was discreet. He dismissed them and poured more tea. He let his eyes rest on the tavern’s little shrine. A sun of hammered brass against the wall, greened by thumbprints that had rubbed the blessing thin. Men touched it before they lied to their wives. Women touched it before they returned to their husbands. The light neither loved nor hated them for it. The light refined. He set his palm over his sternum where the Second Flame had branded him and kept it there until pulse matched the distant drum of the oud.
He thought of Hextor again. Not the stories. The work. He had seen their glyphs carved into bone with a surgeon’s hand. He had watched a frost-lamped procession move like a river of glass through a city that did not breathe. He had met one of their monster-hunters in a salted pass and found her courage honest. The dead had their laws. He could respect law. He could respect a people who made use of death rather than dress it in lies. He could not respect the rot that calls itself mercy.
He ate an almond and let it crack loud enough to measure who turned their heads. Three men. One woman. The scribe did not flinch. A careful man. He filed the fact. “Water,” he said, and the boy ran it to him. He washed his fingers in the bowl and breathed the steam. His jaw at rest. His eyes on the door. The kilij a patient weight. When he found his impatience rising, he fed it a line of creed and watched it dissolve. Let sin rise as smoke. Let truth fall as rain. Make my edge Your will.
The oud player changed tunes. The room dipped into a minor key that made old shame wake in old men. A wind crawled under the door and tugged the lamp flames toward it. The coal on his bowl brightened, then crusted again. Smoke curled up, then down, then up. He tasted winter in the mouth of the next draft. Sukegei sat a little taller. Not much. Enough to let the cloth slide from a finger’s width of blade. The steel looked like night under starlight. He covered it again and settled.
If the emissary carried the scent he expected, the air would turn thin. If she carried the law he could respect, the room would steady. Either way, welcome is a word that changes its shape when spoken by the Wrath. He would give the cup. He would give the seat. He would listen once. The door opened. Cold came with it, dressed in perfume that was not flower. Somewhere in the room a drunk laughed and then forgot why. The lamps steadied. The oud string snapped and sang like a wire. Sukegei drew, not steel, but smoke. He held it. He let it go. He watched. He waited to learn which work the night would require.
The kilij rested across his knees, wrapped in a dull cloth that did not fool anyone who knew steel. The gauntlet slept on the bench by his hip. Its plates looked blind in this light, but script lived on them. Verse cut finer than hair. He did not touch it. He listened instead. Footfalls. Cloth. The weight a hard man puts on a heel. The small pride of a petty thief who thinks the world does not hear him. Sukegei heard all of it and decided none of it required heat. Zubaida had sent him to welcome an emissary of Hextor. He let the thought sit in his mouth like grit. A greeting duty. A cup and a seat for a foreign strumpet with winter in her pockets. He pinched the stem, drew again, and tasted honeyed smoke and a hint of citrus. The flavor tried to soften him. It failed.
What could the Shaitan gain from the dead. Their gods were bone and debt. Their cities kissed swamps that swallowed their own reflections. Their language walked like a procession of grieving priests. He knew the tales. He knew the smell. Cold meat and incense and the medicine of rot. The Lord of Light made glass and law. The dead made memory heavy as wet wool. He sipped tea that had gone to copper and kept still. A boy from the kitchens brought dates and almonds on a hammered tray. He placed them like offerings and waited for coin. Sukegei slid a piece across the brass. The boy bowed twice. Sukegei watched him go and wondered what kind of man he would become if the dunes remained hard. The Light likes a spine with proof.
On the far side, immigrants clustered in a pocket of their own noise. Sailors with wet eyes. River traders with court coin hidden in hems. Pale scholars who kept their hands clean and their servants dirty. Men who sold the news of other nations. Women who sold the faces that listened to it. They fed on the city and then wrote letters about its taste. He studied them as a mason studies a cracked wall. Not hatred for the stone. Hatred for the day the crack decides to widen.
He drew the Shaitan stillness around his mind and let his breath slow. The hookah whispered. The room uncoiled. He watched without looking. The old brawler near the door had a shoulder that would fail if pressed upward. The two caravan guards at the window would bolt at the first cry of fire. The scribe by the pillar drank water like a man pretending to be sober. None of them understood what a righteous blade can do to a room built on lies.
Why would Zubaida send him. Why him, and not a priest to make the smile sweet. Not an envoy with silk in the throat. She had said only this: meet them, listen once, and use the night if the night asks for you. He had bowed because obedience is the only freedom that matters. Yet the sand in him argued. He remembered famine. He remembered wives buying salt with their hair. He remembered governors who painted walls and left gates unbarred. Then he remembered Zubaida breaking a golden idol with a stone and handing the gold to widows before the priests could weep. She did not waste fire. She did not waste men. If she sent him to greet the dead’s mouthpiece, there was heat to be made.
The door lifted on its leather hinges. Desert air rolled through, carrying tar, camel, and the sour breath of the canal. No frost followed it. No corpse perfume. Not yet. A new pair came in and sat where the light kissed them just so. Not the ones. Sukegei watched their hands. Clean. Jewelry that was discreet. He dismissed them and poured more tea. He let his eyes rest on the tavern’s little shrine. A sun of hammered brass against the wall, greened by thumbprints that had rubbed the blessing thin. Men touched it before they lied to their wives. Women touched it before they returned to their husbands. The light neither loved nor hated them for it. The light refined. He set his palm over his sternum where the Second Flame had branded him and kept it there until pulse matched the distant drum of the oud.
He thought of Hextor again. Not the stories. The work. He had seen their glyphs carved into bone with a surgeon’s hand. He had watched a frost-lamped procession move like a river of glass through a city that did not breathe. He had met one of their monster-hunters in a salted pass and found her courage honest. The dead had their laws. He could respect law. He could respect a people who made use of death rather than dress it in lies. He could not respect the rot that calls itself mercy.
He ate an almond and let it crack loud enough to measure who turned their heads. Three men. One woman. The scribe did not flinch. A careful man. He filed the fact. “Water,” he said, and the boy ran it to him. He washed his fingers in the bowl and breathed the steam. His jaw at rest. His eyes on the door. The kilij a patient weight. When he found his impatience rising, he fed it a line of creed and watched it dissolve. Let sin rise as smoke. Let truth fall as rain. Make my edge Your will.
The oud player changed tunes. The room dipped into a minor key that made old shame wake in old men. A wind crawled under the door and tugged the lamp flames toward it. The coal on his bowl brightened, then crusted again. Smoke curled up, then down, then up. He tasted winter in the mouth of the next draft. Sukegei sat a little taller. Not much. Enough to let the cloth slide from a finger’s width of blade. The steel looked like night under starlight. He covered it again and settled.
If the emissary carried the scent he expected, the air would turn thin. If she carried the law he could respect, the room would steady. Either way, welcome is a word that changes its shape when spoken by the Wrath. He would give the cup. He would give the seat. He would listen once. The door opened. Cold came with it, dressed in perfume that was not flower. Somewhere in the room a drunk laughed and then forgot why. The lamps steadied. The oud string snapped and sang like a wire. Sukegei drew, not steel, but smoke. He held it. He let it go. He watched. He waited to learn which work the night would require.
White Sands called itself an empire. In her mind, it read as a mirage with a treasury. Heat frantic. Order cosmetic. Dunes moving beneath a paint of law that never set. Hextor was not heat. Hextor was custody. Winter that kept the loaf from mold. Bone made into ledger. Death given work and dignity. Their sun bragged. Her moon accounted. Their priests praised blaze. Her queens tithed silence. The contrast pleased her like a clean incision. Sand forgets. Ice remembers.
Winter walked in with her. Lamps cowered to neat halos. Smoke folded into obedient ribbons. Tiles took a glassy breath. A thin rim of rime bloomed and melted under each heel as she crossed the threshold like a moon trespassing a small sky.
The tavern tried to look old. Cedar lattice bit the windows, but the carving was gossip, not craft. Brass lamps wore pierced stars copied from copies until the pattern forgot its prayer. Ceiling ribs cracked and sagged in tired scallops where a mason had attempted heaven and stopped at height. Zellij along the bar looked solved by a drunk. Blues bled into greens. Lines jittered. Calligraphy circled the doorway and demoted sacred words to garnish. Rugs curated a museum of spills. Cardamom. Anise. Goat fat. A sweetness that had lost its courage. She cataloged every flaw with a scholar’s appetite and a killer’s humor. A house of heat that did not know how to hold it.
Ixqueya moved like verdict and invitation. Bronze skin with the gloss of river stone. Shoulders proud. Hips a slow tide that taught posture to sinners. Hair poured to the waist, black deepened with cobalt. Streaks caught the lampfire and then killed it, a petty cruelty she enjoyed. The face was cut for governance. Noble brow. Cheekbones like clean obsidian. A hunter’s nose taught by famine where fear keeps its wrists. A mouth that could bless, ruin, and preferred the latter. Frost-white sigils crossed the bridge of her nose, curved the cheekbones, and nested at the temples. Ash tempered the paint to a quiet radiance. Guard the marrow. Quiet the heat. Let winter do honest work. The creed walked her skin without needing a tongue.
Her dress recited country. Kingfisher blue shouldered the mantle. Obsidian and jade ringed the throat with restrained severity. Red geometry gripped the ribs and hips. A sash of shell teeth whispered over the narrow of her waist. Anklets chimed once, then learned silence. The Gravechill Bulwark towered along her spine, necro ice latticed in bone. It swallowed light and returned it as threat. The Frostfang Mace slept in her hand. Clear head. Hoarfrost veining like winter roses embalmed in crystal. The haft held leather darkened by vows that did not expire.\
The room stared. Barbarous elves forgot their cups and gaped with the wet adoration they saved for weather. She did not fault them. They had been raised on smaller myths and appalling women. She passed like a knife through cooling wax. Perfume carried snow and iron. Men straightened late. Women hid the eyes they used for bargaining. She let them look. Awe was an inexpensive tax to collect.
Architecture kept offering itself to her judgment and she kept taking it. Earnest arches proud of plaster that shed like old skin. Lattice hung like jewelry on a starving throat. A poverty of spirit dressed in brass and geometry. White Sands in miniature. Paint on dunes. A farce resisting its punchline. They called upon a Lord of Light with a child’s grip. Lamp-god. Hearth-god. Bright toy wrapped in psalm. Not law. Not burden. Not worthy.
He sat where the smoke made a crown. The kilij lay across his knees like a storm that had learned table manners. Stillness with purpose. Iron smelled itself in his eyes. She granted a measured respect and then colder things.
She stopped at his table. Frost crisped the cloth over his blade. The coal flared in fright and then obeyed. The mace kissed wood and left a pale ring that ate the grain. The Bulwark breathed against the wall. She took the chair without permission and crossed one leg with ceremonial contempt.
Her voice was water under ice. “Your people have walked far from the ditch,” she said. “Stones were your alphabet. Sparks your grammar. Now you kiln clay and mistake pots for prophecy. Charming.”
The tavern tasted the bruise of the word. The oud stumbled and accepted a lesser tune.
“The Shaitan fly like the old pterodactyl,” she continued. “Thin bone dreaming itself iron. Lofty talk. Hunger for height. Fire let you think the sun wore a leash. The teacher you require is not the sun. It is the necromancer’s moon. Patient law. White wheel. It rises when pride sleeps and burns without flame. It will make glass of boasts. It will turn marching songs to frost. It will weigh you, not warm you.”
Her gaze returned to the arches and ornamental cracks. Painted doors. Hollow domes. A chorus trained to shout righteousness over the sound of thirst. She allowed herself a private smile. Civilization as theater. Intermission overdue.
“You call yourselves old,” she said, eyes back on the Wrath. “We call you early. Just outside the Stone Age. Brick upon brick. A tidy pile. You name it future. I have seen futures. In Hextor the dead do not rot. They labor. They stand the door while the living learn. They pay back the hour that stole them. Winter is mercy when it keeps bread from mold. Your mercy is heat that eats its own house.”
Her smile turned the knife flat. “Your champions speak with throats and listen with scars. I am generous with lessons. Bravos kneel when cold teaches the joints. It pleases me to see pride choose usefulness.”
The insult sat between them and poured itself a drink. “You smell of work, not perfume,” she allowed. “There may be marrow under your polish. Do not steal my evening to prove otherwise.”
She took a date, weighed its sticky gravity, and set it down like a failed idol returned to the stall. The ceiling confessed another hairline crack. Another star cut wrong. The city told on itself without knowing.
The tavern deserved more of her contempt, so she gave it. Jars of nuts lined the bar like votives to hunger. Copper trays dented by impatient faith. A prayer niche greened by thumbprints that asked forgiveness for petty theft and then rehearsed the next theft. A door curtain that pretended to be a veil and succeeded only at catching dust. She imagined the ledger under all this ornament. Water bought dear. Women bought dearer. Law bought in installments. The empire already a corpse with warm hands.
She let the thought ripen. White Sands was dead. It had not learned the courtesy of lying down. The Lord of Light felt like a street performer telling coins to believe in flame. A travesty of divinity. A festival of shine.
Her eyes stayed their native ice. Gold dreamed behind them and waited for sanction. Not yet. Winter was patient when pride was near. “Pour tea,” she said, and there was verdict in the vowels. “Show me a single step above cousins flinging stones. Then speak welcome or warning. Either suits.”
She leaned a fraction. Frost nipped the hookah smoke and made it fall like contrition. “I bring moon doctrine,” she said. “I bring winter that loves what it disciplines. If your fire has marrow, we trade. If it shines and hollows, I teach it to kneel and to serve or I write its obituary and move on.”
The lamps trembled as if fearing a draft that had learned to read. Tiles held their breath. A spoon thought better of clinking. Ixqueya waited with the calm of old ice. Pride sat straight in her spine. Ego rested like a coronet on her brow. The room felt the weight and called it beauty because it did not know the word for judgment.
Outside, the night sharpened. The moon climbed its simple ladder and did not ask the sun for permission. Inside, she watched the Wrath over the rim of an empty cup and began, with a scholar’s joy, to compose the long, cold sermon this desert would need to be anything but a rumor. She wanted to make her stance clear, as she knew his kind were as dimwitted and slow as they were barbarous.
Winter walked in with her. Lamps cowered to neat halos. Smoke folded into obedient ribbons. Tiles took a glassy breath. A thin rim of rime bloomed and melted under each heel as she crossed the threshold like a moon trespassing a small sky.
The tavern tried to look old. Cedar lattice bit the windows, but the carving was gossip, not craft. Brass lamps wore pierced stars copied from copies until the pattern forgot its prayer. Ceiling ribs cracked and sagged in tired scallops where a mason had attempted heaven and stopped at height. Zellij along the bar looked solved by a drunk. Blues bled into greens. Lines jittered. Calligraphy circled the doorway and demoted sacred words to garnish. Rugs curated a museum of spills. Cardamom. Anise. Goat fat. A sweetness that had lost its courage. She cataloged every flaw with a scholar’s appetite and a killer’s humor. A house of heat that did not know how to hold it.
Ixqueya moved like verdict and invitation. Bronze skin with the gloss of river stone. Shoulders proud. Hips a slow tide that taught posture to sinners. Hair poured to the waist, black deepened with cobalt. Streaks caught the lampfire and then killed it, a petty cruelty she enjoyed. The face was cut for governance. Noble brow. Cheekbones like clean obsidian. A hunter’s nose taught by famine where fear keeps its wrists. A mouth that could bless, ruin, and preferred the latter. Frost-white sigils crossed the bridge of her nose, curved the cheekbones, and nested at the temples. Ash tempered the paint to a quiet radiance. Guard the marrow. Quiet the heat. Let winter do honest work. The creed walked her skin without needing a tongue.
Her dress recited country. Kingfisher blue shouldered the mantle. Obsidian and jade ringed the throat with restrained severity. Red geometry gripped the ribs and hips. A sash of shell teeth whispered over the narrow of her waist. Anklets chimed once, then learned silence. The Gravechill Bulwark towered along her spine, necro ice latticed in bone. It swallowed light and returned it as threat. The Frostfang Mace slept in her hand. Clear head. Hoarfrost veining like winter roses embalmed in crystal. The haft held leather darkened by vows that did not expire.\
The room stared. Barbarous elves forgot their cups and gaped with the wet adoration they saved for weather. She did not fault them. They had been raised on smaller myths and appalling women. She passed like a knife through cooling wax. Perfume carried snow and iron. Men straightened late. Women hid the eyes they used for bargaining. She let them look. Awe was an inexpensive tax to collect.
Architecture kept offering itself to her judgment and she kept taking it. Earnest arches proud of plaster that shed like old skin. Lattice hung like jewelry on a starving throat. A poverty of spirit dressed in brass and geometry. White Sands in miniature. Paint on dunes. A farce resisting its punchline. They called upon a Lord of Light with a child’s grip. Lamp-god. Hearth-god. Bright toy wrapped in psalm. Not law. Not burden. Not worthy.
He sat where the smoke made a crown. The kilij lay across his knees like a storm that had learned table manners. Stillness with purpose. Iron smelled itself in his eyes. She granted a measured respect and then colder things.
She stopped at his table. Frost crisped the cloth over his blade. The coal flared in fright and then obeyed. The mace kissed wood and left a pale ring that ate the grain. The Bulwark breathed against the wall. She took the chair without permission and crossed one leg with ceremonial contempt.
Her voice was water under ice. “Your people have walked far from the ditch,” she said. “Stones were your alphabet. Sparks your grammar. Now you kiln clay and mistake pots for prophecy. Charming.”
The tavern tasted the bruise of the word. The oud stumbled and accepted a lesser tune.
“The Shaitan fly like the old pterodactyl,” she continued. “Thin bone dreaming itself iron. Lofty talk. Hunger for height. Fire let you think the sun wore a leash. The teacher you require is not the sun. It is the necromancer’s moon. Patient law. White wheel. It rises when pride sleeps and burns without flame. It will make glass of boasts. It will turn marching songs to frost. It will weigh you, not warm you.”
Her gaze returned to the arches and ornamental cracks. Painted doors. Hollow domes. A chorus trained to shout righteousness over the sound of thirst. She allowed herself a private smile. Civilization as theater. Intermission overdue.
“You call yourselves old,” she said, eyes back on the Wrath. “We call you early. Just outside the Stone Age. Brick upon brick. A tidy pile. You name it future. I have seen futures. In Hextor the dead do not rot. They labor. They stand the door while the living learn. They pay back the hour that stole them. Winter is mercy when it keeps bread from mold. Your mercy is heat that eats its own house.”
Her smile turned the knife flat. “Your champions speak with throats and listen with scars. I am generous with lessons. Bravos kneel when cold teaches the joints. It pleases me to see pride choose usefulness.”
The insult sat between them and poured itself a drink. “You smell of work, not perfume,” she allowed. “There may be marrow under your polish. Do not steal my evening to prove otherwise.”
She took a date, weighed its sticky gravity, and set it down like a failed idol returned to the stall. The ceiling confessed another hairline crack. Another star cut wrong. The city told on itself without knowing.
The tavern deserved more of her contempt, so she gave it. Jars of nuts lined the bar like votives to hunger. Copper trays dented by impatient faith. A prayer niche greened by thumbprints that asked forgiveness for petty theft and then rehearsed the next theft. A door curtain that pretended to be a veil and succeeded only at catching dust. She imagined the ledger under all this ornament. Water bought dear. Women bought dearer. Law bought in installments. The empire already a corpse with warm hands.
She let the thought ripen. White Sands was dead. It had not learned the courtesy of lying down. The Lord of Light felt like a street performer telling coins to believe in flame. A travesty of divinity. A festival of shine.
Her eyes stayed their native ice. Gold dreamed behind them and waited for sanction. Not yet. Winter was patient when pride was near. “Pour tea,” she said, and there was verdict in the vowels. “Show me a single step above cousins flinging stones. Then speak welcome or warning. Either suits.”
She leaned a fraction. Frost nipped the hookah smoke and made it fall like contrition. “I bring moon doctrine,” she said. “I bring winter that loves what it disciplines. If your fire has marrow, we trade. If it shines and hollows, I teach it to kneel and to serve or I write its obituary and move on.”
The lamps trembled as if fearing a draft that had learned to read. Tiles held their breath. A spoon thought better of clinking. Ixqueya waited with the calm of old ice. Pride sat straight in her spine. Ego rested like a coronet on her brow. The room felt the weight and called it beauty because it did not know the word for judgment.
Outside, the night sharpened. The moon climbed its simple ladder and did not ask the sun for permission. Inside, she watched the Wrath over the rim of an empty cup and began, with a scholar’s joy, to compose the long, cold sermon this desert would need to be anything but a rumor. She wanted to make her stance clear, as she knew his kind were as dimwitted and slow as they were barbarous.
The door creaked, and with it a gelid breeze swept through the bar. Sukegei's eyes wandered to the entrance, curious to see who might have been fashionably late. It wasn't long before he'd discover his answer. A giantess, one whose curves failed to compare to her ego. What sort of strumpet would flaunt her body so freely? It didn't take the shaitan long to figure out her lineage. After all, he knew one family line so endowed yet so brazen.
The spider queen got around, or so it seemed. Valerna's genes were indeed potent. He wondered what sort of offspring she'd bear if her blessed foreign womb were blessed with his seed. Fortunately for the cobalt and obsidian-haired beauty, he wouldn't pollute his genes with her inferior ones. Sukegei enjoyed another hit from his hookeh, blowing out rings as the loosely clad maiden approached. His eyes studied her bouncing bits, admiring how that top somehow resisted snapping. Truly, it must have been enchanted and was doing the Lord of Light's work. It wasn't long before Ixqueya babbled off. His eyes did not care to hide his delight in her bosom. Periodically drifting up to those bimbo lips slapping together.
Sukegei had a few skill sets. One of them is his ability to pick up the rantings of women by their pitch alone. His exes always complained he never paid attention; they were correct, and this time was no different. However, the giantess warranted this focus as she began attacking the illustrious shaitan people. "You must have balls larger than Florentina to come to this bar with such barb. Curious, are you arrogant? or can you back up such spunk." he'd lean forward, waving the barmaid over as he told the barmaid to bring this savage some tea in the shaitan language. He'd then return his attention to Ixqueya before resuming his speech in their shared tongue.
"I like them feisty. We could mix some pleasure with work. Whatever the case, Zubaida thinks Hextor is worthy of respect. I am not so convinced. How about we stop measuring egos? How about I buy you some drinks and food?" Sukegei spoke with a shrug. He found this creature to be amusing. Part of the reason he tolerated her was that she was attractive. "You're not bad looking for an unburnt one. And from what I've heard, your kind are skilled when it comes to the sensual arts. Curious, what does your kind think of mine? Surely there are a few prostitutes who remember the workout the Shaitans provided them when we stood unified against the defiled. I know, simpler times. But hey, nothing like a good brush with death to get the blood flowing, am I right?"
He quipped as the tea was brought. Lazily, Sukegei tossed a menu her way, taking another hit from his hookah. "You must be hungry. Order something, Unwind. We are eating on the church's dime. Business expenses and all. Let's live it up a little, don't you agree? Surely a woman like yourself knows how to unwind and party? Right? The Lord of Light is nothing if not charitable..." He ended with a jest. Hoping this would break the ice, pun intended. He might not be a scholar, but it was clear this woman was a cyromancer of some sort. The barmaid arrived with a hammered copper tray, steam curling from tulip glasses that caught the lamp glow like captive suns. Mint bruised under the spoon, sugar lumps stacked like white bricks along a small dish. He snapped one between thumb and forefinger, let the grit melt on his tongue, then slid a glass toward her with the back of his knuckles as if passing sentence. The hookah bowl crackled. Double apple and molasses sweetened the air, a poor incense for a holy hour, good enough for this den of soft pride.
He did not bother to hide the way his eyes returned to her chest as he spoke to the barmaid. He did not bother to soften the smirk when the room tried to listen without staring. The oud in the corner trailed a sulk of notes. Dice slowed in their cups. A shutter coughed against its hinge and fell quiet, as if even wood had learned manners. “Kitchen,” he called in Shaitan, not bothering to turn. “Beetle skewers. Saffron rice. Pistachios. Bread with the black seeds. Bring the good olives or bring your manager.” Coins clinked like a tiny hail. He never looked to see who picked them up. He let his palm rest on the wrapped kilij across his knees. The cloth hid the shine, not the fact. A light hum spoke through the scabbard when the hookah coal flared, the metal answering heat with a private promise. The gauntlet on the bench beside him caught the lamplight in its salt-glass veins, scripture tiny as ant tracks engraved on brass. He did not touch it. He liked the way she kept glancing at it when she pretended not to. “Zubaida says respect,” he went on, casual as a cat near a birdcage. “Maybe she sees something worth polishing. Maybe she wants me to find the crack and pry it open. Either way, I do not say no to food. Or to sport.”
He leaned back and blew another perfect ring that drifted toward her cheek paint and broke like a small surrender. He watched the rime that haloed the table’s edge when the mace kissed wood. He watched the way the shield swallowed light and made a black lamb out of it. He filed those details under the list called ways to ruin a pretty evening. The menu lay where it fell. He tapped it with two fingers and let it spin once, slow, like a coin that had already decided which face to show. “Eat,” he said, lazy as a lizard on stone. “Then talk. Or talk with your mouth full. I have manners, but I am not married to them.”
Murmur rose and fell like a tide that feared a shoreline. Sailors at the window found something fascinating in their empty cups. Two caravan guards turned their heads with the same stiffness as dogs who had remembered a beating. The scribe by the pillar pretended to read a prayer carved on cedar that had never seen a real prayer in its life. Sukegei’s eyes returned to her lips. He watched the gloss catch a lamp and thought of the women who swore they would never come back, then came back for a second helping of penance and praise. He thought of Valerna’s line breeding arrogance like horses and selling it like silk. He thought of Florentina and the way a room adjusted itself when she entered, as if furniture had learned fear. He weighed those thoughts and set them aside the way he set aside a bell he did not plan to ring.
“Here is my welcome,” he said, soft enough that she had to lean in to catch it. “You say winter. I say kiln. You say moon. I say sun. You say work of the dead. I say the living earn their bread. So I buy you dinner and we discover which sermon feeds better.” The food arrived. Skewers slick with fat. Rice golden as a tiny field. Bread blistered from the oven, glossy with oil and scattered with nigella. He tore a piece with his teeth and spoke around the steam, unbothered and unblessed, a man at home in heat and hunger. He put the bread down and gave her the hookah hose with a lift of his chin, a wordless dare. “You can hold your smoke,” he added. “Or you cannot. No shame in either.”
A dancer tried to pull the room’s attention from the table. Silk jingled. Anklets flashed. Sukegei did not turn his head. He was not finished taking the measure of the giantess who had brought winter into a house that did not know how to keep heat. He drummed two fingers on the kilij’s spine and let the old prayer run through him the way a whetstone runs along an edge.
Let sin rise as smoke. Let truth fall as rain. Make my edge Your will. He lifted his glass toward her, a toast that could be welcome or warning. “Eat,” he said again, a little smile like a knife shown flat. “Drink. Spend the church’s coin. Tell me where you want to draw your line tonight. The table. The floor. The bed. The border. I am generous with choices. I am cruel with outcomes.” He laughed then, low and real, the sound of a man who could enjoy a fight or a feast and would not apologize for either. The lamps steadied. The hookah hissed. The tea cooled to the exact temperature where mint speaks and sugar stops bragging. He waited, patient as a brazier in a quiet room, for winter to answer him with something other than posture.
The spider queen got around, or so it seemed. Valerna's genes were indeed potent. He wondered what sort of offspring she'd bear if her blessed foreign womb were blessed with his seed. Fortunately for the cobalt and obsidian-haired beauty, he wouldn't pollute his genes with her inferior ones. Sukegei enjoyed another hit from his hookeh, blowing out rings as the loosely clad maiden approached. His eyes studied her bouncing bits, admiring how that top somehow resisted snapping. Truly, it must have been enchanted and was doing the Lord of Light's work. It wasn't long before Ixqueya babbled off. His eyes did not care to hide his delight in her bosom. Periodically drifting up to those bimbo lips slapping together.
Sukegei had a few skill sets. One of them is his ability to pick up the rantings of women by their pitch alone. His exes always complained he never paid attention; they were correct, and this time was no different. However, the giantess warranted this focus as she began attacking the illustrious shaitan people. "You must have balls larger than Florentina to come to this bar with such barb. Curious, are you arrogant? or can you back up such spunk." he'd lean forward, waving the barmaid over as he told the barmaid to bring this savage some tea in the shaitan language. He'd then return his attention to Ixqueya before resuming his speech in their shared tongue.
"I like them feisty. We could mix some pleasure with work. Whatever the case, Zubaida thinks Hextor is worthy of respect. I am not so convinced. How about we stop measuring egos? How about I buy you some drinks and food?" Sukegei spoke with a shrug. He found this creature to be amusing. Part of the reason he tolerated her was that she was attractive. "You're not bad looking for an unburnt one. And from what I've heard, your kind are skilled when it comes to the sensual arts. Curious, what does your kind think of mine? Surely there are a few prostitutes who remember the workout the Shaitans provided them when we stood unified against the defiled. I know, simpler times. But hey, nothing like a good brush with death to get the blood flowing, am I right?"
He quipped as the tea was brought. Lazily, Sukegei tossed a menu her way, taking another hit from his hookah. "You must be hungry. Order something, Unwind. We are eating on the church's dime. Business expenses and all. Let's live it up a little, don't you agree? Surely a woman like yourself knows how to unwind and party? Right? The Lord of Light is nothing if not charitable..." He ended with a jest. Hoping this would break the ice, pun intended. He might not be a scholar, but it was clear this woman was a cyromancer of some sort. The barmaid arrived with a hammered copper tray, steam curling from tulip glasses that caught the lamp glow like captive suns. Mint bruised under the spoon, sugar lumps stacked like white bricks along a small dish. He snapped one between thumb and forefinger, let the grit melt on his tongue, then slid a glass toward her with the back of his knuckles as if passing sentence. The hookah bowl crackled. Double apple and molasses sweetened the air, a poor incense for a holy hour, good enough for this den of soft pride.
He did not bother to hide the way his eyes returned to her chest as he spoke to the barmaid. He did not bother to soften the smirk when the room tried to listen without staring. The oud in the corner trailed a sulk of notes. Dice slowed in their cups. A shutter coughed against its hinge and fell quiet, as if even wood had learned manners. “Kitchen,” he called in Shaitan, not bothering to turn. “Beetle skewers. Saffron rice. Pistachios. Bread with the black seeds. Bring the good olives or bring your manager.” Coins clinked like a tiny hail. He never looked to see who picked them up. He let his palm rest on the wrapped kilij across his knees. The cloth hid the shine, not the fact. A light hum spoke through the scabbard when the hookah coal flared, the metal answering heat with a private promise. The gauntlet on the bench beside him caught the lamplight in its salt-glass veins, scripture tiny as ant tracks engraved on brass. He did not touch it. He liked the way she kept glancing at it when she pretended not to. “Zubaida says respect,” he went on, casual as a cat near a birdcage. “Maybe she sees something worth polishing. Maybe she wants me to find the crack and pry it open. Either way, I do not say no to food. Or to sport.”
He leaned back and blew another perfect ring that drifted toward her cheek paint and broke like a small surrender. He watched the rime that haloed the table’s edge when the mace kissed wood. He watched the way the shield swallowed light and made a black lamb out of it. He filed those details under the list called ways to ruin a pretty evening. The menu lay where it fell. He tapped it with two fingers and let it spin once, slow, like a coin that had already decided which face to show. “Eat,” he said, lazy as a lizard on stone. “Then talk. Or talk with your mouth full. I have manners, but I am not married to them.”
Murmur rose and fell like a tide that feared a shoreline. Sailors at the window found something fascinating in their empty cups. Two caravan guards turned their heads with the same stiffness as dogs who had remembered a beating. The scribe by the pillar pretended to read a prayer carved on cedar that had never seen a real prayer in its life. Sukegei’s eyes returned to her lips. He watched the gloss catch a lamp and thought of the women who swore they would never come back, then came back for a second helping of penance and praise. He thought of Valerna’s line breeding arrogance like horses and selling it like silk. He thought of Florentina and the way a room adjusted itself when she entered, as if furniture had learned fear. He weighed those thoughts and set them aside the way he set aside a bell he did not plan to ring.
“Here is my welcome,” he said, soft enough that she had to lean in to catch it. “You say winter. I say kiln. You say moon. I say sun. You say work of the dead. I say the living earn their bread. So I buy you dinner and we discover which sermon feeds better.” The food arrived. Skewers slick with fat. Rice golden as a tiny field. Bread blistered from the oven, glossy with oil and scattered with nigella. He tore a piece with his teeth and spoke around the steam, unbothered and unblessed, a man at home in heat and hunger. He put the bread down and gave her the hookah hose with a lift of his chin, a wordless dare. “You can hold your smoke,” he added. “Or you cannot. No shame in either.”
A dancer tried to pull the room’s attention from the table. Silk jingled. Anklets flashed. Sukegei did not turn his head. He was not finished taking the measure of the giantess who had brought winter into a house that did not know how to keep heat. He drummed two fingers on the kilij’s spine and let the old prayer run through him the way a whetstone runs along an edge.
Let sin rise as smoke. Let truth fall as rain. Make my edge Your will. He lifted his glass toward her, a toast that could be welcome or warning. “Eat,” he said again, a little smile like a knife shown flat. “Drink. Spend the church’s coin. Tell me where you want to draw your line tonight. The table. The floor. The bed. The border. I am generous with choices. I am cruel with outcomes.” He laughed then, low and real, the sound of a man who could enjoy a fight or a feast and would not apologize for either. The lamps steadied. The hookah hissed. The tea cooled to the exact temperature where mint speaks and sugar stops bragging. He waited, patient as a brazier in a quiet room, for winter to answer him with something other than posture.
Winter answered.
It did not rush. It never did. It crept in through seams and under teeth. It rode her breath.
Ixqueya watched him through half-lidded eyes, a tribunal of one. Nine feet of giantess folded into mortal furniture, all wrong for the chair and very aware of it. Feathers fanned from her shoulders in a storm of turquoise and jade. Her hair fell in black and cobalt sheets around a face cut for verdicts, not for mercy. Her breasts rose, heavy and gleaming, like twin moons lifted above a feathered harness that was more statement than cover.
He wanted that to matter.
She let him.
Frost thickened along the rim of her glass until the tea within looked like something trapped under lake ice. A ring of rime spread from her fingers across the wood. The table began to remember her.
“Fire spends,” she said at last. Her voice was soft and cold, the kind of soft that bruises bone. “Ice keeps. That is the first lesson of the Marrow Doctrine. You people of the kiln still have not learned it.”
A few nearby drinkers went still. The dancer’s anklets faltered for a beat.
She turned the glass between her fingers, watching steam die in thin, desperate threads.
“You speak of the Lord of Light as if He were a merchant,” she went on. “As if His favor could be tallied as business expense. As if burning the dead and forgetting their names were marks of culture instead of crimes.” Her lip curled. “In Hextor, we call that what it is. Barbarism with better dishes.”
Her eyes came back to him. Pale blue. Cutting.
“Your creed burns its history and calls the ash holy. You light pyres. You salt bones. You pretend forgetting is mercy. In my country, that is heresy. Waste of grief. Theft of names. Your saints are smoke. Your relics are soot. Your god is a bonfire that eats ledgers.”
She lifted the glass, never drinking. Frost crawled higher along the tulip shape, veiling the tea like a closed eye.
“Beneath our swamp sleeps the God Beneath,” she said. “Yohuallotlquixochitl. Your mouth would break on the name. You may use Her lesser face. Yohualtzin. The moon that never forgives a ledger out of balance. In Her light Necro Ice blooms. Death hardens into crystal. Names stop bleeding. Our dead do not vanish into your pretty flames. They rise. They work. They are kept.”
She leaned forward, and the chair sighed. Her chest eclipsed the table for a breath. She let his eyes follow the motion. Let the room pretend that this was performance.
Then she smiled.
It did not reach her eyes.
“You look at my flesh and think it is invitation,” she murmured. “In Hextor, it is instrument. The Church teaches after-use, not afterlife. This body is ledger and tool. Seed and sanctum in one vessel. You talk about my womb as if it were an empty amphora waiting for some desert fool to pour his heat into it and call that a miracle.” Her gaze dropped, briefly, to his lap, then rose with slow disdain. “I do not take barbarian tithes. I do not let sun cultists smear their ash in a temple carved for ice.”
The frost on the table cracked in a fine ring, a tiny pane waking.
“I am impressed, though,” she added, tone turning light, almost conversational. “That your kind has come so far. Once, your desert sprites flung excrement at our tents and shrieked nonsense to the stars. Now you can sit on chairs. Use cups. Approximate language. Truly, Yohualtzin is generous. She lets even the loudest animals evolve a little before She files them.”
Someone snorted behind a hand. The sound died quickly.
“You boast of whores who remember Shaitan vigor,” Ixqueya continued. “You flatter yourself that a few bought moans during a war against the defiled mean your creed understands the body. You confuse rutting with sacrament. In Kilk-Mire, even our dead stand to better purpose than that. Your faith sells forgetting as comfort. Ours stitches memory into frost and makes it work.”
She pushed the hookah hose back across the table with one finger. The mouthpiece steamed where she had touched it, then froze.
“Keep your smoke,” she said. “It suits a cult that worships fire and calls the sparks wisdom. In Hextor, we thin the breath, tithe it, send it along the Whispering Vein to do something useful. Here you turn lungs into toys and name it piety.”
Her attention flicked to the food he had ordered. Beetle skewers. Rice like small suns. Bread blistered and oiled.
“You spend your god’s coin on feasts and flirting,” she said. “You couch lust as hospitality. You dress appetite in scripture and think that makes you civilized. In my doctrine, tithes are breath and bone and kcal held back from casting. Work before worship. Memory before mercy. Your heat is a loan you have not begun to repay.”
She tore a piece of bread at last. Frost plated the crust under her touch. She set it back on the plate, untouched, a small frozen hill.
“You asked where I draw the line,” she said. “Listen closely, kiln-boy. I will share a table with a Shaitan when there is work to discuss. I will share a battlefield when the ledger requires it. I will not share a pane, a bed, or a bloodline with a creed that burns its dead like garbage and calls that grace.”
Her eyes sharpened, ice brightening toward gold at the center.
“You sit here with your hookah and your coin and your little sun-prayers and think yourself large,” she finished. “To me you are a small man casting a smaller shadow. One entry on a page you have never read. When winter reaches you, it will not be as a lover. It will be as a clerk. It will take your name. It will file you. That is more kindness than your Lord of Light ever gave his own burned faithful.”
She lifted her glass in a slight toast, a thin crescent of frost catching the lamplight.
“Eat,” she said, almost kindly. “Spend your barbarian god’s money. Enjoy your heat while you have it. Somewhere under this swamp the God Beneath listens. Yohualtzin watches. When the Emerald Thorn rises, the ledger will remember every jest you made in His name.”
She smiled again. This time there was nothing warm in it at all.
“Winter keeps its promises,” Ixqueya said. “Your fire only promises to forget.”
It did not rush. It never did. It crept in through seams and under teeth. It rode her breath.
Ixqueya watched him through half-lidded eyes, a tribunal of one. Nine feet of giantess folded into mortal furniture, all wrong for the chair and very aware of it. Feathers fanned from her shoulders in a storm of turquoise and jade. Her hair fell in black and cobalt sheets around a face cut for verdicts, not for mercy. Her breasts rose, heavy and gleaming, like twin moons lifted above a feathered harness that was more statement than cover.
He wanted that to matter.
She let him.
Frost thickened along the rim of her glass until the tea within looked like something trapped under lake ice. A ring of rime spread from her fingers across the wood. The table began to remember her.
“Fire spends,” she said at last. Her voice was soft and cold, the kind of soft that bruises bone. “Ice keeps. That is the first lesson of the Marrow Doctrine. You people of the kiln still have not learned it.”
A few nearby drinkers went still. The dancer’s anklets faltered for a beat.
She turned the glass between her fingers, watching steam die in thin, desperate threads.
“You speak of the Lord of Light as if He were a merchant,” she went on. “As if His favor could be tallied as business expense. As if burning the dead and forgetting their names were marks of culture instead of crimes.” Her lip curled. “In Hextor, we call that what it is. Barbarism with better dishes.”
Her eyes came back to him. Pale blue. Cutting.
“Your creed burns its history and calls the ash holy. You light pyres. You salt bones. You pretend forgetting is mercy. In my country, that is heresy. Waste of grief. Theft of names. Your saints are smoke. Your relics are soot. Your god is a bonfire that eats ledgers.”
She lifted the glass, never drinking. Frost crawled higher along the tulip shape, veiling the tea like a closed eye.
“Beneath our swamp sleeps the God Beneath,” she said. “Yohuallotlquixochitl. Your mouth would break on the name. You may use Her lesser face. Yohualtzin. The moon that never forgives a ledger out of balance. In Her light Necro Ice blooms. Death hardens into crystal. Names stop bleeding. Our dead do not vanish into your pretty flames. They rise. They work. They are kept.”
She leaned forward, and the chair sighed. Her chest eclipsed the table for a breath. She let his eyes follow the motion. Let the room pretend that this was performance.
Then she smiled.
It did not reach her eyes.
“You look at my flesh and think it is invitation,” she murmured. “In Hextor, it is instrument. The Church teaches after-use, not afterlife. This body is ledger and tool. Seed and sanctum in one vessel. You talk about my womb as if it were an empty amphora waiting for some desert fool to pour his heat into it and call that a miracle.” Her gaze dropped, briefly, to his lap, then rose with slow disdain. “I do not take barbarian tithes. I do not let sun cultists smear their ash in a temple carved for ice.”
The frost on the table cracked in a fine ring, a tiny pane waking.
“I am impressed, though,” she added, tone turning light, almost conversational. “That your kind has come so far. Once, your desert sprites flung excrement at our tents and shrieked nonsense to the stars. Now you can sit on chairs. Use cups. Approximate language. Truly, Yohualtzin is generous. She lets even the loudest animals evolve a little before She files them.”
Someone snorted behind a hand. The sound died quickly.
“You boast of whores who remember Shaitan vigor,” Ixqueya continued. “You flatter yourself that a few bought moans during a war against the defiled mean your creed understands the body. You confuse rutting with sacrament. In Kilk-Mire, even our dead stand to better purpose than that. Your faith sells forgetting as comfort. Ours stitches memory into frost and makes it work.”
She pushed the hookah hose back across the table with one finger. The mouthpiece steamed where she had touched it, then froze.
“Keep your smoke,” she said. “It suits a cult that worships fire and calls the sparks wisdom. In Hextor, we thin the breath, tithe it, send it along the Whispering Vein to do something useful. Here you turn lungs into toys and name it piety.”
Her attention flicked to the food he had ordered. Beetle skewers. Rice like small suns. Bread blistered and oiled.
“You spend your god’s coin on feasts and flirting,” she said. “You couch lust as hospitality. You dress appetite in scripture and think that makes you civilized. In my doctrine, tithes are breath and bone and kcal held back from casting. Work before worship. Memory before mercy. Your heat is a loan you have not begun to repay.”
She tore a piece of bread at last. Frost plated the crust under her touch. She set it back on the plate, untouched, a small frozen hill.
“You asked where I draw the line,” she said. “Listen closely, kiln-boy. I will share a table with a Shaitan when there is work to discuss. I will share a battlefield when the ledger requires it. I will not share a pane, a bed, or a bloodline with a creed that burns its dead like garbage and calls that grace.”
Her eyes sharpened, ice brightening toward gold at the center.
“You sit here with your hookah and your coin and your little sun-prayers and think yourself large,” she finished. “To me you are a small man casting a smaller shadow. One entry on a page you have never read. When winter reaches you, it will not be as a lover. It will be as a clerk. It will take your name. It will file you. That is more kindness than your Lord of Light ever gave his own burned faithful.”
She lifted her glass in a slight toast, a thin crescent of frost catching the lamplight.
“Eat,” she said, almost kindly. “Spend your barbarian god’s money. Enjoy your heat while you have it. Somewhere under this swamp the God Beneath listens. Yohualtzin watches. When the Emerald Thorn rises, the ledger will remember every jest you made in His name.”
She smiled again. This time there was nothing warm in it at all.
“Winter keeps its promises,” Ixqueya said. “Your fire only promises to forget.”
Sukegei listened. Or rather, he watched and let the words run along the edge of his mind like a whetstone. Those moons did most of the talking for him. Every time she drew breath, the feathered harness shifted and the lamps wrote soft highlights across her skin. He kept his gaze there longer than was polite, shorter than was suicidal, pretending he was measuring the rise and fall of her temper instead of the rise and fall of everything else.
When she finished, the table was a pale wreath of frost. His spine had picked up a quiet, involuntary chill. He smirked anyway. A chuckle slid out of him, warm and easy as poured tea, buying him a heartbeat to tuck away the sting of her words. Outclassed. He knew that shape. He wore it with the same care he wore his rings. “Marrow Doctrine,” he said, rolling the phrase on his tongue as if tasting a new wine. “You know, for a barbarian desert cult, we seem to have done very well for ourselves if the high priestesses of frost feel the need to lecture us in public.”
His eyes flicked to the ice creeping around her glass, then unapologetically back to her chest. “I will say this much,” he added. “If your god beneath gives all Her missionaries lungs like yours, I finally understand how She wins converts. One sermon and half the room is already worshiping.” The line drew a nervous ripple of laughter from nearby tables. He rode it, let it carry him forward. “Relax, Winter bitch,” he said, palm opening in a small gesture of truce. “You can keep your womb sanctified and your ledgers spotless. I am only a humble sand barbarian trying to enjoy a meal in peace while a very tall, very cold woman explains why my god is illiterate.”
His eyes climbed at last from her chest to her face, lingered on the ice-bright stare, then drifted lower to her mouth. Those lips were full, painted in gloss that caught the lamplight each time she shaped another insult. He felt a small, traitorous heat coil in his gut as his imagination tried to assign them other duties. He shut the door on that thought with a swallow of tea that scalded his tongue. “Regardless,” he went on, voice smoothing, “banter or not, Lady Zubaida has welcomed you. That matters here.” He tapped the wrapped kilij with two fingers. The metal hummed, a reminder of oaths that did not care about his ego. “If she says the frost giant is to be treated as guest instead of invader, then the House listens. Even the barbarian parts.”
He leaned back, hookah hose resting in one hand, glass in the other. The confidence sat on him like a cloak. A little frayed at the hem, perhaps, but still bright. “So tell me,” he said, tone dropping into something more curious. “What do you know of me, beyond that I burn my dead and offend your ledgers? What stories did Hextor whisper into your ear before dispatching one of its favored knives into my motherland?”
He tilted his head, studying her. “What does your Dominion seek to gain by sending you here?” he asked. “A foothold in the glass palaces? A new market for your cold miracles? Or did Xandera simply tire of you freezing her furniture and decide the White Sand Empire had more heat to waste?” His gaze slid back to her lips again, unhurried. He watched the way they rested when she was not speaking, plush and dangerous. He wondered, privately, if they were half as skilled at gentler work as they were at carving him into pieces with theology. The thought put a crooked line to his mouth.
“You are sharp, as sharp as you are endowed ” he admitted, letting a hint of sincerity bleed through. “Sharper than half the blades hung in this city. I can respect that. I am not asking you to bless my god or my bed. Only to answer a simple question. Although, my bed is always open.” He lifted his glass in a small salute, eyes locked on hers over the rim. “Why is winter sitting in my bar tonight,” Sukegei asked, “wearing feathers, drinking my tea, and looking at me as if she is already measuring where to write my name on her pretty sheet of ice? And why did you spoil my meal. Uncivilized." He jested.
When she finished, the table was a pale wreath of frost. His spine had picked up a quiet, involuntary chill. He smirked anyway. A chuckle slid out of him, warm and easy as poured tea, buying him a heartbeat to tuck away the sting of her words. Outclassed. He knew that shape. He wore it with the same care he wore his rings. “Marrow Doctrine,” he said, rolling the phrase on his tongue as if tasting a new wine. “You know, for a barbarian desert cult, we seem to have done very well for ourselves if the high priestesses of frost feel the need to lecture us in public.”
His eyes flicked to the ice creeping around her glass, then unapologetically back to her chest. “I will say this much,” he added. “If your god beneath gives all Her missionaries lungs like yours, I finally understand how She wins converts. One sermon and half the room is already worshiping.” The line drew a nervous ripple of laughter from nearby tables. He rode it, let it carry him forward. “Relax, Winter bitch,” he said, palm opening in a small gesture of truce. “You can keep your womb sanctified and your ledgers spotless. I am only a humble sand barbarian trying to enjoy a meal in peace while a very tall, very cold woman explains why my god is illiterate.”
His eyes climbed at last from her chest to her face, lingered on the ice-bright stare, then drifted lower to her mouth. Those lips were full, painted in gloss that caught the lamplight each time she shaped another insult. He felt a small, traitorous heat coil in his gut as his imagination tried to assign them other duties. He shut the door on that thought with a swallow of tea that scalded his tongue. “Regardless,” he went on, voice smoothing, “banter or not, Lady Zubaida has welcomed you. That matters here.” He tapped the wrapped kilij with two fingers. The metal hummed, a reminder of oaths that did not care about his ego. “If she says the frost giant is to be treated as guest instead of invader, then the House listens. Even the barbarian parts.”
He leaned back, hookah hose resting in one hand, glass in the other. The confidence sat on him like a cloak. A little frayed at the hem, perhaps, but still bright. “So tell me,” he said, tone dropping into something more curious. “What do you know of me, beyond that I burn my dead and offend your ledgers? What stories did Hextor whisper into your ear before dispatching one of its favored knives into my motherland?”
He tilted his head, studying her. “What does your Dominion seek to gain by sending you here?” he asked. “A foothold in the glass palaces? A new market for your cold miracles? Or did Xandera simply tire of you freezing her furniture and decide the White Sand Empire had more heat to waste?” His gaze slid back to her lips again, unhurried. He watched the way they rested when she was not speaking, plush and dangerous. He wondered, privately, if they were half as skilled at gentler work as they were at carving him into pieces with theology. The thought put a crooked line to his mouth.
“You are sharp, as sharp as you are endowed ” he admitted, letting a hint of sincerity bleed through. “Sharper than half the blades hung in this city. I can respect that. I am not asking you to bless my god or my bed. Only to answer a simple question. Although, my bed is always open.” He lifted his glass in a small salute, eyes locked on hers over the rim. “Why is winter sitting in my bar tonight,” Sukegei asked, “wearing feathers, drinking my tea, and looking at me as if she is already measuring where to write my name on her pretty sheet of ice? And why did you spoil my meal. Uncivilized." He jested.
Winter answered his leer with discipline.
Ixqueya did not flinch from the rot-gloss of the room or the crude hymn of his throat. She let the cold tighten the air until the lamps behaved. She let the tiles breathe a thin ring of rime and then repent of it. She set the Frostfang Mace on the wood. The pale halo it etched into the grain felt like ceremony. The Gravechill Bulwark leaned beside her and turned lamplight into a tame, black thing.
Her gaze did not lift to meet his. It weighed him the way a steward weighs coin. Count. Test the edge. Snap a false piece and hear the lie. He was all jingle and no silver. Appetite in a borrowed chair.
“You confuse hunger with rank,” she went on, voice level as still ice. “You confuse staring with strength. You call vulgarity wit and mistake the noise of men for the work of a nation. A kennel cur that finds a match in his teeth does not become a furnace. He becomes a fire hazard.”
Her eyes flicked to the wrapped kilij and back. Calm. Exact. “Any man who must praise his virility has none. Any zealot who must say he has law carries only permission. Your morality is rented light. It flickers when a coin coughs. Your brain rattles like a thimble in a helmet. Your manhood boasts like a drum with a split hide. Loud. Hollow. Useless once the cold enters.”
She took the tea he offered and did not drink. “You invite me to a trough and think you have set a table. You speak of pleasure as if the moon were a tavern lamp and not a wheel of law. You slobber fealty to one woman while you angle for another. Groveling grub. A man who kneels for a mistress and calls it piety. I would sooner remove my own bosom and gift it to the jackals than share a bed with a brazier that wheezes.”
The tavern tried to shift. She denied it. “You dress heat as virtue and call the costume an empire. White Sands is a corpse that has not learned to lie down. Your Lord of Light is a street performer with a jar of tinder. If you must light a candle, light it to Queen Xandera. Her decree is the only reason your head keeps its high perch and your blood keeps its small ambition. Thank her when you find a corner brave enough to hold your whisper.”
She let her eyes travel the room. Cedar gossip. Pierced brass that forgot its prayer. Rugs that remembered every spill and no sermon. She returned to him with the slow patience of a ledger. “You think this is sport. It is audit. Hextor does not barter with panting. Hextor disciplines. Hextor keeps bread from mold and kings from lying to themselves. I do not negotiate with a man who cannot master his eyes. Put them here.” She tapped the space between her painted brows with one black nail. “Not there. Count sentences, not skin. If you look again without learning, look as a penitent reads a debt.”
He breathed, a little faster now. She smelled fennel, sugar, and the small panic of a man realizing his chair has grown cold.
“You offered to buy my time,” she said. “My winter is not for sale. My winter is for service. It keeps widows breathing and orphans fed. It keeps cities from pretending they are alive when they are only warm. Your men are submissive stock. Unbreedable. Fit for hauling and hymns. Not for legacy. I prefer tools that do not tremble when the moon comes up.”
The hookah hissed. She let the smoke touch her paint and fall like a chastened veil. “You spoke of death making the blood sing. Hextor sings when the work is done. We do not need knives at our throats to remember our duty. Our dead stand the door. Our dead count the grain. Our dead repay the hour that stole them. Your living spend heat to feel important, then pass the plate to a godling who cannot hear.”
She rested two fingers on the mace. Frost climbed her knuckles like a rosary. “Now I will speak to you as a queen speaks to a stubborn vassal. You will keep both hands where I can see them. You will close your mouth when it reaches for a joke and open it only when it reaches for truth. You will thank Xandera in your heart for the lesson you are about to survive.”
Her smile was a small, hard thing. “You wanted a night of sport. You will receive a catechism. You wanted to measure egos. You will learn to measure borders. You wanted a bed. You will earn a bench. And if your pride reaches for me again, I will take it at the wrist and place it neatly on your plate. Cold makes clean work.”
She leaned the smallest degree. Her voice softened the way a blade softens when it finds flesh. “Say your welcome. Say your warning. It will not change the price. The moon is patient. The audit is long. The tally is mine. And the next breath you enjoy was purchased by my Mother’s decree, not your lamp’s charity. Remember that when you thank someone in the dark.”
She sat back. She let the silence fix itself to the beams. She allowed the room to discover the shape of fear that arrives well dressed. “Pour,” she said, and it was both command and verdict. “Pour, little Wrath. Learn to hold something without shaking. Winter is watching. And winter, unlike you, does not fail when tested.”
Ixqueya did not flinch from the rot-gloss of the room or the crude hymn of his throat. She let the cold tighten the air until the lamps behaved. She let the tiles breathe a thin ring of rime and then repent of it. She set the Frostfang Mace on the wood. The pale halo it etched into the grain felt like ceremony. The Gravechill Bulwark leaned beside her and turned lamplight into a tame, black thing.
Her gaze did not lift to meet his. It weighed him the way a steward weighs coin. Count. Test the edge. Snap a false piece and hear the lie. He was all jingle and no silver. Appetite in a borrowed chair.
“You confuse hunger with rank,” she went on, voice level as still ice. “You confuse staring with strength. You call vulgarity wit and mistake the noise of men for the work of a nation. A kennel cur that finds a match in his teeth does not become a furnace. He becomes a fire hazard.”
Her eyes flicked to the wrapped kilij and back. Calm. Exact. “Any man who must praise his virility has none. Any zealot who must say he has law carries only permission. Your morality is rented light. It flickers when a coin coughs. Your brain rattles like a thimble in a helmet. Your manhood boasts like a drum with a split hide. Loud. Hollow. Useless once the cold enters.”
She took the tea he offered and did not drink. “You invite me to a trough and think you have set a table. You speak of pleasure as if the moon were a tavern lamp and not a wheel of law. You slobber fealty to one woman while you angle for another. Groveling grub. A man who kneels for a mistress and calls it piety. I would sooner remove my own bosom and gift it to the jackals than share a bed with a brazier that wheezes.”
The tavern tried to shift. She denied it. “You dress heat as virtue and call the costume an empire. White Sands is a corpse that has not learned to lie down. Your Lord of Light is a street performer with a jar of tinder. If you must light a candle, light it to Queen Xandera. Her decree is the only reason your head keeps its high perch and your blood keeps its small ambition. Thank her when you find a corner brave enough to hold your whisper.”
She let her eyes travel the room. Cedar gossip. Pierced brass that forgot its prayer. Rugs that remembered every spill and no sermon. She returned to him with the slow patience of a ledger. “You think this is sport. It is audit. Hextor does not barter with panting. Hextor disciplines. Hextor keeps bread from mold and kings from lying to themselves. I do not negotiate with a man who cannot master his eyes. Put them here.” She tapped the space between her painted brows with one black nail. “Not there. Count sentences, not skin. If you look again without learning, look as a penitent reads a debt.”
He breathed, a little faster now. She smelled fennel, sugar, and the small panic of a man realizing his chair has grown cold.
“You offered to buy my time,” she said. “My winter is not for sale. My winter is for service. It keeps widows breathing and orphans fed. It keeps cities from pretending they are alive when they are only warm. Your men are submissive stock. Unbreedable. Fit for hauling and hymns. Not for legacy. I prefer tools that do not tremble when the moon comes up.”
The hookah hissed. She let the smoke touch her paint and fall like a chastened veil. “You spoke of death making the blood sing. Hextor sings when the work is done. We do not need knives at our throats to remember our duty. Our dead stand the door. Our dead count the grain. Our dead repay the hour that stole them. Your living spend heat to feel important, then pass the plate to a godling who cannot hear.”
She rested two fingers on the mace. Frost climbed her knuckles like a rosary. “Now I will speak to you as a queen speaks to a stubborn vassal. You will keep both hands where I can see them. You will close your mouth when it reaches for a joke and open it only when it reaches for truth. You will thank Xandera in your heart for the lesson you are about to survive.”
Her smile was a small, hard thing. “You wanted a night of sport. You will receive a catechism. You wanted to measure egos. You will learn to measure borders. You wanted a bed. You will earn a bench. And if your pride reaches for me again, I will take it at the wrist and place it neatly on your plate. Cold makes clean work.”
She leaned the smallest degree. Her voice softened the way a blade softens when it finds flesh. “Say your welcome. Say your warning. It will not change the price. The moon is patient. The audit is long. The tally is mine. And the next breath you enjoy was purchased by my Mother’s decree, not your lamp’s charity. Remember that when you thank someone in the dark.”
She sat back. She let the silence fix itself to the beams. She allowed the room to discover the shape of fear that arrives well dressed. “Pour,” she said, and it was both command and verdict. “Pour, little Wrath. Learn to hold something without shaking. Winter is watching. And winter, unlike you, does not fail when tested.”
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