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by
C.L. Clark
Read between
November 21, 2022 - February 28, 2023
It made Luca wonder what new boundaries people would have to make in the future—how they would call themselves, what else they would find to separate themselves from each other. Humans tended to do that.
And you couldn’t own anything if you were owned yourself.
Touraine was starting to think it was impossible to come from one land and learn to live in another and feel whole. That you would always stand on shaky, hole-ridden ground, half of your identity dug out of you and tossed away.
Worthy enough for her commander to give her the top jobs, the toughest jobs, but never good enough to be a… a what, exactly? Just a part of the whole, a real part. She would always be disposable.
“You will never have nothing. Not like we have nothing. Not like the Sands have nothing, not like the Qazāli have nothing. Not like a carpenter’s daughter in Nowhere, Balladaire, has nothing.” You will never have to sell yourself to live.
What would it take for Balladaire to see them as more than cheap labor and cannon fodder? Maybe watching death come for them, wearing her face.
“We pray for rain,” Touraine said. “No.” Jaghotai squeezed Touraine’s arm tightly. “Be the rain.” The rebels descended on the compound like a summer storm.
“Tour, don’t you fucking dare,” Pruett said. “I swear on my mother’s name—” Touraine fought back tears and a helpless laugh. “Fuck that. You hate your mother.”
Instead of becoming like Cantic, Touraine had learned enough to know that the general, too, wanted to mold her into something perfect. And perfect, to Cantic, to Beau-Sang and the lord regent, Duke Nicolas Ancier, meant not Qazāli, not any kind of Shālan. It meant Balladairan born and bred, and she would never be that, so she would never be completely worthy.

