The Poppy War (The Poppy War, #1)

by R.F. Kuang

Rin grew so desperate that for the first time in her life, she prayed.

Rin didn’t need validation from Tikany; not from its magistrate, not from the nobles. She was leaving, she had a way out, and that was all that mattered.

They’ll make you an outsider, because you’re not like them. That’s okay. Don’t let any of that discourage you. No matter what they say, you deserve to be here. Do you understand?”

“So you’re not dying, sweetheart, your body is just shedding your uterine lining.” Rin’s jaw had been hanging open for a solid minute.

She craved praise so deeply that she felt it in her bones. And just like an addict, she did whatever she could to get it.

How do you feel?” “I’m devastated,” Rin said. “Sunzi and I were finally starting to understand each other.” “No, you sod. Your arms. Your core. Your legs. How do they feel?”

the majority of Nikara were religious only when it suited them.

“I believe in gods as a cultural reference. As metaphors. As things we refer to keep us safe because we can’t do anything else, as manifestations of our neuroses. But not as things that I truly trust are real. Not as things that hold actual consequence for the universe.” She said this with a straight face, but she was exaggerating. Because she knew that something was real. She knew that on some level, there was more to the cosmos than what she encountered in the material world. She was not truly such a skeptic as she pretended to be.

“But if nothing is divine, why do we ascribe godlike status to mythological figures?” Jiang countered. “Why bow to the Great Tortoise? The Snail Goddess Nüwa? Why burn incense to the heavenly pantheon? Believing in any religion involves sacrifice. Why would any poor, penniless Nikara farmer knowingly make sacrifices to entities he knew were just myths? Who does that benefit? How did these practices originate?”

When man begins to think that he is responsible for writing the script of the world, he forgets the forces that dream up our reality.

Children ceased to be children when you put a sword in their hands. When you taught them to fight a war, then you armed them and put them on the front lines, they were not children anymore. They were soldiers.

Altan didn’t answer. He took two steps forward and struck her across the face.

“How dare you,” he said. His voice was overly loud, distorted through her thundering ears. “You misunderstand the nature of our relationship. I am not your friend. I am not your brother, though kin we may be. I am your commander. You do not argue with my orders. You follow them without question. You obey me, or you leave this Militia.”

“Look around you. Look at what’s happened to this world. All of our friends are dead. Nezha. Raban. Irjah. Altan.”

“Our entire world has been torn apart, and you still want to go to war?” “War’s already here. A traitor sits on the throne of the Empire,” she said stubbornly. “I will see her burn.”

I have become something wonderful, she thought. I have become something terrible. Was she now a goddess or a monster?

Altan named his successor before we left for Golyn Niis.” Rin jerked her head up. That was news. “Who?” Chaghan looked like he couldn’t believe she had asked. “It’s you,” he said,

Altan had named her as his successor. Entrusted his legacy to her. He had written and signed the order in blood before they had even left Khurdalain.