The Poppy War

“Hi,” said Altan Trengsin. “What was that about losers and rejects?”

From now on you are banned from the practice facilities. You do not touch the weapons rack. You do not train in the studio during off-hours. You do not set foot in here while I am teaching a class. You do not ask older students to teach you. I don’t need you causing any more trouble in my studio. Now get out of my sight.”

War doesn’t determine who’s right. War determines who remains.”

If there was one thing Rin had learned about her country’s history, it was that the only permanent thing about the Nikara Empire was war.

In the dark hours of the night, she considered that, too.

Those weren’t lives.

They were numbers.

They were a necessary subtraction.

“Then I will die on my feet,” she said. “I will die with flames in my hand and fury in my heart. I will die fighting for the legacy of my people, rather than on Shiro’s operating table, drugged and wasted. I will not die a coward. And neither will you. Altan, look at me. We are not like Jiang. We are not like Tearza.”

She would not die like this. She would not die without vengeance.

It’s easy to be brave. Harder to know when not to fight.

You can’t stop an avenger. You can’t reason with a madman.