Tuya Khulan ran a thumb over her seal of office. Tonight would be the last time she wore it, and the bronze weighed heavy in her hand. Still, her fingers did not fumble as she pinned the medallion to her deel, and it gleamed brassy in the lamplight of her tent. Khulan pressed her eyes closed. This was another battle, and she would prepare for it as she had always done. She blew out a breath through her nose.

Though she wore no armor, she felt dressed for combat. Khulan cast a sidelong glance in the mirror and frowned—there was something missing.  After a moment, she looped a strand of rubies around her neck. Better. She tilted her chin and slid a thumbnail to the hollow of her throat.

An hour from now, a slash of blood would grace it instead of gems. It would be quick.

A muscle jumped in her jaw. It would be quick, and her debt would be paid. Khulan jerked her chin up and rolled her shoulders back. It would be quick. Her palms itched for a bow, a blade, but she would be allowed no weapons when she went before the empress, and they would be useless in any case.

It would be quick.

Khulan stole into the night like a winter fox, but she did not avoid the gazes of her soldiers. Their eyes flashed as she passed, and her lips curled. Let them know their general smiled for death.

The tent in the center of camp watched her progress, and sweat slicked her skin by the time Khulan finally reached it. She snapped at one of the guards, and he came forward like a whipped dog. He slipped a perfunctory hand over her forearms, her outer waistcloth and hipbones, into her boots and up her calves. He found nothing.

Khulan smiled grimly.

When the guard flicked aside the tent flap, the torches guttered; Khulan swept inside. It took only a moment for her eyes to adjust to the funerary gloom, and her cloak whispered across silk as she picked her way deeper into the tent.

Inside, a few braziers burned low with incense, and a woman lounged at a long table.

Khulan grimaced; she knew that pose. It was not that of a woman, but of something with talons and teeth. The boneless grace of a predator lying in wait. Her limbs were in an easy arrangement; she could leap to her feet in a second.

Instead, the woman gestured to a slave girl who stoked up the grilles until they crackled with flame. When the light flared, it threw the predator into high relief. Shadows lingered under her eyes, and though her dark hair was shot through with silver, there was an ageless quality to her face. Until this afternoon, Khulan would have followed her off the edge of the world.

"Come, sit." The woman—the Jackal—beckoned to the seat across from her.

Khulan's eyes narrowed as she weighed the command. After a breath, she sank into the chair, her elbows crowding over the table.

"I had hoped your son would join us. I'd been counting on Batu's appetite." The Jackal tipped her goblet towards the table.

It was laden with food and drink, far more than two women could eat. Steam curled from platters of roasted meat and sweet dumplings. Clove and cardamom from the Durhaani Coast dusted fried barley, and a stew of salted milk tea ribboned over a salver of rice.

Khulan pressed her lips into a tight line. "His fever rose. The shamans don't know if he will last the night."

She fixed her gaze on the Jackal and willed the lie not to show on her face.

While a fever had kept Batu from this morning's battle, there was little risk of his death. In fact, the moment she had returned to camp, Khulan had thrown him from his cot. He had sprawled on the ground, and before he could regain his footing, she had thrust a pack at him.

"Run."

He blinked at her, then gritted his teeth. "No."

The set of his shoulders, the tightness of his jaw. The only thing that didn't mirror Khulan was the hint of copper threaded through his curls. She had never wanted to hit him more.

"Run." Khulan yanked the collar of his tunic until he choked. "Or I will save them the trouble of hunting you down."

She released his shirt and shoved him away, not pausing to see if her order was followed as she stormed from the tent. She knew it would be. He was a dutiful son.

That had been hours ago, and only minutes before word of Khulan's crimes would have reached the Jackal. From then, she had been waiting for the Jackal's summons. She had been waiting for her end.

The Jackal frowned. "I am sorry to hear it."

You are sorry you cannot claim both our lives. Khulan took a long draught of wine and said nothing. The words she silenced tasted of acid.

The slave girl flitted around the two women, dishing out meat and candied dates, and for a long moment, only the scrape of wood on metal could be heard.

Then Khulan blinked. There were twin pitchers, two platters of everything. One set of food went to the Jackal, another to Khulan. Her teeth clacked together.

Poison. They were poisoning her. Anger knotted itself in Khulan's gut, and she clenched a fist around her fork. Poison was a weapon used on vermin, on newborn mice, on those unworthy of death by a blade. She should make them run her through, throttle her, anything else. Anything else.

But then the evening would be up, and each second here diverting the Jackal's attention was another stolen for her son. For a moment she could have damned Batu herself, the way he was robbing her of a proper death. She wished she would have hit him, just once. Instead, she bit her tongue until she tasted copper.

Unclench your hand. Unclench your hand, and swallow your pride.

Slowly, Khulan loosed her fingers and chewed until juices sluiced down her chin and fat dripped onto the table. Death was well-seasoned.

"The cooks have been planning this meal since your return." The Jackal's smile glimmered like a fistful of fangs.

Your daughter was a fool. She deserved worse than I gave her.  Khulan leashed her tongue and lifted a brow. 

"For your great victory, general." The Jackal's eyes glinted. "I heard there were minimal casualties."

A flicker of unease wormed its way through Khulan's stomach. This was the heart of it, where she became undone. The number of deaths did not matter. The whole army could have been lost, and it would not mean so much as the one foolish girl who had failed to come back. One foolish girl who had earned the death she'd been given.

The Jackal took a slug of wine. Raw garnets glittered on her knuckles, the only finery the empress wore. When she was done, she proffered her glass to her general. "Drink; it's an excellent vintage."

Their hands touched when Khulan reached for the cup, and she nearly dropped it. She let the wine spill down her chin; it tasted like nothing so much as blood. When Khulan lowered the cup, the Jackal leaned forward to snag it, stopping only to pluck a date from the general's plate. She popped it into her mouth.

Khulan's teeth clicked; her eyes bulged.

What was this? Was there no poison? She shifted in her seat, a chill crawling its way up her spine. This was all wrong.

"Your troops will go north. I need you to shore up our—" The Jackal's lips twitched, and she tilted her head, studying Khulan.

North? Khulan scrubbed a hand over her mouth, trying to rub away the taste of death. This was wrong. Wrong. The wrongness of it settled heavy in her bones and chest, and if she had wanted to stand, it would have dragged her through the floor. 

The Jackal's eyes narrowed as she considered the goblet in her hand. Finally, she smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. They blazed deep in her skull. "You deserve a good death, Khulan, and I'm not cruel enough to take that from you. In any case, you've paid your blood debt."

There must've been something in her face because the Jackal nodded at the table. "Didn't you know? We have been celebrating our loving reconciliation—and I have saved the best for last. Do you want to know what we've been dining on? It's your favorite."

A slave stepped forward with a covered dish, bowing low before the Jackal.

Khulan could not breathe. Bile clawed up her throat. Her breath rattled, and it sounded a thousand miles away. Whatever was under that dish, she did not want to see it.

The Jackal met her with a steady gaze. Two guards flanked her, hands on swords.

"Lift it." The Jackal's voice was distant as the lid clattered to the floor.

Only the hint of copper gave him away.