I woke to the glare of sharp morning light, and the harsh scrape of the bolt being slid open. Followed by the creak of the workshop door easing ajar.

  Cracking one eye open, I winced against the sudden brightness, instinctively raising a hand to shield my eyes. The clink of my chains yanked me back to reality. One second, I was groggy and half-asleep; the next, painfully aware of every bruise, every scrape, every breath.

  In a single jarring moment, I was wide awake.

  I lay still, staring up at the workshop ceiling – a mess of cobwebs and peeling plaster. My face itched with the unfamiliar prickle of day-old stubble. And the bruises from last night made their presence known. First as dull twinges, then an overwhelming ache that spread through every inch of me. From my scalp to my soles, everything hurt.

  Not too much. Just enough to remind me I was alive. And chained to a wall.

  Oddly, I’d slept well. Too well. Couldn’t even remember dreaming, which was unusual for me.

  It was as if I’d blinked in the darkness and opened my eyes to full daylight. Almost disorienting. But my mind felt refreshed and clear. Alert.

  The door swung fully open, followed by footsteps.

  I pushed myself upright, chains rattling as I eased my sore back against the wall.

  A large, broad-shouldered silhouette filled the open doorway. Virat Barik? I couldn’t see his face. He was just a solid shape, backlit by the sun.

  Tall, yes, but too broad and sturdy to be Vinayak.

  But something about his posture gave me pause. Seemed different from what I’d seen of Virat, in the brief time we’d interacted last night.

  The confusion dissolved a moment later, when he spoke. “Good morning. I brought you your bed-tea.” Only then did I notice the small tray he balanced on one hand. “Don’t know how you like it, so I got you a bit of everything.” His voice had the same deep, resonant quality as Virat’s, but with a more youthful edge.

  He knelt, setting the tray on the floor between us. Then sat cross-legged about a foot away.

  Finally, his face came into full view. The wide forehead and bulbous nose – apparently ubiquitous to the Barik clan.

  A jagged scar sliced under his right eye, as if someone had tried to carve his face in two, but lost interest halfway through. The lower half of his face was shadowed with what looked like nearly a week’s worth of dark stubble.

  Broad shouldered and powerfully built, much like Virat. Not exactly handsome. More like a stunt double in one of those old action flicks that’d been so popular a couple decades ago.

  A wave of panic knotted my insides, as recognition dawned on me.

  I glanced down at the tray, as much to obscure the fear in my own eyes as to avoid his piercing stare.

  From the moment I figured out where I was, who my captors were, I knew this would happen. Sooner or later. But that didn’t mean I was ready for it. I couldn’t imagine anything I was ready for less than confronting Aranyak, face-to-face, for the first time in eighteen years.

  Well, at least he hadn’t been lying. He really had brought me ‘a bit of everything’.

  The tray he’d placed in front of me held milk powder, sugar, cardamom, black pepper. Even some freshly grated ginger. And, of course, the requisite steaming water along with a little container of tea leaves.

  “This looks like…” I croaked, my voice scratchy with sleep. “A very elaborate murder weapon. I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” He rolled his eyes, amiable. “It’s not poisoned. I’m under strict orders not to kill you, until you’ve answered at least some of our questions. Damn annoying,” he confided, voice chillingly bright. “But we, both of us, know the importance of obeying our fathers. Don’t we?”

  I flinched – reflexively, stupidly – before I could school my features into nonchalance.

  Handing him the reaction he’d been fishing for, with that little jab.

  Fine. One-zero.

  Now, my serve. “Indeed, we do. The difference being, I’m not the only one who obeys my father.” I smiled thinly. “So does the Frontline Force. Are you sure you’re ready for their show of obedience?” I cast a quick glance around the room. “Once they realize you’ve got me shackled to a wall in this charming little workshop of yours?”

  His shoulders tightened, just slightly. But he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he busied himself with the tea, picking through the ingredients with exaggerated care. He glanced at me before adding each one, waiting for a nod or a shake of my head.

  He prepared another cup for himself – extra cardamom, no milk – then set the tea to steep. “You think the brutality of the Frontline Force is new to us?” He settled back, his movements relaxed and deliberate. “A gun is scary, only until it’s fired. You can’t scare a corpse, after all. Under your father’s orders, the Frontline Force has paved the streets of Zilan with corpses. So much so, the FF insignia isn’t a threat here anymore. It’s a joke. A bad one.”

  He caught my gaze. “Sure, maybe they’ll pile a few more bodies on your behalf. Just another Tuesday for us. But it won’t change anything, for you. Won’t change the fact that you’ll still be here, shackled to a wall in this charming little workshop of mine.” A pause. “So before you start celebrating our downfall, spare a moment to consider how this story ends. For you.”

  A minute passed in silence. Then, with a sigh, I reached for the tray – my chains clinking. “If I knew what you wanted from me, I’d give it to you. Really. Might save us both some time and some tea. Not to mention a needlessly grisly end.”

  I picked up the strainer, pouring the amber liquid into two small plastic cups. It was all plastic, including the tray itself. Light, with rounded edges. Nothing that could, in any way, be used as a weapon.

  “But I can’t give you what I don’t have,” I continued. “The information your people are after? I don’t have it. I’ve already told them everything I know. And as for the rest, I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

  Aranyak didn’t interrupt. Just watched my hands closely as I poured. “And what is it that you do know?” he asked. Only hesitating a moment before taking the cup I held out to him.

  “That I was sent to Zilan to investigate financial irregularities in the Minjal Stadium project.” I took a sip. The tea was surprisingly good, strong and comforting. “That’s all I know. All I was told. If there were other factors at play, hidden agendas, I wasn’t looped in. And not for lack of trying, believe me.”

  “You see why that’s hard for me to swallow, right?” Following my lead, he took a sip from his cup. “Because you’re not a stupid man, Lekh. We both know that. The Zintra leaks?” he leaned in slightly, voice playful, conspiratorial. “Beautifully executed. Simply extraordinary.”

  A chill crawled up my spine. “I don’t know what you—”

  He cut me off with a raised hand. “Relax. I’m not here to debate credits. The point is, you’re not stupid. Which is why it’s hard for me to believe that you just wandered into Zilan, at a time like this, completely unaware of the risk you were taking. Of what your presence here would entail.”

  He took another sip. “You didn’t forget what happened eighteen years ago, did you? Mahrang’s execution. Your starring role in it. People here certainly have not forgotten. It’s impossible you didn’t realize that certain people…might hold a grudge. So, knowing all that,” he studied me. “Why come back? Why risk your life? Are we really supposed to believe that Darvika is so short of accountants and auditors that Darpan Naag felt compelled to send his only son into the lion’s den? And for what? To chase down a few bribes, some petty corruption?”

  I stayed silent, taking a moment to gather my thoughts.

  Because those were good questions, all. And how was I supposed to answer them? What could I say?

  That my father had sent me here to die? That when I tried to refuse the assignment, he’d threatened to send my sister in my place? That he couldn’t care less if any of his children lived or died, just so long as he got the prime ministership by the end of it all.

  I could see only two potential outcomes of such a confession.

  Either Aranyak would call it a bluff. Assume I was lying to win sympathy and buy myself some time. Or worse, he’d believe me. Realize I was worthless as leverage against my father, and kill me himself.

  Perhaps even seize the opportunity to vent some past grievances – beat me up and dump me at a police outpost. A mangled mess for the authorities to find. Alive, but just barely. Ensuring that he and his separatist comrades couldn’t be held directly responsible for killing me on Zilani soil.

  Either way, nothing good could come of that particular bit of honesty.

  So I bit my tongue, drained my tea, and did the only thing I could. Changed the subject. “Is there a washroom around here?” I glanced pointedly around the shop. “And any chance you can find me a spare razor?”

  He snapped, “Don’t deflect the question.”

  “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I last took a piss?” I asked mildly. “If you don’t point me to a washroom in the next sixty seconds, the deflection will be on your floor. Quite literally. And trust me, neither of us wants that.”

  Aranyak didn’t voice another protest.

  He simply drained his own cup in one long sip and rose to his feet. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a loop of tiny, mismatched keys. He picked one out, then crouched beside me and slid it into the lock securing my chains to the iron ring in the wall.

  A soft click, and the shackles came free. My wrists were still cuffed, but the chains were now in his hand, rather than bolted to the wall.

  My legs stiff and shaky, I rose. Stamped my feet lightly to get the blood flowing, shake off the numbness.

  Aranyak looped my chains once around his hand, then tugged sharply.

  Outside the workshop doors, the sun was warm but not punishing. Golden sunlight flooded the little clearing around the shop. A mild breeze brushed gently against my bruised skin and lifted strands of my matted hair.

  A cacophony of sounds greeted us – goats bleating, a dog barking somewhere in the distance, and the constant, cheerful chitter of birdsong.

  Across the uneven dirt road, past a rusted tractor and a half-toppled fence, lush fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Neat rows of golden jowar swayed gently in the breeze, suffusing the air with the earthy scent of ripening grain.

  Beyond a thin line of trees in the distance stood the little shack I’d glimpsed by moonlight the night before. A squat gray rectangle with a slanted tin roof, incongruous amidst the vivid greenery.

  Aranyak led me to a narrow aluminum-plated door near the back of the workshop. Choosing another key from his mismatched loop, he unlocked it. Revealing a cramped washroom lit by a single small bulb high on the rear wall.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Tiny and spartan, but cleaner than I’d expected.

  Without a word, he led me inside and secured my chains to the metal mixer tap, fixed between a commode on one side and a cracked washbasin on the other. Right above the washbasin sat a small plastic cabinet.

  The space was so tight, I could reach both without pulling my chains taut.

  He lingered a few seconds, staring down at me as if trying to scan my brain with his eyes. Finally, he stepped out, shutting the door behind him with a metallic clang.

  I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against the cool tile wall. At last, some peace and quiet. Some privacy.

  Five minutes later, I stood at the washbasin, blinking into the small, grimy mirror affixed to the cabinet above. With my hands shackled to the mixer tap, I leaned awkwardly over to pry the cabinet open.

  Inside, the supplies were basic, but sanitary enough. And beggars (or hostages) couldn’t be choosers.

  I brushed my teeth with the cheap, aggressively minty toothpaste and rinsed carefully. Then, I smeared a dollop of shaving cream onto my jaw, before reaching for the razor, my chains clinking.

  It was a nerve-wracking process – dragging the blade carefully over all the raw scrapes and tender bruises I’d collected. Every pass of the razor burned faintly, the nicks flaring hot as if rubbed with salt.

  “How much longer is this going to take?” Aranyak’s voice came from beyond the closed door.

  “It’ll take as long as it takes,” I grunted, careful not to get shaving foam in my mouth. “I’m covered in mud and grime. Let me wash some of it off, at least.”

  I dragged the razor carefully down the right side of my jaw, avoiding a livid scrape that ran along my mandible.

  “Well, then you have time to think about the answers to some of my questions, don’t you?” he retorted through the door. “Why, in your purely hypothetical opinion, would the central government send a seer to Zilan after eighteen years? Now, of all times? And a seer as notorious as yourself, at that.”

  “You credit me with a reputation I neither have nor deserve. And in my purely hypothetical opinion,” I shaved a clean path down the left side of my face. “It wouldn’t. The central government didn’t send me. I’m here in a purely private capacity.”

  “In a purely private capacity to investigate the finances of a central project,” came the prompt reply. “A central project the locals have been opposing vehemently for over a year. Over which Shaukat Awan was arrested on false charges, because he was one of the loudest critics of the Minjal Stadium. That shines a slightly different light on your untimely arrival, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Have the locals been opposing the stadium?” I asked, feeling a shallow sting as I scraped the razor carefully across my upper lip. “Or just the separatists? Because believe it or not, those are two very different things.”

  “The separatists are the locals.” A metallic thud startled me, as he leaned against the washroom door.

  “That is partly true,” I conceded. “All separatists are locals. But not all locals are separatists.”

  “You think the locals want the stadium?” A rough-edged laugh. “People have literally been setting themselves on fire at the construction site, to make their protests heard. Have you seen the state of Zilan recently? There’s no work, no money, no food or medicine. Half the wells are dry. More and more, we’re running out of drinking water entirely.”

  I rinsed my face with a handful of cold water. “And I’m guessing you had all of that and more, before the stadium construction started?”

  “We had hope,” he said. “We were going to get a nuclear powerplant. The construction had already begun. Have you seen the electricity situation here? Half our water and agricultural problems would be solved, if only we had reliable power. Productivity would increase. There’d be more work, better employment opportunities, higher wages.” His voice hardened. “But will the central government allow that? Of course not!”

  “You think the central government is deliberately trying to prevent prosperity in Zilan?” Flabbergasted, I turned off the tap and blinked water from my eyes. “Why on earth would they do that?”

  “Because rising incomes in Zilan would mean your central corporates can no longer buy our labor and resources for dirt cheap.”

  I laughed – couldn’t help it. “It would also mean higher tax revenue for the central government. Less money poured into food and housing subsidies. A stronger, more secure border.”

  Frowning, I ran my fingers through my hair. Then turned the tap on again to rinse off the last bits of mud and grime from my locks. Hoping I’d gotten everything from the back of my head. Though I doubted it.

  “You needn’t believe in the benevolence of the central administration,” I continued. “God knows I don’t. But even you must see the obvious. That they have nothing to gain from keeping Zilan poor and unstable. A prosperous, self-sufficient border state will add to their coffers, bolster their strength.”

  “If that’s so,” Aranyak countered. “Then why would they divert funds from a much-needed powerplant to build a useless, expensive stadium? With loans from Binhai, no less. Zilan has no money as it is. You think we’ll ever be able to pay off those debts? Of course not! That was never the plan, was it?

  “Instead, we’ll have those foreigners forever looming over us. Taking control of our cities and our infrastructure in the name of ‘investment.’ They’ll drain our resources and use our tax money to build pointless vanity projects—” a long, mournful bleat interrupted him. “That make politicians on both sides of the border look good. Meanwhile, the local population will be left destitute, drowning in debt, and worse off than before all this so-called development began.”

  I sighed. “Didn’t you just say there’s no work and no money in Zilan? The stadium will create jobs. It’s already doing so, to some extent. And that’s just during construction. It’ll create even more once it’s operational. Plus, it’ll drive tourism, which will in turn help other industries like hospitality, transportation, and—”

  The little bulb high on the wall flickered out, plunging the washroom into a gloomy half-light despite the blazing sun outside. I frowned. “Is that meant to prove a point?”

  “I wish,” Aranyak groaned. “It’s another power cut. Third one this morning. Count yourself lucky you slept through the first two.”

  The door swung open, flooding the washroom with sunlight. And letting in a small black goat, followed closely by Aranyak, keys jingling in his hand.

  The goat let out another high-pitched, mournful bleat, then trotted up and butted its head against my leg. It backed up a few steps and charged again. Butting me harder this time, with all its pocket-sized might.

  “Now there’s a fitting pet for you,” I told Aranyak as he approached with the keys. “Tenaciously aggressive, with zero provocation.”

  “She’s not mine.” Unlocking my chains from the mixer tap, he looped them around one hand, as before. “And that’s her being affectionate.” He glanced at the goat, now nuzzling my ankle. “But I must say, you clean up well.”

  “Thank you.” I bent to scoop the little goat into my arms, shackles and all. Which elicited another shrill bleat. “You should see me without mud in my clothes and hair. It gets even better.”

  “We’ll get you your own quarters with an attached bath,” he said. “Just as soon as you tell us who the snake charmers are.”

  I ignored him, shifting the goat into a more comfortable hold until her bleating softened into a low, contented hum. “What’s her name?” I asked, as she licked the side of my face.

  “Shiuli,” he said. “And she’s trying to eat your hair.”

  “Better goats have tried and failed,” I assured him. “But as I was saying, an uptick in tourism would be good for Zilan, regardless of what’s driving it. And not just for the money, though you can never have too much of that.

  “It’ll incentivize local governments to upgrade their own infrastructure. Better roads and bridges. But more importantly, better hospitals, tighter law and order. It may start out for the benefit of the tourists, to make them feel safer. But soon the improvements will trickle down to the average Zilani. Will enhance health and safety in the state, stabilize the power supply. Create a more business-friendly environment for locals and—”

  Aranyak yanked sharply on my chains, making me stumble. “Yeah, that’s the story the government is selling.” He dragged me along the small clearing around the workshop, the air alive with birdsong and the fresh scent of grass. “Portraying it as development. Promising jobs and tourism.”

  Painting the separatists as the ones standing in the way of economic growth and local employment, to further their own agenda. The narrative chipping slowly away at their local support base. That’s the part he didn’t say out loud. But I could hear it in the slight, indignant quiver of his voice.

  “But the team that designed the stadium came from out of state,” he continued. “Some contractors from Binhai, even. They’re outsiders.” We walked past a cluster of shrubs dotted with colorful flowers. “Only the laborers are local. And you’ve seen the conditions they’re working in – hellish.” The goat in my arms bleated softly, content as I scratched behind her ear. “The Minjal Stadium’s nothing but a vanity project. A way for your HPA to score points with voters in the central states. And to cozy up to the leadership in Binhai. All at the cost of ordinary Zilanis. You’ve seen it. Literally a giant stadium with two massive statues of a former head of state from each country. Could they be any more obvious?”

  “Two things can be true at once. You do realize that, don’t you? They might want to curry favor with Binhai and drive tourism to Zilan. Those goals aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “Just because something can be true doesn’t mean it is,” he countered sharply. “Do you realize that? Do you realize what’s happening here? They’re building that stadium by tearing Zilan apart. Have you seen how much copper went into those statues? Into the whole damn structure? Meanwhile, the runoff from the mines is making our already scarce drinking water even worse. And they just keep digging – clearing out forests, stripping the land, ruining the soil.” He paused, taking in several deep breaths. “Zilan’s known for its forests. Always has been. What tourism will we have left, when that’s gone?

  “It’s not for nothing people are setting themselves on fire. Burning themselves alive to oppose this. To oppose Hastinar. None of this is for the benefit of Zilan. Hastinar’s only ever wanted to suck us dry, then spit us out when there’s nothing left to take. That’s why Zilanis have always wanted to break free.”

  And just like that, we were finally at the heart of the matter.

  “Alright,” I said. “Let’s say your wish comes true. Unlikely, but there’s no tax on imagination. So let’s imagine it for a moment: the sovereign Republic of Zilan.”

  By now, we’d reached the door of the workshop. But Aranyak made no move to go back in, so neither did I.

  “A tiny, poor country with no coastline,” I continued. “Sandwiched between two regional heavyweights like Hastinar and Binhai. You really think such a country would be free? On paper, maybe. But real sovereignty isn’t something you can type into existence.

  “Real sovereignty requires power, Aranyak. The power to decide on your own policies without foreign interference. The muscle to push back when interference inevitably comes. And an independent Zilan would have neither the economic nor military might to do that, to chart its own course. We both know that.

  “It’d be caught in a constant tug-of-war between Binhai and Hastinar. Pulled back and forth, over and over again. It’d become the perfect playground for proxy wars. A testing ground for all future conflicts, where both sides could clash without risking war on their own soil.”

  Aranyak scoffed. “And you think that’s not happening already? We wouldn’t be in this situation today if the central government wasn’t offering Zilan up like a sacrificial lamb to appease the Gods of Mount Binhai.”

  “Binhai isn’t a mount—”

  “That’s not the point!” he snapped.

  Shiuli grew agitated in my arms, so I set her down. She scampered off, bleating. “I understand what you’re saying. Really, I do. But think about it logically for half a second. At least today, ordinary Zilanis have a say in Hastinar’s policies, its politics. Maybe not as big of a say as you’d like them to have, as they should have. But they vote. They can make their opinion count.

  “After separation? Even that influence will disappear. Zilan will still be what it is today – same size, same population, same geography. Still stuck right here. A country, unlike a person, can’t pack up and leave after the divorce.”

  “We’ll have our own army,” he said. “The freedom to forge our own alliances, broker our own treaties.”

  “An army barely a tenth the size of Hastinar’s,” I pointed out. “Smaller still, in comparison to Binhai’s. And infinitely poorer than both. The power imbalance won’t magically disappear just because Zilan becomes a country instead of a state. It’ll be exactly the same – just without any of the perks and protections of statehood.

  “Ordinary Zilanis would have even less influence over Hastinar’s decisions. No voice in its politics. No vote. And on top of that, Zilan would lose the central subsidies it currently enjoys, not to mention access to the larger Hastinari market,” I finished. “All the same risks of living next door to a giant – but none of the advantages of being a part of it.”

  At that, something shifted in Aranyak’s demeanor. The taut lines of his shoulders eased, and the intense emotion that’d clouded his face moments ago dissipated.

  “You’re young,” he said with a slight smile. “Intelligent and compassionate.” He studied me, head tilted thoughtfully. “What happened eighteen years ago – it wasn’t your fault. Not really. You were just a child. A sudden, violent vision like that? It must’ve been terrifying. You didn’t understand it, and ran to your father for comfort. Of course you did! That’s not a crime. After all, you couldn’t have known what he’d do with that information.” He shrugged. “I understand. Honestly, I can’t say I’d have done any different, at seven.”

  A familiar chill snaked its way up my spine. I forced myself to keep my expression neutral, not let my discomfiture show.

  “But it’s different now. You’re a grown man,” he continued, as if that fact might somehow have escaped me. “Clearly, you have empathy. A sense of justice. You don’t need to repeat the mistakes of the previous generation. You can choose to abandon narrow ethnic loyalties to stand with what is right.”

  Bit rich, a Zilani separatist telling me to abandon my ‘narrow ethnic loyalties.’ But since I liked my head quite a bit and didn’t need it detached from my shoulders just yet, I kept that thought to myself.

  “The problem with that,” I said instead. “Historically speaking, is that every side claims it’s the right one. So what does it look like to you – standing with what is right?”

  He nodded once, conceding the point. “Do you want to see the real Zilan?”

  “Is this the fake one?” I looked around me. “Surprisingly convincing.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You said it’s hard to know which side is the right one. Fair. But if you want answers, there’s only one way to find them.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Come with me,” he said. “Let me show you the real Zilan. You’ve only seen Zhyn, so far. It’s all most outsiders see. But there’s a Zilan outside of that – beyond the relative calm and prosperity of the capital city. Let me show you where the rest of us live.” He extended a hand. “Let me show you what your government has done to us. To this land and its people.”

  “And how far would we have to go,” I asked warily. “To see this real Zilan?” Lest I end up alone with him in some remote corner of the state. Where a body could be safely dumped, without the risk of quick discovery.

  Aranyak smirked, as if he’d read my mind. “Not so far away we can’t return before nightfall. Besides, you don’t have to agree.” He twirled the keys in his hand, making them jingle. “I’m just as happy to drag you back in and bolt you to the wall once again. It’s your call. You’re our honored guest, after all.”

  Well, that decided it. As he probably knew it would.

  Even the prospect of being dumped in a landfill with my throat slit was better than the alternative – remaining indefinitely stuck in that stifling, grease-streaked tomb of a workshop. At least if I was unchained, out in the open, there might be a chance to call for help.

  Maybe even to make my escape.

  I gave him a quick nod. “Sure. You’re right. It’d be foolish to make a decision without seeing how things are, with my own eyes.” I glanced at my manacled wrists, frowning. “But I refuse to walk around in public with you dragging me by the chains, like cattle to the slaughter.”

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