“When it happened I panicked,” Shyan says. “Held the traditional ceremony, strung the bunting. Buried him in the sky. But word got out. People knew, and they came for me. I took to the road after the mourning period, but I wasn’t fast enough.”
Cang coughs, the sound harsh and echoing across the rocks.
“All those who said I wasn’t worthy, well, they appeared again to tell me so. To prove it with their feet and their fists.” Shyan’s face is ashen, set with grim finality. “With mine, I showed them that I was.”