Dedication

To those who relentlessly rise from the ashes again and again,

you’re the real magic

Contents

1. Cover

2. Title Page

3. Dedication

4. Map

5. Content Guidance

6. Houses of Oryndhr

7. Prologue

8. Chapter One

9. Chapter Two

10. Chapter Three: God of Night

11. Chapter Four

12. Chapter Five

13. Chapter Six

14. Chapter Seven

15. Chapter Eight

16. Chapter Nine: God of Night

17. Chapter Ten

18. Chapter Eleven

19. Chapter Twelve

20. Chapter Thirteen

21. Chapter Fourteen

22. Chapter Fifteen

23. Chapter Sixteen: God of Night

24. Chapter Seventeen

25. Chapter Eighteen

26. Chapter Nineteen

27. Chapter Twenty

28. Chapter Twenty-One

29. Chapter Twenty-Two

30. Chapter Twenty-Three

31. Chapter Twenty-Four: God of Night

32. Chapter Twenty-Five

33. Chapter Twenty-Six

34. Chapter Twenty-Seven

35. Chapter Twenty-Eight

36. Chapter Twenty-Nine

37. Chapter Thirty

38. Epilogue: God of Night

39. Acknowledgments

40. Announcement for Queen of the Night Sky

41. Glossary

42. About the Author

43. Copyright

44. About the Publisher

Map

Content Guidance

War, violence, blood, death, murder of a loved one, fictional drug/alcohol use, addiction, wounds, physical assault, trauma, sexual content, profanity, and a brief mention of cannibalism.

Houses of Oryndhr

- IMPERIAL HOUSE—The reigning king or queen of Oryndhr, along with direct heirs, royal advisers, and all runecasters. Powerful, arrogant, influential, and bold. Succession is determined by the rights of primogeniture and all eligible biological descendants.

- HOUSE OF REGULUS—Leaders and opportunists who control the flow of knowledge. They are innovators, inventors, thinkers, and teachers of enlightenment. They are devoted to study, learning, and improving the mind. Cunning and intelligence are valued over brawn.

- HOUSE OF FOMALHAUT—Creators, curators, and performers, talented in music, arts, dancing, sciences, philosophy, and writing. They prioritize beauty, culture, spirituality, and pacifism. Often accused of being diviners, arcanists, and heretics.

- HOUSE OF ANTARES—Warriors, soldiers, archers, protectors, and mercenaries. They revere combat in all forms, strength, and brawn and believe only the strongest will prevail. The leader of the Dahaka separatist militia is rumored to be from Antares.

- HOUSE OF ALDEBARAN—Farmers, miners, smiths, craftsmen, merchants, and all workers in trade and commerce. Known for endurance, community, and resiliency. They prioritize hard work. This house is the largest of the houses but also the poorest.

- ORDER OF THE MAGI—Disbanded upon the order of High King Merik, First of His Name.

Prologue

Elonian Prophecy

When the last star dims

and the dawn of an endless night looms,

the Starkeeper will burn,

for where it walks death follows.

Tens of thousands of years ago when the realms were racked by a hundred-year war between Fero and Saru, the twin gods of death and creation, a magi with the ichor of akasha in his veins and the runes of power etched onto his skin appeared to safeguard the world of men.

Though the guardians of the four Royal Stars and the forebearers of all magic—Venant, Tascheter, Satevis, and Haftorang—did not intervene in the ways of ruthless gods, when the mortal world was pushed to the edge of obliteration by Fero’s dark arcane followers, they gifted the magi with the might of the stars. Between his star-touched light and Saru’s spark, victory was achieved. The realm of men was saved from Fero’s eternal darkness.

Some say the magi’s powers vanished with him upon his death; others say they simply remained quiet as the years slipped into centuries. No matter the truth, the world was at peace . . . and Saru slept.

Eventually, the gods, the guardians, and the magi were forgotten by the very men they had saved, and human kings, sovereignty, and power became the new gods. Saru and Fero faded into obscurity, their existence reduced to legend and their godly powers distilled to myth.

But like all monstrous things, the god of death was infinitely patient . . .

The light of the stars could not endure forever, after all.

Chapter One

His Imperial Majesty, King Zarek Acharia, requests your presence as his esteemed guest.

The gold powder dusting the black scroll sticks to my clammy fingers like a layer of fine desert sand. The paper is thick and smooth to the touch, the lettering within inlaid with what looks like real gold and infused with some mysterious, honeyed fragrance. I rub the parchment between my thumb and forefinger, delighting in the distinctive quality of the stock.

Sands, but it’s gorgeous.

I glance around my cramped forge, half expecting to see a royal messenger standing at attention, but the elegant invitation from the Imperial House had had no escort. It’d been sitting on my anvil, quite visible and jarringly out of place, when I’d returned from a quick trip to the inn for a pitcher of water. My name is engraved on the outside in an elaborate sweeping script: Miss Suraya Saab, House of Aldebaran.

I scan the contents again. If the invitation is to be believed, it’s a royal summons to appear at court as a potential bride for the crown prince. As in His Royal Highness, Prince Javed, the richest, most eligible bachelor in the entire kingdom. An invitation sent to me: barkeep, bladesmith, and most definitely not future queen material.

I let out a snort of disbelief. It must be a mistake.

Or worse, a joke.

An expensive and outrageous joke, but one all the same. The puzzle pieces fall into place. If I weren’t inured to the ways of spiteful women, I’d bet this entire forge that the royal seal emblazoned on the summons was real; but knowing what I do, this steaming pile of horseshit has the stamp of Simin all over it.

Muttering a slew of curses upon my nemesis’s head, I crumple and toss the presumably fake invitation to the ground and turn my focus on the dagger I’d been working on before this nonsense prank appeared to ruin my day.

Don’t let her win. You have better things to do.

Pushing Simin to the back of my mind, I draw the cooled blade from the barrel of sand and nod with satisfaction. The metal gleams faintly with an opalescent color from the shard of jādū I’d carefully smelted into the steel. The magical properties of the crystal will allow the blade to cut through anything, from armor to bone. It’s practically indestructible.

And completely illegal.

Jādū shards are the only remaining slivers of magic in the kingdom. Every precious ounce is mined and measured, and can only be handled by crown-approved craftsmen or the king’s imperial runecasters. I’d haggled for the tiny sliver, paying an exorbitant ten gold pieces to a crooked trader passing through Coban a year ago—literally my entire meager life savings and practically the cost of a house. I couldn’t let the opportunity pass, even if the consequences of being caught are dire. Magic thieves are gruesomely executed. I don’t want my skull on a pike and spelled to never rot by the king’s runemasters, thank you very much.

No one will find out. Stop obsessing about it.

Still, I feel a nervous twinge in my gut. While my self-taught forging skills are in some demand, my on-again, off-again employer, Vasha, a powerful lord in the House of Aldebaran from the neighboring city, will toss me to the wolves at the first hint of trouble. He is officially employed by the crown to work with regulated jādū in his forge. I am not.

Vasha had discovered my talent quite by accident during a visit to my family’s inn. The inn sits next door to my workshop, and when one of the patrons mentioned I was a bladesmith, he’d asked to see it. To my dismay, some of the runic symbols for fire and ice I’d been experimenting with had been carelessly visible on discarded bits of steel that littered the floor. It was dangerous for any commoner to be caught playing about with runes . . . especially caught by a lord. I’d felt the sweat hot on my spine as my mind raced for some explanation.

Vasha had narrowed his eyes. “Have you ever worked with jādū before?” he’d asked.

My dread had spiked, wondering if he was after a confession. “No. That’s against the law.”

“Not if you have a permit from the king, which I do.” Vasha had pocketed one of the fragments with my symbols, his expression unreadable. “Come visit me next week in Jaxx and let’s see what you can do.”

It had been an order, not a request, especially considering he’d taken a piece of steel as leverage. But as it turns out, the jādū shards sing to me in a singular way that’d had old Vasha salivating, and ever since, his forge has farmed out extra work to me. However, he’s not stupid. The crystals are carefully weighed, and the messengers he sends measure every ounce when they leave.

Good thing I paid for the meager piece I’m using, even if I am under no illusions that that trader might have stolen it to begin with. Sliding on a pair of protective goggles, I place the cooled dagger carefully into the forge to start the slow reheating process. Forging takes patience and care, and I don’t want to ruin my hard work by not paying attention at this stage. But my gaze keeps returning to the lump of balled parchment a few feet away.

A tight, secret longing rises in my chest. I’d give anything to visit the capital city. My eyes flick to the painted landscape mounted on the far wall of the workshop. Set against a lush purple-and-green backdrop, the Kaldarian palace shimmers like a gleaming pearl at the center of the far-reaching citadel, its scalloped turrets glistening. The image never fails to steal my breath away.

When Mama was alive, we used to imagine fantastical adventures inside the palace walls. One day, we’d both be ladies-in-waiting, and the next, fierce palace guards defending the lives of its occupants to our last breaths. Other times, we’d bring in mythical creatures, like magical simurghs to fight with us against the forces of darkness. I let out a soft snort; she used to call me her little firebird. Her imagination had always been better than mine.

Even on her deathbed, she’d called me that.

“Come on, little firebird,” she’d wheezed. “I don’t look that bad.”

She’d looked worse than bad—gaunt and sallow as if something cursed was feeding off her very soul, a wasting illness we’d never seen the likes of. In a matter of months, she’d entirely diminished. “You’re beautiful, Mama,” I’d said brightly, sitting beside her and taking care not to jostle her too much. It might have been childish, but I’d wanted to hold on to her in any way I could. “What shall we pretend to be today? Spies? Princesses?”

But her expression had gone vacant. “There’s a room in the southernmost turret, and you can see for miles through its window. Even the entire hedge maze.” I’d gaped at her, but she’d looked past me, to someplace I couldn’t reach. “My friend Nihira lived there. She was an artist, too. That painting was a gift from her . . .” Her words had trailed away as exhaustion took root, and after that, she’d deteriorated much too quickly for stories.

To this day, I can’t look at the painting—or that turret and the green maze—without thinking of her, without wanting to see the world through her eyes just once. I’m nearly twenty-five and I’ve never even been to the realm’s capital city. Never been anywhere.

I stare past the tiny window to the sun-scorched desert beyond the village spreading for endless miles. It’s one of the poorest areas of the kingdom, nothing like Kaldari, but Coban has beauty, too. Right now, the morning sun stretches high over the horizon, spearing its brilliant golden fingers across the sands in a way that’s familiar and new all at once. The light is never the same. One day, it turns the desert molten silver, and the next, it’s undulating in tones of firestorm red. I smile—the desert and Coban will always be my home, no matter my secret wishes to disappear into that Kaldarian painting.

“Dreaming about the day you become a princess of Oryndhr again?” Laleh’s laughing voice makes me whip around, a flush creeping into my cheeks as she pulls the forge door shut against a gust of dry air. “Why is it hot as balls in here? Worse than the pits of Droon, I swear.”

I roll my eyes at my oldest friend. It’s sweltering, but nowhere can be as hot as Droon. The abandoned city is made up mostly of molten lava, thanks to a very active volcano. “I’m working on getting this dagger done.”

“How’s that going?” she asks, floating into the workshop on the cloud of her jewel-green skirts.

“I finished the pommel—a simurgh in honor of Mama. It’s over there on the bench.” I watch as she examines the carved hilt, the head of the simurgh curving at the end and the wings making up the two decorative quillons.

“It’s beautiful,” Laleh says. “She would have loved it.”

My heart squeezes. “Thank you. Nice outfit, by the way.”

“Green is definitely my color.” She twirls for my inspection. Emerald silk attached to twin gold armbands floats around her, complementing her cropped black hair that has been brazenly combed into dyed green points. Laleh’s various quirky looks have evolved over the years, but they never get dull. I love that about her.

“Every color is your color,” I say over my shoulder. “Also, I’d much prefer to be a spy than a princess.”

She lifts a brow. “You say that as though a princess can’t be a badass. Nothing wrong with being beautiful, powerful, and capable. You could be a princess spy.”

I carefully adjust the now orange-hued blade in the kiln to make sure it heats evenly. I trust Laleh with my life; she’s the only one who knows about my unlawful jādū purchase, so no need to hide what I’m doing. “I don’t know. All the royals in Kaldari seem to be indolent, spoiled, and selfish. Upheaval is on their doorstep, their people are starving from the Dahaka blockades, and what do they do? Have parties. I wouldn’t be a Kaldarian princess if you paid me.”

“Tell me how you really feel.” She wrinkles her nose with a grimace. “Why are you so obsessed with the Dahaka anyway? It’s not as though those rebels are going to touch us here. Leave the politics to the aldermen and the ruling houses, I say.”

“The houses are divided and their bickering won’t save us,” I explain, frowning at her casual dismissal of the Dahaka, the brutal rebel militia that has grown more powerful—and more violent—in recent years. While I have no love for the crown, the rebels and their bloodshed don’t seem like an alternative to embrace. And everyone knows that with no leadership at all, the only people who will suffer are the least powerful. Namely us. “Some say that House Regulus and House Antares secretly support what the Dahaka are doing.”

Laleh waves a manicured hand. “What’s new? The houses never agree on anything.”

She’s not wrong, but the tension feels different this time. It’s volatile.

Most of the locals in Coban pay tithes to the House of Aldebaran. Though the largest, it’s the poorest house by far, made up of farmers, builders, craftsmen, and traders.

My Elonian-born mother had been part of the House of Fomalhaut, the creators, the philosophers, and the artists. Fomalhaut is also notorious for harboring arcanists and heretics, though most of those have been weeded out by the Imperial House in recent decades.

Papa had been part of the House of Regulus, the richest of the houses, comprising innovators, inventors, and thinkers—until he’d renounced all ties, saying they were too insular. It wasn’t a decision he made lightly. Most who don’t align with a house are outliers and criminals—or worse, they are Scavs, the dangerous nomadic outlaws who call the Dustlands home.

Rumors abound that the leader of the Dahaka is from the House of Antares. That wouldn’t surprise me one bit—they’re obsessed with war and strength.

I shake my head. “I’ll bet my right arm that the Dahaka are a front, some kind of underhanded power grab by either Regulus or Antares,” I say. “They might claim to be anti-monarchy and egalitarian, but if they destabilize the crown, we’re just exchanging one tyrant for another.”

Laleh groans. “Seriously, though, who wants to read about rebel attacks on jādū mines and which house has the biggest cock? It’s depressing.”

I can’t help but laugh at her irreverent comparison. Sometimes it does seem like a cock-measuring contest with the four houses. Pulling my protective goggles back over my eyes, I check the now red-hot blade and remove the dagger carefully from the forge, burying it in the nearby barrel of sand.

“I like to stay abreast of what’s happening in the kingdom. I want to be informed. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Blah, blah, and more blah.” She sighs dramatically, batting her eyes and drawing one of the silks from her armband across the lower half of her face in a playful move. “But speaking of the monarchy . . . just for a minute, can we talk about my fantasy about moving to Kaldari, living in the palace, and seducing a sexy-as-sin prince so that I can ride him right into his gold-threaded cushions?”

I nearly choke on my spit, though I should be used to Laleh’s shocking tongue. Unlike me, it’s no secret that she’s had many lovers. Wiping my hands on my leather apron, I remove my goggles and prop a hip on my workbench. “Prince Javed?”

She lets out a lusty moan. “Yes! Ashes below, I’d let him do unspeakable things to me.”

“Aren’t you seeing that Jaxxian girl?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “We ended it, so it’s perfect timing.”

“You know what they say about the crown prince, right? That he’s a womanizer with an ego the size of the desert.” I shake my head.

Laleh gives a shrug. “So what if he likes sex? So do I. Besides, he’s got stacks of money, he’s royalty, and he’s hot.”

“All the building blocks of a great relationship,” I mutter with a snort.

Laleh flops onto a narrow day bed perched in the corner and props herself on one elbow. “Not like I’ll ever know. Seems like the royal family is on the hunt for a wife for him.”

“And that concerns us how?” I murmur, wondering absently if the dagger needs another round of hardening. I draw it out an inch from the sand and study the swirling milky opal hues in the metal.

Laleh exhales with an obnoxious groan, letting me know I’ve obviously missed something of vital importance. “Hello, the crown prince of Oryndhr is planning to choose a bride, and he’s looking among all the houses, even common-born. I’m pretty sure that concerns anyone who is unmarried and breathing. Maybe even a few married ones.”

An unexpected spark from the forge sends hot ember dust onto my unprotected hands and I yelp. “Flaming sands, that hurt!”

My best friend offers zero sympathy. “The king and the queen will choose a hundred women to present to the prince.”

“How exactly are they choosing these women?” I blow on my stinging wrist and dab the skin with some cooling ointment from the jar I keep handy. “At random?”

“No, silly. Obviously, the prince has a type.”

“Which means some stunning specimen with melon-sized breasts and a brain the size of a walnut.”

She giggles. “Joke all you want, but supposedly special invitations went out weeks ago. Like real, expensive paper invitations! Black and gold. Ask around, if you don’t believe me.”

The floor tilts beneath my feet, and I can’t hear anything beyond the sudden high-pitched buzzing in my ears. My eyes fall to the crumpled black ball lying in the corner, my stomach winding into hard little knots.

I moisten dry lips. “What . . . what kind of invitations?”

“Fancy ones,” she repeats in an exasperated tone. “Seriously, Sura, haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve been saying?” She stares at me as I bend to scoop up the discarded parchment with numb fingers. “What’s the matter? You’ve gone all green.”

“Fancy like this?” I hold up the parchment in trembling hands and watch her eyes go comically wide as they settle on the royal signet.

“Is that—? When? How?” she stammers, before screaming so loudly she makes my ears ring. “You sly wench, why didn’t you tell me? How is it that the supposed best friend is the last to know anything?”

“I only received it before you got here,” I reply faintly, my fingers tracing the cracked wax seal and the elegant, embossed script of my name.

Holy mother of sandstorms, it’s not a trick?

“Are you sure this isn’t a joke? Simin up to her games again?”

“No!” Laleh says with a scowl on my behalf. “Fatima and Parvi received invitations, too.” She grins, the scowl fading as quickly as it’d come. “You’re going to love this—I heard that Simin is claiming hers has been lost, and her father sent messengers to the palace, convinced that his precious jewel has been overlooked.” No stranger herself to Simin’s mean streak, either, Laleh chortles. “I can’t wait to tell her that you were chosen. She deserves to be knocked down a peg or forty.”

Squashing my own petty joy at the thought of Simin getting a much-needed comeuppance, I consider the other Cobanite women who received invitations. Fatima, a strong, fierce brunette, is the granddaughter of one of the House of Antares’s aldermen. Parvi is our local beauty, with dark auburn hair, jewel-bright eyes, and a face all the local men drool over. It’s no surprise they were selected. But I’m hardly in the same sphere.

“Why me, though?” I blurt out.

“Why not you?”

I shrug, unable to come up with an answer that makes any kind of sense. Alliances, money, beauty, and house affiliation have always been the cornerstones of female worth in Oryndhr. The royal family would never voluntarily pick someone like me to marry the crown prince. I have zero connections and no dowry to offer. My features are too bold to be pretty like Parvi’s; my body is not as strong as an ox like Fatima’s, although I enjoy my aunt’s cooking way too much to claim otherwise. My brain is arguably bigger than a walnut, and my breasts, well, the melon gods were clearly having an off day when it came to me.

“It’s a mistake. It has to be.”

“Stop selling yourself short, Sura,” Laleh insists. “That’s your name on the invitation. Out of thousands of girls, you were invited. Not Simin, not me. You.”

I chew on my lip. She’s right; it is my name, but it still doesn’t make sense. I’m a nobody. My gaze slides back to the dagger. I’m a nobody, and technically, I’m a lawbreaker. I should be avoiding the crown’s notice instead of soliciting it. My stomach roils and tumbles . . . but I can’t decide if it’s from excitement or from something a little more sinister, like the tingle that comes before disaster strikes.

Because if something is too good to be true, it might be exactly that.

A lie.

Chapter Two

Laleh wrenches the scroll from me and sighs. “Be leery all you want, but most Oryndhrian women would kill for this chance, including me. And I know you. Even if you don’t want to marry, you’d sell your obsessed little soul to get inside that palace, admit it!”

I can’t hold back my smile. Laleh does know me, much too well. With a fond look at my mother’s painting, I try to flatten the waves of apprehension and anticipation threatening to sweep me up in their chaotic wake and focus on the positive. “What do you think it’s like inside?”

“That’s more like it!” Laleh laughs and hugs me, brown eyes lighting up with excitement. “Gold floors inlaid with precious stones. Furs on every surface. Rich carpets so thick that your feet sink into them like luxurious padded slippers. Beautiful fabrics and tapestries hanging from the walls. And servants everywhere!”

Grinning, I jump wholeheartedly into our game. “My chamber would be a hundred times the size of this one, with a bed that could sleep ten people, and blankets so fine, they would be made of handspun cashmere.”

Laleh matches my enthusiasm. “And a bath so large you couldn’t hold your breath swimming from one end to the other.”

I sigh with absurd pleasure at that thought. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d sell my soul to Prince Javed just for the baths. If I’m chosen as his bride, he won’t be able to tear me from at least a half dozen baths a day.”

“You’d be the cleanest princess in all of Oryndhr,” Laleh says, smirking. “Perhaps that will be enough for you to finally decide upon a husband. Get some of that slag and soot off you.”

“Hey! I’m not that dirty.”

She mimes an erotic sex act with her fist, pumping it toward her mouth while moving her tongue into her opposite cheek. “Not dirty enough, in my opinion.”

I blush hot, but we collapse into a fit of laughter as delight unfurls inside me. “Do you think the palace has a library?”

Laleh winks. “I bet it has an enormous, thick, overflowing library.”

“I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.” I snicker.

She waggles her perfectly threaded eyebrows and holds her hands apart the length of something much too large for any person to take comfortably. “I think thick is exactly the word I mean. Or maybe even turgid, throbbing, tumescent, thunderous.”

“You are fixated on sex!”

“And you need to follow my lead to clear out the cobwebs before you start hatching an army of spiders down there.”

Clasping a hand to my breast, I fake an insulted gasp. “My down there is free of all vermin, thank you very much.” I throw a cushion at her, and we giggle some more as my father’s voice filters through the doors of the shed from the tavern across the way.

“Suraya!”

“Shit, I should go home soon,” Laleh says, hopping up and pulling a face. “By the maker, I can’t wait to see Simin’s face when she finds out.”

“Laleh, maybe we should keep this quiet,” I say. “Between us for now.”

She looks at me as if she wants to argue, but then clamps her lips shut and nods.

I carefully inspect the dagger, prepping it for the final round of shaping and polishing before dampening the coals in the forge and putting away my hammer and tools. I scrub the grit and jādū stains from my fingers in the nearby bucket, wipe down my neck and armpits, and switch my overalls to a plain black skirt and blouse. I finger-comb the unruly waves that have escaped their ties and rebraid them before Laleh and I brave the sweltering heat to cross the alley to the inn’s back entrance.

As we enter the kitchens, the warm, buttery smell of baking bread makes my stomach rumble, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast hours ago. The galley is a whirlwind of activity, the sounds of clanging pots merging with chattering voices while the undercooks take direction from the head cook—a small, round dumpling of a woman who also happens to be my aunt—my mother’s twin sister. Despite our differences in size, the resemblance between us is striking. We both have the same large gray eyes, pronounced cheekbones, and wild, ink-dark curls.

Catching her eye, I wave. She hurries over to enfold both Laleh and me into a hug, pressing us into the ample folds of her chest. She smells of warm spices and sunshine . . . of everything that reminds me of home.

“Morning, Amma,” we chorus when she lets us go.

“Did you hear?” Laleh whispers before I can stop her. “The king has invited our Suraya to the palace to be presented as a potential bride for the prince!”

Amma’s eyes widen as I glare at my bigmouthed best friend. So much for keeping anything quiet for more than two sandsdamned minutes.

“Is that so?” Amma replies, and I’m startled by the fretful, dark expression that crosses her face. “A bride, you say?”

“Hardly. I’m not going to be married, Amma,” I say, scowling at a less-than-contrite Laleh, who I know is happy for me, but still, I would have liked to ease into letting the world know my private business that I have yet to come to terms with. No doubt the news is already spreading like wildfire among the eavesdropping kitchen staff. A whisper turns into a roar anywhere in this tavern. “If I go, it’ll only be for the adventure of visiting Kaldari and a chance to see the palace. No one will notice me.”

Amma shoots me a teasing grin, but it seems strained. “Maybe if you didn’t look like a chimney sweep, that would be different.” She plucks a flake of ash from my hair as I squirm out of her grasp. “Now, eat, eat,” she tells us, pushing two plates in front of us. “Put some meat on those bones. Strong minds require strong bodies.”

She bustles away, and needing little encouragement, Laleh and I wolf down the flaky layers of flatbread and the spicy chickpeas with potatoes. My tongue burns in a good way as the flavorful mash hits my taste buds. Amma is the best cook in all of Coban. I bet not even the palace cooks in Kaldari can hold a candle to her. Laleh and I are silent as we eat until we are stuffed. I grin as my best friend pats her stomach in satisfaction.

“I thought you had to leave.”

She winks. “A girl has to eat.”

“You’re only here because you get fed,” I tease. “Admit it.”

“Guilty as charged.” She licks her lips and sighs. “That woman is worth her weight in jādū. Uncle Hassan needs to lock that down before someone steals her away.”

At the mention of my father, I push to my feet. Laleh’s not wrong. I’ve always wondered why Amma never married him after my mother passed over a decade ago, since it’s clear that there’s a deep connection between them. But they both seem to be content with the way things are—she as cook and he as inn owner. As long as she’s a part of our lives, I’m happy.

I scan the busy kitchen and spy Amma in a hushed conversation with my father, whose weathered face has gone tight. She’s gesticulating with her hands, a clear sign she’s upset about something, and with every expressive swish accompanying her frantic words, his spine is snapping straighter and straighter.

What are they saying?

I wave a quick goodbye to Laleh, nearly shooing her out the door in my haste to eavesdrop. I know listening to a private conversation is wrong, but if it’s about me or what had made Amma look so alarmed before, then I want to know. I sneak closer until my father’s low baritone reaches me.

“She cannot go.”

They’re definitely talking about me.

“It’s been nearly twenty-five years. This could be nothing but coincidence.” My ears prick up. Coincidence for what? He scrubs a hand across his beard and releases a growl of frustration through his teeth. “You don’t think she knows, do you?”

Does he mean me or someone else? Clearly, I’ve been kept in the dark about something monumental, and curiosity swamps me. I frown and strain to catch Amma’s answer. “No. My sister’s protections are still strong. She died to make it so. We have to keep her safe, Hassan.”

A dark chill slithers over the knobs of my spine. My mother died from a wasting illness. But the way Amma is speaking makes it sounds different . . . like her death had been purposeful. To protect me. Questions spawn in my brain like sandworm slugs. How could anyone protect someone by dying? Her words don’t make any sense.

A distraught Amma leans forward to embrace my father, and heart pounding, I sidle back to where Laleh and I had been sitting. When Amma returns, I open my mouth to ask about their conversation, but the flat look in her eyes stops me in my tracks. I’ve never seen my sweet, gentle, smiling Amma look so grim. Why would she look as though the world was ending?

“Amma?” I venture. “Is everything well?”

“Yes, child,” she replies quietly, but I know she doesn’t believe it. Her words lack the bright, unfailing conviction I’m used to from her. I want to push, to ask about what I’ve overheard, about my mother especially, but something stops me. The residual fear in her eyes, maybe.

Wisely, I change my mind and head into the tavern, but I remain ill at ease.

Obviously, they don’t want me to go to Kaldari, but why? Apart from the fact that I’ve been plucked from obscurity to be part of the prince’s stomach-turning bridal buffet—gag—it’s not like I’ll be alone. Two other local girls whom I’ve known since birth will be going. There’s strength in numbers, right? And arranged marriages are common in Oryndhr, so there’s nothing unconventional about this hunt for a bride, really. Marriages are treated more as transactions than love matches. In fact, the latter, like that of my parents, is rare.

Not that I actually want to be one of the prince’s candidates.

But if the silver lining is a free trip to the palace in a style and comfort that I could never in a million years afford, Laleh does have an excellent point about my going. Not to mention I might also get the chance to see the palace forge, which is any bladesmith’s dream . . .

I’ll simply have to do my best to go unnoticed. If I’m lucky, the prince will pick someone quickly, and I’ll be back here where I belong in no time.

After I make the rounds to ensure that the countertops have all been cleaned and the floors freshly scoured, the stale scents of the night past replaced with fragrant lavender brushes in clay pots at the corners of the room and sweet-smelling incense burning on the mantels, I approach my father slowly. He is at the front of the inn, and his expression is not as foreboding as Amma’s, thank the stars.

“Good morning, Papa,” I say, and reach for courage. I desperately want to ask him what he was talking about earlier, but I also don’t want to admit to eavesdropping. “Did Amma tell you the news?” A shuttered dark stare flicks to me, and he lets out a noncommittal grunt while he hefts a fresh barrel of ale to the platform behind us. “I’m excited to see some of the places Mama loved. Does the palace truly look like her painting?”

He flinches as if I’ve stabbed him. “You cannot go. We need you here.” He turns to me, jaw like iron, but his gaze softens at my confused expression. “Kaldari is no place for a young woman. You belong here.”

“It’s a ball, Papa, not a life sentence,” I say softly. “And besides, it’s a summons from the king. We cannot refuse. Think about how it will make our family look. Drawing the crown’s attention or ire will be bad for business.”

His eyes crash into mine, so many emotions flicking through his irises that I can barely pick them apart, but what stands out most is the hint of fear. Why would he look so frightened? My big, burly, stern father is afraid of nothing.

The bell over the door rings as someone enters the tavern, breaking the tension between us. “We will talk about this later,” he says gruffly, and reaches out to pat my shoulder. “I only want you safe, my pea pod.”

Something heavy and hopeless in his tone tugs at my heartstrings. “I know, Papa, but I’m a grown woman.” I attempt a smile. “You can’t wrap me in swaddling forever.”

To my horror, my papa’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears. “I wish I could. Go, you have customers.”

The conversation and my father’s peculiar state leave me even more unsettled. But more patrons trickle in, and I am forced to turn my attention to them.

Business has been good for my family. Our central location and the quality of the food have made most of the local villagers devoted customers. We have had travelers return year after year to Coban from all corners of the kingdom, desperate to experience one of Amma’s savory flatbreads or her rich goat stew. Others return for my father’s delicious bitter ale, made from a centuries-old secret family recipe. But most agree that the hospitable, welcoming atmosphere is what makes the Saab Inn so special.

“Congratulations, Suraya!” one man shouts, raising his glass to toast me.

My overfull stomach rolls unsteadily. I mutter my thanks and duck my head, moving behind the long divider separating the casks of wine and ale from the eating room and pulling out a cloth to buff the burnished wood.

“Hot wine,” a voice booms as a handful of coins bounce on the top of the counter. I try not to cringe. It’s Cyrill, a local who constantly asks me to marry him despite my consistent refusals. At first, I used to think that he was after the tavern, but he’s already quite wealthy. Though he’s not terrible looking, he just doesn’t attract me.

Forcing a pleasant mien, I pour his mulled wine.

He downs the drink in one gulp and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I heard the news.”

Quick as a snake, his hand reaches out to cover mine before I can pull away. I try to break his grip, but his fingers hold fast.

“Let go, Cyrill.”

“Marry me instead.”

“No.” I twist my arm and dig my nails into the soft part of his wrist between the tendons there, and he winces, his grip slackening.

“I’m wealthy,” he says, cradling his bruised wrist as I step out of his reach. “I can give you anything you want, better than anything the king can offer you in that citadel of sins.”

“Cyrill,” I mutter in warning, “lower your voice.”

“I’d risk death to convince you of my fidelity.”

“Would you risk mine as well?” I shoot back, fear tightening my throat. “Or my father’s?”

He stares at me. “I would if only to save you from what lies in your future,” he says in a hushed tone. “If Prince Javed chooses you, he will crush the light from your eyes. He is corrupt. Arcanist, pledging his own soul in exchange for death magic—”

“Please stop,” I beg, worry turning into ice over my pebbled skin.

The restaurant is growing more crowded, and the king’s spies are everywhere, watching and listening. Any whisper against the royal family is considered an act of treason, and there are those who would turn in their own mothers in exchange for a sack of gold. I want to move away, but I’m afraid Cyrill won’t stop talking even if I do. Or that he’ll get louder.

If the kingsguard comes, the tavern will be searched. I think about my newly forged jādū dagger hidden in my workshop and fear prickles along my nape.

“The Dahaka know what’s at stake,” he spews recklessly. “Why do you think they fight so hard? They know what’s coming when King Zarek relinquishes his crown to that spoiled heretic of a prince. He will usher in an era of darkness and death!”

“Why are you saying this?” I hiss.

“It is written,” he says. “There are prophecies—”

Cutting him off with a sweep of my hand, I shake my head. “I don’t believe in divination or astrological premonitions and neither should you.”

“Promise me you won’t go.” Wild-eyed, he leans forward. “You must find a way to decline. The queen will crush—”

“You have nothing to worry about,” I say firmly, taking a deep breath and schooling my expression to blankness. “I swear I am the last woman the prince will choose. Please, don’t worry about me.” I push a full flagon of wine toward him, hoping to silence him. “This one is free of charge.”

Yanking my hand back, I make a swift, frantic escape to the other end of the counter, my heartbeat returning to normal only after Cyrill drains the pitcher with an uneasy glance in my direction and leaves without further incident. I exhale a ragged sigh of relief.

I’ve heard enough chatter in the inn to know that not many agree with the monarchy’s policies, so it’s no surprise that Cyrill views this engagement celebration with such suspicion. And there are rumors that the prince is corrupt, true, but I’ve never heard any whisper of him being an arcanist. And there’s no such thing as death magic. Or any magic, beyond the well-guarded pockets of jādū. If one believed the stories, centuries ago, the Royal Stars were worshipped and akasha, the infinite ether of the universe, flowed freely through the realms in iridescent rivers and magic was abundant. But when the old gods and the Royal Stars were scorned by the first King of Oryndhr, akasha began to wane and eventually withered.

The accusations are ludicrous.

I try to shrug off the ominous weight that has settled on my shoulders. Cyrill’s ramblings are nonsense, but the suffocating feeling loiters, along with a sour taste I can’t get out of my mouth.

There are fewer customers now; I decide perhaps a short walk will help to clear my addled brain and queasy stomach.

I slip unnoticed through the back door of the kitchen and frown up at the suddenly overcast sky. It doesn’t rain much here, less than ten inches a year, but when it does, the skies can look angry. Blotting out the sun, the low-hanging clouds are an ominous gray.

I’m not paying attention to my steps, blinking against the sudden, sharp pain in my temples, so I don’t see the hunched crone blocking my path at the top of the narrow backstreet until we are nearly nose to nose. Murmuring my apologies, I move to skirt past her—but a wizened arm shoots out to grab my wrist.

“Setareh sar lokkar,” she whispers.

“Excuse me?” I ask her, a chill creeping across my skin. I look over my shoulder, but the alley is empty save for us. A crackle of raw energy leaps from her fingers to my skin, and I yelp, trying to jerk my arm away. But she holds fast, her grip surprisingly strong. “Who are you? Let me go!”

She looks up with eyes the color of a twinkling twilight sky, and a sudden calm descends over me. The crone turns my wrist over in a swift movement to trace the lines on my palm with a fingernail, those brilliant starlit eyes tracking its path. I know all the lines she touches—heart, head, life, and fate—the diviners of destiny. The very things I just disparaged moments ago to Cyrill.

I fight the urge to curl my fingers into a fist to protect my palm from this woman’s penetrating gaze. I might not believe in divination—at least not anymore—but that doesn’t mean I want her to pore through my personal fate. “What are you doing? Let go!”

But she ignores me, her hold unyielding. Her fingers pulse against my skin, outlining a shape across the center of my palm between the crisscrossed lines, and an odd sensation blooms in their wake. I blink rapidly as a silvery glow seems to illuminate the path of her fingertip.

What the actual fuck?

I must be seeing things, but there, on my palm, is a glimmering five-pointed shape that also looks faintly like an M.

Chiromancy isn’t unfamiliar to me. My mother used to say that our palms are the maps to our souls. When I was little, she would kiss and read my palms before bed, tracing my lines and making predictions about my future . . . how I would love, live, or learn. But those were games meant to charm a child.

“Setareh sar lokkar, servant of the star.” Her eyes return to my face, which she studies with frightening intensity. “Not yet awakened, it slumbers sound. The fates will wait until they are called.”

Her low, singsong voice sounds like an imitation of the over-the-top soothsayers who come to the summer market fairs. “You speak in riddles, old woman,” I scoff. But my heart is pounding.

“Where it walks, death follows.”

As quickly as she had restrained me, she releases my hand and shuffles off into the pronounced gloom of the adjacent alley, vanishing between the buildings. I take a step after her, but I can no longer see her; it’s like the dark devoured her. I stare at my palm—no longer glowing, thank the sands—and curl it closed.

My heart is pounding, fear crashing through my veins, and I fight the urge to flee like a frightened rabbit toward the safety of the inn. I’m not superstitious, and I should know better than to let the prophecies of a foolish old fortune teller get to me. But after Cyrill’s cryptic words in the bar, along with Amma’s and Papa’s cagey behavior, I feel that something terrible is about to happen.

Lightning forks over the darkened sky, making me jump, and the flash of light erases my ability to see for a second. The shadows seem to press upon me from all sides, the darkness stretching and yawning like a sentient beast. I am nothing but an insignificant speck in its realm. I am at its mercy. A rash of goose bumps prickle my skin.

I’m not afraid of the dark.

The multilayered whisper that comes back is ghostly and echoes from everywhere at once: You should be.

Chapter Three

God of Night

By the blood, I shouldn’t have spoken.

Starsdamned mortals. They have no concept of how infinite the cosmos is . . . and what kind of soul-eating monsters lurk beyond the veil. I feel my chest expand with a breath even though this form has no earthly shape, only the wisps of smoke and darkness of my astral self.

I don’t even know why I’m here.

Venant summoned me, that presumptuous guardian who has somehow taken it upon himself to be my guiding light. I don’t require his advice or his interference. My shadows coalesce and dissipate, rippling hungrily as they bask in the essence of the girl’s akasha. It hums with power, so alluring.

No. No.

“Darrius,” a voice croons as Venant emerges from the gloom like a specter, his form curiously in the shape of an old woman, and a crafty smile on that ancient face.

“Venant.”

The crone cants her head. “I go by Vena now.”

“What do you want?” I ask, uncaring about her preferences or appearance.

“It has been written,” she says, eyes swirling white with power for a moment. “Our worst fears will come to pass . . . if your path is not walked.”

My shadows writhe and coil like restless serpents, and I glare wrathfully at the lesser deity. “You forget your place, Guardian. My path is not your concern. Do not summon me again.”

Chapter Four

Laleh is lining my eyes with kohl in my bedroom, and I stare at my best friend’s face in the mirror, my heart twisting into knots at the prospect of not having her to talk to. “I wish you were coming with me.”

“Me, too,” she says, pausing midstroke. “Honestly, I’m tempted to hide in one of your trunks.”

“You would suffocate,” I point out.

“We could poke holes in it, and you could feed me treats like a baby monkey. I’m small, and if I pull my knees to my chest, I could fit.”

I snort at her serious expression. “You’ve really thought this through.”

“Honey, I considered sedating you, locking you away, and taking your place before I remembered you’re my best friend. And my lady bits needed to take a breather.”

“Thanks, I think,” I say with a burst of laughter, for which I’m scolded because I’ve marred her perfect lines. Holding my chin gently, she sweeps the pencil upward, correcting the slight smudge, and then dusts a shimmer of gold powder over my cheekbones. “We have very different opinions about going to Kaldari.”

“Yes, yes, I know you’re obsessed with forges and absolutely all the wrong kinds of pointy things.” She shoots me a wicked smirk. “Though even if you don’t fancy the prince, keep your options open.”

I giggle. “You have a problem.”

“You need a good sticking with a manly sword. A real one. Not these imaginary fictional lovers you like to talk about.”

Laleh is the only one who knows about my very visceral dreams, dreams of a faceless figure who appears when I feel alone. Or scared. Or in need of care. Sometimes he feels more tangible than anything I know, though I’ve never confessed that part. She’ll think I’ve lost all reason, but in recent years, after my majority, my dream lover has become my safe space . . . my safe harbor. Real men, like Cyrill, come with too many problems to be worth any effort. Fictional men never disappoint.

“Book boyfriends are simply better,” I say.

She shrugs. “Anything’s better than the selection here in Coban. Who knows, you might even find your soul-fated.”

I roll my eyes. “I thought you don’t believe in romance and fate bonds.”

“But you do,” she says. “Those books you read have utterly corrupted you.”

My skin flushes. The idea that there’s someone out there who’s your perfect match in every way is an intriguing one. The romantic tales I love paint pictures of days when soul-fated pairs were more common, chosen and blessed by the magic of the gods. But I know those are only stories.

“There,” she says. “All done. As much as you don’t want to be a princess, you look like one.”

I glance up. She’s made me look . . . nice. My eyes are glowing within the frame of dark kohl, and my round cheeks have more definition. A pale rose stain on my lips accentuates their shape, and she has artfully curled my unruly locks into a shiny black waterfall. I squint at the tiniest group of white strands near the left corner of my crown and curse. “Sands, when did I get more gray hairs?”

Laleh peers down. “They’re more colorless than gray. I think it looks badass.”

She would think it does, given her obsession with hair dye. For me, the much-too-persistent strands need to be plucked. Not that I have time now, however. My best friend would flay me alive if I destroyed her court-worthy work.

Sands, I can’t believe I’m going to Kaldari!

“I still think someone got this wrong,” I murmur.

“Why?” she counters.

I lift one arm to gesture limply at myself. “There’s no logic behind it.”

“It’s hardly random,” she scoffs, resting her chin on top of my shoulder. “The monarchy doesn’t do something like this without a plan. They chose you, Sura.”

For some reason, her words hit harder than anything from Amma or my father, or even Cyrill. Do they know about my work with jādū? Is this all some intricate ploy to get me to Kaldari to put my head on a spike? “Yes, but why?”

“Why not?” she stresses, her eyes wide within their own rim of kohl.

“You’re very irritating, you know that?”

She wraps her arms around me from behind. “Good thing you adore me. Get up and let’s get you outside before you miss your portal. I can’t wait to see the king’s runemasters in action. Do you think they’ll be hot?”

“No. Those men are all old and decrepit.” With a half groan, half snicker, I stand and grimace at the silk fabric of my tunic clinging to my thighs. “Maybe the crown made the selections based on ample, heir-bearing hips. That I can understand.”

“Thick thighs save lives,” Laleh says sagely. “But you’re wrong. Parvi’s hips would snap in a strong wind. You just have to accept the fact that you’re special, Suraya Saab, and a sexy prince probably thinks you’re marriage material.”

“I can’t think of anything worse,” I mutter as we make our way downstairs. Just before we reach the bottom stair where my father and Amma are waiting, Laleh pulls me into a hug.

“Promise me you’ll try to have a good time?” she whispers. “Stay out of your own head and live in the moment. And for the love of all things holy, please do not bring up the Dahaka or anything political. I don’t need to be breaking anyone out of a palace prison. Channel me if you have to. What would Laleh do?”

Chuckling softly, I exhale and return the squeeze. “I promise.”

Amma’s face crumples as I reach her. With a choked sound, she flings her arms around my waist and hugs me tight. Before I can say a word, she growls that she loves me and then releases me and scurries to the kitchen.

I bite my lip, fighting back my own sob.

“You know how she is,” my father says gruffly. “Come, it’s time.”

The main street of the village is filled to bursting with well-wishers—our neighbors are out in droves, throwing rice and petals toward me as if it’s such an honor to have been selected. I suppose it is, but I close my eyes, swaying unsteadily.

Despite my so-called silver lining of visiting the palace and the royal forge, my nerves have seen better days. Amma and Papa had quarreled for hours . . . and finally it had come down to one thing: we could not risk angering the king with a refusal. Eventually, Papa had conceded with great reluctance, but with so many rules I could hardly keep track. Keep my head down. Speak only when spoken to. Don’t touch anyone. I’d raised my eyebrows at the last one but agreed all the same. Contrary to my best friend’s hopes, I don’t plan on touching anyone at all.

“Sura, wait,” Laleh says from behind me, making me jump. “I forgot to give you this. I made it for you.”

In her outstretched hands is a beautiful, jeweled headpiece woven from intricate lace. I feel my eyes start to sting. “Laleh.”

“Don’t make a scene.” She wrinkles her nose as she reaches up on tiptoe to place it over my curls. “Just promise to find out how enormous the library is, and we’ll call it even.”

I can’t help but laugh and whisper under my breath, “Again, your fixation is unhealthy.”

“And you need to fixate a little more,” she says with a wink. “Wear the teal outfit, and I guarantee your life will change.”

My brow furrows. What teal outfit?

A part of me wonders if I should regret letting Laleh take charge of my wardrobe, but it’s far too late now. She squeezes my arm and darts away for a better view of the square before I can thank her, and I’m left trying to ignore the whispers and glances of the crowd. I can imagine what they’re saying: Why was someone like me chosen when I’m nothing compared with Parvi or Fatima? Or worse, even Simin, who is glaring at me with the force of a thousand suns?

“What’s the matter?” my father asks quietly, noticing my agitation.

“Nothing, I’m just hot,” I say quickly. I tug at the soft collar of my bodice—an embroidered tunic with matching trousers made from pale lilac muslin. Laleh had insisted that the color made my gray eyes look like polished moonstone.

My father’s arm comes down around my shoulders, hauling me against his side, and he leans in, his voice low and urgent. “You can change your mind.”

“We talked about this, Papa. You know I can’t.” Fanning my cheeks, I frown at him. “Why do you sound afraid?”

“I am afraid,” he says. “Kaldari is a pit full of vipers.”

“As is nearly every large city. But we’re talking about the palace, the place with a million guards,” I say, and force a smile for his benefit.

“Kaldari is not what you think it is,” he says after a long, fraught beat.

“You speak as if you know it.”

He sighs at my sharp stare. “Your mother and I lived there for a time when you were a baby.”

I gape at him. “You never told me that!”

“You were just two when we left.” He rakes a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. His voice drops even lower. “I had hoped it would be a part of our past, but things have a way of coming back to haunt you when you least expect it. And now with this summons . . .” He releases a measured breath, one that doesn’t help relieve the renewed knots of tension in my belly. “But perhaps I’m overreacting.”

Overreacting or not, my mind is whirling at this information. People in Kaldari lack for nothing. Why would my parents choose to come here to this desolate desert town in the middle of nowhere when they had once lived in the jewel of the kingdom?

“Why did you leave?” I ask.

“That’s a story for another time. Perhaps when you return.” He peers down at me, taking my sweaty hands in his, callused thumbs brushing across my skin. “Maybe I can decline the invitation, on account that you are already betrothed. Cyrill will—”

“Don’t even think it,” I grind out in horrified haste, and step out of his reach as if he’ll act on those words. “Papa, I will be fine. I’ll be back before you can even miss me, I promise.”

It’ll take a miracle for me to make any sort of impression with all the other prospects, and while the thought of spending an evening or two feasting and exploring the palace is an exciting one, flirting with Prince Javed is not. If I stick to the plan of being inconspicuous, I will be fine. Safe and fine.

The crowd shifts, and my eyes hitch on a haggard old woman. My heart immediately begins to pound, my palms hot against my sides. But the next moment, she turns to speak to her companion with a grin, and I see she looks nothing like the crone from the alley. I sag in relief, but my heart is still racing, and I feel as though sand beetles are hatching and crawling around in my stomach.

Something isn’t right . . .

A strange haze fills my vision, similar to the shimmery bands of heat that rise above the desert sand on a scorching hot day. I look at my clammy palms, at the sheen of sweat dampening them. Two luminous Ms stand out against my skin, and I inhale sharply, recalling the crone’s skeletal finger tracing the same pattern.

My father turns, touching my shoulder, and as suddenly as it had arisen, the hallucination is gone.

The crone is a bumbling old fool. I fist my fingers and fasten them to my sides.

Tingles cross my palms, and I rub them against the soft fabric of my trousers.

“Papa, what do you know of the old gods?”

His gaze sharpens. “Why do you ask?”

“Just something Cyrill said.”

“Cyrill is too free with his opinions.”

“He said that the prince—”

“There it is!” someone shrieks, and a crash of applause erupts from the waiting crowd, cutting me off. A sparking sphere forms at the center of the square, small at first and then increasing in size to accommodate a full-grown man. The glimmering oval looks like a pool of vertical water, and I can’t help but notice that the iridescent colors of the portal match the hues of the finished dagger tucked into the sheath at my thigh.

Jādū.

I probably shouldn’t be taking an illegal blade to the capital city, but leaving it behind is risky. My father can’t be caught with it, and the truth is I didn’t want to part with it. The dagger had turned out perfect—small, sharp, and lethal. I’d carefully peened the tang into the pommel carved in the shape of a proud, elegant simurgh. And though it was a touch whimsical, I’d etched a starburst at the base of the fuller, along with a symbol of the moon for my mother. For luck.

No forbidden, elemental runes that could land me in hot water with the crown.

My spine snaps straight as a royal guard appears. The curved scimitar at his hip is carved with the symbol for fire. It’s lovely work, but not as precise as mine. Though it isn’t like anyone from Kaldari would be armed with my blades. Vasha is only conscripted for the soldiers in the outlying cities.

A contingent of a dozen armed men follow the first, and I frown. That seems excessive to escort three women to the capital. “Why are there so many guards?” I whisper to my father.

His thick brows are lowered. “There was an infiltration in the palace yesterday. A woman pretending to be one of the chosen was discovered to be an assassin.”

I gasp. “The Dahaka?”

My father gives a tight nod and looks conflicted, like he’s a second away from hauling me back to the tavern, the king’s reaction and repercussions be damned. I must admit the sight of so many guards has my pulse ratcheting—reading about the rebel militia and venturing into their war zone are two different things. “Remember what I said,” he says urgently. “If there’s trouble, run.”

“I will, I promise,” I say softly.

Several men dressed in the smart livery of the Imperial House step through the portal to gather our trunks, followed by the hard-faced runecaster who emerges to greet my father and verify my identity. I stare openly at the glowing alchemical markings on his neck; I’ve never seen an actual imperial runecaster this close before. How powerful is he with all those runes? I gulp and lower my eyelashes, but the man barely takes notice of me.

Then I can only give my father a quick hug, and Laleh, who reappears at the last second. I’m ushered toward the waiting portal. A round of cheering takes over the crowded village square as Parvi and Fatima pass through. My palms prickle and flare again with a deep rush of heat, and I stumble. I feel the runecaster’s attention flutter briefly toward me, but he looks irritated instead of suspicious, as though I’m wasting his precious time.

The crone from the alley flickers in my mind. Setareh sar lokkar, beware the lie.

I feel bile rising in my throat and force it back.

“Get ahold of yourself, Suraya,” I whisper fiercely. “She’s not real.”

I repeat the words like a mantra and practically lunge through the swirling portal. A sticky, nearly webby coolness passes over my skin, tugging on the fine hairs all over my body, before releasing me with a noiseless—and thankfully painless—pop on the other side.

Kaldari, at long last.

*  *  *

The air feels different here. Less dry, more fragrant.

Desert air has a thinness to it, but the Kaldarian atmosphere is lush, almost too much for my Coban-hardy senses. But I breathe it in and slowly acclimate. There are dozens more guards milling about, I notice, and all on horseback, armed to the teeth. Are they expecting another attack from the Dahaka?

One of the attendants approaches to escort me to a waiting carriage where Parvi and Fatima are already seated, their heads bent together in hushed conversation. They glance up at my arrival and then resume talking. I try not to let their aloofness affect me; perhaps they’re just as nervous as I am.

Taking the opposite seat, I smooth my hair into place and peer out the window as the coach starts forward. On our left side, a glistening river weaves through a verdant valley, leading toward the citadel that’s visible on the right side and splitting the green fields that border the walls of the capital. Mesmerized by the view, and the changing colors and contours of the landscape, I can hardly contain the rush of delight in my chest as the Kaldarian palace finally comes into view.

Sands . . .

The midday sun glitters along its walls, making me squint even as I try to absorb every single detail, from the lavish gardens to the fountaining pools to the statues crowning the entrance. Regal columns tipped with spires rise alongside the perimeter as my carriage joins a long procession of others, and then my view is obscured as we ride through a marble arch leading into an expansive courtyard.

Once through, my jaw goes loose. It’s glorious. Elaborate cupolas rise above me like suspended bubbles, and my eyes devour every engraving, every swatch of jeweled color, and commit them to memory. The central tower seems to be made entirely of gold, while stained-glass art and exquisite murals flatter its facade. The painting in my workshop simply hadn’t done it justice, the sheer opulence far beyond what any prosaic copy could capture.

My coach comes to a halt, and a footman accompanies all three of us down the steps. The courtyard is bustling with activity as people rush back and forth, welcoming the procession of incoming carriages.

And standing stoic around the perimeter is another line of guards. I try not to let the ominous sight of them affect me.

A group of young women—other chosen, I presume—stand together nearby, seemingly unruffled by all the glamour. From their rich clothes, I’m guessing they must hail from Veniar or Eloni, wealthier cities than Coban. One with reddish hair is proudly wearing the crest of Regulus, and the brunette near her is garbed in ornate armor. Antares, obviously. I try to school my expression to appear as casual as they do, but I can’t quite keep my delighted wonder from creeping to the surface.

You can take the girl out of the desert . . .

Parvi and Fatima wander toward them with no care for me, but I honestly don’t mind. I chuckle and press my palms to my cheeks to keep from grinning like a loon. I want to soak up every single second of this, so I can relate it all to Laleh in full detail and savor it for the rest of my life.

As I look around again, an untidy mop of wavy brown hair catches the sunlight, snagging my attention. It belongs to a man perched precariously on a high stone wall bordering one of the gardens, who is also observing the arrivals with interest.

As though he senses my attention, our gazes collide, and I recoil from the blast of derision in his gaze as it sweeps me from head to toe. I sense the sneer before it curls over his full lips as if to imply, You don’t belong here. Despite my earlier self-deprecating thoughts, I bristle at the overt contempt. Who in Oryndhr does he think he is?

Dressed in plain, homespun brown trousers with a dark navy tunic and scuffed black boots, he could be a groom or a gardener. I lift my chin in as haughty a manner as I can manage, mimicking the affected air of the nearby women, and stare him down. To my irritation, the man suddenly grins and winks before somersaulting off the wall. I swallow a scream and lurch forward, hands aloft, before he lands deftly in a neat crouch at its base. He rises and sends a mocking bow in my direction. Mortified, I lower my arms and will my hammering heart to calm. What had I been about to do? Catch him somehow?

Now that we’re on the same level, I can see the man is strong and lean, with wide shoulders that lead to a defined chest and long, muscled legs. His tunic and trousers hug his frame like someone has lovingly crafted every stitch just for him. Sands on fire, but the man is fit . . . and clearly knows it. My gaze returns to his face, and he arches a brow at my ogling. My cheeks burn.

Way to be suave, Suraya!

I toss my head and turn away, but the effect is immediately spoiled as a gust of wind snatches my veiled headpiece and sweeps it into the air. Cursing, I abandon all attempt at being haughty, hike up the length of my tunic, and chase after Laleh’s gift . . . right into an incoming contingent of galloping horses.

“Stand back!” someone roars, and I freeze. In my peripheral vision, I see the courtyard guards snap to instant attention, hands on their weapons and moving closer . . . toward me, as if I’m a threat. Every single person drops to the ground in deference as a hushed silence descends over the courtyard.

Trembling with adrenaline, I do the same and peek up through my lashes. A massive Thoroughbred stallion glistens with sweat above me, its powerful hooves stomping the dirt a hair’s breadth from my head. My eyes travel past the animal’s sleek, muscular torso to the rich drapes falling from the golden saddle and jeweled bridle, my stomach cramping with every raised inch.

Please don’t be the king. Please don’t be the king.

“Stand,” a female voice commands, and a lance of cold horror spikes through me. Only one person could be worse than the king. His wife, Queen Morvarid.

“M-majesty,” I stammer, standing but keeping my eyes lowered.

“Show me your face.”

I look up and meet the glacial stare of Prince Javed’s mother. Her disdain is obvious as she pinches my offending headdress with the tip of her index finger and her thumb. She looks like a warrior goddess in polished riding leathers, golden armbands, and an exquisitely plumed headpiece that trails down her back. Although an emerald silk veil covers the lower half of her face, I can tell the rumors of her beauty aren’t exaggerated.

A kohl-lined gaze sweeps me from top to bottom, narrowing at my messy hair, rumpled clothes, and sweaty face. “What is your name?”

“Sur—Suraya Saab, Your Majesty.”

Her stare is cold. “House?”

“Aldebaran.”

“Of course,” she says with no small amount of disdain, and waves off the guards who have surrounded us. “Is this yours?”

“Yes, it is, Your Majesty,” I stammer, wishing I could disappear into the bowels of the earth at her scathing tone.

“Refined young ladies in the imperial court do not comport themselves in such a manner. This is not the slovenly market square of whichever squalid hole of a backwater city you hail from. This is the royal palace. You will conduct yourself with grace and decorum.”

Her words are delivered like the strokes of a crop, and I flinch at each soul-blistering crack. My stomach takes its final dive into complete and abject humiliation as ugly heat creeps up my neck into my cheeks. “Of course, Your Majesty. Forgive me.”

She tosses the headpiece down, where it’s caught by the gardener from the wall, and wheels her horse around with a flourish. Half a dozen mounted guards follow in her wake, while the rest go back to their positions. Dead silence descends for a moment, followed by a roar of frenzied whispers.

Every remaining pair of eyes in the courtyard flicks to me, while the nearby chosen don’t even attempt to stifle their delight at such a scandal. The women I’d noticed on arrival laugh openly at my shame, and I cringe. No amount of fancy clothes will erase an entrance such as mine, at least not in this century.

“By the maker, how could I have been so sandsdamned stupid?” I whisper to myself.

“Not stupid exactly,” an all too supercilious voice interjects. “Perhaps ill-advised or temerarious?”

Chapter Five

I glance over at the gardener who’d been the harbinger of my misfortune, my humiliation intensifying at the teasing glint in his eyes. “What do you know?” I snap.

One well-formed shoulder lifts in an indolent shrug. “I suppose I know my place here. The real question is do you, Lady Suraya Saab of House Aldebaran?”

The truth stings, but he’s not wrong. This is the royal courtyard, not the inn in Coban; I’d behaved like a boorish country bumpkin, and I know my behavior will be nothing but fodder for juicy gossip. I force back a rush of self-pity as the man standing beside me hands me the now dusty headdress that Laleh had crafted so carefully.

“Thank you,” I mutter, and then glance around, still feeling the press of many eyes, not just from the women but from the guards. The way they’d reacted earlier, as if I were running to attack the queen. Me. “Are there so many guards because of the Dahaka and what happened yesterday?” I blurt out.

Face inscrutable, he follows my gaze. “Yes. Or so I’ve heard.”

“They thought I was a threat?” I ask.

“Well, you were running hell-bent toward our esteemed sovereign,” he replies, putting his hands into his pockets and lifting his brows.

“I was only trying to get my veil!”

He purses his lips with solemn gravitas. “With the most murderous look on your face. Even I was scared for my life.”

Beyond irritated, I glower at him. “You should be the court jester.”

His eyes gleam with humor. “Goals!”

The amusement is tempered slightly by the barest hint of empathy in their warm golden-brown depths. Then I curse myself for noticing any emotion in those pretty gold-flecked eyes in the first place. Or that they’re pretty at all. In fact, they looked like gold-flecked mud. Mud-flecked mud, even.

Yes, that’s much better.

My gaze drifts down the rest of his face, taking in the untidy sable scruff on his hard jaw, a slightly hooked nose, and the lushest lips I’ve ever seen on a man. It’s just my luck that this nosy palace worker is more attractive than any of the men in Coban. Unfairly so.

“The queen doesn’t like you,” he says idly.

“Thank you for enlightening me,” I lash out. “Don’t you have work to do? A tree to trim or something?”

“Don’t worry,” he says with a crooked smile. “She doesn’t like anyone.”

“Not even you?”

“Especially me.”

I frown at the strange answer. “Why?”

“I expect because I’m not very good with my tree-trimming duties.”

Maybe it’s his sardonic answer or the hint of a smirk on his lips, but I get the sudden sense that I’m the butt of some unspecified joke that amuses him greatly. My simmering anger finds an easy target. “Then perhaps you should focus on doing your job instead of pretending to fall off walls and ogling people.”

“Is that so?” he says, lips parting into a fuller smile and drawing my attention to his slightly crooked white front teeth. I ignore the fact that I find the imperfection appealing, as well as the appearance of a deep dimple in his left cheek that gives him a boyish look, though he’s older than me for sure. Maybe late twenties. “What if I like ogling people?” he says, eyes sparkling with mirth, most certainly at my expense.

“There are better ways to entertain yourself.”

“I don’t know about that. I like to imagine things about the people I see.”

Unable to resist, I point to one of the women who had laughed at me earlier. “What do you imagine about her?”

An obscenely thick fringe of sooty eyelashes sweeps down as he squints in her direction, and I have a moment of pure envy, wishing mine were half as long. “House of Regulus. She’s the daughter of a powerful alderman and a doctor. She, too, has an aptitude for medicine, but wants more than the life of her parents. She dreams of running away and being rescued by a handsome prince.”

“That’s original.” I wrinkle my nose. “You know, not every woman wants to be rescued by some prince. Perhaps she’ll rescue herself.”

The gardener nods, clasping his hands behind his back as if we’re having a scintillating debate. “I thought every girl dreamed of being rescued by a prince.”

“Maybe when they’re five. As they get older, they learn that men—gardeners and princes alike—are arrogant, self-absorbed, and overrated.”

His eyes settle on me, an enigmatic expression flicking across that stupidly handsome face. “Good to know.”

“And what do you imagine when you look at me?” The question falls from my lips before I can stop it, and I immediately want to kick myself.

The gardener studies me with such obvious relish at the opening I’ve given him that I almost groan. He strokes his scruffy chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I see someone who has never left her home before.” My mouth tightens, a biting retort at the ready, but the man continues, his mischievous gaze sliding to my gloveless fingers. Intrigue flares in his eyes for a brief moment, and I turn my wrist to hide the small burn scars from my kiln, the freshest of them still raised and red. “The daughter of a blacksmith or a weapons maker. I see a strong spirit and liking for honest hard work. You wear your heart on your sleeve and you don’t trust easily. You aim to please, but I also see fire and an impetuous will.”

Taken aback, I can’t decide whether he means to be insulting. The corner of his mouth tips up, and I gather that he’s baiting me. I arch an eyebrow and keep my tone even. “You see all that from looking at me?”

“You asked. So, was I right?”

“You couldn’t be further from the truth. My father owns an inn in Coban—the finest inn in all of Coban, in fact. My heart is in my body where it belongs, I don’t trust strangers, and I aspire only to please myself.” I frown, oddly irritated at the succinct and too-close-to-home summary. “You should stick to tree trimming. People don’t like being stared at. Or judged.”

“Including you?”

“Especially me,” I say, mocking his previous words.

At that, the humor leaches from his eyes. “You should get used to it. Many people, including our esteemed crown prince, will be staring at you. You are, after all, only here for his viewing pleasure.”

Outraged at his deprecating tone, I open my mouth and shut it just as quickly. I don’t want to give the crowd in the courtyard any more reason to notice me and think me a fool, and arguing with this stranger of no importance is the perfect way to do that. I spin on my heel and make my way back toward the palace entrance, where veiled handmaidens wait to greet the arriving guests.

I feel the infuriating gardener’s gaze boring into my back, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But the people in the courtyard part for me like I have the Droonish plague, and I have to force myself to keep my chin high, my eyes staring straight ahead—so much so that I nearly crash into a petite girl. “Sorry,” I mutter as my heart sinks further. Ashes below, can’t I do anything right in this city?

“Are you all right?” she asks in a sweet voice, one that is surprisingly sincere.

I don’t even try to pretend or act like I’m above it all now. My shoulders slump. “Not really, no.”

Sincere, sparkling dark eyes in a creamy, heart-shaped face meet mine. She is tiny, barely coming to my chin—and I’m not exactly willowy. Her hair is black and sleek, falling in a glossy sheet down to her back, and she’s garbed in a plain but finely made gray traveling dress. She’s about my age, so she, too, must be one of the chosen.

“I’m Clem Jinn,” she introduces herself, surprising me further. “Well, Clementine, but no one calls me that. From Veniar, House Antares.”

“Antares?” I can’t help it, my eyes widen. I know size doesn’t matter, but she barely has any muscle on her slender frame. Usually anyone from that house looks like they can lift a carriage with their pinkie finger. I’d have pegged her as an artist from House Fomalhaut or a scholar from Regulus.

She laughs at my expression and shrugs. “I get that a lot. I’m stronger than I look, but honestly, I’m a pacifist at heart. Being invited here is”—she grimaces and deepens her voice to a mocking tone—“‘one last chance for me to bring honor to the family name . . . or else.’” A derisive noise leaves her.

“I’m Suraya Saab from—”

“House Aldebaran,” she finishes, making me wince at the fact that everyone here now knows who I am. “Well met.” Clem smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I say. “I’m practically a leper at this point. It’s not going to do you any favors being seen with me.”

She scrunches her button nose. “If I were to judge everyone on every misstep they made, I’d miss out on knowing some wonderful people.”

I send her a sidelong look and a small smile at the unexpected kindness. “That’s much too logical from someone entering a competition to win a prince’s hand.”

“It’s my greatest flaw,” she says, and pats me on the arm. “But us iconoclasts need to stick together.”

“Iconoclasts? Are you sure you’re not from House Regulus?” I tease. “Brain over brawn for the win!”

Clem laughs. “Tell that to my father during our nightly who-can-eat-the-most-eggs-to-bulk-up contest.” She shoots me an over-the-top pleading look. “Please say you don’t have an aversion to books.”

“I love them,” I say.

Her eyes brighten with hope. “Romance?”

“No better genre.”

“Berserkers or ancient gods?” she asks.

I think for a second. “The first. Ancient gods sound older than dirt.” I swear I hear an amused grunt at my words, but when I glance around, Clem isn’t laughing, and there’s no one else near us. Great, now I’m imagining sounds too!

She grins and bumps her shoulder into mine. “I knew we were going to be kindred spirits the second I saw you sprinting across that courtyard.” Clem glances at the veil gripped in my fingers. “Lovely headpiece, by the way.”

“My best friend, Laleh, made it for me.” Surreptitiously, I look around for the unpleasant, wiseacre gardener, but he’s nowhere to be found.

“See you in there?” Clem says as a group of handmaidens approaches us.

“Sure. I’ll be the one by herself, most likely near the food.”

She laughs. “I’ve heard the palace library is to die for. Maybe we can sneak out and find it later?”

“I’d love that,” I say, perking up considerably as she’s ushered away.

Maybe things might not be so bad here after all.

But when my own palace attendants won’t meet my eyes, I am harshly reminded that my hullabaloo with the queen might have shamed them as well. And now, they’re stuck with me . . . the uncouth desert dweller who has drawn the scathing derision of Queen Morvarid.

Clem might be a refreshing exception, but she won’t be the rule. I’d do well to remember that.

*  *  *

Inside my chamber, the handmaidens bow and move in unison to undress me in silence, one unfastening my dusty traveling garments while the other readies a fresh bath in the adjoining bathing room. Once I hear the water, I can’t get out of my clothes fast enough.

The heavenly soak does wonders to take the edge off my ragged emotions, and the brief respite seems to have warmed the tempers of the women as well. The smaller of the two women offers a tiny smile beneath her veil as she lays one of Laleh’s coordinated ensembles across the massive bed.

“Beautiful,” she says, pointing to one of the more risqué garments of Laleh’s own design: a brilliant fitted teal top with intricate beadwork and meticulously pleated, scandalously sheer bottoms. So this is the one Laleh had said to wear if I wanted my life to change.

Too bad I can’t get a magical do-over of the last hour.

Without much enthusiasm, I point to a demure ivory shift with a stomacher made of silver disks and a matching tailored jacket instead. It’s the plainest thing I brought. I pull on the accompanying loose silk skirts and slip my feet into the cushioned silver slippers. I needn’t have worried about being able to apply any face paint, as the two women seem more than capable of lining my eyes with kohl and patting shimmery powder on my cheeks.

They wind my hair into intricate braids flat along the sides of my scalp to a high ponytail falling into a mass of curls, then fasten a silver headpiece at my crown whose tiny seed pearls cascade down to my brows. Even those annoying colorless bits have been cleverly concealed.

I look much more confident than I feel.

Flaunt it like you’ve got it is one of Laleh’s favorite mantras.

Though whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I lost that back in the courtyard.

When I arrive downstairs, the receiving hall is crowded with all manner of ladies, though everyone appears to be around the same age. It’s hard to tell, though, with all the fancy headdresses and face paint. The prince himself is twenty-eight. Why he hasn’t married yet is anyone’s guess.

With a sigh, I hopefully scan the crowd for Clem, but I don’t see her, and within moments, we are all shepherded toward the lavish throne room to be presented one by one to the king, the queen, and Crown Prince Javed. Holding my breath, I enter as the royal viceroy, a stout man with a friendly smile—one of the only friendly smiles I have seen, in fact—announces me.

“Lady Suraya Saab of House Aldebaran.”

If Queen Morvarid remembers me from the courtyard, she gives no indication of it . . . or perhaps I have sunk well and truly beyond redemption. Her body and her bearing are equally stony, the complete opposite of the frailness of her husband sitting beside her. I wonder if their son’s engagement is his idea or hers, given the lung disease that has eaten away at King Zarek over the last handful of years. He looks like a walking corpse. I curtsy, making the required formal greetings to them both, and then am presented to the prince.

Laleh was certainly not wrong—Prince Javed is indeed capable of melting all female undergarments in a ten-mile radius. His pale blue eyes are hypnotic against his rich brown skin, set like twin aquamarines in a handsome, aristocratic face. His dark hair is smartly trimmed, a fitted jacket tailored to perfection over a pair of broad, muscular shoulders. Something in his refined features makes me think of the gardener from the courtyard, the only other man I’ve met here, not that there’s any comparison between the two, of course. This is the crown prince, not some lackey.

“Your Highness,” I manage after an awkward pause. I drop into a graceless curtsy with legs that feel as sturdy as toothpicks.

“Lady Suraya,” he greets me. His voice is deep and resonant as he steps forward to take my hand in his.

My entire body tenses as alternating bands of cold and hot envelope my spine, the feeling of being in danger intensifying. My father’s warnings blare through my brain. I wasn’t supposed to touch anyone . . . but this is the prince.

Flustered beyond belief, I want to yank my hand away, but I can only stare at him in stupefied silence when he turns it over to examine my palm.

“How is Coban these days?” he asks.

“H-hot.”

His bare thumb strokes the heart of my palm, and for an instant, I remember the touch of the crone and recoil without meaning to, nearly snatching my fingers away. Horrified, I freeze in place, hoping he won’t take the reaction as an insult. The prince’s gaze lingers on my face, and something in those magnetic eyes chills me for a moment. But then his mother makes an impatient noise, and his gaze moves past me, to the next woman in line.

Exhaling in relief at the dismissal, I take the waiting arm of an attendant, wanting nothing more than to lose myself among the other ladies. But it’s clear I am a pariah. They all avoid me as though I’m pestilence personified, without bothering to mask their scorn. Or their pity.

I’ve sidled to the corner of the room when the viceroy silences the crowd and announces that the queen wishes to say a few words. I feel her stare lash toward me like the bite of an arctic wind and instantly try to make myself smaller, shifting farther behind a marble pillar. Will she single me out? Condone my behavior? Mark me as the icon of uncouth vulgarity?

“What in the realms are you doing?” a low voice asks, and I jump. A curious Clem, radiant in a shimmering pale pink gown that looks like a thousand petals sewn together, is peering around the pillar at me.

“Hiding,” I confess. “The queen looks like she might behead me for fun.”

“That’s just her,” Clem whispers. “Serious resting b—”

“Chosen, welcome to Kaldari.”

“—itch face.” The entire room falls instantly silent, including Clem, who swallows the last part of her sentence with a yelp. The urge to giggle at her unrepentant smirk makes my nose burn, but I smash my lips together.

Queen Morvarid addresses the crowd in those same clipped, aristocratic tones from the courtyard, a deceptively soft smile touching her mouth. “You special few have been invited here as contenders for my son’s hand, and he will select his bride by the end of our celebrations.” Excited squeals follow her announcement. “But first, you must demonstrate that you are also up to the task.” The queen’s benevolent smile grows teeth. “Can you be the princess my son needs? Will you serve your future king without question? Kneel to the crown and pledge your blood, body, and soul?”

Sands, I’m going to fucking gag. I notice the besotted expressions of the women beside me. Are they actually buying this horseshit? Prince Javed should be proving himself to us, not the reverse. I scoff quietly, and Clem shoots me a droll expression so like Laleh’s that a bolt of homesickness hits me.

“Some of you will not make it past the first round of the festivities,” the queen continues with a deliberate arch of a manicured eyebrow.

First round? Clem and I exchange a baffled look.

“There are key trials at each stage of the celebrations, some small, some large, to determine the caliber of the crown prince’s future queen. Beauty, elegance, cleverness, resilience, power.” She pauses and cants her chin. “May the gods deliver the worthy.”

Women around me are clapping and whispering, but I only feel alarm spreading like an oil slick. Had she said gods or odds? Queen Morvarid wouldn’t be so blasphemous in her own court, would she? May the odds deliver the worthy—that’s what she’d declared.

Without further fanfare, we’re herded from the throne room to a wide hall where several liveried servants wait in four neat rows, holding the pennant flags and colors of each house: burgundy for Regulus, dark gray for Antares, navy blue for Fomalhaut, and forest green for Aldebaran. More armed imperial guards line the perimeter of the space, which, after the incident in the courtyard, seems logical now. Maybe any one of the women here could be behind an assassination plot. The Dahaka had already tried once—what’s to stop them from doing so again? It would be a perfect time to make a move against the crown with so many guests in the palace.

I wonder what Clem thinks of the rebellion, but I suppose that’s too personal—or dangerous—of a thing to ask someone you just met.

“Sorting by house?” she scoffs. “How unoriginal.”

“Maybe it’s just efficient to organize the herd,” I say. “What do you think this is for?”

“I guess we will see,” Clem says as she moves toward the gray pennant. “Save me a seat on the other side!”

Before I can answer, I’m steered toward the line for the House of Aldebaran. From what I can discern, it looks as though each woman is being subjected to a short interrogation or interview. Laughter bubbles into my throat. Maybe they’re curious about our dietary requirements or want to determine our fine dining skills.

If there are forks, work your way in from the outer end.

Laleh’s courtly advice makes me chuckle. Sands, I miss her so much.

I move past Fatima standing in the Antares line and Parvi in Fomalhaut, but both look past me, which makes my throat tight even though they were so cold in the carriage. Not like we all didn’t attend grammar school together for years in Coban or their families don’t eat weekly at the Saab Inn. I could be invisible for all their notice. But I keep my head high. I might not be the most beautiful woman here or the most battle hardened, but I do have some pride.

I was chosen, same as them.

As I wait for my turn, I notice some of the girls being welcomed into the next hall, while others are removed rather forcibly by the waiting guards, ushered through a set of side doors. At one point, I think I hear muffled screams echo into the chamber. I crane my neck toward the sound but can spot nothing. And none of the servants or guards seem perturbed.

We surge forward, and I peer over to the Antares line to see Clem reading something before giving an answer. She’s expressionless when she’s approached by two grim-faced guards, though her eyes flick to mine, conveying encouragement, of all things. My stomach dives as she’s efficiently expelled from the room. I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s been cut.

When it’s my turn to speak to the liveried attendant, I’m handed a sealed scroll.

“Answer correctly and you may enter the dining room,” the attendant intones. “This is your first challenge.”

Eyes narrowing, I take the ornate scroll and unwind it to reveal a . . . riddle.

Well, this is unexpected. Maybe the crown prince doesn’t want a wife with a walnut brain after all. Or maybe this is an intricate trap in the guise of a simple riddle, some devious test of the queen’s. But what? Riddles are children’s games, and a challenge like this seems almost deceptively infantile.

Then again, it had stumped Clem. I focus my attention on the scroll.

It is soundless, unseen, tasteless, untouchable, and odorless. It is present at the start and appears after the close. It delves into hollow spaces, burrows below mountains, and cradles the moon and the stars. It destroys joy, breaks realms.

A trickle of terror winds through me—what are the odds I would get such a riddle? Heart pounding, I read it again for good measure, but my fear only deepens. I can’t help but think of the crone’s premonition: where it walks, death follows.

I jump as the brunette from Antares who’d laughed at me in the courtyard cries out. She’s being dragged away, pleading for another chance.

Perhaps I should fail on purpose, and then I’ll get sent home as well. If that’s where they’re going—it sounds like failure means more than missing dinner in the dining room. My belly rumbles hard in protest.

“What happens to those women who don’t answer the riddle correctly?” I ask.

“They do not eat,” the attendant says.

I frown. “But where do they go? Back to their rooms? Back to their homes? To the dungeons?”

His eyes flicker on the last. “Your answer, my lady.”

My stomach gives another obnoxious growl as if daring me to fail. Starvation as a punishment seems unnecessarily cruel, but then again, this is a competition, and no one but Clem gave a shit about me in that courtyard. If this is the way to get fed, I’m going to eat.

I close my eyes and tune out the other people in the room, pulling apart the riddle in my brain. It is soundless, unseen, tasteless, untouchable, and odorless. It is present at the start and appears after the close. It delves into hollow spaces, burrows below mountains, and cradles the moon and the stars. It destroys joy, breaks realms.

Is death the answer?

I open my mouth, the reply on the tip of my tongue, and snap my lips shut. Death fits all the boxes except one: it isn’t present at the start. Birth is. But what’s the one thing that’s even more insidious than death? I suppress a shiver, recalling the multilayered voice in the alley behind the Saab Inn when I’d been trying to convince myself I wasn’t afraid . . .

“Darkness,” I say. But my voice is unsteady.

The servant bows and signals for my attendant, who resumes his place to escort me into the dining room. Relief fills me, though dread also wriggles like sandworms in my veins.

Everything is not as it seems here, and I have to remind myself of that . . . just like my father had warned.

*  *  *

Dinner is an extravagant affair. Beautifully decorated round tables dot the opulent banquet hall, while the royal family sits on a raised dais at the far end of the room. I’ve been relegated to a distant side table, which suits me fine. The farther away, the better. Some of my companions look crestfallen at our location, but I’ve garnered enough notice from the royal family today to last me a lifetime. I smile at the women flanking me, but neither of them seems inclined to reciprocate, so I resign myself to eating my meal in silence.

As expected, the food is divine: trenches of thick soups, herb-infused savory goat and lamb stews, salted rice, and steaming flatbread stuffed with spiced potatoes. Mounds of ripe apricots, eggplant, and sweet dates crowd the tabletop. I savor each succulent morsel, committing the flavors to memory so that I can share them with Amma. She would love this, even though in my humble opinion, the palace cooks don’t hold a candle to her. I lick the tips of my fingers behind my napkin, sighing with exquisite pleasure at the lingering taste of saffron and cardamom.

“This is delicious,” I remark to no one in particular, and reach for more. I don’t care that my stomach is filled to bursting or that it’s most likely rude to eat second helpings. I’ve already embarrassed myself, so I might as well enjoy the little that’s left of my stay. For someone who adores good food as much as I do, this is a more than worthy consolation prize.

As I lift the next bite to my lips, I feel the weight of someone staring at me. I look up, only to catch the familiar, amused gaze of the aggravating gardener once more. Only he is not perched indolently atop a garden wall. Instead, my vexing nemesis is seated at the end of the royal table nearest my side of the room.

My enjoyment dies a slow, agonizing death.

Because that’s the royal table.

My fingers freeze halfway between my plate and my mouth. A smile tugs on the corners of his lips at my justifiably horrified expression. Jaw agape, I scan the faces at his table before returning to him, but there’s no escaping my sudden, alarming, and much-too-late conclusion about who he must be: Prince Roshan Acharia, the king’s second son, rumored to be illegitimate and the child of his father’s mistress. Despite being born on the wrong side of the blanket, he’s still a member of the royal family, hence his presence at court.

He’s not wearing simple brown and navy clothes now. No, the shameless, posturing jackass is dressed in rich ceremonial garments, looking every inch like the royal he is. And so obviously not a gardener.

Sands on fucking fire.

I resist the urge to slide beneath the tablecloth. My neck grows hot at the memory of our conversation, of my utter insolence. As if he can read my thoughts, Prince Roshan tips his goblet toward me. I wrench my eyes away. He’d been so maddening that it hadn’t even occurred to me he’d be anyone other than a grunt working in the palace. And what in the fiery pits of Droon was he doing on top of that wall anyway? He could have snapped his precious royal neck, and what a tragedy that would have been!

In the unforgiving glare of hindsight, I also belatedly understand that all the other people in the courtyard, especially the palace guards, had probably been watching him as well as me. If I truly had been an assassin, I could have taken out one of the royal family with ease. Internally, I curse myself with every foul word I know and push my plate aside, unable to enjoy the sumptuous meal any longer.

I desperately want to flee. But drawing more notice by leaving before the royal family does would not be wise. So, I keep my eyes focused on the table despite feeling the pressure of the prince’s stare a few times over the remaining courses. By the time dessert comes, including one of my favorites—ginger-spiced hard fried dough that I can barely taste—I feel like screaming.

Finally, the king departs, signaling that we are free to go. I’m one of the first to sneak past the attendants.

I consider trying to find Clem but discard the idea. I’d only get hopelessly lost and bumble into some other embarrassing situation. In despair, I end up retreating to the safety and solitude of my chamber, staying there for the duration of the evening after dismissing my horrified handmaids. They’re adamant that I’m making an egregious faux pas, but I’m positive no one will notice my absence.

I’m not usually a coward. But insulting not one but technically three members of the Imperial House makes me less resilient than usual. Lying back on the satiny bedding, I close my eyes and wish that Laleh were here with me. She’d know what to do. In all honesty, she’d probably tell me not to be a quitter.

Stop being such a baby, she’d scold. So what that you chased a headpiece? And so what that you were rude to the obnoxious son of the king? He was rude to you. Don’t let him or anyone else stop you from having the time of your life. Go have your adventure. Get lost in the palace forge. Isn’t that what you wanted? Isn’t that why you’re there?

Invisible Laleh makes an excellent point.

I’m in Kaldari, the sandsdamned capital city. A place I’ve dreamed of for years. And instead of exploring and making the most of the occasion, I’m holed up in my room with my head buried in my pillows like a sad wallflower.

I sigh and make myself a promise. Tomorrow is another day, and one I won’t squander.

Chapter Six

Shadowy tendrils glide sensuously down my ribs, the cool touches featherlight and teasing. Ashes below, they even know what I like . . . and how I like it. They’ve memorized every inch of me and mapped my body like uncharted territory they plan on conquering.

And conquer they have . . .

My wrists are tethered above my head and smoky tendrils ease my legs apart, shackling them to the bedposts like some kind of carnal offering to their god and master. And suddenly, I can sense him standing there—my faceless shadow lord—always watching, a voyeur who can’t help himself.

“Join us,” I coax, tapping my fingers down my bare stomach to my spread thighs, bands of shadow holding them wide. “This is all for you.”

“I cannot.” His voice is the growl of a beast.

But I am not afraid. I feel that harsh rasp like the nip of teeth over sensitized flesh and I want more. I writhe against my bonds, taunting him, hoping he’ll break whatever self-imposed rules he seems to be bound to and finally give in.

“Destroy me,” I beg in a shameless whimper. “Please.”

“Gods!” His shadows burst apart and coalesce, crowding me in an instant and pleasuring me everywhere at once—a sleek, thick tendril plunging in and curling deep with ruthless, erotic precision—and I tip violently over the edge.

And then he’s gone with a furious roar that rattles my bones.

I fly awake and it’s to a flurry of movement in my room as my handmaidens bustle into my bedchamber. I blink the sleep-crusted grit out of my eyes and resist the urge to stuff my head under the silk pillows, my heart and core still reverberating with pleasure.

What the fuck was that?

My dreams have never been this chaotic and heated, fueled by an inhuman presence—a striking, towering male shrouded in shadow—and though my memories are clouded, the details slipping away, my skin is tight with awareness and my nightclothes are sticky with sweat.

It’s not the first time I’ve had these dreams—Laleh constantly bemoans my fondness for my fictional, nocturnal men—but this is the first time one has ever felt so visceral. In fact, I’m more than convinced that I climaxed in my sleep. Thank you, shadow lover. I can still feel the caress of his magic on my overheated body, and the visceral memory of that last sensual touch has me blushing. I lift a hand up to my head and groan.

Solo sex hair. My favorite.

With a disgruntled sigh, I sit up. “What’s happening?” I ask one of the maidservants as she hurries in with a tray. The smell of hot roasted coffee fills the air, and that is more than enough incentive to crawl to the side of the bed and onto unsteady feet. With a yawn, I hurry over to the overladen table near the window.

“Breakfast, my lady,” my handmaiden says, and offers me a steaming cup of coffee. “Before the gladiatrix contest.”

I nearly spit out my mouthful. I shake my head. Foggy as I was, perhaps I’d heard her wrong. “For a moment there, I thought you said gladiatrix contest.”

She nods and points to a scroll on the side of my breakfast tray. “An exhibition of combat is the next challenge.” Her face is full of pity as if I have little chance of surviving such a round. She’s probably right. “People are already making wagers on who might die,” she adds morbidly.

My mouth dries. The crown plans to put a few dozen girls into an arena and say, Fight it out, may the best one win? And any of the women who didn’t get to eat last night would be at a disadvantage today. How sadistic.

And shrewd, my mind supplies.

The riddle challenge from the night before could have been intended to reduce any combat advantage that the women from the House of Antares might have on the sands. They aren’t exactly devoted to knowledge, prioritizing muscles over mindfulness and all that. Well, with the exception of Clem, though she hadn’t succeeded, either. My skin prickles with nerves—in any combat scenario, Antares would definitely have the advantage over the scholars from Regulus or the artists from Fomalhaut. Or craftsmen like me.

Even if I’m strong from working the forge, I haven’t trained to battle from birth.

“Did the girls who didn’t get the questions right last night . . . make it?” I ask my handmaiden with trepidation, knowing that the servant grapevine would be buzzing. Everyone in the kitchens at the Saab Inn always has a finger on the pulse of gossip.

“They are alive,” she says, but doesn’t expand.

With numb fingers, I set down my cup and reach for the instructions. The first line—by order of the queen—has my stomach churning. I don’t even know why I am surprised that we would be expected to fight. Astride that gorgeous horse, she’d been the epitome of a warrior. She wouldn’t abide a soft woman for her son—a gladiatrix contest would sort the wolves from the sheep. Perhaps she was originally from the House of Antares.

Recalling my promise to myself about making the best of a bad situation, I scan the missive again. The only instructions the scroll offers are to be ready by noon. Which gives me two hours to find the library or the forge. I decide on the second. I’ll go to the library later, with Clem, if she’s still here and up for it. I send up a prayer to anyone listening that she is alive and well.

I hurriedly stuff one of the pastries from the tray into my mouth, wrap a second into a napkin in case I see her, and inhale a second cup of coffee before rushing to the bathing room to complete my morning ablutions. When I emerge, I see the handmaidens have set out the attire I’m meant to wear: dark forest-green leathers with bright bronze accents bearing the crest of Aldebaran—a branching tree and a pair of scales—that are soft and polished, and beautifully tailored trousers and a tunic.

Considering the house insignia, I suspect all the women will be wearing something similar. Once dressed, I squat and jump and then twist my body in midair with a pleased grin. Supple, too.

“A single high tail, please, with looped intervals,” I tell the second, quieter handmaiden when she tackles my hair with a brush. I’ve been in enough scraps in the tavern to know that loose hair, especially as thick as mine is, can be a problem. The tail will keep it off my face, and once I know what I’ll be facing, I can either twist the looped sections into a bun at the top or tuck them into my shirt.

When she’s done, I hop up, snag my knee-high boots, and swiftly tuck my dagger into the inner sheath. I thrust the pastry for Clem into my pocket, and then I am heading for the door.

“My lady, your face!” the first handmaiden chides.

I pause on the threshold. I’m sure that face paint isn’t going to help me win any battles, but I don’t want them to get penalized for not doing their jobs. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for you to make sure I’m presentable,” I say, closing the door before they can protest.

The palace halls are bustling with servants, some carrying armfuls of linens, others breakfast trays. Though a few of the other chosen are milling about the corridor outside their quarters, no one pays me much notice—but then I am talented at being invisible when I’m not around deceitful, aggravating princes. Shoving him from my mind, I take a moment to admire the massive gold-framed murals of both battle and bucolic scenes that line the walls, detailing some of the history of Kaldari. Everything about this palace is drenched in opulence . . . and yet something feels off.

I pick up my pace, and in a few minutes, I enter the great hall and dart across it, exiting into the courtyard.

Finally, freedom!

“Excuse me,” I say to a young boy carrying a bucket of oats. “Where is the palace forge?”

His eyes widen, presumably since I’m one of the chosen, but then he points toward some well-manicured hedges and scurries away. I suppose a general direction is better than nothing. I head off to where he indicated and find myself at the entrance of a lush garden maze. A delighted laugh leaves my lips. I recognize this place! The maze is painted on the leftmost side of the picture back home.

Mama and I used to pretend that we had to find the jewel at the center of it. We’d trace the lines on the painting, making choices on which way to turn. While I’d gotten hopelessly thwarted at first, she’d known exactly how to get to the center, having been inside this actual maze herself.

I breathe in the fragrant air, wondering if she, too, had once stood in this spot. I step past the first hedgerow and hesitate. But as I stand in the sunlight, the path to the heart of the maze comes back to me in a rush. I see it in my mind’s eye, and I follow the turns we’d mapped together, enjoying the solitude and the sound of the breeze rustling the leaves around me.

I know I’m nearing the center when I hear the muted splash of a fountain.

And voices.

One fluttery and high-pitched, and one belonging to . . . Prince Javed.

With a sharp inhale, I flatten myself against the leaves and peek through the nearest gap in the hedge. The prince has one of his chosen, the redhead from the courtyard, pressed against a column, his hand up her skirts. She doesn’t seem to mind; her giggle fills the space as his other hand gropes the front of her bodice. If seduction is part of the prince’s whole selection process, count me out.

“Your Highness,” she squeals, and bats his hand away.

With a growl that makes the hairs on my nape stand straight, that same hand lashes to her throat. “Did you just strike the heir to the throne?” he snarls.

Her face goes crimson as his fingers tighten. “Of course not, Your Highness.”

I can’t see his expression, but I can see his fingers cinching her slender neck and hear the tiny, panicked wheezes of her breath. Fuck this. I can’t just stand by and let him hurt her! But before I can take a step forward, a hand closes over my mouth and an arm bands about my waist. A scream throttles in my throat as warm lips graze the shell of my ear. “Don’t be foolish. He’ll execute you.”

It’s the voice belonging to . . . the second prince.

“I’m going to release you now,” he whispers. The moment his arms loosen, I shove my elbow backward hard, taking pleasure in the soft grunt that comes from him, despite the pain shooting up my forearm. What is he made of? Flaming rocks?

“He’s hurting her!” I whisper savagely back to him.

“He’s the crown prince.”

Rage fills me. “That doesn’t mean—”

“Yes,” he says softly. “It means he can do anything he wants. Don’t worry, he won’t harm her, but if you barge in there, I cannot guarantee that you will not meet that fate. Besides, watch.” There’s a gravelly inflection in his voice that makes goose bumps rise all over me.

I turn back, and both of Prince Javed’s hands are occupied—one still wrapped around her throat and the other pressed between her legs. Her head is thrown back, and she looks like she’s in the throes of . . . pleasure. Not pain. Well, maybe a little pain. Heat winds up my neck.

“More,” she gasps out.

My cheeks are on fire as Prince Roshan leans in. “It’s called breath play. And some of the chosen hope to get ahead of the game to gain his favor.”

“I know what it’s called, you ass. Don’t prince-splain me.” Not that I have actual, empirical experience, but those shadow tendrils in my dreams came pretty starsdamned close last night.

The prince grins and crooks a finger for me to go with him. I glance back to the fountain one last time, because I wouldn’t put it past Prince Javed to bypass consent altogether. But the lady is . . . dropping to her knees, and that’s my cue to turn away. No judgment, but getting an eyeful of the crown prince’s jewels is not how I want to remember today.

In silence, I hurriedly track Prince Roshan’s footsteps until we reach another glade in the depths of the maze. Inside a whimsical folly with slender marble columns and a gabled roof, a small, ornate bench sits between two statues. Vines and fragrant roses curl over them.

“This was my mother’s favorite place,” he says in a normal voice. “Don’t worry, we can speak freely. The hedges are enough of a sound barrier.”

I frown at him, realizing how close he’d been behind me earlier. I hadn’t heard a thing. “Were you following me?”

“I live here.”

“You live in the maze?” I say dryly, and glare at him. “You let me believe you were a servant.”

Prince Roshan raises an imperious brow. In hindsight, I don’t know how I managed to assume he was a gardener. Even his expressions are pretentious. “Did I, though? You believed what you chose to believe.”

“And your remarks about the queen?”

He smiles. “Oh, that’s true. She hates me. And no, I don’t live in the maze, though I do pass many peaceful hours here in this spot.” The prince’s face softens. “Both my parents treasured it. My father”—his face tightens with a strange mix of anger and sorrow—“used to come here, too, but not since he became ill.”

I’m still cross about the fact that he duped me, but I can’t help reacting to the unguarded, vulnerable look on his face. “Are you and your father close?”

His throat works. “We were . . . are . . . it’s complicated.” He lifts a hand to his hair, raking it through the dark strands. “He always wanted better for Oryndhr, and I fear . . .”

I wait, but he doesn’t say any more, though his fists clench at his sides. “You fear?” I prod.

He shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “Ignore me, I’m in a strange mood. This glade always makes me sentimental. Where were you going in such a hurry before?” he asks, changing the subject.

“To find the forge,” I reply honestly. No harm in telling him the truth. His eyes widen in surprise.

“You like . . . bladework?”

I raise a brow. “Does that shock your princely sensibilities? That a woman like me can hammer a sword?”

“I’m impressed, actually. But more importantly, I had the measure of you in the courtyard, admit it.”

I almost laugh at the ego on him. “You said I was the daughter of a blacksmith. I’m the daughter of a tavern owner.”

“I deserve the glory and you know it, don’t be stingy.”

I do grin then, but only because he’s disarmingly charming.

“Look at that, you can smile!”

It drops immediately. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Now that sounds like a challenge, Lady Suraya.” His amused gold-flecked gaze travels my entire body, from the collar of my tunic to the burn marks on my hands to the tips of my boots, where his eyes light with curiosity. “One of yours? May I see it?”

Following his stare, I blanch at the sight of my very visible dagger. Stars above, I must not have secured it properly! Would he recognize the jādū? Of course he would. He’s a prince who probably has a thousand element-imbued blades of his own.

I think about refusing, but that would only make things worse. What are the odds I’ll be thrown into the palace dungeons for possession of a forbidden blade?

Torn between taking my chances and running away, I reluctantly pull the dagger from its sheath. He stares at it for a long time but doesn’t move to touch it. Strange. In trepidation, I peer up at him, but his face is sphinxlike. “Nice work,” he murmurs.

“Nice work?” I echo in disbelief. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What would you like me to say? It’s a beautiful dagger. The craftsmanship of the simurgh on the pommel is exceptional.”

My eyes widen. Doesn’t he notice the craftsmanship of the blade or the forbidden runes etched there? My brows slam together as I replace the blade in my boot, securing it so it’s no longer visible. “It’s illegal.”

The smirk that appears on his face should also be illegal, and I fight the sudden breath-stealing tightness in my chest. “Would you like me to arrest you, my lady? I do enjoy seeing a feisty woman in restraints from time to time.”

At his provocative tone, deep down, a flicker of interest pulses to life, and I draw back in instant alarm. No, no, no, this cannot be happening. Not for him!

By the maker, get ahold of yourself, Suraya!

“Are you trying to shock me, Your Highness?” I ask with a haughty tilt of my chin, keeping my voice even and squashing my suddenly too-interested libido.

He studies me. “I get the feeling it would take quite a lot to shock you.”

“I work in a tavern.” My brows lift. “That’s not a huge leap of imagination.”

The prince laughs, and the warm tenor of it takes me by surprise. “What if I say it was flirting?”

My cheeks heat, but I give a light huff. “Then I would say you’re sorely in need of some lessons.”

“Are you volunteering?” he counters, eyes twinkling.

I nearly curse at the flutter of my pulse that hasn’t abated in the least. “No.”

With a stern shake of my head, I focus on the issue at hand: my dagger and potentially being thrown in the dungeons. That’s what is important, not the rich, rumbling sound of his laughter or his teasing banter or his stupidly pretty face. Why wouldn’t a prince of the realm report me at once? Does he intend to use the knowledge against me later? Or will the punishment come when I least expect it? My emotions are roiling all over the place, between alarm, desire, and unease.

“Come on, let’s go visit the forge,” the prince says. “Before the combat rounds.”

“Oh, fuck, the gladiatrix contest!” I say, and he gives a low chuckle at my language, a sound that burns through me. “What time is it?”

“You have about forty-five minutes,” he informs me after checking a pocket watch attached to his emerald-threaded vest. “More than enough time to show you the forge and make it to the competition grounds.”

I let out a groan. “Not if you have handmaidens who will murder you in your sleep if you don’t let them make you presentable. Apparently, that’s important when you’re about to fight to the death in some arena.”

“Appearance is everything in the Imperial House,” the prince says. His hand lands on the small of my back, and he guides me gently toward a narrow path between the hedges. I pretend I don’t notice the warm press of his fingers against my spine. “You did well with the riddle last night.”

I nearly stumble as we walk briskly back toward the palace. Has he been watching me? “Thank you, but I was lucky. And what even was the intent of that challenge? Riddles prove nothing. Intelligence comes in many forms.”

“Ah, but the ability to think under pressure is a wonderful indication of mental fortitude,” he counters with that crooked grin.

“Where did the girls who failed go? I heard screaming.”

“They slept in the dungeons,” he says.

“That’s cruel. They’re women, not criminals.”

The prince nods, and his tacit agreement makes fear wind up my spine as if this kind of practice is nothing new to him. “Focus on the next challenge. As you’ve just seen, one can never be too sure of the crown prince’s intentions or humors. He’s a fan of bloody sport.”

“Are you serious?” I was joking about the fight to the death portion, but clearly if there’s blood involved, fighting to survive might be the order of the day. Then again, women were sent to cells in the dungeons for failing to answer a fucking riddle.

He doesn’t answer, and soon we reach the outer edge of the maze. I realize once I get my bearings that I’m not far from where I started. The cupola of the southernmost turret of the palace is visible, and I can almost imagine my mother at the window peering down upon me. I wonder what she’d think of this whole wretched, misogynistic affair.

With a low bow, the prince’s lips brush my knuckles and heat travels up my arm into my chest, punching the air from my lungs. “I am not privy to the specifics or what’s expected of you in the arena, but place yourself at a defensible corner if you can.” Inscrutable warm brown eyes hold mine. “And stay alive.”

“Why are you helping me?” I ask.

“Perhaps for the same reason you sought to help that girl with my brother,” he says. “Moral obligation. Be safe, Lady Suraya.”

Curling my hand into a fist, I watch as he disappears back into the maze. I shake my hand as I walk rapidly toward the palace, the brand of his mouth seared into my skin. I feel fluttery and unsteady. The press of his lips had been so soft, the touch chaste and perfunctory—a salutation commonly used in court I’d read—but the storm it had stirred inside of me wasn’t virtuous in the least. What would those lips feel like elsewhere? I touch two fingers to my own lips and feel my cheeks burn.

Focus, you dolt, you’re about to die, and you’re fantasizing about kissing!

I reach my room with twenty minutes to spare, and both handmaidens give me matching glowers. Despite my desire to tell them I don’t require makeup, I know I will need them on my side for the near future . . . or for as long as I’m here, so I force a bright smile. “I’m so sorry, I was detained by the prince.”

I don’t specify which prince, but their eyes widen and the disapproval fades like magic. I grin internally—I’ll be sure to throw that excuse around more often!

I sit demure and still as my mussed hair is recombed, the three rows of braids along each side of my scalp deftly rewoven and regathered into a high tail intersected with gold clips. My skin is lightly contoured with powder, my eyes darkened with extra bold kohl, my eyelids and lips made brilliant with a glossy stain. I prefer Laleh’s hands—she managed to do my makeup and still allow me to feel like myself—but I have to admit, I look badass, like a warrior princess.

At least I’ll look the part, which might be half the battle.

Fight me at your own risk.

Once they are satisfied with my appearance, we join the line of contestants being herded outside to the waiting carriages. I once again search for Clem in the crowd, but it’s a sea of unrecognizable bodies.

As I suspected, the other chosen are dressed in leathers similar to mine proudly bearing the crests of their houses: dark green with a tree and scales for Aldebaran, burgundy with a burning torch and a furled scroll for Regulus, navy with a laurel wreath and two birds for Fomalhaut, and gray with a snarling wolf with a crossed sword and ax for Antares. No doubt, the latter will dominate this challenge, but I’m certain there will be other tests of mental acuity as well as practical trades, courtly conduct, and artistic abilities. Each of the houses must be given a fair shot, after all.

This round, I’ll just have to try to keep my blood in my body where it belongs.

My heart thuds in my throat as we leave the palace courtyard and drive around the outskirts toward a veritable colosseum. Its immense marble columns are interspaced with multicolored flags as well as pennants from each house. An enormous banner hangs at the entrance, the sun, crown, and flared wings that symbolize the Imperial House shining gold.

When we stop, the handmaidens depart, and we are ushered by a line of grim-faced palace guards to the center of the structure. A quick scan confirms that quite a few dozen of the chosen look pale and tired, likely from a night of hunger spent on a cold floor, and there are definitely fewer women than there had been yesterday. I feel cold as I search the faces in another effort to find Clem. But it’s futile—either she’s not here or I can’t spot her. And I cannot afford to be derailed by fear before I even set foot on the sands.

I focus instead on studying the others and notice that some of the contestants seem to have formed groups and alliances, some within their houses and others in a mix. I am one of the few standing by myself. I also spy the woman from the maze who’d been with the prince. I’m somewhat relieved to see she is in one piece. One satisfied piece, if her flushed cheeks and tousled hair are any signal. Guess Prince Roshan wasn’t wrong about gaining favor by any means necessary. I suppose if I wanted to win I’d use any tools in my arsenal, too.

Parvi and Fatima are both still here I notice with some small, if misguided, gladness. But when I lift my hand in a wave, they quickly look away. I try not to let their pointed rejection hurt. Clearly, they still don’t want to be associated with me, which means I’m on my own for this challenge, too.

One small group glares scornfully in my direction. The woman from the glade with the prince joins them, and I tense when she saunters over, tossing her waves of red hair, a malicious smile pinned to her face.

“Still here, rat?” she taunts.

Canting my head, I smile back. “Rats are hardy creatures.” Better than sly serpents who try to fuck the prince for extra points, I want to say, but I keep my pettiness in check.

“We will see, won’t we?” she says, her eyes promising that I will be her target for whatever’s coming in that arena.

One of her minions, the brunette who is also in Regulus, snickers. “Rats should be sitting on your crest instead of scales.”

They all laugh, but I ignore them. Words can’t hurt me.

But whatever’s in that arena can.

Adrenaline courses through my veins, and I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth to keep calm. Fear is healthy; panic is deadly. If the prince likes blood sport, then it’s safe to say that mortal injury is possible. I honestly don’t know what to expect, and Prince Roshan’s somber words have left me hollow.

Find a defensible position, I remind myself.

We don’t have long to wait as the bellow of trumpets announce the arrival of the royal family. The guards lead us out into the arena, a wide circle with rocky outcroppings dotting the sand. Marble pillars line the periphery in concentric circles built in ascending order, and thousands cram the stands, raucous cheering filling the space. It can’t just be Kaldarians here—there must also be citizens of the nearby cities of Eloni and Veniar come to watch the spectacle.

But they aren’t what catches my eye. It’s the enormous scaled beast held down by chains standing in the center of the sands. I gasp, and several of the women let out cries of fright.

Holy mother of sandstorms. Is that a fucking azdaha?

I’ve only ever read stories of them, a creature from the wilds beyond the northern borders of Oryndhr. Rumor is they can fly, but this one’s wings have been brutally clipped, the webbing between the bones stripped so that they resemble twisted twigs. An enormous iridescent collar, made from jādū and carved with arcane runes, is wrapped around its neck, and two similar bracelets encircle its taloned limbs. Its teeth are razor sharp, but even scarier are the intelligent, reptilian eyes that hungrily track our progress when we’re led toward the royal dais where the king, queen, and crown prince are sitting.

The queen lifts an imperious hand, and the crowd immediately falls silent. The crown prince stands.

“Welcome, my precious chosen,” he says in a possessive tone that makes me want to cringe. “Do you like my pet? We’ve starved him especially for this event.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. A handful of women start to scramble back the way we came, trying to get to the exit. In a blink, they drop like stones, felled by arrows from the guards stationed at intervals along the top of the arena. I cover my mouth to stifle a scream, my eyes locked on the women’s writhing bodies and the scarlet splatter of blood marring the pristine sands. Ice-cold dread sluices through my veins as others around me begin to cry. None of the women have been fatally wounded, as far as I can tell. But that doesn’t make it any less chilling.

Or heartless.

We’re people, not flaming animals!

“Don’t try to run or you’ll be shot down,” the prince warns with a cruel grin. “The only way out is to be one of the last twenty standing. The gong will sound signaling the end of the round. Weapons are over there.” He points to several racks of weapons at the far end of the circle, conveniently set past the azdaha, who has now risen to its haunches at the prospect of a good meal. “May the hardiest of you win.”

The odds aren’t there for more than three-quarters of us, now that the dozen wounded have been removed from the sands, a mix of mostly Aldebaran and Fomalhaut. I sneer at the guards with their longbows and nocked arrows. This is fucking inhumane. What is the prince trying to prove anyway? Does he truly expect to find a smart, fearless, confident wife through all of this, or is it just some form of sick entertainment at our expense?

Are we that disposable?

I look away from Prince Javed, and my gaze snares on the cool expression of the bastard prince who has arrived to stand behind his half brother. His face is shuttered, giving nothing away, and I tense at the remoteness there. It’s hard to reconcile the man who had kissed my knuckles and laughed in the maze with this cold noble viewing the arena with such impassivity.

Then his dark eyes find mine, and I recall his reminder.

Place yourself at a defensible corner . . . stay alive.

The first is doable enough, the second, much harder. But before I can scout for potential safe locations, an ominous gong sounds, reverberating through my body. What is that? Does it mean we’ve started? Those closest to me scatter, and I find myself nearly jostled to the ground as women weep and grasp each other in fright. The azdaha roars, a thunderous noise that makes the hair on my neck stand and my ears ring. People are going to die here. I just have to make sure I’m not one of them.

The majority of the chosen rush in a panic toward the weapons, but a few stay back, observing. One is the redhead who’d called me a rat. Suddenly, the azdaha’s jādū collar goes dark and his head snaps forward. In an instant, a few of the unfortunate forerunners are gone, swallowed up in a single, crunching bite that echoes wetly over the sands. Bile rises in a choking wave at the sound of snapping bones, and I struggle to keep it down as I dart toward one of the rocky outcroppings and crouch, grabbing my dagger from my boot. It nearly falls from my numb, trembling fingers, but I grip it hard and hold it across my pounding chest.

Fuck it. If I’m going to be that monster’s meal, I’m not going down empty-handed.

“Breathe, Suraya,” I remind myself.

But my rallying cry holds no weight as my breath gusts from me in panicked heaves. If I don’t calm down, I’ll pass out and that will be the end. I force myself to inhale for four counts and breathe out for four. I do it again and then again, until my lungs stop squeezing and my jaw unlocks.

Peering around the rock, I immediately see a woman from Antares cutting down one of the other competitors with an enormous ax before nodding to the redhead. An alliance, then, just as I had thought. I feel sick as I do a quick count of our numbers. There are about thirty of us left, give or take. Some contestants have taken cover at other outcroppings.

Where in the pits of Droon is Clem? Is she here? Is she even alive?

I see Parvi standing frozen in the open, face pale, and when the Antares warrior prowls toward her, I make one of the stupidest decisions of my life. Running from my hiding spot, I sideswipe the attacker and kick her legs out from under her. She hits the ground hard, and I yank Parvi back to the rocks with me just as the azdaha turns its baleful glare on the fallen woman. The squelch of flesh and crack of bones bring the bile up once more, nothing I ever hope to hear again in this lifetime. I swallow the bitter phlegm and take huge gulps of air and try to remind myself that the woman had murdered another in cold blood with her ax.

“Did you see Fatima?” I ask, turning to Parvi, whose clammy hand is still in mine.

Tears are streaming down her face. “She’s dead. She tried to get to the weapons. Why did you do that? Save me?” she blubbers. “When I’ve been so beastly to you.”

“None of us deserves to die,” I reply, my heart sinking at the thought of Fatima, once so fearless, now a corpse to be mourned by her poor parents. “Stay quiet. We can wait this out and be one of the twenty when the gong sounds. And then we can get the fuck out of here!”

But of course, my words damn us. Or my rival has it out for me after I took out her accomplice. Much too late I look around to see her and her cronies converging on our sheltered position, their movement drawing the attention of the monster, too. The roaring of the crowds fades as my senses sharpen. Eight on two is a lot, but I ready my dagger anyway. Parvi’s tears are falling faster, and her body starts to shiver.

Make that eight on one, because she’s a sandsdamned mess.

“Parvi,” I say urgently. “When I say run, you go in that direction.” I point to the far side of the arena. I’m guessing that the azdaha’s leg chains won’t extend that far, but I could be wrong. She gives a jerky nod, and I take a deep breath, ready my dagger, and wait. One heartbeat . . . two heartbeats . . . and then, as three of the women converge on us, I scream, “Run, now!”

Parvi dashes off in the direction I’d indicated, and no one follows. I’m the target. They swarm me like a group of hyenas. A woman with a foxlike face palms a knife, but before she can throw it at me, an arrow impales her hand in midair, and she clutches it to her chest, screaming as her blood spurts onto the sand. A cloud of inky hair catches my attention, and I glance to the right, finding the profile of a familiar sharp face.

Clem!

She’s holding a bow, a quiver of arrows on her back, a second arrow nocked. She might not claim Antares, but she sure looks like a miniature warrior goddess right now. Another of my foes drops with a shriek as an arrow skewers her calf. Two of the women charge in Clem’s direction, leaving four behind. Much too near, the azdaha screams.

“Hello, rat,” my nemesis sings, and swings a long sword in a wide arc. Not jādū forged, thank the flaming maker, but that doesn’t mean it can’t kill me.

Clutching my dagger, I feel my palms start to tingle.

Not now, damn it!

But the danger is closing in on me, and my panic is causing whatever it is inside of me to coalesce. Everything feels like it’s on fire, immolating from the inside out. My skin tightens and pulls as sweat beads on my forehead and drips into my eyes. My foe’s gaze falls to my dagger, and I glance down to see it’s begun to shimmer with its telltale iridescence, the decorative runes I’d carved glinting brighter under the sun.

What the fuck?

“Where did you steal that?” she sneers, eyes widening. “Not that it will save you, little gutter rat.”

“I am not your enemy,” I gasp.

She laughs coldly. “Oh, but you are. You can die on my blade or in the jaws of that beast. I’ll let you choose.”

The azdaha roars as if in agreement, the odor of raw flesh souring the air. The woman swings just as the monster charges our rocky outcropping, much faster than I’d expected. I dodge and duck, my much smaller blade clashing with hers—and then sinking through it, as easily as butter. Panting, we both stare at her shorn blade. Her face darkens with rage. I sense movement behind me, but before I can turn, two of her friends rush me from behind, and suddenly, I’m shoved into the path of the oncoming beast. I brace for the bite of teeth with my dagger held tightly aloft as my last line of defense.

The azdaha stops an arm’s length short of swallowing me, its jaws parted and its fetid, metallic blood-scented breath hot against my face. Time seems to slow, echoing the sluggish, supine thud of my heart. A much-too-intelligent gaze bores into me, and in that charged instant, something strange happens. I feel pain that isn’t mine. I see visions of an enormous mountain range and verdant plains stretching to an endless blue ocean that match no landscape I know in Oryndhr. What is this? Nearly buckling to my knees, I sense every second of this creature’s capture and torture, and it’s all I can do not to scream and scream and scream.

I clutch my temples, and in the space of an infinite heartbeat, there’s nothing. No pain, no torture . . . only the flow of . . . something like silvery rivers of power connecting us. Time stops and tears form in my eyes. A sob claws up my chest, and I find myself drawn forward, wanting to take a step toward the creature, to press my fingertips to its bloody snout in sorrowful apology.

But then the gong sounds, and everything halts.

Chained jādū-infused whips whine through the air, and the creature flinches when the runes on its collar ignite. Time resumes, and I rear back, but I know that even without the gong signaling the end of the contest, the beast would not have devoured me. It had been almost like it had recognized me in some intuitive way. A tether of a bond born of some ancient power still humming between us.

Of raw magic. Which is impossible.

Eyes stinging, I stumble a few more steps and fall to my knees as the azdaha releases me from its stare and retreats to where several runemasters stand beside a huge portal. The monster disappears, and the thundering noise of the crowd rushes my ears and overwhelms me, as if someone had just amplified the sound a thousand times over. Prince Roshan is nowhere to be seen, but I feel the suffocating, oily glance of the crown prince pass over me. I hope he didn’t see whatever the fuck that was with my dagger . . . or the moment with the azdaha.

“Watch your back, bitch,” my enemy mutters as she shoulders her way past me.

An uninjured Clem dashes over and nearly crashes into me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a hug that could break bones. “Sands, I thought you were dead,” I tell her, embracing her back just as hard. “What happened to you last night?”

“Got a personal tour of the dungeons,” she says with a jaunty curl of her lip, even though she looks tired, with thick, dark circles under her eyes. “Stupid piece-of-horseshit riddle confounded me. I knew the answer, too. Feed me and I live, give me a drink and I die. What am I?” She rolls her eyes. “Fucking fire. But what does this genius say? Water.” I stare blankly at her, and she punches me in the shoulder. “I’m fine, it wasn’t too bad, even if we didn’t get any food. How was the dinner? Did you eat for both of us? Because if you didn’t, I might have to rethink this friendship. I haven’t eaten since yesterday and I’m bloody starving.”

Oh! “I brought this for you,” I say, and rummage in my pocket for the now unrecognizably flattened pastry, holding it out to her with an apologetic look. Clem pounces on the offering, unwraps it, and shoves the whole thing in her mouth inside of a second.

“Mmphankoo.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “So good! You’re my hero.”

“Sorry I don’t have more,” I say.

“It’ll tide me over.” Clem eyes me, catching me glancing toward where the azdaha vanished at the far end of the arena. Questions swirl in her gaze as our stares collide. “Have you ever seen a monster like that?”

“Azdaha,” I correct absently.

She makes a noise in her throat as we stumble our way across the blood-soaked sands. “So are we going to talk about how in the realms you stopped that ugly reptilian lizard from eating you there at the end? Because it sure looked like you had some kind of control over it.”

The azdaha hadn’t been ugly. It’d been beautiful in a savagely elegant sort of way. A prince of beasts with its quintet of vicious horns, talon-tipped wings, and deadly spines. Even with its tattered wings and half-starved form, I’d found it utterly mesmerizing.

And the intelligence in its eyes . . . that bright tether linking us . . .

“I don’t know,” I mumble, feeling gooseflesh prickle on my skin. “It had to be they activated the runes on its collar or something.”

Her face is skeptical, but it’s the truth. I have no idea why in the stars that azdaha hadn’t taken a chunk out of me before the gong sounded. Either way, I’m alive, Clem’s alive, and right now, that’s all that matters. Because it means we have a chance to escape.

I turn to her urgently before we reach the others. “Clem, you know this whole bride selection thing is fucked, right? People died today.” I lower my voice. “I don’t know about you, but I want to live, so I’m going to get out of here. Come with me.”

She gnaws her lip, eyes shadowed, and gives a single nod. “All right.”

Chapter Seven

After the gladiatrix massacre, we were granted a day of blessed reprieve to recover. I don’t know if that’s because of the crown prince’s skewed notion of generosity or because something even more sinister is to come. Either way, I’m on tenterhooks, expecting the royal guards to arrive and demand the surrender of my dagger. But no one comes except Clem’s handmaiden, with the message that she’d started her monthly courses and was bedridden with cramps. I don’t envy her, but at least she can get some rest.

I have only one goal in my head: survive whatever is next.

Which is a celebration ball, or so my handmaidens say, and right in line with my expectations of this shit show. Both my handmaidens have become much friendlier after the combat trial, likely because I’d survived and consequently, they still have a job. I had not been a favorite to win, per the wagers that had been flying around the palace. The favorite had been Helena, the Regulus woman who had cornered me and tried to stab me on the sands. She’s said to be the main contender for the prince’s hand. She can have him, for all I care.

Some of the women had survived their wounds in the colosseum and had been sent home. Others had not. Parvi had made it, thankfully, though it probably would have served her better to go home to safety. I almost wish I had been injured, come to think of it. I just want to get out of here with Clem and return to Coban in one piece.

I’d spent a large part of the previous night on my balcony, searching for routes of escape, but guards were stationed everywhere, seemingly on every single corner. And even if I could find a way to leave the palace, I have no portal to get back home. And I would not survive a two-week trek through an unforgiving desert without adequate protection and supplies.

A quiet knock on the balcony door interrupts my thoughts. Curious, I unlock it, only realizing my stupidity when it’s already half open. It could be anyone out there. And I don’t even have my dagger; it’s currently tucked away under the mattress on my bed.

But it isn’t just anyone. Prince Roshan stares back at me, dark hair tumbling over his brow, with that crooked smirk that only seems to appear when we’re alone firmly in place. My stupid pulse trips over itself as those brown eyes spark with heat at the sight of my tiny sleeping shorts and bare legs visible beneath my open robe. A dark flush crests his cheekbones when I pull the sides together.

“Is this a bad time?” he asks, his voice slightly husky.

“No. How did you get up here?” I ask, glancing toward the ground. The balcony has to be at least fifty feet up.

“I have my ways. May we speak?”

I nod uncertainly, still flummoxed at the sight of the prince on my bedchamber’s balcony. Perhaps he’s good at climbing, or maybe he has his own special princely portal magic. But even so, that would require a runecaster . . .

“Do you want to go inside?” I mumble.

“Let’s stay out here. Less chance of being overheard,” he says in a low voice. “Are you well?”

“I didn’t get eaten by a sandsdamned azdaha, so there’s that,” I hiss. “Where did it even come from?”

His expression flickers with emotion. “It’s Javed’s pet. Supposedly it was a trading gift from the northern kingdom of Everlea.”

“Pet or not, I saw a lot of innocents brutally slaughtered. Why would the crown prince do something like that?”

He stares at me and then runs a hand through his hair. A muscle clenches in his cheek, but eventually he answers. “As far as I know, it’s part of a test.”

“For what?”

Indecision crosses his face. He has no reason to trust me, but he has come here for a reason, so I wait in silence. “My brother is searching for something. A power that manifests when in mortal danger. Sooner or later, he’ll find who he’s looking for.”

“So he’s trying to kill us to incite a . . . a reaction?” I stuff my clammy palms into the pockets of my robe. “What kind of power?”

“An extinct one.” He sighs. “From a prophecy about magic.”

Wild laughter bubbles up my throat, and his warm hand covers my mouth. The scent of him—smelted iron, bergamot, and spice—invades my senses before his palm drops away when I freeze and remember where we are. On a balcony where any of the guards can see. I inhale a breath and keep my voice low. “That’s what this is about? A random prophecy?”

“Where did you get the jādū for your dagger?” the prince asks.

“I bought it from a trader,” I say with defiance.

“And the runes carved onto its surface?”

Sands, so he had noticed those. “They’re nothing. Etchings that I made up.”

“You engraved them?”

I hesitate but nod. “They’re not runes of power,” I explain quickly.

His face goes so blank that I suspect he’s hiding something. Had he seen the runes glow from where he’d been in the arena? In hindsight, I’m not even sure what I’d seen. The shimmer off my blade could have just been a trick of the sunlight and the sand and my panic, nothing more.

“We need to get you out of here,” he murmurs, and I stare at him in confusion. Why would he want to help me? I’m no one to him.

Our eyes lock for a moment, but before I can respond, I hear the sound of my handmaidens entering the chamber. Hastily, I turn toward the door to let them know I’ll be inside in a moment—the last thing I need is them barging out here and fueling the gossip mill. I have enough attention on me as it is.

But when I turn back, the prince is gone.

Though his worrying words linger.

Could I skip the ball scheduled for that evening? Clem’s ill, and I could claim the same. It’s a tempting thought. But, with only twenty women left, my absence would be noted, and I’d rather not find out what would happen if anyone discovered I was lying. And I shouldn’t depend on Prince Roshan, either. I have to depend on myself. Which means buying myself time to figure out an escape plan that doesn’t get me killed.

If this ball is a culling challenge as well, I won’t buy time through being a wallflower. People are dying. And this so-called prophesized power that the prince is searching for is no longer gilded in civility.

If I am to survive, I need to be noticed. Curse. My. Luck.

With a determined breath, I stride to the massive armoire and pull Laleh’s special teal outfit from its sheath, my fingers gliding over the silky fabric. Both handmaidens practically vibrate with delight, though my heart is in my throat when they finish fastening the silk to my body. I look . . . not like me.

Off my body, the two-piece ensemble had been provocative enough. On my body, the garments cling to my ample curves like a slinky second skin. The beaded bodice hugs my chest, the embroidered neckline swooping down into wide belled sleeves that taper back to my wrists. The top itself leaves a swathe of skin at my hips exposed, grazing the jeweled waistband of pants that fall in sheer folds to the floor, where the voluminous material gathers into cuffs at my ankles. A delicate headpiece attached to a sheer silver-and-teal veil crowns my hair. Filigree bangles at my wrists and dainty slippers are the finishing touches.

Laleh would flaunt the hell out of this. On me it feels uncomfortable and unfamiliar, with far too much skin on display, but I am assured by my enthusiastic handmaidens that I am a vision and sure to catch Prince Javed’s attention. I swallow my discomfort. That’s the plan, even if I don’t like it. I glance longingly to where I’ve hidden my dagger beneath my mattress for safekeeping, but there’s no way I can conceal it underneath this filmy fabric.

My handmaidens escort me through the palace toward the western turret, passing through a gallery that has my neck craning. A pair of double doors are open to reveal a towering column of bookshelves, and I jerk to a stop. Is that the library? I move longingly toward it, wanting a better look, but one of my handmaidens coughs loudly, looking pointedly at me. With a sigh, I make a mental note of the location and quicken my steps.

We enter an enormous foyer with gilded marble pillars and two curving staircases flanking each side of the room. Carved likenesses of the royal family are on prominent display, though I notice one member is glaringly absent. Prince Roshan doesn’t appear to have his own bust. I shouldn’t feel a pulse of pity for him, but I do. I may be poor and the furthest thing from a princess, but I’ve always known the love and affection of family.

Lines of gorgeously garbed women ascend the stairs, and I dutifully follow until we reach the top, where the handmaidens bow and then take their leave. I squash down the small pulse of panic that I’m making an enormous mistake by drawing attention to myself and hold my head high. It’s one evening . . . all I have to do is make it through. The plan is to be noticed enough, but not too much. The idea of spending any actual time with the crown prince is nauseating.

Would he try to grope me in a dark corner?

I shake off my nerves as I reach the ballroom entrance.

“Lady Suraya?” I glance up at a handsome young man standing before me. “I am Lord Reza Turan of House Aldebaran, and I will escort you inside, if it pleases you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” I say.

After I am announced by the majordomo, Reza takes my arm to enter the massive chamber, and I try not to gape at the grandeur. Floor-to-ceiling gold-trimmed windows and massive oil paintings adorn the walls, with artfully crafted flowers and golden vines climbing the marble columns at each corner. Eight glittering chandeliers hang at precise intervals, reflecting off the intricately mirrored ceiling and wainscoting, and sending sparkling prisms of light over all the dancers. In rich, silk-draped alcoves, plush carpets and tufted furniture offer places to sit, and towering hand-carved statues border the perimeter.

It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before, and a part of me sighs in wonder. Laleh would absolutely love the splendor of it all.

A refreshments room opens off the main chamber, and the polished dancing floor takes up the middle. An orchestra seated at the far end of the room plays a lilting melody. Reluctantly impressed, my gaze wanders over the space and to all the beautifully dressed courtiers milling about. They must be nobles and representatives from the various houses. Most of the chosen, like myself, have handsome escorts—young aristocrats like Reza who appear to be part of the court.

“Shall we take a turn about the ballroom, Lady Suraya?” he asks me politely.

This would be the perfect way to be seen. Despite the knot of tension in my throat, I smile and nod. “That would be lovely.”

Like the perfect gentleman, Reza leads me on the outskirts of the ballroom floor, and I hold my head high as we amble through the crowd. All of this would almost be enchanting, if not for the undercurrent of tension and fear permeating the air.

While we weave through the sumptuously dressed people, I notice that attention is coming my way . . . deeply envious looks from some of the other remaining contestants; hot, lustful glances from their male counterparts; and an especially admiring one from Prince Javed himself, who is sitting on a raised dais. Clearly, my handmaidens—and Laleh—know the prince’s taste.

When our promenade is finally over, I breathe a sigh of relief. That was much harder than expected.

I thank Reza, who seems more than happy to be done with his duty, and settle myself into a quiet corner for a moment. I keep a careful eye on the crown prince’s movements. Despite the occasional heated look in my direction, he seems occupied conversing with other nobles and occasionally dancing with a few of the chosen. I sample some of the sweets being served on silver trays—custards, pies, chocolate-covered almonds, dates, cakes, truffles—each one more delectable than the last.

Well, at least if I die, it will be with a full, sated stomach.

Just make it through to the next round, Sura.

Whenever I notice Prince Javed beginning to veer toward me, I move backward into the shadows and skirt the periphery of the room to find another secluded spot, keeping us always at opposites. The point is to earn enough of his attention that I survive this round, but not so much of it that I have to interact with him. So far, my evasive measures seem to be working. Finishing the last morsel of my coconut cake, I discreetly lick the crumbs off my fingers and summon a nearby footman with an array of drinks.

“Try this,” a low, familiar voice says from behind me, waving the footman away.

“I’m starting to think you’re stalking me, Prince Roshan,” I say softly. “First the maze, then my balcony, and now dark corners of a ballroom.”

“Can you blame me?” he says, and I turn to face him.

Startled by the genuine warmth on the prince’s face, I stare at the glass he has offered me. “What is it?”

“Elderflower liqueur.”

I’m not much of a drinker—having seen too many patrons at the tavern under the influence, I prefer to be in control of my wits—but I take the glass. Maybe it will help take the edge off the dread riding my nerves.

Swirling the drink, I take a cautious sip, surprised at the pleasant, smooth taste. I watch him over the rim of the delicate flute, noticing that he is impeccably dressed for the evening as well. Like the crown prince, he’s garbed in a charcoal tunic and trousers, the dark fabric threaded through with silver. The wide decorative sash at his waist displays the Imperial House seal of the golden sun, crown, and wings. He looks incredibly handsome.

Desire tightens my chest, and I take another sip that turns into an indelicate gulp. A warm, buttery feeling spreads through me on the heels of the honeyed liqueur. “It’s not bad.”

It’s bloody delectable, and I need more of it.

“You seem to be in determined spirits, despite this cat-and-mouse dance you’re doing with Javed.”

I’m not surprise he has noticed. I pull a face. “This mouse wants to stay alive.”

“Keep those opinions to yourself, especially in here where the walls have ears.” His voice lowers, a hint of scorn in it. “This is Javed’s party, after all, and you are one of his chosen.”

“The invitation should have come with a warning—death highly probable,” I whisper recklessly, and take another deep draft. “What’s your professional royal opinion of my chances tonight? Will I make the cut?”

I immediately regret asking, as an impish look breaks across his face, making his dimple appear and one corner of his lips crook upward. My pulse stutters. Sands, what in the pits of Droon is in this drink? It’s turning my insides into jelly.

“Fishing for compliments, Lady Suraya?” he says.

“Forget it,” I mutter.

“Your light casts every other woman into the shade.”

“My light . . .” I swallow my snicker. “You princes and your flattery.”

“I’m a bastard, not a prince,” he says.

Hearing him call himself such is jarring. “I’m sorry,” I say sincerely, though I suspect it’s the liquor making me feel sorrier for him than usual.

“Don’t be,” he says. “I’m not. I get to do as I please without being encumbered by all the princely fanfare my esteemed brother so loves.”

“It doesn’t seem like you like him very much.”

“No. The feeling is mutual between my brother and me. You see, he thinks my place shouldn’t be in the palace. If he treats me like nothing, I become nothing.”

“But you are the king’s son, too.”

He shrugs. “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.”

“Where’s that from?” I ask, curious.

“A very old book.”

“You like books?” I blurt out.

He favors me with a sidelong perusal. “Does that surprise you, Lady Suraya? As far as I know, it’s not a crime to read.”

“No, it’s not, thank the heavens.” I peer up at him, astonished to have anything in common with this prince, bastard born or not, much less a shared affinity for books. “I just didn’t expect you of all people to openly admit a passion for reading, Your Highness.”

“I’m a man of many passions,” he says with a heated look that I desperately try to ignore and fail miserably when my body warms. “And I’m Roshan. My friends call me Ro.”

As a commoner, there’s no way I can address him by his given name or a nickname, even with his permission, so I wrinkle my nose. “You have friends?”

His eyes dance. “So vicious.”

“Why were you dressed like a servant that first day anyway? Got tired of having your hair brushed with jeweled combs and being hand-fed sweet rice pudding and nougat?”

He laughs. “Something like that. I wanted to see for myself what kind of women my brother had invited without the idolatry that comes with my station.”

“Idolatry?” I flick an eyebrow upward. “You’re pretty full of hot air for a non-prince.”

“It’s all that tasty rice pudding,” he says solemnly. “Goes to a man’s head.”

I’m enjoying our exchange so much that I can’t help smiling, even with the grim reality of my situation. Or maybe that’s the elderflower liqueur’s effect. A tiny voice insists that I should probably try harder to keep my wits about me, but another revels in the easy feeling of enjoying his company, my worries fading into the background. That’s the problem with alcohol: it creates a false sense of well-being.

My attention flicks to Helena, who is dancing with the crown prince. I wish he’d just pick her and get on with it. They’re perfectly suited to each other: calculating, brutal, and cold.

So unlike the surprising man beside me.

I peek up at him through my lashes, only to find his gaze intent on me, his full bottom lip snagged between his teeth. Ashes below, the things I could do to that lip. Arousal unspools through me, tightening my skin and curling down into my abdomen like liquid flame. That’s it. I’m never drinking again.

My heart thuds in my chest as he removes my nearly empty flute from my hand. His fingers are warm and strong. “Dance with me, my lady.”

The smarter side of me balks at the request while the stupid side is swooning. “Your Highness, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’m not the best dancer, and I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“It’s Roshan, and you could never embarrass me.”

I beg to differ, having watched the other women dipping and gliding about the room like so many colorful birds. Without a doubt, I’m going to look even more like a graceless ostrich among them. I glance up at the prince. “This is a Kaldarian court dance. I don’t know the steps.”

“Lucky for you, I am an excellent dancer,” he murmurs. “All you have to do is hold on to me and follow my lead.” His grin is irrepressible. Irresistible. “I live to rescue damsels in distress, you know.”

I laugh despite myself, despite the mild panic I feel when he guides me expertly to the edge of the ballroom floor, his palm warm against mine. I may not be a damsel, but my distress is gratingly real.

His other hand settles on my back, and warmth feathers over my skin as we maneuver into position and the music starts. My heart feels like it’s going to pound its way out of my rib cage, just from the press of his fingers . . . and the sensation of them gently guiding my body into movement. “Relax, Suraya. Let me lead,” he whispers.

Heat winds through me at his soft rasp, making my limbs go liquid as if all he has to do is speak for me to comply. Sands, this is going to be a starsdamned disaster if I can’t control myself.

Barely inches apart, I’m acutely aware of everything about him—his elegant grace, the coiled strength in his lean frame, and his crisp scent—as we twirl with the other dancers. I try to ignore the fact that my hand is clasped securely in his and the other is resting on the curve of his hard biceps. But the more I try not to think about the feel of the sleek bulge of muscles beneath his silk shirt, the more I have to force myself not to squeeze and sigh and run my greedy hands all over the front of him to search for more. Would the rest of his body be as firm? As sculpted?

Who knew I was the type to swoon over any man’s muscles? Men were always tearing their shirts off in the tavern, and I’d never had the desire to look twice or to be so handsy.

I glance up to find his amused gaze on mine as he expertly moves us in tune with the beat, and I scowl. “What?”

“You feel good, too.”

“You’re full of it,” I sputter, face burning with the force of a thousand suns. “You have no idea what I was thinking.”

A slow curl of his bottom lip does unspeakable things to me. “I can hazard a guess. You looked exactly as you did when you were eating dinner the other night, relishing each morsel and sucking the spices off your fingers with moans of delight.”

I didn’t think I could flush any further, but my entire face feels like it’s aflame at the knowledge that he’d seen me eating with such abandon. Or that I’d been ogling him the same way . . . with undisguised relish. “Well, you would be wrong, Your Highness. If you must know, I was thinking of wood-burrowing beetles and their impact on local vegetation.”

The prince barks out a loud laugh that draws the attention of the nearest couples. “I’ll have to get your expert opinion on that sometime.”

“I shall be happy to give it to you,” I reply with a sniff.

Note to self: research beetles indigenous to the capital city.

Despite my outrageous fibs, it takes every ounce of concentration to keep my spine locked and not flop into his arms like an overcooked noodle. I could blame the liqueur, but deep down I know it’s not the drink . . . it’s him.

I manage to hold my own, until the prince’s long fingers skim the bare flesh of my torso after a neat half-turn, and the touch of skin on skin drives away any sham of composure. Spidery ribbons of delicious heat unravel through me, making my vision swim and my lungs tighten, and I have to remind myself how my legs are supposed to work in tandem with the rest of me.

“You dance well, Your Highness,” I say in a desperate bid to distract myself.

“Will it kill you to say my name?”

“It might. Queen Morvarid won’t approve of such impertinence, and I’d like to keep my head.”

“I have a feeling you enjoy breaking the rules, Suraya Saab.”

He guides me into another turn, lifting a challenging brow, and I meet it without hesitating. “Only if the payoff is worth the risk.”

A blush warms my cheeks at my boldness, but his eyes light with pleasure as he pulls me into a skilled spin. Clearly, Prince Roshan is enjoying our verbal sparring—and our physical compatibility—as much as I am. As we twirl together for the final part of the dance, his warm breath grazing my ear, my body feels like it’s on the brink of a towering precipice. One more touch, one more heated graze, and I’ll tumble over the edge and shiver apart into a million unrecognizable pieces. Something of my precarious state must be visible in my gaze, because when Roshan meets my eyes, his breath catches and his pupils blow out, a slight tremor running through him as well.

Stars above, is it a thousand degrees in here?

When the dance comes to a close—finally—Roshan doesn’t immediately release me. Instead, he pulls me closer, fingers tightening . . . as if he can’t bear to let go. Mesmerized, I’m drowning in the turbulence of his eyes, in that sea of unguarded desire and something all too real, until his arms reluctantly loosen. “You are a dangerous woman.”

I stare at him with a racing heart, knowing the danger is very mutual. I take several breathless steps back, putting a healthy amount of space between us, and sink into a curtsy. “Thank you for the dance, Your Highness.”

“Roshan,” he insists.

I balk at the soft, deliberate command, suddenly conscious of our avid audience and the fact that we are the only ones left on the ballroom floor, locked in an apparent standoff. Not that that isn’t drawing more attention. And I can’t very well leave him there: it would cause even more of a scandal.

I give in and whisper with an ungracious huff, “Oh, very well, you overgrown toddler. Roshan. If anyone overhears and I get executed, that’s on you.”

“Not on my watch.”

“Why is it that on your watch I feel like I’m about to dive headfirst off a cliff?” I don’t hide my eye roll. “A very tall cliff with ugly, sharp rocks and a mountain of carnivorous beetles congregating at the bottom, waiting to consume my poor, dead carcass?”

He laughs but offers his elbow to me as we leave the floor. “I have to admit, I’m deeply fascinated by that imaginative brain of yours.”

“You wouldn’t be if you saw what it wants to do to you.”

My insides contract at the wicked quirk of that full mouth. “Is that so?” he asks in a voice like sun-warmed honey. Or maybe it’s just that stupidly befuddled brain of mine, thinking of honey and sunbathing and wicked princes.

“Definitely pain,” I say. “Maybe some torture.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he teases, and everything inside of me ignites again.

Those gold-flecked brown eyes meet mine, a barrage of emotions I can’t begin to separate warring in their depths. Ushering me to the side, he surveys the room and leans so close that I can smell the warm spice, iron, and bergamot scent of his soap. A hand lifts to sweep the side of my jaw, the feel of his fingers velvet soft on my skin. Silenced by the unexpected caress, I drag my gaze away from his, looking anywhere but at him.

He shouldn’t be touching me like this.

Looking at me like this.

But I don’t want him to stop.

“By the maker, I didn’t expect you,” he whispers. Breathless at the butterflies swarming my chest, I open my mouth to reply with something obnoxiously clever, but he beats me to it, the turnabout and urgency of his next words making my overheated blood turn to ice. “Before the evening is over, I’ll arrange for a portal back to Coban.”

I falter. Coban, yes. That’s what I want. Isn’t it?

I feel a sudden tension flood his body. I follow his gaze. He’s staring at the crown prince. Who is staring at us. Helena whispers something into his ear, and Prince Javed’s body goes preternaturally still. The singular focus of that unblinking, piercing gaze makes my breath fizzle.

Roshan’s jaw tightens as his brother makes a beeline toward us, directly through the dancers, leaving chaos and collisions in his wake. Conversation stalls and necks crane to see who has singled out the prince’s attention, and my heart triples its pace when he stops a foot away. His peculiar focus is indeed reminiscent of a cobra on the hunt for prey.

“Lady Suraya, you have been avoiding me all evening,” Prince Javed says softly with a disarming smile, completely ignoring his brother. The full effect of his charm is dazzling, but that smile goes nowhere near his eyes. Instead, they remain icy and watchful, the predator behind them alive and well. And unerringly focused. On me.

I suppress a shiver and force a coy smile. “Of course I haven’t, Your Highness.”

“I trust you are enjoying my ball and that my dear brother is not boring you to death.” He still doesn’t address Prince Roshan directly, though I feel him stiffen at my side.

“Yes, I am, thank you,” I reply. “And the prince has been most charming.”

“Has he?” Only then does Prince Javed glance to the man at my side, that ice-blue gaze narrowing with contempt. “There’s no accounting for taste, is there? Allow me to introduce you to my companions.”

I blink. Did he just insult me and his brother in the same breath?

I bite my tongue to keep from retorting as he introduces me to the four nobles with him, his hand sliding to cup my elbow. “And, of course, you know Lady Helena,” he goes on, gesturing to the woman at his side, whose eyes are poisoned daggers in my direction. “She told me something rather interesting, Lady Suraya. Perhaps you can shed some light upon it. That in the arena, you were in possession of a glowing blade,” he says, and my stomach free falls, panic flaring in every cell.

“Yes, obviously stolen,” she scoffs. “She’s a thief. Country rats aren’t allowed to own jādū-forged weapons.”

Roshan shifts at my side, but I don’t dare look at him, considering he knows the dagger is mine. I open my mouth to refute the accusation and close it. I won’t lie, not even to save my skin. The game is up.

I’m definitely going to die.

But the crown prince doesn’t call for any guards or for my head, only stares at me in ominous silence. After an eternity, in slow motion, he takes my limp hand and lifts it to his lips, flipping it at the last moment so my palm faces his mouth. Bending slowly, he presses a kiss to the heart of my palm. My heart climbs into my throat when cool lips graze my skin, the scrape of something wet making revulsion sour my stomach.

Did he just fucking lick me?

Prince Javed throws his head back and touches his tongue to the roof of his mouth as though tasting the most decadent wine. His throat works when he swallows, and he drops that serpentine gaze to mine. For a second, his eyes flash, and bloody tendrils seem to writhe in the whites, but I blink, and they’re gone.

Fuck! I need to get my fear and deranged imagination under control.

“You taste . . . like divinity.”

I only just manage to hide my revolted shudder as Javed’s hooded stare lifts and his jaw hardens, a horrid, exultant look spreading across his face when he straightens. I feel his fingers slithering down my forearm in a deliberate caress, before they slip into my clammy palm. Eyes glittering with fanatic heat, he yanks me away from Roshan’s side. In slow motion, he raises our joined hands above our shoulders.

“I have chosen,” he announces in a voice that makes all the chatter in the room come to an abrupt halt. “Suraya Saab shall be my bride.”

The declaration of ownership echoes in the hall like the clang of a death bell, and then the room breaks out in polite, lukewarm applause. Panic rises in me in a blinding wave. Did the prince just announce that he’s chosen me? My gaze crashes into Roshan’s furious stare, his lips a flat line and his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He looks like he’s on the verge of attacking his brother.

My eyes lift to my numb fingertips entrapped in Prince Javed’s tight grip, and I push through another smothering wave of revulsion. Without thinking, I snatch my hand from his and cradle it to my chest. Something protective rears inside of me as my palms heat. Without looking down, I fist them.

“No felicitations, brother?” the crown prince jeers. “I suppose I should thank you for finding her.”

Roshan doesn’t respond to his brother’s taunt, although a muscle hammers to life in his rigid jaw. He doesn’t look at me, but the tension in his body is a clear sign he’s hanging on to his composure by a thread.

“Of course not, brother,” he says in a dead voice. “I wish you—”

But the words are snatched from his lips when a tremendous explosion rocks the palace, slamming us all to the ground.

Chapter Eight

Dust and debris rain down from the ceiling as an army of palace guards swarms in to safeguard the royal family. I gasp for air, deafened and shell-shocked, and force my body to move to avoid being trampled by the herd of people trying to escape.

“The Dahaka!” someone shouts amid the screams as another ground-shaking blast makes my ears ring, this one closer than the last. A giant crack fissures along one of the walls. The ground rumbles, and I’m nearly thrown to my ass. Another quake makes me stumble, and I fall hard, knees buckling and elbows smacking to the floor. Agony ricochets through my bones, and I fight back tears of pain.

“Secure the girl,” Prince Javed roars, and I know without a doubt that he means me.

Dust fills the room in a thick cloud, making it hard to breathe. I can already smell the metallic taint of blood saturating the air. Before I can rise, hands grab me, drawing me back into the darkness. I struggle in earnest, my elbow slamming into hard, unyielding flesh.

“Enough, don’t fight, it’s me. Suraya, it’s me, Roshan.”

Relaxing, I nod, a frantic breath hissing through my teeth when he loosens his hold.

“Come with me. We don’t have much time,” he whispers as he moves along the wall and tugs me behind him. “I have a carriage ready at the south end of the city to take you to a portal. A runecaster loyal to me will be waiting. This is your chance. You have to go.”

“Go?” I stare at him, my mind whirling with terror as I force my feet to stop. “Go where? The prince knows where I’m from. I won’t put my family in danger by leading him right to them!”

“Then anywhere but here until you’re safe.” Roshan pulls us into a small alcove and shakes his head, his expression clouded. For a moment, I can’t help wondering what kind of court intrigue I’m caught up in, but I know that if it’s a choice between Javed and Roshan, I’d side with the younger son in a heartbeat. The way Javed had looked at me and licked my skin make my flesh crawl. I scrub my hand on my clothes as if I can scour his touch away.

“Why are you really doing this?” I ask. “Did you tell him about my dagger?”

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t betray your trust like that.”

Roshan steps closer, breaching the space between us, and my heart skips a beat. I can smell the warm scent of his skin, hear the harsh cadence of his breath, and time stands still for an eternal minute. His knuckles flutter in midair beside my cheek, and for a moment, I’m certain that he’s going to touch me as he had in the ballroom, but then his hand falls away at the last second, regret stealing over his features.

“Because Javed is dangerous.” Schooling his expression, Roshan doesn’t continue for a moment. “And I don’t want him to hurt you. He and the queen have designs—” He cuts off with a shallow growl at the sound of marching feet and blocks my body with his in the alcove.

“Designs on what?” I whisper after the guards go past. “Tell me the truth now or walk the fuck away.”

He grinds his teeth, and I can sense his frustration, his desire for us to keep moving. But I refuse to go one step without an explanation. “I told you. It’s a prophecy, an Elonian prophecy,” he says urgently. “About the one with magic from the stars.”

Goose bumps prickle my skin as my mouth falls open in utter disbelief. “The story of the Starkeeper? That’s no prophecy, it’s a children’s tale. A starsdamned fable.”

“Is it?” he says. Something in his voice stops me from scoffing.

“So what? Javed thinks the Starkeeper is one of the women here?”

“No, Suraya, he thinks that’s you. That’s why he chose you.” He reaches for my clenched palm and gently pries it open. The lines aren’t glowing, but my eyes trace them all the same. “Javed and the queen have been searching a long time for one wearing the marks of the Starkeeper.”

“Those are just regular palm lines,” I snarl, snatching my hand away.

“Not in the shape of a magi rune.”

At that, my mind folds in on itself.

When the first king of Oryndhr had proclaimed himself the only god-king a thousand years ago, revering any other had become heresy. The Order of the Magi—those born with akasha in their veins—had been rounded up and executed. The few who survived the king’s purge escaped into the Dustlands. Some say they were the first Scavs—heretics who ingested distilled jādū to become closer to the gods and only ended up addicted and twisted. As akasha waned, so did old beliefs, and the Order of the Magi died.

“I’m not a magi,” I whisper weakly.

Roshan touches my arm. “Come, we can’t be found here. We need to go.”

I nod in assent; he’d answered my questions, and I have no other options. I follow him along the narrow corridor to the servant stairs. We descend for endless minutes, until he comes to a stop at the entrance to a storage room. As far as I can tell, we’re back on ground level. The scent of baking bread hits my nose, which hints that we’re near the kitchens. A long table covered in bags of flour and grain splits the space in half. We thread our way quickly to the far end, where Roshan pushes open a door. Immediately, the stench of death and fire fills my nostrils, and I have to stop myself from recoiling back. Shouts and the sounds of artillery ring in my ears.

“We can go through the gardens to the castle wall,” he says in a low voice. “The carriage is close by, on the outskirts of the city, but I need to make sure we can get there in one piece first. Stay put until I come back. You’ll be safe enough here.”

“What about Clem?” I ask, clutching at his shirt. “My friend. She’ll be in the chosens’ quarters. She was sick tonight.”

A flash of something—awareness or unease—crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can make sense of it. “That side of the palace was undamaged. If she was there, she won’t have been hurt.”

“I can’t leave her.”

He nods. “I’ll see what I can do.” With that he vanishes into the chaos.

Adrenaline fading, I can only inhale and slump against the nearest wall, wrapping my arms about my knees. My brain is a mess of confusion and dread, and my heart feels like I’ve just run across the desert. I close my eyes and try to soothe my rattled senses, but my body flinches every time there’s the shudder of an explosion beyond the walls, and I start to wonder whether Roshan will make it back at all.

Just when I think I’ll go mad from waiting, the door cracks open and I jump to my feet, relief pouring through me.

But it’s the wrong prince who greets me.

Prince Javed closes the door behind him, his hands clasped behind his back. “Found you.” The two words are soft and ominous, making my flesh crawl.

My gaze flies to the door, but I know that there will be guards beyond it. My only escape is the narrow hallway at the other end of the room, but I have no idea where that leads.

He senses my thoughts, lunging toward me and grabbing my wrist. His tongue snakes out as if tasting the air or the memory of my skin.

“Tricky, tricky, the illusion suppressing the runes guarding your magic. I tasted the lie on your skin, you know.” His ice-cold, almost maniacal smile sends a rush of bile to my mouth.

“Magic?” I burst out in a panic. “I don’t have any magic. Or runes. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Let go. You’re hurting me.”

He exhales, cocking his head at me, greed in his gaze. “My mother said Nasrin was powerful, but to hide you like this within the runic wards of her own essence. Genius.”

I’m frozen at his words. Nasrin. That’s Mama’s name. “What are you talking about?” I grit my teeth and shove him with all the strength I can muster, but his grip on my arm is relentless.

“Fero will relish your fight,” he murmurs, pale stare glittering with avarice.

Fero? The old god of death? But my thoughts flip to pain as his fingernails dig in hard enough to puncture my skin. I scream in agony, and suddenly, the outer door bursts open on its hinges. Roshan is a blur as he slams bodily into his brother, dislodging his painful grip on my arm. Both men glare at each other as Roshan places himself between us.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands as four royal guards storm into the room behind him. Two of them are bloodied—Roshan’s doing, I gather—but they’re armed and we are outnumbered. Six more enter from the opposite corridor. Javed laughs and holds up a finger, making them halt.

“Claiming my future.”

“She’s not a prize to be taken, Javed, for whatever twisted game you and the queen are playing,” Roshan says, palms wide as he changes tactics, knowing our odds with the guards. “Let her go.”

But Javed’s smile is pure evil as he draws a dagger from the sheath at his waist. “As usual, you know nothing, brother. But having you here as well is simply too good a windfall to pass up. Restrain them both,” he orders the guards.

The guards grab Roshan by each arm, and one rests a blade across his neck. I move as if to help him, and another guard grabs me and yanks me back. I can only stare in mute horror as the crown prince steps forward. Lifting his blade, he cuts the shirt from his brother’s chest, drawing the dagger down slowly, a thin trail of blood welling in its wake. I see Roshan’s slight flinch, but he doesn’t make a sound. His fists are clenched at his side as Javed cuts again, a little more deeply this time, right above his brother’s heart. The wet strokes make a crude outline of the letter B.

“B for bastard.” Javed finishes with a flourish, digging the tip of the dagger in, and Roshan makes a guttural noise of pain as blood leaks from the wound.

“Please, don’t,” I beg.

Cruel eyes flick to me before sliding back to his brother. “What if I press a little harder here? What if this dagger slips between his ribs? It would be an accident, or better yet, we can say an assassin killed him. Another victim of the vicious Dahaka. That will set the houses in an uproar.”

“Don’t do this,” I plead, fear clouding my senses.

But Javed is nodding as if pleased with his plan and grips the hilt of the dagger. He signals to the guards holding Roshan and takes a few steps back. “Keep him still. I want him to see it coming.” Midstrike, he pauses with a thoughtful noise and turns to me, malice dancing in his gaze as he cocks his head. “On second thought, maybe my altruistic brother might enjoy hearing you whimper first.”

Roshan’s eyes fly to mine. Fight, run, they’re telling me, but I’m frozen.

The prince turns to point the dagger at my throat, his eyes fastening on my outfit and dropping lower. “That way we both get to enjoy the secrets of my little bride.”

The horrific intent sends raw panic bolting through me even as one hand reaches for me. I struggle, but the guard’s grip on me is unrelenting. Javed’s breath ghosts over my ear and I lose it.

“Stop!” I scream as dread and helpless fury boil up—a firestorm coalescing in my chest that makes the air in my lungs contract and my breath hiss through my teeth. Just like in the arena with the azdaha and after the prince’s announcement right before the explosion, my body heats. But this time it’s much worse, saturating every cell, arching my spine, and searing my skin as a white-hot fever floods my veins, and I’m burning, burning, burning.

It feels . . . unnatural, like something monstrous straining to get out.

To burst out.

Time slows, just like it had in the arena, and the staggering, portentous pressure in my chest intensifies. I gasp for air. A feeling that can only be described as something unfurling stretches inside of me . . . like a pair of fucking wings.

Fly, my little firebird.

The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere . . . and it’s so familiar, my knees nearly buckle. Mama? But then my mouth parts in a soundless scream as whatever monstrous winged creature is inside of me ignites, and suddenly, I can see it in my mind’s eye:

A firebird, just like the simurgh in mythology she so loved, made of something that resembles pure stardust. Its head shimmers between canine and human as it flexes its brilliant, multicolored birdlike body and undulates its enormous wings. I sense it connected to every inch of me, so gloriously powerful it takes my breath away.

Stars above, what is this? What . . . am I?

Every hair on my body stands on end as the simurgh studies my enemies through my eyes. Sharpened lion’s claws curl, wings snapping straight, as it delves into the well of my memory. I can feel it pondering the last few moments right before its energy begins to gather—a lightning bolt cracking across storm clouds. Raw power thunders through me, a feral, primal magic I can barely keep leashed. The beast in me wants vengeance. It’s thirsty for blood.

Everyone must die.

The guard holding me starts screaming. His shouts don’t last long as his body brightens and vaporizes to nothing but cinders. I gasp and look down at my arms. I’m glowing, the lines on my palms bright like incandescent, star-shaped constellations, the marks standing out in stark, bleached relief on my brown skin. Runic swirls in elaborate patterns climb my arms from wrists to elbows, and I feel an otherworldly force gather in my veins as if something suppressing me has finally been lifted.

Instinctively, I thrust my hands out, their silvery blaze almost blinding, and slam them into the guard restraining Roshan. Like the first, his body bursts and disintegrates into charred embers. A wide-eyed Roshan tumbles out of the way. I feel the power building again, and I don’t stop to think or to question—I’m operating in pure survival mode now.

The others are too far to touch, but that doesn’t deter the fiery simurgh stretching and beating its wings within me. My back bows, glowing ribbons spearing from my palms toward the middle of the room, where the remainder of the guards have surrounded the heir to the Oryndhr throne in a protective semicircle. Their bodies halt midmotion, shackled by the strange energy now pouring from me in gleaming, luminescent streams that would be beautiful if they weren’t so deadly.

Javed’s ice-blue gaze is pinned on me, his lips bared over his teeth. Anger, greed, and stark possession war in his eyes as his lips form words I don’t catch. Was this the magic he’d spoken of? It doesn’t feel like magic, it feels murderous, like something born in the pits of Droon. Something inhuman and hungry.

With a strangled gasp, I release my feeble control, watching in fascinated horror as the sizzling light slams the entire contingent into the far wall. No one rises, not even the prince caught in their midst. My entire body slumps as power and rage burn out like a weakened sandstorm, leaving me limp.

Oh sands, is the prince dead? Are they all dead?

I stare down in dread at the smoke rising from Prince Javed’s head and nearly vomit at the smell of charred flesh. The palms at my sides tingle, and I snatch them to my chest. “I killed the crown prince,” I whisper, terror seeping through my voice.

“He was going to hurt you,” Roshan says hoarsely. “You defended yourself.”

Trembling violently, I swallow hard and open my palms to him, the star-shaped marks there still faintly glowing, along with the mysterious symbols stamped across the ashen skin of my forearms. I meet Roshan’s eyes; fear and faint wonder are swirling in their depths. “Is this the Elonian prophecy you spoke of?” I whisper.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I promise you, we will figure it out together.” Without any trepidation, he reaches for me, his thumbs stroking the now cool centers of both palms before squeezing gently. “For now, we run, and don’t look back.”

*  *  *

When we leave the palace grounds and enter the capital city, it’s like stepping into a nightmare. The once colorful houses and bustling streets are a blackened, crumbling landscape. Bodies litter the rubble-strewn streets, and I almost gag, tears springing to my eyes. So much death. Barely an hour ago, these people had been alive.

Had the Dahaka strike been so ruthless? My nose clogs as I force the tears back, my legs shaking with each body I cross. I follow Roshan in a daze through the smoking remains of the city. Tears tighten my throat as we weave through a half dozen more collapsing buildings and dead bodies, Imperial House soldiers and Dahaka alike. The loss is senseless.

Eventually, Roshan pauses and stoops, and I avert my gaze, retching helplessly as he drags two bodies to the side, one no bigger than a boy.

“What are you doing?”

“The carriage is just past that hill,” Roshan says, his voice low. “Put these on.”

I stare weakly at the bloodstained gear he’s peeled off the two dead soldiers and recoil, fresh nausea pooling in my belly. He sees my expression, and his mouth tightens.

“The Dahaka are still here. Our only chance of escape if we get caught is to pretend that we’re with them. Get changed. We don’t have much time.”

Tears stream from my eyes. “I can’t do this.”

“You have no choice if you want to live.”

I know he’s right, but it doesn’t stop me from hating every second of it. I try not to think of the dead boy, but my eyes still sting with sorrow. I strip off my ragged silk trousers and tattered slippers and stiffly pull on the scuffed underleathers, fasten the carbon-plated armor, and buckle the calf-high boots that are a full size too big. As I stare at the ruined teal fabric I think of Laleh. It seems like forever ago that I was celebrating with her, and now here I am, running for my life.

“Take this,” Roshan says, and hands me a sheathed dagger. Not just any blade, my blade, with its golden simurgh pommel. The symbolic irony is not lost on me. It’s hard not to make the connection between my dagger and the creature I’d envisioned inside of me, but I ignore it.

Dumbfounded, I stare at it. “Where did you get this?” I whisper.

“In your chambers after I went to find your friend. All the rooms were empty. She wasn’t there.” My heart sinks at that, but I know Clem is smart. She would have found a way to be safe. Roshan taps my closed fist over the dagger. “You might want to rethink your hiding places next time. Under the mattress was the first place I looked.”

“Thank you,” I say, and he ducks his head with a nod. Although I have no idea why he’d snatched up my dagger, I’m glad. It’s a reminder of home. Of my mother. Of who I am. Suraya Saab. Daughter of Hassan and Nasrin Saab. Niece. Bladesmith. Friend. With shaking fingers, I hook it to my belt, its familiar weight an instant comfort.

“Over there,” he says after a few more minutes of hurrying down a series of side streets. He points to a waiting carriage with no small amount of relief.

A plain black open coach sits in the shadow of a building in the distance. The area around the carriage is deserted, but our approach is cautious. The Dahaka are stealthy and deadly, and the last thing we need is to run into any of them. Or any more royal guards, for that matter. But luck is with us, it seems. We make it undetected to the carriage. The soft whinny of the horses inside the nearby stable makes me jump.

“Get in and stay down,” he tells me. “I’ll get a horse.”

Breathing a sigh of numb relief, I do as he says, crouching down and trying to calm my erratic breathing. My head is pounding, and as the seconds tick by, the ache only gets worse. Roshan has been gone only a handful of minutes at most, but it seems like forever. Where is he?

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” a voice drawls. A voice that isn’t Roshan’s.

Fuck, I had thanked our sandsdamned luck too soon.

Something sharp jams up against my nape, and I turn slightly to catch the end of a thin blade, held by a man, his face half covered by a dark mask. I wince as the steel bites into my skin.

A second cloaked figure emerges from the gloom of the stables, a similar knife pressed into Roshan’s side. A rush of heat engulfs my body and I fist my hands. But as the prince’s eyes meet mine, he shakes his head imperceptibly.

I bite back a hysterical laugh. Does he assume I have any inkling of control? Because I don’t. My hands are weapons of unholy destruction and there’s no off lever. There’s no flaming mercy lever. No wonder mortal danger had been Javed’s discovery tactic—this magic takes no prisoners in defending itself. And a blade at my throat is definitely a threat.

My breathing accelerates as panic sets in, acting as fuel to the gathering wildfire. I remember how the guards evaporated at the touch of my power, and my heart beats even faster. I think of the fallen guards and the dead boy whose gear I’m wearing and let out a wild sob. I don’t want to hurt anyone else, I don’t, I can’t . . .

“Suraya.”

The whispered name filters through the incendiary haze in my brain, and I meet Roshan’s gaze. Desperate, I focus on him—on those steady brown eyes and the measured cadence of his breathing in the slow rise and fall of his chest. I mimic it.

In and out, in and then out again. Slow. Calm.

Closing my eyes, I turn my focus inward. I think about Coban and my workshop. My mother. My father. Amma. Laleh. I think of the warm desert sand between my toes, of breathtaking sunrises and glorious sunsets, of my father’s terrible jokes and my aunt’s cooking. I think of my mother’s hugs, Laleh’s quirky fashions, and nights spent sleeping outdoors under the stars. I think about Clem and her unguarded offer of friendship . . . a small beacon of light in this hellscape.

And finally, finally, I feel the frenzied energy start to lessen enough for me to tamp it down and rein it in. The old crone from behind the inn suddenly comes to mind, and I shudder as I recall the swipe of her fingertip on my palm. The fortune teller’s words thrum to my slowing heartbeat: Not yet awakened, it slumbers sound. The fates will wait until they are called. Where it walks, death follows.

Well, whatever it is, it’s bloody wide awake now.

Chapter Nine

God of Night

“She is more powerful than we ever imagined.”

My teeth press together as I groan at the unwelcome voice. I knew Vena would come eventually. It was only a matter of time, despite my threats. The guardian is persistent, I’ll give her that. It doesn’t lessen my displeasure, however.

“And that concerns me how?” I growl without turning around.

“Her magic is great but volatile,” the guardian says. “She needs a tether or Oryndhr will be lost. Balance is a necessity, Darrius.”

Clearly, Vena has not lost her flair for the melodramatic. While it was amusing when directed elsewhere, I resent it now, especially as I detect judgment in her tone. As if I somehow have been derelict in my duty. “I do not care about a cursed realm that renounced their devotion to the gods. My duty is here not her, my fucking father saw to that,” I bite out with enough force that I can feel the old guardian flinch. “Now begone, crone, my patience is at an end!”

I sense her irritation, but I do not care. I do not answer to the Royal Stars.

The flavor of salted honey blooms on my tongue, and I quell the instant clamor of the darkness humming a thunderous chant in my veins. My shadows might crave the star in their night sky, but I cannot afford to be weak . . . not now.

Not ever.

Chapter Ten

My breaths come in shallow bursts, the feeling of sentience crawling beneath my skin almost too strange to bear. Has it been inside of me all this time? Slumbering like the crone had said? Though the creature has calmed—thank the stars, or perhaps not, since they are to blame for all of this magic in the first place—I can still feel its power swirling like a restless tide.

Watching and waiting . . .

“We’re on your side,” I hear Roshan say, once he’s sure that I have myself under control. He gestures to his uniform and the rank stripe on his arm. “New cadets who got separated from our unit.”

“Which unit?” the man behind me says.

“Redpoint,” Roshan says confidently, and I frown at the ready reply. How does he know what to say? The answer is immediate: he’s a prince with an army of intelligence behind him—of course he would be familiar with the crown’s biggest enemy.

“Under Captain Swift?”

Roshan lifts his brows with cool composure. “Captain Sattari, actually.”

After a moment, the man beside him spits and lowers his weapon. “Good. You can explain what happened to the rest of your unit to him. And if you’re lying . . . well, we’ll be in the middle of the Dustlands, and the Scavs love fresh meat . . .” His smile is ugly as he trails off, his meaning clear: if we aren’t who we say we are, we’re Scav food.

He gestures for Roshan to join me, and I exhale in relief while the man behind me disappears into the stables to procure a horse. Once the mare is bridled and hitched, the carriage jerks forward at a rough pace, and soon the smoking citadel disappears from view.

Roshan and I sit on the back bench under the watchful eye of one of the men while the other drives. They might believe us—but they’re not stupid enough to take chances.

I have to admit, the uniforms had been a lucky touch. Without them, it would have been a lot harder to convince the men we’re with the rebellion. It’s a good cover, one that will hopefully keep us from being separated if our captors don’t decide to kill and dump us in the Scav-ridden Dustlands.

Roshan reaches over and briefly squeezes my hand as we sit in silence. “What do you think is going to happen to us?” I whisper.

Shadowed brown eyes meet mine. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Will they execute us? Or leave us out here?” My heart pounds as my throat tightens. Whatever is inside me hasn’t abated; it’s only biding its time. I clench my fists together as I feel my palms tingle. “I’m scared. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Roshan sidles closer on the seat. “You won’t. I’m here. We’ll get through this together.” I stare at him. Something flashes across his face that looks strangely like contrition, or maybe it’s regret that we’re now trapped here. He glances up. Neither of the men is looking at us.

Gentle fingers lift to brush the hair out of my face. The touch is oddly tender, and I lean into it, desperate for anything to counter my internal paralysis. The soft strokes over my hair soothe my fear.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“I feel like I can’t breathe,” I whisper. “Like I can’t get any air into my lungs no matter what I do.”

“You’re in delayed shock. Here, let me.”

To my surprise, he shifts noiselessly and pulls me between the bands of his arms, nearly wrapping his whole upper body around me. My body tenses at the feel of him enveloping me, but after a moment, I relax, my face resting against his firm chest. Roshan is all sinewy planes and sculpted contours, and I fit perfectly against him, my softer curves melting into his harder angles. His heartbeat is slow and steady beneath my cheek.

Solid. Comforting.

“Slow your breathing,” he instructs. “Start at your toes and connect to each muscle in your body as you work your way up.”

My hands lift to steal around his waist as I do as he says. The rhythmic pulse beneath me accelerates, and his arms cinch tighter, his head dropping down to rest on mine until I’m practically blanketed by him. Cocooned in safety. My heart is battering my rib cage so hard, I’m surprised he can’t feel it. Or maybe he can.

After what seems like an eternity, Roshan tips my chin up, his thumb brushing my jaw. “Better?”

Breaking the connection, I sigh softly. “Much. Thank you. I needed that.”

“You’re welcome.” With an indecipherable look, he shifts away to sit alongside me once more, and I miss the loss of his strength more than I care to admit. “Try to meditate if you can. Calm your mind. If they were going to kill us, they would have already. We’re safe for now, I promise. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

When Roshan inhales deeply and his eyelids flutter shut, I try to do the same. But when I close my eyes, all I see is the soldiers disintegrating under my power. I see the dead crown prince of Oryndhr. They fly open again, and I peer at the barren earth around us and worry that we’re heading to our deaths. Restless, I shift my gaze to my palms instead.

I trace the odd shape of the mark on my left hand. I can see the rune so clearly now, almost like a five-pointed star. The one on my right is nearly identical, its edges pale and shimmering. They’ve never been this visible before, but then again, I’ve never wielded magic. At the stroke of my fingertip, the star starts to glow with a luminous milky color.

“Setareh sar lokkar.”

The familiar voice is a croak, and when I look up, instead of seeing the men in the driving seat, the hunched crone with the starlight eyes has taken their place on the bench opposite me. I blink rapidly, but the old woman is still there, staring at me.

“Where did you come from?” I ask wildly. “Who are you?”

Brilliant eyes meet mine. She cocks her head to the side, her finger tracing an invisible path in the air. “The stars have spoken, and one of their own awakens. Flee, child, flee. For death travels in your wake.”

Frustrated, I bare my teeth. “Stop speaking in riddles and tell me what I am.”

“You are the final falling star. The supernova. The bitter, beautiful end.”

“I don’t know what any of that horseshit means,” I snap. Fuck, can’t diviners say anything in a normal, ordinary way? I stand, closing the distance between us. “What in the rotten pits of Droon am I?”

“Servant of the star,” the old woman replies, her eyes burning bright. “But you must become its master, Starkeeper.”

That word. It makes a bone-deep shiver ripple through me, giving a strange credence to Roshan’s prophecy. I move toward her. My fingers reach for her shoulders, wanting to rattle some sense out of her, but instead they close upon a thick very male neck.

Reality is like a shock of ice-cold water. My eyes widen as the soldier I’d grabbed shouts and elbows me backward. Roshan lurches awake, but a vicious kick from the man has him crashing back into the seat. I hear him groan as the sharp tang of blood fills the air, but I can’t take my eyes off my attacker, who now has his blade in hand. “Crazy bitch, you’re dead.”

“Stop, I’m sorry,” I gasp, twisting in the small compartment and wondering if my mind has finally given up. “Where’s the old woman?”

“Are you sick?” he yells, glaring at me. “Droonish brain fever?”

“No! There was a woman . . . a crone.”

But there’s no evidence of anyone else but the four of us here. The man only growls as his partner steers the coach to a wild stop and leaps from the driver’s seat. Dimly, I see Roshan spring from the carriage, but my brain is still confused, my body slow and uncoordinated.

“I knew we should have killed you,” the soldier snarls.

Heat surges to my palms, but I force it back. Lunging forward, I use the bench for leverage and jab him in the throat with my knuckles. His head snaps back, but he’s bigger than me and quick. He vaults easily over the front lip of the coach, and his kick punches into my gut, sending my breath emptying out in a painful whoosh. I wheeze for breath, and all I see is his ugly face as he straddles me and holds me down.

I block his attacks as best as I can, but as he presses down, stars blink across my vision and pain flowers in every vulnerable spot he connects with. I won’t last much longer at this rate. Nor will he, I realize, as my body starts to fill with whorls of violent energy.

Oh, flaming sands, no.

Voices trickle through the haze, and then suddenly the man’s weight is dragged off my chest. Moments later, Roshan’s bloodied face fades in and out of the blackened edges of my vision. I force myself to calm, sucking great gulps of cooling air into my aching lungs and focusing on memories of my family.

Better. My teeth feel loose and my ribs ache, but I’m alive.

I blink and turn my head slowly, looking toward the prince. “Roshan, you’re bleeding,” I say hoarsely.

“It’s worse than it looks,” he says, but I can hear the pain in his voice. “You’re safe. The men can’t hurt you.”

“Are they dead?” I whisper.

His lips flatten, and he doesn’t answer. If it’s a choice between them or us, I’d rather it be them.

My gaze flicks to my open palms. The lines there—heart, head, life, and fate—look nondescript and ordinary.

Starkeeper, the crone had called me. More like star-killer.

Still, something sizzles to life along the inside of my skin as if even the name carries power.

Roshan’s concerned gaze collides with mine as he lifts me to the bench and scans me for injuries, but though my beaten body screams in pain, thankfully, I’m not bleeding out anywhere.

“What happened, Suraya? Why did you attack him? Did he say something to you?”

“I didn’t attack him,” I blurt out, and hesitate. He’s going to think I’m foolish or irrational, but then I shake my head—after all, he’s also seen me vaporize people with light from my bare hands. “He didn’t say anything. It was me. I thought . . . he was someone else. I mean, I saw someone else, sitting opposite us.”

He frowns. “Who?”

“One minute, it was an empty seat,” I say, searching for the right words, “and the next it was an old crone going on about the stars and my destiny. I must have imagined it or . . . or hallucinated, because the next thing I know, I was in the man’s face and his fingers were clamped around my throat.”

“It was a vision?”

I swallow hard and nod. “She called me the Starkeeper, too.”

Roshan stares, and the stark look on his face makes me quake inside, almost as if, until that very moment, he hadn’t truly believed the validity of the prophecy himself. His gaze falls to my outstretched hands, and I snatch them back to fold my arms across my chest, tucking the damnable things out of sight in my armpits.

“So it is you . . .” he begins.

“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong,” I interject harshly, shaking my head. “I’m not that. I can’t be that.”

Without replying, he reaches out, his fingers sketching a trail down my forearm to my wrist. The pads of his fingers are warm to the touch and make a shiver chase up my skin. Gently, he unfolds each of my arms. He doesn’t touch my palm but cradles the back of my left hand in his and lifts it between us. His eyes travel the crisscrossing lines there. “How else do you explain these and what you can do? That was magic, Suraya. You were born with akasha in your blood.”

We stare at each other in fraught silence.

He waits for me to say something, but my heart has climbed into my throat, throttling any ability to speak. “I’ve only ever heard the word Starkeeper in the story my mother told me, just like yours did,” he says after a few moments. “He was the first in the Order of the Magi.”

I exhale hard. “I’m not a fucking magi, Roshan. The Order of the Magi is extinct. Killed off by your ancestor. Akasha doesn’t exist anymore, at least not inside human bodies in Oryndhr!”

“Then how do you explain what you can do? Or those markings?” He eyes me, a pointed gaze falling to my forearms where the silvery inscriptions had glowed. All that remains now is faint script like pale vines.

“Droonish brain fever?”

My weak joke falls flat. I falter for a second, recalling what Javed had said about an illusion and my mother’s protective runes. Had she somehow suppressed the . . . thing . . . inside of me? But how? Mama had also been . . . no one. The memory of Amma’s furtive words about her sister’s protections comes back to haunt me. Maybe she had akasha, too, and whatever she’d done to safeguard me, the cost had been steep. And now, I’m exposed.

“You said this was all planned,” I say, remembering how I’d tried to figure out the rhyme or reason behind the selection. “How did Javed decide who to invite?”

“The invitations went out to women with very specific birth charts.”

I blink. Birth charts are the astrological guides created when children are born. My mother had shown me mine. At birth, the position of the stars, the moon, and the sun foretell a person’s future. Thousands of years ago, seers and wise men used them to translate the divine intentions of the gods. Like chiromancy, they predicted facets of life, marriage, work, dharma, and karma.

However, no two people could have the exact same chart.

I exhale a weak breath. “What do the birth charts have to do with it? Every woman invited would have a different one.”

“The sidereal zodiac would have shown the constellations at a precise moment in time when the Starkeeper’s soul ignited. The chosen had to be of a certain age, born on the night of a blood moon twenty-five years ago.” He lets out a slow exhale. “They’re marked by the magic of the four Royal Stars. Like your runes.”

I feel cold, my breath stuttering. Birth records wouldn’t have been hard to get, especially for someone like the prince. “In Kaldari, Javed said the queen knew someone powerful had cast an illusion on me. He said my mother’s name.”

“Nasrin,” Roshan says softly. “She would have been a magi, too.”

I slump back onto the seat and shake my head over and over, even though I’d pondered the same a minute ago. It’s too much. “No. She was normal and wary of jādū crystals. Magicless like everyone else in the realm.”

“It’s a matrilineal trait, Suraya.”

Was that why my parents had left Kaldari? My head is swimming. If my mother had been a magi, wouldn’t she have been able to heal herself when she was sick? Wouldn’t I have known? I desperately wish my father and Amma were here, so I could ask them the questions racing through my brain and demand they tell me the truth.

An icy shiver snatches me in its grasp. Javed also invoked Fero’s name when he’d spoken of the magic. The ancient god of death. I recall Cyrill’s ranting words in the inn. His warnings about the crown prince seem so long ago. Had he been right all along? Is Javed secretly an arcanist, worshipping old gods?

“What happened to the original Starkeeper?” I ask finally.

Roshan lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Some say the Royal Stars reclaimed him. Others say that he still lives, watching over the fate of the realm, waiting for when he”—he glances at me—“or she is needed again. Other stories claim that he married a mortal and lived out his days in peace.” His eyes hold mine. “I’ve heard it told that descendants from that union received his gifts, but they were never forced to awaken.” Roshan grasps both my palms without hesitation. His fingers interlace with mine, and I catch my breath at the significance—the innate trust—of the action. Even if I haven’t admitted to trusting him, he’s showing that he trusts me. “Until now. Until you, Suraya.”

The crone’s omen pounds a deathly staccato in my head: Not yet awakened . . . The fates will wait until they are called.

Roshan’s voice is a whisper. “Sometimes we have to believe the illogical. Even if the stories aren’t real or you don’t believe in old magic, you have a gift, Suraya, one that can be used to defend or to destroy. If the queen gets her hands on it, you know what path she will take.”

As much as it’s hard to believe that I am something other, he’s not wrong about the queen. Now that her son is dead, she’ll want revenge . . . and with the entire imperial army at her command, there’s nowhere my family and loved ones can hide.

I have to protect them. So that means I’m going to have to figure out what this magic can do. For my sake, for my family’s sake . . . and for all the innocent people in Oryndhr. The only way to fight against a powerful force is to become a powerful force.

“Can I trust you, Roshan?” I ask, not hiding my fears that he, too, might turn on me.

I’m not sure whether I imagine the infinitesimal beat of something—hesitation or concern or something else—but he nods. “Yes.”

“What do we do now?”

He stares at me, eyes shadowed, but stands to dust his hands on his uniform. “We keep going and find the Dahaka. They’re our best bet to stay safe.”

My shock is written all over me—that’s the last thing I expected him to say, not after they killed so many of his people. Not after two of them just tried to kill us. “Why? They’re the enemy.”

Face solemn, Roshan tilts his head. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

I suppose that might be true to a point. But I’m not sure it’s logic I like.

“There’s nothing out here,” I say, scanning the red-earthed wasteland in despair.

He observes the sky. “The men who took us were heading north. Let’s continue that way. It’s better than going back.”

Roshan grabs the reins, and I join him on the driver’s bench. Thank the heavens the horse is still attached by its bridle and hadn’t bolted when we’d tumbled off the coach. “Rest if you can,” he tells me. “Do the breathing and relaxation exercises I showed you.”

I comply, working my muscles starting with my toes, and eventually, I’m lulled by the golden landscape and the sound of the carriage. It seems like hours have passed, but in truth it’s less than an hour before Roshan starts to slow. Noises filter toward us. Blinking the grit from my eyes, I swallow a gasp as we crest the next rise.

A dozen armed men on horseback surround a shimmering portal that’s five times the size of the one that brought me to Kaldari. My stomach tightens at the flag bearing the image of a jagged lightning bolt on a red sphere flying high. That’s no ordinary flag—it’s the symbol of the Dahaka fortress, the Indraloka, named after the heaven of the gods.

I bite my lip hard, the calm I found on the drive evaporating under the wild thrashing of my heart. My stomach starts to heave, the idea of willingly going to the Dahaka making me nauseated. I think about the bodies in the capital city and dry heave. They’re fucking killers! What in the flaming pits of Droon have we gotten ourselves into?

By the time the carriage rolls to a stop, my entire body is snapped tight with nerves. They’re going to see right through us! I have no doubt that these Dahaka will be trained, ruthless soldiers, ready to slit our throats at the slightest provocation.

“Roshan,” I exhale shakily, and snatch his hand without thinking.

“Trust me,” he whispers. “Take this.” He hands me a circular medallion. When he sees my expression, he shrugs. “Those two men had them. It’s an identification marker, I think.”

I take it and drape it around my neck. Panic tastes like ash as we descend from the coach. Who knows where this portal leads? I mean, it goes to the Indraloka base, but where exactly is that? Jaxx? Eloni? Somewhere beyond the known realm, like the place where Javed’s captured azdaha is from? We’ve all heard stories about the monsters that infest the distant lands over the Barrin Mountains to the north . . . stories of mythical beasts that prey on people.

What if I pass through this portal and can never return home? I wonder if Papa, Amma, and Laleh have heard about the attack on the palace by now. Will they believe I’m dead? The only place I want to go is home . . . not wherever this goes.

Every instinct in me is screaming at me to turn and flee, but I know the minute I do that I’ll be dead. These silver-armored guards mean business. Roshan’s fingers graze my elbow in silent reassurance. The men acknowledge us with grim faces, eyes dropping to the medallions we both wear. For a moment, I feel as though they can see right through us, but they simply wave us forward without any fanfare. I can’t believe our luck!

I start moving, but Roshan pauses to say something to a soldier with several bands around his arm, presumably denoting his position. The man gives a brief nod.

“Go, I’m right behind you,” Roshan says in a low voice.

“What did you say to him?” I whisper back, curious.

“A convincing lie about who we are. Go, Suraya, before they change their minds.”

With a shallow breath, I close my eyes and step through the portal. As before, a sticky feeling washes over my skin, and there’s a slight swell of pressure on my flesh before it’s gone.

I open my eyes, and I’ve stepped into what looks like an enormous bunker. It’s full of armed men and women clad in the same armor I’m currently wearing.

Roshan steps out of the portal beside me, and we share a quick glance.

We’re in enemy territory now.

Chapter Eleven

I jolt awake, but the darkness is thick and swarming with shadows.

Familiar shadows.

Twisting in the rough-worn sheets that scratch against my skin, I shift between sleep and wakefulness. Or maybe I’m not truly awake at all. I must be dreaming, but it feels as though I’m conscious, because I can feel the prickle of gooseflesh spreading over my skin and the warmth pooling in my chest and lower.

Like a dream within a dream.

My heart is pounding, and a fine sheen of sweat covers my face. I glance down to the edge of the bed where the gathering darkness looks deeper than in the rest of the room. Swirling layers of midnight and onyx transfix my gaze as a figure emerges. Ethereal and magical, the presence is large, over six and a half feet and shaped like a man, but I’m not afraid. Not with him.

The shadow doesn’t move, but I can feel that deeply familiar, powerful stare watching me as I lie still, canvassing every inch of my bared body that has wrestled free of the sheets. But there’s no worry in me, other than a strange sensation of restless impatience.

“You’re here,” I hear myself say.

I’m always here. The words are multilayered, their gravelly cadence making my nipples peak beneath my thin sleep shirt, and my thighs press helplessly together. Unable to help myself, I skim my fingertips over my sides where my sleep shirt has ridden upward, the graze against my belly making me whimper.

“Why?” I ask breathily.

We don’t like when you’re afraid.

We? Dark wisps burst apart and then come back together, their presence almost as agitated as I feel inside. I’m hot and fevered . . . and by extension, they are, too. My fingers toy with the edge of my undergarments, and I sense rather than see the shadow move forward. If I squint, I can just make out features, though they dance in and out of focus.

I know it’s a dream, but something about it feels unusually intense.

“Show yourself,” I whisper.

Gleaming depthless eyes like shards of obsidian, slashes for cheekbones, and a cruel, hard mouth take shape. Moon-kissed locks frame the most mesmerizing face I’ve ever seen. His shoulders are broad, the contour of tattooed muscles over a powerful body, leading down to trim hips and . . . fuck. I swallow hard, my thighs instantly going slick.

Dream lover is naked and wants me to see it.

An exhilarated laugh slips out of me. Of course he does. This is my dream. The flash of the features I’d seen definitely hadn’t been Roshan’s—Thank you, subconscious; no need to encourage infatuation with someone real—but the body is close to what I’ve imagined his to be. All stacked muscles, lean sinew, and long limbs. Not to mention the tool of sensual destruction between those thick legs that makes me liquid with desire.

Shadows graze over my ankles and slide up my calves. Inky tendrils touch everywhere, every inch of skin, every dip and every curve, making my body shiver with need. He knows exactly where to touch and by the time my shadow lover hovers directly over me, I’m a whimpering mess. My eyes flutter shut.

Look at me. The dark command reverberates over my sensitized skin, even as cool shadows slip under my shirt and flutter against my tight, aching breasts.

As I comply, the darkness coalesces into a dense shape, powerful arms bracketing either side of my quaking body. The shine of silvery hair, longer than mine, catches my eye again, but it’s gone just as quickly. Flickers of his brutally handsome face appear and disappear—winged eyebrows and midnight eyes staring down at me over a bold nose and thin but sculpted lips, bracketed by a jawline that could cut glass. He’s fucking beautiful. The air fizzles in my lungs.

For a moment, I wonder if this is truly a dream and not some lucid hallucination. Like the crone in the carriage . . . another bored deity toying with me somehow, but I can’t bring myself to care one way or another. I want more of whatever this is.

Boldly, I reach up to touch that granite jaw, but when I do, there’s nothing there but a phantom sensation of mist on my fingertips. Those thin lips curl as if my touch is pleasurable, nostrils flaring as he drinks me in with an intensity that leaves me breathless. A shadowed hand drifts upward to rest on my throat, pinning me in place. My entire awareness narrows to that evanescent point of contact.

Are you afraid, Starbright?

“No,” I say, the soft nickname at odds with the multilayered gravel of his voice.

You should be.

The echo is much too similar to the terrifying warning I’d heard in the alley behind the tavern in Coban, and I bolt awake for real this time in my new quarters, eyes flying open as I gasp for breath.

I’m alone in my tiny chamber, no corporeal male-bodied shadows in sight.

Fuck.

I can’t even get distracted in my dreams.

Growling, I exhale and flop back down onto the mattress in a state of complete frustration. My body is on edge and my brain is all over the place. My thighs feel slippery, and I debate sliding a hand downward to finish what I’d started. It wouldn’t take much—but now that I’m awake, I’d definitely be picturing the prince’s face.

Whenever I think of Roshan, it’s undeniably thrilling. He’s real and gorgeous. Then my dream lover appears and takes over, and that feels elemental, something much deeper than any mere fantasy. He’s safe. Or at least it seems that way. Perhaps there’s darkness in my own soul and that’s why I dream of it—of him—so clearly.

My king of night.

Or maybe the shadow is the metaphor, and the manifestation of him means that I’m scared of what being with Roshan would entail. I let out an aggravated snarl and roll my eyes. You’re thinking about this way too much, you probably need to just bang the prince and get it over with.

If only it were so easy. I’d wager that the last thing on Roshan’s mind is sex. He’s much too focused on keeping us safe and eventually getting us out of here in one piece.

Despite the odds, the medallions we’d stolen had worked like a charm once we’d come through the portal. Those men who’d captured us must have been in the upper echelons of the commander’s circle, because no one had questioned Roshan’s claims, and neither of us was going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Who knows how long our fortune might last?

Because as it turns out, the Indraloka base isn’t the main Dahaka stronghold at all.

Apparently, the real fortress is located in the tiny city called Nyriell that lies near the northernmost tip of Oryndhr, at the foot of an impassable mountain range. The terrain there is unpredictable, the area plagued with drought and acid rain, which is why no one is foolish enough to venture there. Except for the Dahaka, clearly.

Roshan and I had been assigned crew quarters on one of the upper levels of the well-guarded bunker. My new chamber is spare, with a cot on one end, a shelved workspace on the other, and a water closet in the corner. A built-in locker along the third wall includes a few pairs of bland charcoal-colored jumpsuits.

Sliding from the bed, I undress and wash in the tiny water closet. The water is rationed, so I’m not surprised when the trickle from the pipes starts to lessen, but it’s still enough to cool my overheated libido.

I run a comb through my hair and divide the mass over my scalp into two tight braids. There are more strands of white on the left side, I realize. But they say stress can cause graying—in which case, I’m surprised my whole head isn’t leached of color. I smooth them down with a scowl and then chastise myself for being vain when I should be grateful to be alive.

I dress and head down to the small training area in the bunker. It’s not empty. Roshan is there, pulverizing a boxing bag with a ruthless right-hook, left-jab combination, his body drenched in perspiration and his vest clinging to his lean, muscular frame. Damp curls hang over his brow, his face flushed with exertion.

“Morning,” I say, my traitorous pulse kicking up a notch at the sight of all that glistening skin and the brain-smelting sight of Roshan’s soaked, honed body. Stars, can’t a girl catch a sandsdamned break?

He half grunts in reply. The scent of sweat, adrenaline, and something primal and male fills my nostrils. My heart does an uncertain double tap, and my lungs tighten with a familiar, steady pressure. I nearly drag my eyes away, cursing my earlier erotic dreams, but as I stare at him, I realize something is wrong. His body language is off. Everything about his stance screams with tightly coiled tension, as though he’s holding something in with the force of his entire body.

“Roshan?” I ask. “What’s the matter?”

“The king is dead.” It takes a moment for his words to register, but when they do, sorrow fills me. He punches the bag harder, his entire body vibrating with the force of his blows. “My father”—his voice breaks on the word and his strikes falter—“was a good man. He could have turned me away. Instead, he welcomed me, his illegitimate son, at his table. I saw him taken to safety before I came to find you, and he was alive and well. And now he’s gone.” Pain saturates his voice as he stills, his hands hugging the bag.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, even though the words feel inadequate. My heart aches for him.

“No more than I. My brother and the queen achieved what they’d planned all along. He wasn’t sick, you know. He was being slowly poisoned. By her.”

I stare, shocked by the quiet, matter-of-fact accusation of regicide.

“I had no proof of it, of course,” Roshan says, resuming his punches. “She’s much too clever to be caught. And now they’ll blame his death on the Dahaka. They’ll gain the support of the houses.”

“What does this mean?” I ask quietly. “Are you . . . will you be . . . ?” The word king had stuck in my throat.

“No. Javed is alive. Long live Oryndhr.”

“How?” I whisper in disbelief. “I know what I did.”

Roshan finally glances up at me, his gaze dull with so much pain my heart squeezes. “According to the newssheets, he survived the Dahaka attack but is badly wounded. His mother will act as regent until he’s well enough to be coronated.”

I never truly wished the prince dead, but . . . Javed is not the kind of person to let go of what he wants so easily. His mother might have hunted me for revenge, but if he’s crowned as king, he’ll stop at nothing to find me, punish me, and use me. Even the dreaded commander of the Dahaka would be no match for the weapon I embody.

“When is the funeral?” I ask softly.

Wearily, he scrubs an arm over his sweaty face. “It already happened. He was cremated early this morning.”

From his expression, I can see how much it hurts him not to have been there.

“He knows you were with him in spirit, Roshan,” I say softly.

Exhaustion and grief line his face. The king was his only real remaining family. Queen Morvarid has never favored him, and now that Javed is king, Roshan will have no place to call home. I can’t imagine not having a family or a safe haven.

“What will you do?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“If you go back there, it will be to a dagger in your back or poison in your wine,” I say quietly. “You have a biological claim to the Oryndhr crown. Neither Javed nor Morvarid will suffer to see you alive.”

“I know. It was only by my father’s grace that I breathed all these years.”

“So come back to Coban with me.”

His smile is strained as he eyes me. “I fear that Javed’s shadow will follow me wherever I go, and I wouldn’t wish him to harm you because of me.”

The utter bleakness in his tone burrows under my skin, but I force a smile. “We’re in this together. Javed’s going to come after me whether you’re at my side or not. And trust me, when you taste my aunt’s cooking, you won’t want to leave.”

He chuckles, but the laughter doesn’t find his eyes.

When I’m sad, a hug helps, but I can tell that Roshan needs to get out of his own head. “You have to get this anguish out of you,” I tell him softly, watching his shoulders immediately tense. “Or you’re going to splinter apart.”

“I am letting it out,” he says, with a violent kick to the bag. “I’m pretending this is my devious fucking brother.”

I keep my tone light, even though my heart feels like it’s breaking for him. “I suppose that’s one way to deal with your anger, but what about the rest of your feelings?”

His eyes are hard, a muscle twitching in his lower jaw. “What would you have me do, Suraya? Complain? Wail? Cry?” He growls the last word. “Princes do not display such useless emotions.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a prince.”

His hands stall their violent attack, fluttering in midair, as he turns fully to me. The latent anger in his eyes dissipates somewhat as a ghost of a wry, crooked grin hovers over his lips. “You’re right. I’m not.”

Something comes over me then, a desire to hold on to him, and I move forward, reaching my arms around him as he’d done with me in the coach. His bare skin feels slick but warm, his shivering muscles jerking beneath my fingers. The scent of him—smelted iron, warm spice, and bergamot—is a heady combination that does a number on my ability to hold a coherent thought. I struggle to keep my feelings in check as every nerve ending in my body comes vibrantly alive.

Stars, touching him was a mistake.

“What are you doing?” Roshan asks, an imperious eyebrow vaulting upward. His words are gruff, but I let my arms drift up over his shoulders, noticing that his pupils have dilated and his irises have shifted to the color of sun-warmed umber.

“You looked like you needed a hug.”

“Suraya . . .” he begins.

No one says my name the way he does, like it’s a delicacy. I laugh a trifle breathlessly at the pouting movement of his lips shaping the word.

“I’m sweating like a pig,” he says. “And I stink.”

“I don’t mind, and you don’t stink.”

He doesn’t. His sweat smells musky and rich, but not unpleasant. I have to force myself not to let my greedy fingertips explore the glistening, satiny curves and hollows of his sculpted biceps, from chasing the thick layer of dark scruff on his jaw, or from stripping that damp undershirt off his hard body and gorging my greedy eyes to distraction.

I’m flirting with disaster, I know, but I can’t help it.

It’s Roshan’s instinct to protect that has really burrowed its way past my defenses. Even though he’s safeguarding me out of some sense of misplaced guilt, everything he’s done up until now has been for my sake, and even in his sorrow, I’m still a priority. And now, when I see him drowning in his own pain, all I want to do is help him.

Comfort him, which I have no idea how to do.

You could kiss him.

Every muscle in my overheated body locks into place, the very thought making my breath hitch and gooseflesh dance over my skin. As if so compelled, my gaze settles on his lush mouth. Sands on fire, no man should have lips like his—perfectly formed and full. Soft and inviting and stupidly kissable. Unlike my dream lover, whom I couldn’t touch, Roshan is warm and real beneath my fingers.

I sway closer.

“Do I have something on my chin?” he asks.

Frowning, I look up at him only to see that he’s staring quizzically at me—and has noticed my fascination with his mouth. I release him in a hurry, my cheeks alight. “Oh, yes, you have a . . . um, a smudge of something below your lip.”

Roshan swipes at his face with his forearm and reaches for a towel from a nearby bench. He scrubs his face and tosses it around his neck. “Sorry. I told you I was filthy.”

No filthier than thoughts I have no business having.

“It’s fine,” I say, and smile brightly to cover my discomfort.

If only Laleh were here. She’d have had him, or any person, eating out of her palm and begging for more without breaking a sweat. Me? I’m breaking out in hives all over and can’t think past the fog of awkward panic in my brain. Then again, this isn’t about me and my ineptitude with another sex. It’s about Roshan and getting him out of his own head.

Focus, Suraya! Think of something, anything!

“Does Javed have more of those creatures?” I blurt out. “The azdaha?”

He stares at me with a blank expression for a moment, then reaches for his water and takes a long sip. “No,” he replies. “It was hard enough for him to get the one. It killed hundreds of soldiers, including the runemasters who brought it through a portal to Kaldari.”

“I thought you said it was a gift.”

His jaw hardens. “More like a stolen souvenir.”

Curious about the magic I’d felt from the creature, I press him further. “It came through a portal? From where?”

“Beyond our kingdom in the lands to the north,” he says, running the towel over his damp hair. “There are many more creatures out there. Griffins, manticores, basilisks, and chimeras, and they’re strong. The men manning the borders caught that azdaha because it was wounded and crashed into the cursed forest at the heart of the Barrin Mountains. The dearth of akasha here confused it.”

The Barrin Mountains are impassable, as far as I know, and the cursed forest is indeed cursed. Stories abound of people who’ve entered it and never returned. “So there’s magic there then?” I ask, the skin on my neck prickling. “There must be, if there’re other creatures like the azdaha, I mean.”

“Seems like it. Can you imagine a world where everyone has magic? Where akasha flows so plentifully across magical leylines that it’s as present as the air we breathe?”

“No.” I shake my head. Fingers of ice skate over my skin. “I sensed its power that day in the arena. The azdaha.”

“Even at its weakest, it’s powerful,” he murmurs in agreement. “I suspect that’s part of Javed’s future plan. Harnessing your Starkeeper energy to enslave more of those creatures. Invade the northern lands and even the ones across the seas. He’d rule all of Endara if he could. With you under his yoke, such a thing might very well be possible.”

The idea of magic being used in such a ruthless fashion makes me feel sick. The pain I’d felt from the azdaha had been excruciating. I can’t let that happen to me or to them. Despite my vow to understand my magic, I haven’t been able to test my star power since we arrived.

Unleashing it in the Indraloka is too risky.

But if I plan to make a stand, I’m going to need to learn.

Chapter Twelve

We arrive in Nyriell during a level four cyclone.

Even dressed in heavy protective gear, I feel the dust and wind battering my body. The thick breastplate, pads, undertunic, belted skirt, and boots, as well as a full mesh covering for my head, seem flimsy against the onslaught. Hunkering down, I tug against the raised collar of the undertunic, the mesh cap falling into a hood over my face. The material is coarse and strong, made with some kind of reinforced fabric. It scratches against my skin like roughened wool, but I’m grateful for it.

Within seconds, a dark, oily haze on the surface swarms us as if the scorching sun has lit the air on fire. The portal winks out behind us, and I can barely hear the shouts of the others over the roar of the gusts. Waves of crimson heat make the earth look like an undulating ocean of blood. It’s simultaneously scary and beautiful, but I blink through my protective goggles, wondering where all the buildings are. There’s nothing but rock and gravel as far as the eye can see.

“There’s no one here,” I shout to Roshan.

“This is the surface,” he roars through the wind. “We have to go down.”

Down? I see it then—the black seam of a fissure that some of the soldiers are lurching toward. At least that’s what it looks like. One second, it appears to be rock; the next, I can see a visible crater. I squint behind the goggles. “What is that?”

“It’s an illusion. You’re supposed to only see rock, but the magic of the jādū must be disrupted by the storm.” Roshan’s hand reaches over to mine as the ground starts to shake with the force of the unstable surface conditions. Bits of sand and pebbles smash into our bodies, the wind howling in the distance like some kind of voracious monster, as we follow the soldiers.

“Why couldn’t we portal directly into the city?” I ask.

“Too unstable underground,” he replies. “The proximity to Droon means the volcanic bedrock interferes with the magic—which is why it’s a perfect hiding place for us.”

That’s news to me. Apprehension races through me. Will my fledgling power be inhibited, too?

The narrow crack in the cliff wall widens into a passage, and we press into it. There’s a gaping hole at the end with iron bars around the sides. Roshan leads me onto the metal platform of an ingenious pulley system, and we descend into a lightless cavern. The wind dies away above us in a mournful howl, and soon there’s nothing but silence and darkness as if we’re being swallowed up right into the maw of the earth. My heart rams into my rib cage.

“Are you all right?” Roshan asks.

“Fine. Descending into an abyss is not my favorite.”

Panting, I try to focus on my body instead of the encroaching darkness beyond the rickety platform. My stomach roils with each foot. I guess this is why the Dahaka have evaded discovery for so long. No one in their right mind would suspect that there was any kind of secret city buried in the heart of this barren place. It’s brilliant, actually.

After what feels like an eternity, we finally come to rest on solid ground in the depths of the seemingly bottomless canyon. Tiny, gridlike illuminated pockets are visible in the rock walls rising hundreds of feet above us—structures carved into the rock face itself—as well as huge spindly towers of cubed light stretching upward for miles like massive stalagmites. An entire thriving metropolis built into the bedrock of the grotto. I marvel at the sheer enormity, ingenuity, and beauty of it.

In spite of the red dust coating the surface and the windstorm raging above, the landing area is clean and well run. The sounds of bustling life reach me even as the hum and drone of activity overhead draw my attention. Multiple bridges and roped platforms crisscross the width of the gap, stretching all the way up and leading into dwellings and buildings excavated from all sides of the massive cavern. Lichen and vines line the earthy walls from top to bottom, with various minerals glittering on the sides. It feels like a whole other world.

“Welcome to Nyriell,” the commander says, striding toward us from a second platform that has stopped next to ours. I rear back at the sight of him—despite the many descriptions of him in the newssheets, none of them managed to capture how huge and imposing he is. The man is a walking mountain! He laughs at Roshan’s wan face. “I trust that little squall up top wasn’t too rough for the two of you.”

“Squall, my ass,” Roshan grunts. “That was a fucking rock cyclone.”

I’m shocked at his reply, but the commander only claps him on the back with a gruff laugh. I frown—do they know each other? Or does Roshan’s charm work even on this man, the most wanted man in the kingdom. “Aran will get you settled in your quarters.” He eyes me next. “And you, cadet, how are you? In one piece?”

Surprised at his friendliness—the newssheets had always touted him as a man whose only language was violence—I nod warily. “Sure. Aside from nearly dying.”

His smile is enigmatic. “Death comes for us all. What matters is how you meet it.”

When he moves to speak with another soldier, I lean toward Roshan. “What was that about?” I whisper. “Does he know who you are?”

“Yes,” he says in a low voice. “I made an arrangement with him to bring us here. I did not want to compromise your safety. We have a . . . temporary alliance.”

I blink, stomach souring at the idea of trusting a stranger, even as Roshan’s motives warm me. “In exchange for what?”

“Information.”

The way he says it makes me think that this agreement has something to do with his family and the crown, but it still doesn’t fully ease my nerves. The more people who know our identities, the more vulnerable we are.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend, I repeat to myself. Roshan has gotten us this far. I trust him. We’ll just have to tread carefully.

A slim, handsome man dressed in tan approaches us. Pretty ultramarine tattoos are etched on one side of his face and throat, and a thick gold necklace rests below his collarbones, hanging around his shoulders. He looks more like a monk than a rebel, and we bid him good day.

He welcomes us, bowing deeply as if we are esteemed guests. “I am Aran. It is my honor. Follow me, please.”

“Pretty advanced setup here,” I whisper to Roshan as we trail Aran. “Where do you think they got the resources to build this?”

“The Dahaka are funded by many wealthy lords in each of the four houses,” Roshan whispers back. “Not everyone is an admirer of the Oryndhr monarchy.”

I narrow my eyes. “I thought you said your father was a good man.”

“He was. But since his illness, my brother has held the Imperial House’s ear, and in the last few years, the aldermen of the other houses have bowed more to him and his mother than they did to my father. Javed’s the reason they’re so keen to expand beyond Oryndhr’s borders at any cost. You don’t think they’re salivating at the chance to have powerful, magical creatures of their own?” Roshan’s voice deepens with feeling. “Greed and supremacy are powerful motivators.”

None of that surprises me.

“This way,” Aran says, leading us around a crowd and then swerving sharply. “Don’t look, it’s unpleasant.”

Of course, with that caution, I crane my neck to see the source of the disturbance. I take in a broken wagon, and to my horror, it’s full of blood-spattered bodies.

“What happened?” I blurt out.

“Scav attack,” Aran says, his eyes downcast as he waves his hand in a circular motion over his face down to his chest in some kind of silent blessing.

I exhale slowly. In the Dustlands between the cities, if anyone comes up against a Scav siege, the chances of being sold off are high. And if they can’t sell someone for gold or trade them for jādū to distill into the hallucinogen they call Jade, well . . . Scavs are known for eating humans. I bite back my revulsion and turn away from the remnants of the wagon. Those bodies could easily have been mine and Roshan’s, save for luck.

“Are there more Scavs out there?”

“More than before,” Aran replies, leading us into what looks like a huge warehouse. “Though they’ve never ventured this close to Nyriell in the past. Their migration and settlement patterns are changing.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s not ideal. They seem . . . more organized.”

And with that ominous prospect, Roshan and I are whisked off to separate bathing areas to clean the clay and grit off our bodies.

Once I’ve finished in the tepid bath that has been drawn for me—with water that smells of soothing, earthy minerals—I dress in the soft garments that have been left in the cubicle. The feeling of being fully clean in fresh clothing is nearly overwhelming. My eyes prick with senseless tears as a knot forms in my throat. I miss my small room over the tavern, I miss my family . . . I miss home.

You’ll get back there, I think fiercely.

I meet Roshan in a receiving room at the other end of the chamber. He’s scrubbed clean, too, his dark hair damp and brushed off his handsome face, and dressed in a linen tunic and trousers. My heart skips a beat. I don’t know if it’s the nostalgia and the ache that has taken up residence in my chest, but the sight of him makes everything calm. All the complicated feelings inside of me settle with a sigh. At least in all this chaos, I can count on him.

“Everything all right?” he asks softly, offering me his hand.

Gladly, I take it, wrapping my palm in his. “It is now.”

Once we are ready, Aran guides us through another door that leads outside into the hot air, and again, I gawk. It’s a riot of bustling chaos, not dissimilar to the town square in Coban, with traders of all colors, shapes, and sizes hawking their wares, their tables laden with food, clothing, jewelry, and weapons. Peddlers shout and haggle, laugh and curse. It looks and sounds so normal. I could close my eyes and imagine I’m back home during market day.

But many people hailing from the wider kingdom—tattooed skores from the plains of Eskorit, recognizable from the tribal etchings on their faces; mountain people from Xersten with their distinctive flaxen hair and pale coloring; and a handful of the slender, dark-skinned Jaxxians in their traditional jewelry and flowing sarongs—are also walking around the square in a communal harmony that is rare. I even see some wearing the richly embroidered, colorful, handwoven robes of Eloni, one of the richest cities in Oryndhr. Most of them pay us no mind as we follow Aran.

Nyriell is nothing like what I’d expected. I don’t know why I’d naively assumed that the rebel base would be a settlement of hardened, vicious armed soldiers and no one else. Perhaps that is what I’d been led to believe by the newssheets; propaganda is a tool, one well used by the monarchy.

But none of the people around me look like brutish mercenaries. Unsettled, I wrap my arms around my middle. A group of shrieking, doe-eyed children bump into me as they chase a ball through the middle of the square, and my heart squeezes. “Are there many children here?”

Aran inclines his bald pate with a slight smile. “Of course. Nyriell is a refuge to many who have been left homeless as a result of the monarchy’s expansion.”

“Expansion?”

“The crown controls the jādū mines throughout Oryndhr, and whole villages have been razed to make room for larger excavations to fill the coffers of the Imperial House. The citizens of all cities in the realm are expected to pay substantial tithes to their houses, and when they can’t pay, the tithes are taken in flesh. These people have been forced to flee for their lives to protect their families.”

“In flesh?” I ask.

“Conscripted to the crown’s army by force or to work in the mines.”

I frown—I hadn’t heard of that. I thought all military service had to be voluntary. Clearly, I’d been wrong about that, too. “Citizens here are from all the houses?”

He shakes his head. “Most of us have renounced house affiliation. Everyone in Nyriell is equal and on level footing—thinkers, farmers, musicians, warriors—we all just want to live together in peace.”

“You’re nameless?” My stomach tightens. Long ago, my father had made the decision to renounce his own house ties. He’d seen through the greed and manipulation of Regulus and taken a punishable stance. Though most of the nameless were Scavs, outliers, and criminals, not all were. Some were nameless by choice.

Aran’s expression is patient, though I feel Roshan tense at my side. “We are houseless. There is a difference. Our names, even a single one, will always have power. We are more than the sum of a single political faction.”

His words hold a strange force to them—a resonance that I feel in my bones.

That the power of one could topple a kingdom.

“Here we are,” Aran says, waving an arm to a narrow structure that ascends one of the rocky spires. He offers us each a square-shaped medallion on a cord. “You are on the third floor. Keep these with you at all times. It’s a runic identification.”

I stare at him, feeling an odd pulse under my skin, a surge of my magic in response to the brush of his fingers when he hands me mine. “Are you a runecaster?”

“I prefer magi.”

I stiffen. To admit such a blasphemous thing was grounds for immediate execution. Then again, there’s no one from the Imperial House here waiting to cast judgment. Well, besides the prince, who seems to have had no reaction to Aran’s words . . . but then I realize that Roshan has stopped to speak to a man selling carved bows.

“You’re part of . . . the order?” I ask uncertainly.

“There is no order,” he replies. “I simply use the gifts that have been granted to me . . .” He pauses and glances at me. “. . . by Saru and the Royal Stars.”

This time I can’t hold back my gasp at the cavalier mention of the god of light and creation, and the Royal Stars. To even speak their names is anathema. “I don’t understand. You’re arcanist here? Do your people serve the old gods?”

There’s no apology or fear in his voice as he responds, “I am, and some do. There are no rules or restrictions on how you choose to worship or whom you choose to serve.”

The casual admission of his heresy in defiance of the strictest Oryndhrian law has me reeling. My brain is spinning like a children’s toy top, but all it can latch on to is something logical, something I can make sense of. “So if you’re a . . . magi . . . did you do the illusion on the surface?”

He nods and answers the next question on the tip of my tongue—the how of it. “Yes. It’s powered by jādū crystals. Runes craft the illusion.”

“Power runes.” The only ones I’m familiar with are the elemental ones carved on weapons that Vasha commissioned. But then I remember the symbols on the azdaha’s collar that had served to reduce its magic and strength. “How many runes are there?”

Aran smiles. “Runes are the language of the Royal Stars, lost for so long now that we have forgotten its complexity. I suppose I can teach you a few casting symbols beyond the four elements, if you like.”

It’s like a lifeline—one I’d be foolish not to take, considering the position I’m in with my own abilities. I bite my lip and then nod. “I would like that,” I say quickly, as Roshan returns to us.

Aran cants his head in a gracious incline even as the prince shoots me a curious look. “It would be my honor to instruct you, my lady. Get some rest. Later I will have some dinner sent to your quarters. You are both required to report first thing tomorrow morning for duty.”

“Duty?” Roshan asks.

“Yes. In the weapons forge, two levels below this one. Everyone contributes here. If you need anything, place your thumb directly over this insignia”—he gestures to a circular hieroglyph on the reverse side of the medallion—“and I will come as soon as possible.”

I blink. “How?”

Aran chuckles. “Magic, of course.”

My heart jolts again at his casual use of something that has been so forbidden and is now the epicenter of my chaotic universe, but I don’t respond, keeping my face neutral.

“Thank you, Aran,” Roshan says.

He bows so deeply that he nearly folds in half. “My deepest honor, Sire.”

*  *  *

A single chamber, with what looks like two sleeping pods carved out on either side of the bedroom adjacent to the communal living space, greets us several narrow flights up. A glass panel rests at the far end, leading outside to a stone parapet that looks over the market square. I join the prince out there.

Roshan and I don’t speak for a long moment, but then I clear my throat. “I take it Aran knows as well.”

“He’s part of the commander’s inner circle,” he replies.

“Did you hear him say he’s a magi?”

Roshan peers at me. “Does that bother you?”

I glare at him. “It’s incredibly vexing when you answer a question with a question.”

The appearance of that teasing, crooked smile of his makes my breath hitch. “But when you respond so prettily, it’s hard not to.”

“You won’t think so when you’re flat on your back,” I growl.

With a low laugh at my very empty threat, Roshan looks over a shoulder at me. “I did hear Aran say that.”

I sniff when he doesn’t offer any more. “I can’t seem to get my mind around it.” I hold up the medallion dangling at my neck. “Runes of power.”

“You carve magical runes into swords for Vasha,” he says. “It’s not so far-fetched.”

I stare at him in shock. “How do you know that?”

“He supplies weapons for the palace, and I make it my business to be aware of the flow of jādū.” Roshan lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “I recognized your name that first day in the courtyard.”

He had? I don’t give any credence to the fluttery feeling in my belly. Not only had he known who I was and what I did for Vasha, but he’d seen the dagger I’d made and kept. The one ironically marked with runes of my own. “The symbols on the azdaha were different,” I say. “They were ones of . . . control.”

“Yes. Though, I admit my knowledge of runes is limited. If you are interested, perhaps you should have Aran teach you.”

I don’t need his approval, but I’m glad for it all the same. “He offered to. And I said yes.”

We fall into a strange, heavy silence, but then Roshan clears his throat. “I forgot to tell you that I sent a man loyal to me to Coban. Your family is secure, and your father is aware of the threat. No one from Kaldari has shown up at the inn. They’re safe for now, Suraya.”

This man. The weight that had been crushing me at the thought of my family is alleviated slightly, and I fight the urge to burst into tears . . . again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I clear my clogged throat. “Have you heard anything else from the palace? Clem . . . my friend . . .”

“She’s still alive,” Roshan says after a beat, and relief fills me.

As we stand there, staring out at the strange underground city, the sound of laughter drifts up, and I find myself smiling. I miss that, too. The sound of children playing outside the tavern in Coban, their innocence always a joy.

“Did they surprise you, too?” I ask, pointing toward the happy group down below. “Seeing children here? I didn’t expect to see whole families. I mean, I thought the Dahaka were just an army of vicious militants.”

Roshan angles his head toward me, his warm brown eyes nearly orange in the refracted light of the gems in the cavern walls. “And what do you believe now?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” I confess softly. “The newspapers reported that they sacked mines all over the kingdom and brutally attacked the monarchy’s troops stationed in the cities, troops that were there to protect the people. That they were full of rage and hate.”

His low, mocking laughter chills me. “When my father got sick, the Imperial House elected Javed to take charge of the jādū trade. At Morvarid’s prompting, of course. It was unanimous. That’s why I keep track of the suppliers in each of the major cities.” Roshan’s lips curl, latent fire coming to life in his eyes. I wonder if that is what he offered to the commander. That kind of knowledge would be priceless to the Dahaka. “As you’ve seen, my brother and the queen are not above using brute force to get their way if any of the aldermen dissent. Many of the people in Jaxx, Veniar, and Xersten fled for their lives after being forced to work for a pittance in the mines. When they resisted, their families were threatened and their children taken to provide incentive. Most of what you know as the Dahaka are refugees fighting for a better life, not a militia of mercenaries.”

I frown, remembering the attack on the palace and Kaldari that had sent us fleeing for our lives. “Even so, they’re not innocent. They kill innocent people, Roshan. I saw that with my own eyes in Kaldari. They set the explosives in the palace.”

“And how many of the dead were royal soldiers?”

I hesitate, recalling the bodies I’d seen on the streets, like the ones we’d taken the uniforms from. Most had been guards, true, but some had not been wearing royal insignia. They’d been ordinary citizens caught in the crossfire, just like with the palace explosion. “They started the war.”

He laughs humorlessly again. “The truth is the kingdom was already on the brink of war because of what it has become. People gorge to excess in Kaldari, while others elsewhere die of starvation. Javed’s bride pageant was a perfect example of his abuse of power. And, well, you saw what the Dahaka thought of that. It was a message, pure and simple—they can’t be manipulated, pacified, or silenced.”

“Is that what the commander spoon-fed you?” I shoot back.

His jaw hardens. “Careful.”

It’s a clear warning—he’s still a prince of the realm after all—but I don’t back down. “So, you’re just going to stand by and do nothing while a bunch of revolutionaries destroy the mines because of some skewed notion of egalitarianism? Oryndhr is your home. My home.”

A dark look flashes across his face. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Defend your people. Just because Javed is a tyrant who only cares about himself doesn’t mean that the people of Oryndhr don’t need a champion. We have families, too. What about Coban? We have a few jādū mines—we could be the Dahaka’s next target, if that’s the information you choose to share.” I wave a hand. “Regardless of what we see here, they are still the enemy. You said it yourself—the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

His eyes shutter. “Don’t you get it? Javed is the villain here, Suraya, not the Dahaka.” Pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger, Roshan blows out a frustrated breath. “As long as he controls those mines, he controls the people. None of the houses will openly oppose him. The aldermen all value their way of life too much and don’t wish to fall out of favor, so they sacrifice what’s needed to placate him.” He gestures to the people milling about on the floor of the cavern. “You heard Aran. These refugees only want their freedom, the ability to choose. To live as they want to. To raise their families in peace.”

“And you think the Dahaka intend to redistribute any of the wealth they reclaim?” But my argument feels brittle now. “They’re selfish, as dangerous as the Scavs.”

A low, furious hiss rips from his chest, shocking me. “The Scavs are drug-addicted criminals and outlaws. The Dahaka are fighting for something.”

Ashes below, he cannot be this brainwashed already!

“What? Freedom?” I scoff, feeling inexplicably provoked by his skewed logic. “They’re already free.”

“But their version of freedom comes at a terrible cost.” Roshan scrubs a hand through his hair, face tighter than I’ve ever seen it. “And there’s more to it than that. The Dahaka attacks started out as attempts to dismantle the monarchy’s power—disrupting trade and hitting the crown where it hurts the most, the royal coffers. But then they noticed that the crown’s focus was entirely on the jādū mines, even the small, barely producing ones.”

“Wait. How do you know this?” I interrupt.

His brows draw down. “I told you, the commander and I came to an arrangement. When we were in the Indraloka.”

“We can’t trust him.”

Roshan turns to face me. “We don’t have a choice. We need their help to get you back to Coban. To see you safe. What’s the matter?”

Sands, does he not see that he’s being force-fed rhetoric by the leader of the Dahaka himself? Even if there’s some truth to it, Roshan is an Oryndhr prince, who would be a powerful ally for them. If I were the commander, I’d absolutely say anything to convince him to come to my side. This alliance is a fucking windfall to the Dahaka.

“Nothing,” I say, guilt sluicing through me because I know he’s only doing this for us. To keep the promises he made to me. “What else did you learn?”

“Javed’s collecting jādū any way he can get it. But he’s not using it. He’s storing it.”

That draws my attention. “Why?”

“If no one else has jādū, they can’t fight back. They can’t fight you. Aran might be a magi, but he still needs jādū to amplify and cast. Oryndhr’s only the start of it. I know my brother, and he won’t stop until he gets his secret weapon back.”

My blood chills as my palms heat. Roshan doesn’t need to explain further.

I’m the final piece of Javed’s scheme to take absolute control.

The secret weapon is me.

Chapter Thirteen

When I wake up the next morning, the sleeping area next to mine is empty. I’d thought it was going to be difficult with Roshan sharing the same space as me, but it’d been extraordinarily comfortable. Thank the maker I was too exhausted to have any intimate dreams, because that would have been awkward as fuck. Please excuse any noises I might make while dreaming of you naked, Your Highness.

A low growl that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once makes the hairs on my neck lift, and I blink. What in Droon was that?

Perhaps it had come from the other room. Or maybe it was my stomach, as an ominous, very loud rumble of hunger makes me snort.

Rising, I dress and perform my morning ablutions before making my way to the shared living space. Roshan is there, moving through a series of complex calisthenics. I almost swallow my tongue as I take in his shirtless body on display, his limbs moving in precise, powerful motions that are impossibly graceful. His muscles undulate beneath the sheen of his brown skin.

I clear my throat. “Good morning.”

“You’re awake,” he says, glancing my way. “Sleep well?”

“Yes.” Nodding, I make my way over to the counter, where I choose a yellow starfruit and bite into it. I watch him while I eat as he continues to move in and out of those slow, flowing formations, every muscle flexing and rippling. It takes almost all my concentration to keep chewing.

“Where did you learn to do all this? And to fight?” I ask, finally breaking the silence.

“Javed and I had tutors when we were children,” he says.

“Show me how to do some of it,” I say to Roshan when he strolls toward me and reaches for a glass of water on the table.

His brow creases. “What?”

“I nearly got pummeled by that Dahaka soldier. Teach me your style of boxing. I’m going to need some new skills to defend myself.”

He shoots me a look and empties the cup. “You can defend yourself plenty.”

That shuts me up. Annoyed, I clasp my nightmare hands behind my back. “I don’t want to use that. I don’t even know how to use it. And the last thing I want is for more people to get hurt.”

Those brown eyes of his bore into mine. I’m worried that he’ll be afraid of me, but that’s not the dominant emotion in those warm depths. He looks more afraid of himself, as if he doesn’t trust himself around me. Could he be feeling as affected as I am? For a moment, it seems as though he’s going to refuse, and I open my mouth to beg, but then he releases a breath and nods.

I resist the urge to fist pump in victory when he crooks a finger at me to join him at the center of the room.

“Start with putting your hands up like this.” He throws his fists up in front of his chin, and I mimic his stance. “Rule one, always protect your face and throat. Spread your legs apart so your weight is centered. You want to maximize your strengths and minimize your weaknesses and give your opponent the smallest target possible. You’re small, so you have an advantage.”

“I’m not that small,” I say, drawing myself up to my full height. I barely reach the top of his chest.

Roshan smiles, and I savor the rush of satisfaction. “You’re so tiny, I could put you in my pocket. Carry you around like a little pint-sized pocket princess.”

“Not a princess, either.” With a mock offended growl, I jab outward, catching him in the stomach—and then wince at the ache radiating up my forearm. His abdomen is like a ridged slab of steel. Before I can recover, Roshan grabs my extended arm and pulls me past him. I stumble, immediately off-kilter.

He grins at my disgruntled expression. “So, as I was saying about stance, you want to make sure your weight is on both feet so that you’re centered but you still have mobility. Stay on the ball of your back foot so you’re ready to move. That way, if I pull you off-balance like that, you can recover or stay upright. Turn your body side-on. Less surface area to defend. Not bad. Here, like this.”

Squinting critically at my position, Roshan steps over to me, his hands falling to my waist and deftly modifying my stance. A burst of warmth blooms beneath his hands, and I set my jaw, trying to think of anything at all but Roshan’s nearness or his strong, long-fingered hands gripping my hips with purpose. Heat unravels in my core at the pressure of his palms.

“Are we going to fight or do boxing charades all day?” I grit out as he crouches to shift my ankle and then adjust my lower leg, a light graze on the inside of my knee nearly scrambling my brain.

“Fighting stance is important.”

“I work in a tavern. You think I don’t know how to stop some overzealous customer from getting too friendly after a few pints? Especially when I’m carrying a tray of glasses?”

An eyebrow launches. “Good then, champ, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Champ? I scowl, stifling my unholy glee at the chance of payback and cracking that princely poise of his. “Pretend I’ve served you some ale and try to grab my ass.”

“What? No.” Roshan’s jaw drops. “Do your customers actually do that?”

Biting back my laughter at his expression, I nod. “Some drunk ones try to but usually fail. Seriously, let me prove it to you.”

“Not a chance.”

Wickedly enjoying myself at his royal expense, I shoot him a look. “It’s just hypothetical. Pretend to reach out.”

After a moment, Roshan obeys half-heartedly, the backs of his knuckles grazing the flare of my hip, and I grab him by the little finger, pressing it backward until he bellows a foul curse and drops to his knees with a yelp.

“You scream like a toddler,” I tell him. “Now yield.”

“I yield!” he bursts out, cradling his bruised finger. “And I’ll have you know that I scream like a man. That was a very manly scream you heard. Anyway, where’d you learn that?”

“A little trick my aunt taught me,” I say. “Fingers are the easiest things to break, and that maneuver can deter the largest, most aggressive person.”

Roshan stands. His face is still flushed, but a smile is threatening to break through nearly two decades of ingrained royal etiquette as his sense of humor kicks in. “You have a mean streak, Sura.”

I stare at him, my chest suddenly tight. “That’s what my best friend, Laleh, calls me.”

His face falls. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be familiar—”

“No, it’s all right. You just took me by surprise.” I smile, pleasure bursting through me at the sound of my nickname on his lips. “Plus, we’re way beyond formality now, don’t you think? I mean, you did try to cop a feel.”

His jaw slackens. “You told me to!”

I purse my lips in fake disapproval and stare down the length of my nose, mimicking Queen Morvarid’s superior, arrogant expression. “You know, Prince Roshan, the palace floggers may need to have a chat with you on the decorum expected of a royal. We do not conduct our splendid selves thus. After all, this is a—”

With a devious grin, Roshan darts toward me. I sidestep him easily, twisting to face him as he comes head-on once more in the small space. Adrenaline shoots through me. I watch his hips, not his face, and at the last second, when he shifts to the right, I mirror the movement. Grabbing his arm to pull him hard, I pivot my body into his, simultaneously thrusting my hips back into his thighs and hauling with all my might on his shoulder. The forward momentum makes him pitch forward, and I straighten my legs. Roshan goes over and down like a sack of potatoes.

His incredulous expression will stay with me until the end of time.

Panting, I throw him a victorious look. “How’s that, champ? Impressed yet?”

“Not bad,” he agrees, and then with a roguish grin, he yanks on my hand, still latched to his forearm. Tumbling forward, I go sprawling right on top of him. With a swift roll, he flips us both over so his body is covering mine and effectively pinning me to the floor with his much heavier weight. “Rule two: always release your opponent and get as far away as you can.” His voice is husky, feathering over my face. “Finish what you start. And don’t gloat—that’s just asking for trouble.”

Instantly breathless, I can only stare up at him, my heart pounding a wild tempo as he stares down at me with amused golden-brown eyes.

“What are you going to do now?” he teases me, and pushes up onto his elbows. “You’re at my mercy.”

Butterflies wreak havoc in my gut, undermining my ability to think, as a slow, insistent burn spreads through me like thickened molasses at the press of his hips on the tops of my thighs. Stars on fire, he’s right there . . . and I can feel every hard inch of him. My nipples tighten beneath my shirt, and I resist the urge to widen my knees and roll my pelvis up against his, letting him know exactly what I want.

Him.

Sands, but I’m in all kinds of trouble.

“No one likes a show-off,” I say primly, holding myself so still that I’m barely breathing. Any friction and I’ll be done for.

His smirk deepens. “Yield.”

“Never.”

Without warning, I thrust upward, but he’s much too heavy for me to shrug off that easily. He lifts a haughty eyebrow, the challenge in his eyes clear. I’m torn between kissing him and kicking him.

But after my previous failed effort, I’m too much of a coward for the first.

Gritting my teeth, I shimmy sideways until I have leverage to move my right knee, and then I jerk it in sharply beneath him, wedging into the vulnerable area between his thighs. It’s not a hard stroke by any means, but it’s enough for him to roll off me with a muffled curse. I immediately miss his warmth and his weight on me. Nothing like telling a man you mean business by kneeing him square in the groin, I think, a bit ruefully.

“Touché,” he grunts, clutching himself between his legs and reeling to the side.

“I’m sorry, but you didn’t give me much choice. I fight to win.” I stand and reach down a hand to him. Roshan hesitates before accepting and wobbles gingerly to his feet. I swallow my guilt. “Come on, buttercup, I didn’t knee you that hard.”

“Try telling them that,” he says wryly with a downward glance to his crotch. “How about we carry on with the lesson later?” he grumbles. “I might need to find some ice.”

“I really am sorry.”

He smiles weakly. “Don’t worry, I’ll live. And never be sorry about winning, even if you have to fight dirty.” Roshan’s mouth twists. “My brother isn’t going to be honorable.”

That immediately sobers me.

He’s right, though. Sometimes, fighting dirty is the only thing that can keep you alive.

*  *  *

“I hate reading,” I grouse, and slump back in my chair.

As delighted as I was to discover that Nyriell has a tiny circulating library, this is not what I had in mind when Aran suggested some “light” research to prepare myself for our runic lessons. I’d much rather be with Roshan working in the forge.

Normally, the tightly packed aisles would feel like a place of wonder, the feel of the clothbound spines and the scent of the pages filling me with comfort, with a sense of home. But right now, this one feels like a prison.

“Why do I have to learn about ancient history?” I grumble. “Everyone knows the stories about akasha and the myths of the old gods. Also, this is all heresy.”

On the other side of the table, Aran looks amused by my outburst. “Who says? The monarchy?”

I flush at the clear judgment of my ingrained way of thinking and scowl harder.

“I thought you said you love reading,” he adds.

I glower at the pile of books on the table in front of me—all the size of bricks and weighing just as much, nary a spicy romance in sight, to my chagrin. “Not exactly what I was hoping for.”

“It’s important to understand where you come from to know where you need to go,” he says. “Much of history was both recorded and erased by those in power, so it’s especially important to bolster your thinking with a wide variety of books . . . particularly ones forbidden by the Oryndhrian crown.” He slides a thick tome over to me that looks older than dirt and gently cracks the spine open. “Try this one.”

Resigned to my fate for the next few hours, I prop my elbows on the table and gently pull the book closer. “‘Akasha is the infinite ether of the universe. Its rivers are the webs between the realms and the source of all magic,’” I intone. “‘Those rivers—sometimes called ley lines or jādū threads—can be amplified by runes, specifically the runes of power.’” I groan out loud. “I know all this, Aran,” I complain, lifting my gaze to my companion, who is watching me with a smile on his face. “Why are you staring at me with that look? Did you expect me not to be able to read?”

He flips to another chapter and taps. “Try this page. Here.”

I roll my eyes but acquiesce, reading from where his finger rests. “‘The place where jādū threads, also called leylines, intersect is called an astrological vertex and contains the most concentrated amounts of akasha.’” I’ve never heard of a vertex, but I suppose the logic of connecting leylines and concentrated magic makes sense. I perk up with interest at the next line. “‘The astrological vertex in a person’s birth chart can also point to karmic encounters and soul-fated bonds.’” There’s a strange, hard tug deep in my center, and I gasp.

“What’s wrong?” Aran asks.

With a frown, I rub my abdomen—which then makes an obnoxious gurgle. Embarrassed, I wrinkle my nose. “Nothing. I’m just . . . a little hungry. What’s a vertex exactly?”

“It represents destiny or events outside of your control. It can be activated in many ways. For example, by coming into contact with the right person.”

“Like my running into the prince?”

He nods matter-of-factly. “Yes, a fated encounter.”

That strange tug deepens again, and I pat my stomach. “Can we take a quick break? I need to eat something.”

“Of course.” His lips quirk in a way that reminds me of Roshan. “You know, this book is written in the old language, in a runic dialect,” Aran says, steepling his fingers under his chin. “The language of the gods.”

Hunger forgotten, I stare down at the page. “No, it’s not.”

He signals for a boy who is carefully placing books back onto shelves to come over. “Yes, Sri Aran,” the boy says in deference.

“Read this,” Aran says, and points to the page in front of me.

Solemnly, the boy stares at the book. “I cannot, Sri Aran. Those are alchemical symbols that only the starblessed can read.”

I frown at the sobriquet as Aran dismisses the boy back to his duties. “I don’t understand. These are words.”

“They are ancient runes, and you can read them because of who you are.” His gaze is steady and sure.

I look at him in alarm. Sands, does he know more than he’s letting on? Like my devastating secret?

He ignores my expression, reaching for the book and flipping to a new page. He points to a series of intricate symbols.

“Advanced runes of power can be cast to heal, to harm, to control. They can be used to enhance speed, defense, and strength. They can open portals and communicate across realms. They can cause chaos, temper emotion, and shift time.” He lifts his tunic, and I see an enhanced healing rune tattooed there. “Some amplify, others combine.” He indicates another complex rune on his rib cage that looks like a combination of two symbols on one axis—one for memory and the other for infinity. “Most magi are limited to casting only as much as the jādū crystals can power.” He drops his shirt and sighs. “But in the old days, when magi had akasha—the fifth element and the aether of space—in their veins, their power was unfathomable.”

I exhale. No wonder the god-king was so threatened by them that he hunted them to extinction. “Were there bad magi?” I ask, thinking about the war of the gods and the breaking of the realms in its wake.

“Of course. Balance exists in everything,” Aran explains. “The light of Saru holds its counterpoint in the darkness of Fero. One cannot exist without the other, but true akasha lives between the two, dependent on the intent of the magi.”

He stretches out on the chair opposite me, propping his legs up on the table, and studies me with a thoughtful look. For a sharp second, I realize that Aran is not as young as I initially guessed him to be. He has a deceptively youthful face, but a wealth of knowledge, of hard-won wisdom, shimmers in his dark eyes. Magical knowledge.

“Are you Elonian?”

“Sometimes.” He tents a dark eyebrow. “You?”

“Cobanite. House of Aldebaran.”

“We both know you are far more than that,” he says with a low chuckle, apparently not interested in prevaricating. “You may have been born into your earthly form on Coban, but your soul is ageless, formless, and immortal.”

My stomach dips at the confirmation of my suspicions, but his smile is kind, reassuring.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the legends about the Starkeeper. The one who purges the realm.”

“Is that a magi belief?” I say, feeling oddly vulnerable. “From the stories of your old gods?”

“They’re your gods, too,” he says, and stares pointedly at the book in front of me. “You would not be able to read that otherwise.”

I don’t make a clever retort because I can’t. I, more than anyone, understand that just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I slide a finger over one of the nearby volumes, cracking the spine to a drawing of Mithral, the handsome sun god of spirit and fire, and Darrius, the towering, cruel-faced god of shadow and sky on the opposite page. I flip the sheet to Anahima, the beautiful goddess of water and fertility, and the wind gods, Vara and Vati. In truth, magic wouldn’t exist without any of them.

And if the prophecy is true, neither would I.

I gnaw my lip. “Have you ever had visions?”

“Sometimes.” He smiles, clearly aware he’s being opaque. “I’m a jack-of-all-trades: musician, cleric, philosopher, seer, scholar, mystic, magi. The gods sometimes choose to speak to me. And they’ve spoken to me about you, Suraya.”

I suppress a shiver. “What did they tell you?”

“That your power will split the realms.”

I close my eyes. I’m biting my lip so hard I can taste blood. But I have nothing to lose if he already knows what I am. What I can do. “Then . . . help me. Show me how all this”—I jab at the books—“can teach me to control it.”

“Very well,” he says easily, as if he had been waiting for me to ask. “Come with me.”

I eye him suspiciously, wondering just what else he’s seen, what else the gods have supposedly told him.

We stand, and he takes me to an annex beside the library. It looks like an old storage room with a few desks on the far end but otherwise empty. Reaching for a crystal sliver of jādū hanging from a necklace inside the collar of his robes, he sketches a triangular rune in the air that I recognize—the symbol for fire—and a small ball of flame appears in his hand. My eyes widen in awe.

“Much of magic is intent. When you forge your blades with smelted jādū and etch the runes, what do you feel?”

I narrow my eyes. “How do you know I’m a bladesmith?”

“The commander told me.”

I blink, reminding myself that Aran is the commander’s man. He’s part of the Dahaka—part of the commander’s inner circle according to Roshan—and I’m not naive enough to put all my trust in him, even if he is helping me. “After the blade cools, I draw the elemental runes for fire, ice, earth, or air. They focus the energy and activate the magic in the weapons.”

He points to the other room. “That book you just read said that the runes extend beyond the elemental. Have you ever seen or crafted other runes?”

I think about the unintentional runes on my dagger—the starburst and the moon—as well as the binding ones I’d seen on the azdaha, and give a stiff nod.

“True magic, powered by akasha, is infinite in its uses, though there’s always a cost. Even the magi of old saw depletions in their internal source when they tried to do too much.”

“But I’m not a magi,” I say stubbornly.

A patient sigh leaves him. “A leaf is a leaf no matter what name you call it. Its purpose remains the same.” He hands me a crystal on a cord. “Hold this. Close your eyes.” His instructions are nearly monotone. “Feel the flow of your breathing in and out of your lungs.” Obediently, my lungs expand and contract. “Feel your heart pumping life through your body. Feel the power of that crystal connecting to you.” Each pulse of my heartbeat echoes in the sliver of jādū I’m grasping in my palm.

But it’s not enough.

My fingers tighten around the jādū shard, but the more I concentrate, the more my control fragments. “I can’t,” I gasp, eyes flying open.

“You can. Magic is intent, remember. Now, look at me and focus.” His voice is mesmeric, his eyes like pools of dark coffee. “Envision the fire rune. You can sketch it in the air, if it helps.”

With my pointer finger, I draw the triangle that I’ve etched a hundred times on different blades for Vasha, but there’s no response from the crystal . . . or any sign of a flame. I exhale, clench my jaw, and try again with the same result. “Maybe I’m a dud,” I say dejectedly. Or maybe all you can do is randomly incinerate people with starfire.

I swallow hard.

“Magic is also like a muscle,” Aran says. “It requires diligence, strengthening, and practice. Let’s try a different rune.”

“Magic is a leaf, magic has intent, magic is a muscle—magic sure is an overachiever,” I grumble. But following his lead, I draw the inverted triangle for water and then a triangle with a line through it for air, but nothing happens with either. We walk through the exercise a dozen times, even switching crystals after I insist that my jādū shard is broken. The effect—or despairing lack of one—is the same.

By the end, I’m exhausted and my body aches as if I’ve just fought in an arena, sweat dripping down my skin. “This is useless,” I say, flinging the crystal away and slumping to the ground where I lie panting.

Aran, ever patient, studies me. “Perhaps we’re going about this the wrong way. What does your magic feel like to you?”

The simurgh inside of me lifts its head for the first time all day. “It feels like my skin is lifting off my body, like I’m too full to keep whatever it is inside. Like it wants to be free.”

He ponders this for a moment. “And if you reach for it? What does it do?”

I shake my head and half-heartedly dig down into my center. This is ridiculous, this is never going to—

Magic surges up toward me, and I gape. “It . . . wants . . . it wants to fly.”

“Then let it.”

“How?” I ask.

His voice is hypnotic. “Close your eyes and let the light of Saru flow into and through you.”

I don’t know how to feel about invoking the old god of creation, but I reach for the vision of the simurgh I’d seen before. Magic curls toward me as if happy for my touch, and I let myself sink into it. I feel that light is flowing along my veins, my skin tightening, a deepening pressure testing the limits of every fragile organ. It won’t hurt me, but it feels like a flood.

“By the gods, so much akasha,” Aran whispers in awe, and my eyes fly open. “I can see it.”

Every rune along my arms is lit up, an ephemeral shape bursting beyond the flesh and bone of my body. I don’t have the same view as he does, but I certainly feel . . . something. And out of the corner of my eye, I’m certain I glimpse a hint of iridescent wings.

“What do you see, Aran?” I ask in wonder.

“The Starkeeper.”

Chapter Fourteen

I have wings. Or at least my magic does.

Sadly, I haven’t seen them since.

Cursing softly under my breath, I roll my neck muscles and reach inside for the deep well of magic. It’s there, but it’s almost as if it has a mind of its own. Sometimes it responds, and other times it’s as silent as a grave. Mostly, the only thing I can do is illuminate my runes, and then the simurgh is content to lie there and do nothing.

Stubborn to a fault . . . like someone I know well.

We’ve been in Nyriell for over a week. Roshan and I have kept our heads down, working in the forge during the day, learning the ropes, and earning our keep. I’ve met with Aran twice more, and each time he tasked me with more reading. I’ve stared at runes until I’m cross-eyed, but my inroads to harnessing my power have been frustratingly small. He insists that I just need to give it time, but time is the one thing we don’t have, hiding as we are.

There’s been no news from Roshan’s man in Coban, which I’m choosing to believe is a good thing. Nor was there any news about Javed or his kingsguard leaving Kaldari. All I can do is hope that my family remains safe.

Roshan enters our shared quarters, and my gaze immediately falls on him. Stars, could a person get more handsome by the day? I groan to myself. The tension between us is real . . . but for reasons only known to him, Roshan has been keeping himself at a distance.

Honestly, I don’t blame him. This magic of mine is unpredictable and . . . volatile.

He sinks down next to me on the chaise. “How are things going with Aran?”

“They’re not,” I say grouchily. “I study all day long. I can tell you every written rune in existence, I can read you every line in every old text, but in practice? I’m nowhere.”

“That can’t be true,” Roshan says with a slight frown. “Aran says you’re making progress. That your knowledge of runes is uncanny.”

“Theoretical knowledge is not empirical.” I thrust a hand at him and wiggle my fingers in a juvenile burst of aggravation. “Want to see my party trick? I can glow!” I scowl and yank at the opalescent tendril dangling over my brow. “Even my hair is glowing.”

“That’s new,” he says, eyes widening with surprise.

Biting my lip, I nod. Self-consciously, I’d kept the pale iridescent strands hidden at first, braided into the rest of my hair, but they’ve become difficult to cover. “Aran says it’s related to the flow of akasha in my veins, like the sigils on my arms. Another mark of the Starkeeper, I suppose.” I sniff. “If all else fails, I can blind our enemies into oblivion.”

His mouth twitches at my peeved expression. “What about your visions? Have you seen anything else?”

I shake my head, thankful that the old crone hasn’t made another appearance murmuring her ridiculously cryptic nothings about my starborn powers and the fate of all Endara.

Roshan turns to face me and takes my hands in his. His thumbs stroke over the centers of my palms, and tendrils of molten heat—completely unrelated to said powers—twine up my forearms. “Can you try to summon your firebird now?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” I say, fighting back goose bumps at the soft caress. “I’ve tried so many times, but it only seems to awaken defensively, when I’m threatened or in mortal danger.”

He leans forward, and my heart skips a beat, but he just tucks a loose strand of hair over my ear. “Then let’s force it to appear.”

“Now? In here?”

“Why not?” He stands and beckons me forward. “You asked me to teach you how I box last week. Turnabout is fair play. Show me what you’ve got.”

Dread sluices through me. “I’m not doing this, Roshan. You’re being ridiculous.”

His stalwart expression doesn’t change. “You need to understand how your power works, and this is the only way I can think of to make you upset or frightened enough to release it.”

I glower at him, rubbing my palms nervously together. “What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t.”

This is madness. “How do you know?”

“I trust you.”

That’s stupid is my only thought before Roshan lunges forward, shoving me right off the edge of the seat. My knees take the brunt of the fall. Hard.

“What the fuck, Roshan?” I bite out.

“Now fight me.”

Taken aback, I collect myself for a moment before a serpentlike strike to my torso has me tumbling onto my ass, the breath blasting out of me. Pain blooms. He’s not playing around, because unlike the last time we sparred, this flaming hurts.

“Fight back,” he taunts as I stagger to my feet, before he delivers another vicious punch-kick combination.

Within seconds, heat kindles in the pit of my belly and shoots down the length of my arms as defensive magic sparks across my fingertips in infinitesimal silvery-white arcs. The runes on my forearms ignite and spread like a wave crashing over a shore.

“Beautiful,” Roshan whispers in awe, staring at the gilded sigils on my skin, but I can’t even feel pleasure about the murmured compliment. As he attacks again, I manage to pivot out of the way and come up with a double-fisted jab to his jaw that he dodges. “You were holding out on me before,” he says, an approving glint in his eye.

“Some,” I pant.

I don’t admit that my father taught me to fight with fists and weapons from about the time that I learned to walk. That I’d only asked Roshan to teach me to get him out of his own head and maybe as a way to spend more time with him . . .

Frowning, I wonder if my father had prepared me because he’d guessed something like this could happen—that I’d have to defend myself. The thought of my parents keeping such a vital secret from me is gutting. But then I remember that my father never told me about living in Kaldari. Or about my mother’s protective power! How many secrets have they withheld over the years? How much more prepared would I have been for this moment if I hadn’t been kept so uselessly in the dark? Bitterness chokes me.

“Where did you go just then?” Roshan asks. “You were distracted.”

“They all lied to me,” I say dully. “My parents, my aunt.”

Empathy flashes in his eyes. “They wanted to protect you.”

“I hate lies.”

Roshan doesn’t move for a moment, a muscle tensing in his jaw, but then his stare shutters slightly as he moves back into fighting position. “Sometimes lies are a necessary evil.”

I wonder if he’s talking about his brother and the queen.

Ducking to avoid Roshan’s fist, I reorient myself, but he comes fast at me again. This time, I kick out, catching him in the gut, and he grunts at the contact. A vicious series of punches and rapid kicks has him on retreat with wide eyes. But a sly answering sweep from his leg has me flat on my back once more, my skull colliding with the floor. White spots fill my vision and lightning roars through me.

Think of it as a web, Aran had said. An extension of you.

From my supine position, I inhale and press out, attempting to release the magic toward him to freeze him in place. I even sketch the rune for ice for good measure, but nothing happens. The magic coalesces at my center, but it doesn’t do much more than that, as if it intuitively senses that Roshan is not a threat.

Or that I don’t see him as a threat.

“This isn’t going to work,” I snarl, and push to my knees, facing away from him.

But before I can right myself, fabric envelopes my head, shrouding me in darkness and cutting off my airflow. Sounds assault me from all corners of the room: a door slamming closed, a thump, the dull tenor of someone grunting as though in pain, a crash of something, the clap of thudding footsteps.

“Roshan?” I shout, straining against the cloth. What in Droon is happening?

There’s no reply, only a groan and the sensation of the sack drawing tighter against my face, making me choke on rough, dust-filled fibers. Powerful, ruthless arms drag me along the floor—it feels like at least two people. A cloying patchouli musk fills my nostrils. I know Roshan’s scent and this isn’t it. I start to struggle in earnest, my fists punching and clawing, my legs kicking and flailing.

“Roshan, please, if you’re there, say something.” My voice is muffled, even to my own ears.

But there’s nothing but silence and the inexorable, suffocating pressure of the bag against my face. Smothering me. An unrelenting forearm squeezes against my neck. I start to hyperventilate as I gasp for air, and the burning sensation in the pit of my belly intensifies. My blood boils, fire liquefying in my veins. Oh, sands. I feel it the second my magic ignites.

Don’t kill anyone. Don’t kill anyone. Don’t kill anyone.

My control is thin at best, but the magical energy howling to life inside me like a thunderstorm doesn’t fragment. I don’t want to kill, but I’m not above maiming my enemy . . . if my gift cooperates, that is. I focus on the arm so brutally cutting off my air supply with each passing second.

Easy, Suraya.

The marks on my skin ignite as heat bursts from me, and I hear a ragged yelp as the compression on my throat abruptly recedes. Ripping the sack from my head, I whirl to face my attackers . . . but there’s only Roshan cradling a blistered arm and warding me off with the other. The smoldering sack in my hand bursts into flame, and I stomp it out with my feet in horror. “What the fuck, Roshan!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You were right—your magic wouldn’t have manifested unless you really believed you were in danger,” he pants. “But at least it worked.”

“What was that smell? The perfume?” I ask, still confused, my eyes darting around the room as if some other attacker is hiding nearby. My brain is playing catch-up, disoriented from the unexpected bait and switch.

“Cologne from one of the drawers.”

I look down, blinking against the glow streaming from me and surrounding my entire body, and then glance at Roshan’s red, suppurated skin. “I told you I could hurt you!”

“It’s nothing. I’ll put some healing salve on it and the skin will be good as new. Or I’ll get Aran to heal me.” A proud gaze sweeps me. “You controlled it, Suraya.”

Did the burns also scorch his brain? “Barely.”

He approaches, and I flinch, feeling light and heat rear like twin demons inside of me.

“Don’t come any closer,” I warn him. “I don’t know what it’ll do.”

“It’s fine. Just try to keep it at bay. Tell me, what does it feel like, in this moment?”

I take a breath and focus on the power sizzling like a roaring beast in the center of my chest. It’s hard to categorize the sensation, the sheer force coursing through my veins; it’s even harder to put it into words, but I try anyway.

“It’s hot,” I say at first. “Not like the heat outside. An unnatural heat, like fire and lightning bound together. Every nerve inside of me feels tight with a force that’s desperate to escape, as if I’m at the center of . . . of a . . .”

I trail off, but Roshan finishes my sentence. “Star.”

Yes. That’s exactly what it feels like—as if I am a hot, pulsing ball of volatile energy, burning at impossible temperatures and held together only by the envisioned simurgh in my center. Unpredictable and powerful. Deadly.

Roshan moves over to the table and places a round melon at its center. “Can you direct the magic to that?”

I pant against the heat. I want to quit, want to let the power subside, but I know I can’t. “I can try.”

Centering myself, I concentrate on the melon and push my palms out, imagining the energy from my body lancing outward. For an eternal moment, nothing happens, but then the fruit brightens, an eerie glow saturating it. My runes light up as bands of heat race up and down my spine. Then without warning, the melon explodes, splattering yellow flesh and seeds everywhere. The table beneath it is the next thing to go, igniting white and then incinerating into a pile of red-hot embers. Panicked, I try to pull the magic back, to restrain it, but it’s burning too wild, too fast.

“Roshan, get out of here,” I shriek, shuddering and clenching my fists together.

His voice is faint, nearly inaudible above the deafening roar in my ears. “Control, Suraya. Your magic answers to you, not the other way around.”

“It’s too strong—”

“Trust yourself.”

Suddenly, the door swings open. The figure standing on the threshold is indistinct, but I sense dangerous power—threat, threat, threat—and I’m numb to everything but pure self-preservation.

Dimly, I hear Roshan’s voice bellowing a warning to the new arrival—Aran—as if from a million miles away, but it’s too late. The magic surges toward its new target, and there’s nothing I can do but watch in horror as the pungent stench of burning hair fills the room.

No, no, no. Please, no, please, no.

I’m stuck, suspended in the thrall of this execrable power, unable to control it or stop it, and forced to watch as I commit the unforgivable.

Aran is chanting, his fingers casting invisible runes like a barrier, but nothing can stop the lethal torrent of my magic devouring his. And then something large and heavy crashes into me. A voice howls with pain at the impact, but it’s enough to jar me out of my deadly trance. Lips murmur at my ear as tears pour from my streaming eyes, and I curl into a ball on my side, weeping helplessly as the frenzy recedes and, with it, my ravenous, deadly magic.

With horrified eyes, I watch as Aran sinks to his knees with a shudder. Clenching my palms into fists, I pull them toward me and pin them against my belly.

“Holy mother of Droon,” Roshan whispers.

“Did I hurt him?” I burst out with a strangled sob. “Is he dead?”

The odor of seared flesh is heavy in my nostrils, and I look at Roshan, who had stopped me with no care for his own safety. Both of his arms are blistered now, as well as the skin of his chin that had pressed against mine. The fabric of his shirt hangs in tatters and his chest is bright red. He shakes his head. “No. He managed to cast healing runes in time to deflect the worst of it.”

“I could have killed him,” I whisper. “Killed you.”

“You didn’t, though. And next time we’ll—”

I shake my head furiously, fighting another bout of tears. “No. There won’t be a next time. I won’t do it. Don’t you see, I can’t. I nearly murdered you both!”

He reaches for me, but his hand just hovers in midair as I recoil from any touch and then falls to his side.

Aran clears his throat, his voice hoarse but steady. “I’m safe, Suraya. You can’t just give up. You have to let it flow through you,” he insists. “Stifling it isn’t going to do any good.”

“At least I won’t burn anyone to bits,” I sob.

“Think of yourself as its instrument,” Roshan says.

I want to scream at him. I wasn’t its instrument—I’m its underling. Servant of the star, the crone had called me. Nothing could be more accurate. And given my ineptitude, it will take outside of forever before I master any part of it.

In what has to be the worst timing ever, my vision starts to tunnel.

No, no, no.

A strange clarity fills me, along with an accompanying rush of raw power. And then the old crone appears as if my uncharitable thoughts had summoned her. The singed smell vanishes, and everything takes on a hazy gleam when she shimmers into place, exactly where Roshan was standing across from me.

Unlike the last time she’d come, this time, somewhere deep in my subconscious, I’m aware that she’s not really here.

“Setareh sar lokkar.”

“Who are you, really?” I study her wizened face, her mane of silver hair and mesmerizing eyes bursting with cosmic light. “A friend?”

I’m not expecting the smile. “Yes.”

“A Starkeeper?”

“No.”

I remember Roshan’s story. “Are you a guardian, one of the Royal Stars?”

“Yes.” Her smile widens with approval.

This is no old crone—she is a relic from a past time . . . a deity and hand of the old gods. My breath falters then, as I look closer, past the age lines on her face, only to see that they aren’t lines at all. They are shooting stars and whirling constellations. Looking at her is like staring at a map of the starlit skies.

My eyes aches from keeping them locked on her—I don’t want her to disappear, not now when answers might be close. “What’s your name?”

“Vena.”

Of course. A derivative of Venant, also known as Regulus, guardian of the northern skies, the heart of the lion, and the guiding light of leaders and rulers, of kings and queens. The House of Regulus had become nothing like its ancient, bright namesake.

“Why did you say I was the bitter, beautiful end?” I ask.

She waves a hand, leaving a glowing trail of iridescence in its wake. “You will be the simurgh rising from the stardust of this world. You are its destruction and its reawakening. Its doom and its undying hope. You are the epicenter of its beating heart.”

I shake my head, my irritation blooming full force. “Can’t you ever speak normally? What does that mean? You want me to destroy Endara?”

“If that is your path, then the star must burn.”

My irritation dries up. “Why is that my choice?”

“The stars map your fate.”

“I don’t want it, this magic, this curse.” My fingers curl into fists, my breaths growing shorter. “I won’t hurt the people I . . . care about.”

Her hands reach for mine, a cool warmth settling upon them and flowing up through my arms. Connected, I can see infinite realms through her eyes, and suddenly, my narrow viewpoint seems puny in comparison. Worlds upon worlds spin in dizzying circles, countless lives in their cosmic orbit.

“The stars have spoken, Starkeeper. A war to end all wars is upon you. Those who summon the old gods invoke Fero’s power in blood sacrifice. He will be reborn from the void and wreak his vengeance.” A hint of a smile graces her lips. “Is that plain enough for you, my willful child?”

I resent that, resent her. Her body shimmers as if it is about to dissipate. I grasp the weightless hands that had been resting upon mine, but they have already begun to vanish. “No, wait. How is Fero going to be reborn?”

But within seconds, she is gone, and only Roshan remains in her place, wearing a quizzical expression, his face inches from mine and worried. Aran is seated on the couch, his face just as concerned.

“Where were you?” Roshan asks urgently, though he keeps his hands at his sides. “You were in some kind of trance. Did you have a vision again?”

“Yes.” I swallow, my throat painfully dry. A chill scuttles over my skin, my emotions roiling as I try to make sense of Vena’s words. It isn’t like the last time at all, not when a ruthless god is prophesied to be reborn and that a war worse than anything is coming.

“Was it the crone?”

“Please, I don’t want to talk about it,” I reply, a sob clogging in my throat.

He doesn’t press the matter, but the curiosity is more than obvious in his eyes. Curiosity tempered by understanding and edged by a healthy amount of wariness. To be fair, it’s not unfounded, but I still hate the way he looks at me as if I am some feral creature to be leery of, like Javed’s captive azdaha.

Aran is looking at me, too, though his expression borders on morbid fascination. There’s understanding in their eyes, but there’s something else as well. Something that Roshan hides away quickly beneath a forced smile once he catches my teary gaze.

Something that looks a lot like fear.

Chapter Fifteen

My clothing is splattered in ash and soot, but it’s the most grounded I’ve felt in days. Working in the forge is calming. Centering. Safe. Other than Amma’s kitchen, there is no place in the world I’d rather be than surrounded by tools and fire and covered in sweat.

And at least you’re not immolating anyone . . .

I shove that thought away as fast as it comes. Roshan had convinced everyone that a spontaneous lantern fire had caught us unawares. Aran’s easy, forthcoming forgiveness didn’t do much, however, to lessen my awful burden of guilt.

News had also come from the capital. Javed and Morvarid had been quick and ruthless in their removal of anyone who posed a threat to Javed’s succession, including any distant relatives from the House of Regulus who could have a hereditary claim. Even war leaders from Antares with minor armies of their own had been quietly deposed. According to gossip, the Aldebaran alderman who disputed the queen’s position as regent was sent to the arena and devoured by Javed’s pet azdaha, under false claims of treason.

There is danger on all sides of the realm. Roshan is facing danger on all sides of the realm.

The last thing I want to be is another fear for him.

Gritting my teeth, I reach for the blade I’m working on. There’s nothing like beating a piece of hot metal, shaping it into something malleable and useful, to bring a sense of order to things. Not that I’m having much success at the moment. I’ve already broken two pieces with my arrhythmic, heavy-handed hammering.

“Hey,” Roshan says, making me jump in surprise as he leans gracefully against a nearby table. He’d been off prepping with Aran, who was heading to the Indraloka to get some jādū crystals, and I’d welcomed the time alone to pound out some of my frustration.

I pause in my work, trying to ignore the fractured beat of my pulse at the sight of him. “Hey.”

He studies me, his body propped in a casual stance. After a handful of days, his forearms have mostly healed, but that doesn’t stop the remorse from rearing its head every time I see the new, shiny flesh. Aran had also recovered with minimal damage, thanks to his protection runes. I suspect he’s had a hand in accelerating Roshan’s healing, too.

Lust, gratitude, and shame make for a charming cocktail of emotions.

“Do you need something?” I ask, throat tight.

“No. Just checking to see how you are.”

Silky, dark curls fall over his brow, and his bottomless gold-flecked brown eyes are fixed on me. He bites his lip and my gaze flicks to his mouth. Warmth licks through my entire body . . . not the star kind, the I want to jump your bones kind.

By the maker, what is wrong with me?

My eyes drop to his reddened chin. “I hate that I burned your face,” I say, swallowing against another wave of shame.

“Scars make us who we are,” he replies. “And I’m way too pretty for this little blemish to make any difference.”

“Must you joke about everything?”

“Life is easier with a sense of humor, don’t you think?” His familiar lopsided smile and easy manner make my heart squeeze. Sands, I’ve missed them both. Fighting the urge to throw myself at him like a desperate fool, I reach for a nearby cloth and drag it across my face.

“Need some help?” he asks, eyeing the metal that I’ve just stuck back into the forge and the plethora of tools spread out around me.

After a beat of hesitation, I nod. I’ve been trying to hammer this sword for the better part of an hour and failing. While blacksmithing takes brute strength, it also takes finesse, and I’m sorely lacking in the latter at the moment.

Licking dry lips, I clear my throat. “Something’s wrong with the kiln. Or the metal. All I’m managing to do is leave hammer prints instead of flattening it, and I end up breaking it. The heat isn’t distributed like my forge in Coban.”

He cocks his head in thought. “That could be. Different cities have different types of design and fuel. Maybe it’s not hot enough. Or this metal might have a higher vanadium content, which makes it tough and fine-grained.” Roshan squints at the fire. “You have to look at the color.”

I lift an irritated brow. “I know. It’s red.”

“Can I . . . ?” Roshan stoops down, crouching in front of the forge, wedging himself between the wall and me. I try not to notice how crammed we are in the narrow space, but it’s nearly impossible not to be aware of his long, lean body hunched down next to mine. He grabs one of my tongs and reaches into the kiln, poking at the glowing blade. “With this particular kiln, I think we should wait until the blade gets to dark orange.”

“Be careful,” I tell him, my eyes narrowing as a few embers pop. “It’s been sparking like that all morning. I wouldn’t want you to get burned.”

At that, I cringe in mortification. Ashes below, how fucking oblivious am I?

“Me, either.” Though he says it with a smile in his voice. “Have you cleaned out the ash trap? That can increase the sparks.”

“Yes. Twice.”

I suck in a breath as he shifts the metal, but Roshan does everything with an innate confidence and ease. I wonder if the man even knows how to fail. That gnawing sense of despair burrows through me again . . . probably the whole reason I keep breaking the sandsdamned steel. I bet if he had this magic, he’d have learned how to control it, wield it, and master it by now.

Roshan’s attention is currently occupied with the blade in the furnace, but we’ve danced around the star-cursed monster I am for days. A Starkeeper with a simurgh as its immortal, magical form. A firebird of death and rebirth. Destruction and hope tangled in one. The significance of the creature doesn’t escape my notice—my mother had called me that ever since I was a little girl. How I wish she were here now.

“See? That’s now a nice burnt orange color,” Roshan announces, drawing my attention back to him. “Guess we’ll know once we start hammering. May I?”

He grins at me, and warmth unspools in my belly. Deep down, I know I’m being selfish by not pushing him away more firmly, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I watch as he carefully removes the glowing shaft and places it onto the anvil. The muscles in his back and arms flex as he hammers the hot steel with an even, consistent stroke.

“Roshan,” I ask softly, “did your stories ever mention what happened after the star warrior purged the evil from the world during the war of the gods?”

He falters midstrike as if surprised at the question. “The world was reborn anew.”

“But did everyone . . . die . . . for that to happen?”

“I don’t know.” He glances at me, his brow furrowing, and resumes his hammering one inch at a time along the length of the steel, flipping it over every few strokes. “It’s probably metaphorical, phoenix rising from the ashes and all that. Why? What’s wrong?”

I’m startled by his mention of the phoenix and the crone’s mention of the simurgh, both similar legendary, mystical creatures. I take a beat and ask the question that’s been bothering me the most. “What do you know of Fero?”

His gaze is troubled when it lifts to mine. “He was Saru’s twin brother—the god of destruction and darkness. He was the one the Starkeeper banished with his magic.”

The knots in my stomach turn into full-on serpentine coils.

“Why do you ask?” Roshan asks.

“No reason.”

He will be reborn from the void and wreak his vengeance.

Roshan looks unconvinced but lets it go. Finishing the round of hammering, he holds the thinned metal up. “This looks good, I think.”

I give it a critical once-over but see no obvious faults. His smirk is triumphant.

“Behold, the lord of steel,” he says, winking at me.

“The ego on you,” I say with a small smile. “But yes, well done.”

“You did most of the work.” He grins at me again, making my stupid heart patter. “We make a good team.”

His hand shoots out to grab mine, and I nearly pull it away before giving in to the urge to touch him. My fingers get notched between his, and a delicious warmth spikes up my arm. I can’t control the blush that races over my skin. My breath hitches as Roshan leans toward me, his knuckles wedged tightly with mine as if he doesn’t want to let go, either.

Everything fades away except for the six inches of space between us. He’s so close that I can count the gold speckles in his eyes, see the frantic beat of his pulse at his throat, inhale his smelted iron, spice, and bergamot scent. Six inches become four and then two, and it’s all I can do to continue breathing.

Is he going to kiss me?

At the very last moment before our mouths meet, he shifts and grazes my cheek with his lips, leaving heat and embers in their wake. For a second, I see regret in his eyes, but maybe I’m imagining it. I blink and flush, then jerk back and busy myself gathering up my tongs and hammer while fighting the sting of rejection coupled with the urge to burst into tears. I’m over this almost kissing, this hopeless push and pull between us that is destined to go absolutely nowhere. Looks like the astrological vertex got this one abysmally wrong.

“Come with me, I want to show you something,” he says quietly.

My throat tightens. “I have work to do.”

“Have you gone outdoors today at all?” he asks, and I wrinkle my brow, not even sure what time of day it is. “I take that as a no. Come on. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

I hesitate. A part of me wants to go with him, and another is still licking its wounds at his slight. But being with him is like an addiction that I’m still trying to kick. Having some of him is better than none at all. I’m aware of how desperate and pathetic that makes me . . . but I find that I don’t care.

What’s one more bad decision between friends?

After cleaning and packing up my tools and making sure I’ve doused the kiln, I follow Roshan outside and across the square. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

He easily navigates through the crowds, and once more, I am stunned by the wide variety of people making up the inhabitants in this underground city. I can’t help smiling at the children playing in the square who wave as we walk past. Roshan whisks a bag out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Give these to them.”

“What is it?”

“Boiled sweets.”

The happiness on their young faces makes my heart ache as the children reach out to catch the candy and laugh with delight, finding joy in something so simple. I can’t help also feeling sad, because something this inconsequential shouldn’t be such a momentous thing—treats and moments like these should be plentiful. And yet these people live underground to try to find some measure of security, and their children don’t get to see the sun. While I don’t know if I fully trust the motives of the Dahaka, I do feel for these refugees.

Life in Coban isn’t easy . . . but at least it’s free.

I let out a loud laugh when they pilfer the rest of the bag with wicked giggles, and after a moment, I realize that Roshan’s eyes are on me.

“What?” I ask.

“Your whole face lights up when you laugh.”

I don’t know what to do with that, so I stay quiet and reinforce the armor on my much-too-impressionable heart.

We ascend to the surface, and I wonder at the fact that no one stops us. Then I realize that Roshan likely arranged all this in advance. At the top, there’s no wailing sandstorm like the last time when we arrived, only a pinkish sort of haze over the barren, dusty red earth. This time I notice the neat border of jādū shards that power the illusion.

We climb into the waiting wagon hitched to a pair of horses. If there’s a road, I don’t see it. I frown and look over my shoulder. “Are we allowed to leave? Or are we going to be arrested for stealing this?”

Roshan winks at me. “You call it stealing, I call it borrowing.”

“Ro!”

He grins and pumps his fist. “You called me Ro. I can’t believe you remembered that from so long ago. By the ashes, have you been obsessing about me all this time, my lady?”

I scowl at my slip. “I’ll be sure to tell them your nickname for your eulogy when we get shot on sight. Turn around and let’s go back before we’re caught.”

“Live a little,” he says. “Enjoy the view while it isn’t hidden by a storm.”

What view?

But my mouth falls open as we crest a hill and I take in the changing landscape around us. A shadowed path of sagewood shrubs and prickly cactus cuts through the red terrain, winding into the distance. The horses don’t seem afraid, so I’m guessing they’ve walked this way before. That eases my tension a bit.

Colossal rock formations rise around us, undulating cliffs and gorges so massive and intricate they take my breath away. Enormous slabs of brown, orange, and tan curve around us into a deep canyon, the swirling multihued ribbons mesmerizing. Hints of greens, pinks, and violets shimmer through the bedrock, changing even as the light hits it.

“This is incredible,” I murmur.

Roshan nods. “These canyons are millions of years old, scoured into place by an infinite number of storms.”

Warm wind lifts my hair and gusts over my face, cooling slightly with the increased speed of the coach. Oddly, I don’t feel claustrophobic as the canyon narrows around us. I feel free and glad to be out of the city walls. We ride past a rock swirl that arches overhead, dipping down to eventually create a wide cavern that tunnels down into the rock. The air cools even more, and somehow, it smells like rain.

“What is that?” I whisper. There’s something shimmering in the distance. “Stars above, is that water?”

“It’s a submerged aqueduct,” he replies. “Water is scarce here in Nyriell, but it’s not completely gone, just hidden in pockets like these. Natural hot springs.”

He draws the horses to a stop and lights a lamp. Rock deposits in the walls reflect the light in a multitude of different colors even more so than the canyon walls above. Malachite-hued stalactites and stalagmites curve around us, covered in glowing lichens that make the cavern seem magical, like thousands of stars caught in the grip of an underground sky. I gasp, my eyes falling to the inky shimmering reservoir of water before me, catching the light and refracting it back. I’ve never seen anything like it.

There’s a rustling sound behind me.

I turn and go utterly speechless at the sight of Roshan shedding his clothing. Hills and valleys of rich brown skin and the sculpted, sleek muscles of his back ripple when he pulls his shirt over his head. My throat dries as he turns, the warm expanse of his broad chest and sculpted abdomen caught in the flickering lamplight. Sands on fire, the man is mesmerizing.

Boots and trousers go next before I realize I’m holding my breath. As I suck in a shuddery lungful of air, my eyes drop to the snug pair of linen underwear slung low on narrow hips . . . that do absolutely nothing to hide the bulge of his masculinity between thick, hair-covered thighs. Gods. Yes, I realize I’m calling on ancient gods outlawed by a bigoted monarchy, but it seems fitting: this man could be a deity in the flesh. I feel my cheeks scald and warmth pool in my belly.

“What are you doing?” I mumble.

“Swimming, what else?” With a shout, Roshan runs to the edge and dives in. I stand, unable to do anything but stare as he kicks his way to the surface. “Are you going to come in? It’s warm!” Water droplets shimmer in his hair and drip in tantalizing lines down his skin, and holy mother of immaculate perfection. Suddenly, I want nothing more than to be in that pool.

I don’t look at him as I strip down to my own linen undergarments and quickly dive in. The water is warm, deliciously so, kissing and caressing my dry, moisture-starved skin. Laughing aloud, I kick out into the center and turn to float on my back, watching the lights around us flicker. It’s much darker down here, but it almost seems clearer as my pupils adjust.

“I wouldn’t have thought there were many water holes in the desert.” Droplets trickle over my lips, and my tongue darts out to taste them. “It’s salty!”

“High mineral content. Not potable, but it won’t hurt you in small amounts. Who taught you to swim?” Roshan’s voice echoes somewhere to the right of me. The dappled darkness gleams with pockets of light from the lichen, the sparse lamplight, and the reflection off the surface. His face comes into view and then disappears as he treads water. The effect is both mesmerizing and eerie.

“My mother,” I say. “She used to take me to the fancy public baths as a treat on my birthday. Said all young girls needed to know how to swim, even desert-bound ones.”

“My mother taught me, too.”

I turn to face him, absently rubbing my hand over my chest against the ache of nostalgia. “What was she like?”

He doesn’t speak for a long time, and I wonder if it’s too personal a subject. But then he clears his throat, the sound echoing over the water. “She was kind, warm. She laughed a lot. She’s the reason I love books so much.”

“Mine, too,” I admit, delighted that both our mothers had been bookworms. “My mama and I would read stories and then invent our own endings. We used to pretend to be princesses in the palace all the time.”

“Whenever I felt sad or upset or angry, which was often, especially when it came to Javed, mine would bring me a new book from the library. It became our love language—the stories had a way of helping us through tougher times. She always knew the best books to pick, too.”

I smile, touched by the poignancy in his words. “That’s beautiful.”

“Books can be the best kinds of bridges.” He shrugs, the water lapping against his shoulders, a melancholy timber to his voice. “The library in the palace has nearly three stories of books. Maybe I can show it to you one day . . .”

Roshan trails off as if remembering who and where we are: fugitives with little chance of returning to Kaldari not clad in irons, much less embarking on a tour of the royal library. Regret fills me for everything he has lost—not just his parents but the only home he’s ever known.

“I’m sorry she’s gone, Ro.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I’m not. She’s in a better place, and I’m sure wherever she is, she’s surrounded by the things she loved—her books and her art.”

Roshan moves toward me, the water rippling over my skin the closer he gets. He ducks under the water. I don’t swim back, and I can feel his nearness before I see the dark outline of his head and shoulders emerging and bobbing a few feet away. He moves closer still, until I can mark his features in more detail in the guttering lamplight, his dark hair plastered to his skull and sparkling droplets on his long, spiky eyelashes. He looks like some kind of mystical water spirit, ready to lure me to his depths. I shiver with awareness and a breathless anticipation.

“What was your favorite thing about her?” I ask, unable to breathe properly with him so close.

“She loved to paint. Mostly landscapes. She painted the gardens in the palace, especially when the flowers were in full bloom. I liked how happy it made her.”

I purse my lips, surprised. His mother had been welcome in the palace? I don’t know why I’d had it in my head that Roshan’s mother had been a commoner—maybe it’s because of the way Javed treats him. But I’m not sure how to ask the question. “Was she an artist?” I say instead.

“An amateur, but quite talented. My father built a gallery just for her.” He pauses, sadness lacing his tone. “It was abandoned after she died. Now it’s a storage room or some such.”

“Where are her paintings now? Still there?”

“Morvarid had them burned.”

A pained gasp escapes my lips. “What a horrid bitch! I’m so sorry.”

“No argument here,” he says. “Don’t worry, I managed to salvage one or two.”

“I’m glad,” I say feelingly, and try to lead the conversation in another direction. “Was your mother Kaldarian?”

“No, she was an ambassador from Eloni.”

Ambassador? I nearly swallow a mouthful of water and push myself upright. My feet scrape the rocky bottom as I angle my body toward Roshan in the lambent light. Most ambassadors of any of the houses hailed from noble families. And Eloni is the second-wealthiest city in the kingdom and the birthplace of Queen Morvarid herself.

The king’s marriage had been a strategic political alliance, uniting two of the most powerful noble families in Oryndhr. Though in the end, all it had served to do was widen the gap between the wealthy and the starving, adding to the growing unrest in the kingdom.

“Was your mother from the House of Regulus?” I ask, knowing most of its institutes and colleges are located in Eloni.

“Fomalhaut,” he says.

I frown. “What was she doing in Kaldari?”

Roshan sighs, eyes like onyx in the greenish light. “She was visiting her sister.” He pauses and heaves a deeper breath, as if the words are too painful to get out. I understand why when he finally speaks. “Morvarid.”

“The queen’s your aunt?” I thought he’d run out of ways to shock me, but I was wrong. He’s the queen’s bloody nephew. “No wonder Javed hates you.”

“Javed hates me for a host of reasons, but yes, that’s up there with the best of them. The ties of noble blood strengthen my claim to the crown, you see. If my mother had been a faceless commoner, I would be less of a threat. Instead, I’m a noble bastard with powerful bloodlines exactly the same as Javed’s. Now you know why my parentage is such a secret. One that Javed and the queen will do anything to keep hidden.”

“Tell me more about her, your mother,” I ask, wanting to ease the sudden ugly tension that has turned his body to stone beside me. “Was she very charming?”

“She was. Her smile could brighten a room.” Roshan’s tone grows softer with fondness. “As much as my aunt is as cold as ice, my mother was like the sun, drawing everyone to her. Including my father. He’d been in love with her as a boy long before that marriage was arranged.” He sighs again, softly. “After my birth, she lived in the palace for many years. Servants were sworn to silence. She and Morvarid never spoke. Their relationship had been strained before she came to Kaldari, and my father’s affection severed it for good.” His voice breaks. “My father’s marriage to the queen was purely political, and he couldn’t help what he felt for my mother. He told me so himself. And after she died, he vowed to keep me close.”

“Why didn’t he marry your mother instead of Morvarid?” I ask.

“Morvarid was the firstborn. It was her right and duty.” Even as he says it, I know I’ll never understand this level of political machination. The diplomatic ties would have been the same, wouldn’t they, regardless of which sister he married? And three people would have been happy. Instead, all that arranged marriage had done was tear apart two lovers and estrange two sisters. And more than that—lead to this painful legacy.

“How did she die?” I ask quietly.

“She went for a walk and just . . . never came back. I was fourteen.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “They found her body broken in the courtyard beneath the highest tower in the castle. She’d fallen hundreds of feet to her death.” His grief is like a tangible force in the open air, and I reach out blindly for him in the water, gripping his palm in mine. “There were rumors of her death being by her own hand. Others said she tripped over a loose stone and fell. But I knew my mother. She was terrified of heights. She would never have gone up there alone. Never. But no one—not even my father—could prove foul play.”

I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat at the vehemence in his tone. “You think she was lured there?”

He shrugs, his shoulder shifting against mine. “I have my suspicions. In any case, the two who would benefit the most from her death were not in attendance—the queen was not in the palace that day, and Javed was part of a diplomatic visit to the House of Antares in Veniar, part and parcel of learning his duties as prince.”

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t behind it.”

“We’ll never know, will we?” I can feel his breath feathering over my temple. “I’ve watched my back ever since. The only reason I’m alive is because of my father. Murdering a visiting noble, even if she was the queen’s sister, is different from an explicit attack on the king’s son, bastard born or not. But now that my father is dead, that will change.”

“How so?”

Another rasp of breath on my skin. “While my father considered me a member of the Imperial House, there are lords in the lower houses who don’t believe I have any right to succession because of my illegitimacy.”

“I know you can’t believe that birth is a true measure of leadership. Courage is, and heart.” My hands move to his strong forearms and grip them tightly. “You’re the bravest man I know. Your circumstances of birth don’t define you. You’re still a prince. One who keenly understands privilege and responsibility, and your people need that.”

He’s silent, but I can feel him watching me, his gaze like a caress, though he makes no move to close the distance between us.

Mere inches separate us . . . inches of space and an entire kingdom.

But here and now, he’s not a prince, and I’m not a peasant. There’s no one here—only the two of us. There’s no judgment. No barriers.

Nothing to keep us apart.

My pulse thunders in my ears, my body feeling full and quivery with elation and mounting desire. It feels as though my skin is going to come apart at the seams. Overwhelmed at the intensity of my emotions, I turn and dive underwater. When I resurface, I’m several dozen feet away, and I can no longer touch the ground. I laugh out loud and dive again, holding my breath until my chest aches. Something yanks at my leg and I flail away, sputtering. It’s only Roshan, his face lit by a wicked smile.

“You’re going to pay for that!” I squeal, and heave myself at him.

He dodges. “You have to catch me first.”

Our enthusiastic, very splashy game of chase lasts until we’re boneless and exhausted. We find a spot on a half-submerged ledge and lie back, staring up at the luminescent lichen scattered across the top of the cavern. Roshan’s arm rests next to mine, and after a moment, he winds our hands together. Shivers detonate inside of me, and my breath hitches when he props himself up on his elbow and turns to face me.

“You’re such grace and steel combined, Suraya, like a jādū-forged blade sheathed in silk.” His voices turns husky. “I never expected someone like you. Never expected . . . this.”

I blush at his soft words, grateful for the muted light. I keep my stare firmly on the roof of the cave, but my pulse races as his fingertip winds a tortuous trail up my palm. He traces each finger and each line—heart, head, life, fate—over the soft rises of flesh and the hollow at the center. It’s a delicious, devious kind of punishment, keeping myself motionless, when all I want to do is throw my needy, quivering body into his arms and demand to be held. To be kissed senseless. To be teased and touched in every sinfully wicked way.

But I stay unmoving, riveted by that acute searing point of contact.

My stomach curls into knots of desire as his finger grazes over my wrist to the crook of my elbow. A tremor runs through me. Heat pools at my core, my sensitive skin unnervingly on edge as his touch dances upward. His intake of breath is sharp when his finger brushes the inner curve of my bare arm, so tantalizingly close to my breast.

Sands, I want him to touch me there so badly.

He can’t not notice the state of my taut nipples, ones I make no move to cover under my thin, sheer smallclothes. I wonder if I glance down whether he will be in a similar condition—his body flush with arousal. His undergarments are as transparent as mine, and that bulge had been more than obvious even in a flaccid state. Will he be swollen and jutting out against the fabric? Straining toward me as my own body yearns for his?

The thought makes me swallow a soft whimper.

More heat gathers between my legs, the need for friction overwhelming.

Unable to keep still, I shift my knee up, and suddenly, my thigh is in contact with a hot, burningly thick erection; he’s so hard and long that I can feel the full imprint of him against my hip. My pelvis rolls in unconscious desire, and Roshan’s fingers close over my upper arm, a soft groan leaving his lips. The hungry sound makes my thoughts scatter in the wake of such a ferocious desire that my core starts to throb.

It aches to be touched, to be filled . . . by him.

I’ve never been with anyone that way. But I’ve explored my own body plenty and I know what it likes. If I were alone—in my private quarters—I would snake a hand down to my inner thighs to seek the release that has started to build. But this is all new territory for me—sharing such intimacy with a man. Should I touch him back? I hesitate because my advances have been rejected before and I’d die if he stopped now.

Clenching my legs, I squirm slightly as Roshan’s hand drifts up to cup my cheek. He stares at me, though I can’t read any expression in his sparkling eyes. His thumb grazes my cheekbone in a slow, tender caress that has me drawing toward him, leaning into his touch. Stars above, what is he thinking? Feeling? Does he want this as much as I do?

Maybe he’s waiting for permission. I am such an idiot. Of course he’s waiting for my consent. That’s just who he is.

“Roshan—”

“We should probably go,” he says at the same time, his palm falling away.

The intense moment fractures.

Disappointment crashes through me, and I barely hold back a frustrated scream. It’s obvious there’s something between us. Something that has been brewing since we first met. He’s choosing not to act on it for reasons of his own that probably have to do with honor and propriety and princely things, but he doesn’t get to make all my decisions for me. For us.

When it comes to our safety, maybe. But when it comes to my consent, to this choice, no.

We’re fugitives on the run from the Oryndhrian king.

We’re hiding out with a rebel army.

We could die at any moment.

Roshan moves to sit up, but I straddle his waist in a quick motion and push him back down to the warm stone. He gasps, eyes rounding as he stares up at me, big hands fluttering to my hips. I’m on display for him. I know I am without looking down, the white translucent undershirt clinging to the curves of my body. I see it in the way his jaw goes slack and his breathing heightens. “Suraya, what are you doing?”

“Letting you know what I want. Then you can decide if you still want to go.”

“And what do you want?” His voice is strained.

I swallow and rock my hips back against his very obvious arousal beneath me. “You.”

For an infinitesimal moment, a hint of savagery barrels through me, the taste of it like a bitter poison in my throat, and I falter at the venomous bite of it. Mine, mine, mine echoes in tune with my pounding heart, along with a violent burst of rage that disappears as quickly as it’d come. For a split second, I falter at the strangeness of it.

Is it my magic? But then everything in my head goes brutally—and blissfully—silent, as if some link is snapped. All my tumultuous feelings rush back in. I stare down at my captive prince, whose limpid gaze holds mine. Here. Now.

I exhale; I want this. I want him.

Before I can lose my courage, I lean over and seal my mouth to his.

Chapter Sixteen

God of Night

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

The strain is too much to bear, the call of fate nearly impossible to resist. Gods, how I hunger, how I need. It’s my last conscious thought before I succumb to the curse and the beast bursts from my skin, driven only by its mindless, monstrous inhumanity.

And then I am no more.

Chapter Seventeen

What in the scalding pits of Droon am I doing?

In point of fact, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never seduced anyone before. Never done anything remotely like this before. My lips move over his, sinking into their pillowy contours. Sands, they are as soft as they’d looked. Soft and . . . unresponsive.

Roshan is not kissing me back, holding himself rigid.

Renewed doubt surges through me and I rear back in horrified alarm. “Don’t you . . . don’t you want me?”

The heavy groan that leaves him rumbles through his entire body. “Of course I want you. Can’t you feel how much I do?”

I can. He’s hot and hard and big, cradled perfectly against the softest, neediest part of me. I fight the compulsion to roll my hips, to give in to the urge for friction that’s building like a tumultuous tide in my body. I want to rock, to move. To ease this toe-curling, torturous ache. “Then what’s the problem? If we both want this?”

“What happens after?” he asks softly. “When we leave here?”

I frown. “Nothing happens. We try not to die, just as we’ve been doing every day. If you’re worried that this is going to change things, it’s not.”

I cringe at the small lie. I have no illusions: sex with Roshan will change everything. Despite my burst of spontaneity, I know what this kind of intimacy will mean, especially with someone like him. When Roshan looks at me, I don’t see greed or a devious agenda . . . I see more.

I see friendship and fondness, loyalty and honesty. I see a man with whom I’ve never had to hide who or what I am. I see someone I’ve grown to care deeply about in a short space of time. Someone I can trust with all of me. My body . . . and my heart, at least for now, if not forever.

And what of your soul?

The multilayered growl is so distant in the back of my mind that I barely take it in. Where had that come from? But I’m too distracted to ponder upon it as Roshan’s hips shift dangerously beneath me. My core throbs, and I bite back a moan. Yes, yes. My soul, too. He can have everything I have to give. Even as I think it, I know that’s a dangerous thought, one that stirs a faint feeling of wrongness.

I swallow hard, sudden uncertainty filling me. What would Laleh do?

Laleh would waste no time chasing her pleasure as long as her feelings were reciprocated, that I know. It’s one of the things I love about her. But it’s not a matter of what Laleh would do . . . it’s what I would do. I bite my lip, the delayed sting of Roshan’s reluctance finally hitting me and my earlier confidence dissipating when he doesn’t move or reply.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .” Heating with mortification, I try to rise, but the hands that were on my waist fall to my spread outer thighs, stalling me.

“Wait, Suraya,” he whispers, his fingers convulsing on my goose-pimpled skin. “Are you sure this is what you want? There are things about me you don’t know.”

“We all have secrets,” I say. “But let’s leave those outside. In here, we’re just Ro and Sura. Can we do that?”

“What if those secrets are deadly ones?”

I let out a small laugh and wiggle my hands. “I know all about those.” He doesn’t reply, but I can feel him thinking. “Don’t take away my choices because you want to protect me.”

“I would never do that. But I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I won’t be,” I reply.

After a fraught beat, he leans up to close the distance between us—one big palm sliding down my spine and bringing me flush up against him, chest to chest—and gently kisses my lips. They part automatically, welcoming him in. When his tongue slips in to taste me, exploring my mouth and flicking sweetly at my teeth, I sigh in utter relief.

Something deep inside whimpers in protest, but I silence those insecurities with ruthless ease. Shutting my mind off, I just feel.

I register the spicy taste of cloves and cinnamon before my fingers glide down to clutch his shoulders to me and crash us together. I want more. It feels like I want to climb inside of him. To bask in his taste, his warmth, and the honeyed tenderness of this embrace. A groan rumbles through him as he cups my head and his mouth slants over mine. His lips are warm and firm and strong, leaving no part of my mouth unexplored.

Sands, I want to kiss him forever.

“What was that for?” I whisper to him when we break apart, both equally dazed.

“That’s how I should have kissed you earlier, but you took me by surprise, and I wanted to be a gentleman.” He shoots me that soft, crooked smile he saves only for me. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since our first dance at the palace, by the way. I just wasn’t sure it was what you wanted.”

“I wanted, just so we’re clear,” I say, blushing hotly at my blunt admission and tugging him to me as my fingers wind into the silky strands of his hair. “I also wanted to throttle you, so there’s that, too.” I grin cheekily at him, then claim his lips with mine.

The last kiss had been gentle and sweet—us getting to know each other. This second one is less so—rife with something deeper and darker as we grind and writhe into each other. Fueled by ravenous need, and desperate to ease the hunger inside of me, I take the lead as my lips nibble across the seam of his, coaxing them open again for the lash of his silken tongue, his breath mingling with mine on a surprised exhale when I graze my teeth over his tongue. He bites my lip in retaliation with a sexy little growl.

Flames explode in my chest as his fingers flex on my nape, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, spangles of heat bursting everywhere. Not the deadly Starkeeper kind of heat, but a hot, tingling sensation that makes every hair on my skin feel like it’s lifting off my body. His fingers tangle into my loosened plait, and for a breathless moment, I wonder what it would feel like for him to hold me like this, firm in his grasp, my braid captive while he thrusts into my welcoming flesh. From behind.

Stars above . . .

I might not have much actual experience, but my imagination has had plenty of practice. Moaning into his mouth at the wicked fantasies taking over my brain, I match his commanding, wet strokes and licks until I’m breathless and weak-boned. When he finally breaks away, he’s panting, staring at me with those mesmerizing golden-brown eyes—pupils nearly blown out with desire.

He leans his forehead against mine. “I didn’t expect any of this,” he whispers. “Ashes, Suraya, I didn’t expect you.”

“Nor I you.”

He exhales. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

I shift to whisper in his ear before I bite his earlobe. Hard. “I swear to all the desert creatures in existence, if you ask me that again, I will throw you in that pool and drown you.”

“So feisty.”

“As though that’s any great shock.” I grin and stick out my tongue, which he captures with his mouth and follows with another brain-melting kiss. In one fluid motion he flips us, never breaking the kiss, one hand against my back to protect me from the stone. I gasp as he settles his weight deliciously between my thighs. I wrap my legs around the backs of his calves, feeling the thick length of him grind harder against my drenched center. A ragged whimper escapes me. “Sands, you feel too good to be real.”

With a wicked grin, he shifts downward, nose trailing against my throat. “I’m real, and I’ll prove it to you.”

“What, where are you going—”

But when his hot mouth closes over the peak of my nipple through the thin fabric of my chemise, all thought deserts me. I can only feel as his teeth scrape against my sensitive budded flesh and arch upward when he bites down gently. He tugs at the hem of my shirt. “This needs to come off.”

No objection here!

I start to lift the fabric, but he takes over, relieving it of me in a flash. And then I am lying bare before him, my breasts on indecent display. They’re not huge, and I wonder if he’s disappointed at my lack of fullness. My curves are all in my ample ass and thighs.

My worry flies away when he groans softly, filling his palms with each breast. “By the maker, you’re fucking perfect.”

His thumbs flick over my nipples, the rasp of his bare skin on the tips a new sensation that has my body quivering. He pinches one gently, and I hiss. When he lowers his head once more and his tongue laps at the tight peak, I nearly pass out.

Something wild is winding up in my body, building like a sandstorm over the desert. I’m sure I could climax from him touching my breasts alone. But Roshan is a man with a purpose, and he moves down, trailing hot wet kisses along my trembling stomach, grazing his teeth over my hip bones, and licking the spot just above the waistband of my undergarments. A full-body shiver rolls through me at the swipe of his tongue below the drawstring.

Heated dark eyes meet mine when his fingers hook into the ties of the fabric. “May I, Suraya?”

“Yes. For fuck’s sake, get them off!”

A low laugh leaves him as he does just that, shifting his heavy body so he can undo and ease the wet fabric down my legs. “Patience, my little desert starling. I want you burning.”

My entire body freezes at that. Oh, sands, my power . . . could I harm him without meaning to?

“You’re thinking too much,” he says, settling between my thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them farther apart. I don’t even notice, so preoccupied I am with my new fears.

I ask the question locking my muscles. “What if I hurt you?”

His answer is a slow, decadent lick of his tongue . . . right up the soaked, aching center of me. I can’t help the guttural moan that climbs up my throat. Oh. Oh. Writhing, I let out a sound like a creature in the throes of heat and instantly need him to do it again. I don’t even have to ask as he obeys my wordless plea, a rumble of pleasure vibrating through him. “Fuck, Sura, you taste like nothing I’ve ever had before.”

“Stop talking. More of the tongue thing.”

Laughter tumbles out of him, but he acquiesces, and my head falls back when he sets his mouth fully to me, teasing the bundle of nerves at the top of my sex, then slipping lower to tease my entrance. He varies his speed and his movements, driving me to distraction and delaying the release I need until I’m breathless, on edge, and nearly sobbing with pleasure.

And then he adds a finger, thrusting in and out to the sinfully talented rhythm of his tongue. Sands, how is he so good at this? A second thick finger follows the first, the delicious stretch in my untried passage a new sensation. I realize that he’s preparing me for something much bigger, and the thought of that sends me into near delirium.

When his fingers start to pump faster with delicious intent, I writhe and buck beneath him, shoving my hips up for more. “Please, Ro.”

As if he can sense that I’m teetering on the knife’s edge of bliss, he sucks.

My spine bows and I scream the instant the pleasure crests, roaring through every nerve and muscle, tightening and exploding into fragments of languid euphoria. I feel the orgasm everywhere from my fingertips to my hair follicles, crashing over me in endless waves.

When my brain clears from the haze, I stare down at him in complete amazement.

“Did I please my lady with the tongue thing?” he asks playfully, pressing a kiss to my sensitive inner thigh.

“The lady is attempting to come back to Endara,” I reply in a daze.

He chuckles. “Good.”

Seeing him down there with such a look of primal satisfaction on his face does something to me. “Come here.”

Arching a brow at my command, he takes his sweet time, continuing to lap and kiss my shuddering flesh until the last of the tremors subside. After one final lick that leaves me wanting again, he rocks to his heels. “Delicious.”

He crawls up my body, and I kiss him, tasting my essence on his lips. He’s right—it’s nothing like I’ve ever tasted, either: silken and sweet, with a hint of saltiness from the water. I wonder idly what he would taste like, but then my thoughts drift elsewhere when he stands to remove his own underclothes, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

There’s no way that’s the same size as his fingers.

It doesn’t change the fact that I still want him desperately, but it does make me wriggle with nervous anticipation. Roshan doesn’t come back to me right away, instead staring down at me like the magnificent god he is. Me . . . the woman he just pleasured to oblivion with that sinful, skilled mouth. Embarrassed at being splayed so boldly, I bring my knees together, heat gathering through me again.

“Don’t hide from me, Suraya,” he says, his voice rough. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” His lips tilt up into a devilish smirk. “I could stare at you and I could eat you forever.”

My flush is instant. Stars on fire, I love hearing such filthy words from him. He’s usually so controlled and proper, so much the gentleman, that this feels especially wicked. Stifling my sudden burst of shyness, I let my legs fall apart and arch slightly, drifting a hand down to my breasts. “Don’t stop there. Tell me more. Scandalize me, my prince.”

A low growl of approval leaves his chest. “I like the way you say that.” His hand flicks down his taut, water-slicked abdomen. “The scent of you could rival the most honeyed fruits. You taste like the nectar of the gods, and when you come, your entire body blooms with pleasure.” He captures his thick length at that, nostrils flaring, and I am mesmerized by the slow, purposeful motion of his hand from root to flared crown.

“Do that again,” I say hoarsely, capturing my bottom lip between my teeth. My core throbs in response.

“Stroke myself?” he asks, and I give an eager nod.

I stare in awe as he stands there, legs splayed, those muscular hair-covered brown thighs flexing at each pass of his hand. Stars, he’s the sexiest display I’ve ever seen. From the damp curls falling over his brow to his sharp cheekbones and generous lips, from his broad shoulders to his taut abdomen and tapered hips, he’s the one who embodies perfection.

And his sex . . . there are no words. Suffice it to say, it’s as impressive as the rest of him. I nearly come again as he fists it ruthlessly, tensing each time he squeezes the flared head, and I notice a bead of clear fluid at the tip. Sands, I want to taste him.

“I need you now,” I tell him, and crook a finger.

“As my mistress commands,” he says.

I peer at him from beneath my lashes. “Am I your mistress then?”

“You are everything.”

Lowering to his knees, he kisses me sweetly and fits himself into the welcoming cradle of my hips. The hot, silky prod of him where I’m wettest makes me gasp against his mouth. He’s not even inside me, and I’m ready to shatter from the intensity.

Desperate for more of the delicious friction on my swollen flesh, I angle my hips upward with a whimper. He groans as the crown of him nudges my entrance, but then he holds himself perfectly still. “I . . . Sorry, I forgot to ask. Are you protected?”

“Yes.” All Oryndhrian women have access to an inoculation to prevent pregnancy. It’s not to dissuade sex, only to help ensure unwanted pregnancy doesn’t occur.

“I’m healthy and free of disease,” he tells me gently.

“Me, too.” Mostly because I’ve never done this before. “Move, Roshan,” I beg.

“By the maker, you undo me,” Roshan mutters against my lips, his hips swirling against mine and making me see actual stars every time the tip of him strokes against the sensitive bundle of nerves at my apex. “You’re driving me to distraction. So wet. So hot.”

“Then put us both out of our misery and fill me.”

He gives a shallow thrust, and I suck in a breath at the unbelievable pressure of him notching into me. I’m uncomfortably snug, but I knew I would be, even with his careful, meticulous preparation earlier. My body will accept him eventually. I mean . . . I hope it will.

“Ashes, you’re tight,” Roshan rasps. I peek up, and his face is screwed up, eyes shut, as though he, too, is in pain. Muscles straining, he rocks back and then slips in another inch. Tensing, I bite my lip and breathe out, willing the immense pressure to subside. He’s not halfway in, and I already feel as though I’m going to split in two. What in Droon would all of him feel like?

Unwilling to let my fears rise, I clutch at the firm globes of his muscular ass and dig my fingernails into him. “Kiss me.”

His lips claim mine, hot and wild. His tongue dips then retreats, teasing and possessive all at once, in mimicry of what he means to do below, and I’m whimpering by the time his lips trace a delicate path down my jaw, my neck, and my collarbones. His fingers wrap into my hair, forcing me to arch and present my breasts for his pleasure. And he takes it without mercy, torturing my erect nipples with nibbles and languid strokes of his tongue until I’m panting, hips grinding upward, begging him to sink deeper.

“Make me yours, Ro. I need you.”

With a growl, he does with one powerful stroke, and despite how aroused I am, I hiss at the bite of pain as his body fuses fully with mine, the huge length of him pulsing like a brand I can feel throbbing everywhere inside of me. Tears sting my eyelids. I’m so full of him that I can barely breathe, but somewhere deep, it feels monumental.

Roshan stills, his eyes flying open. “You were a virgin,” he says, holding himself above me, seated to the hilt in my body. His jaw is tight; his gaze is distraught.

“What does it matter?”

Wiping the tear that had escaped the corner of my eye with his thumb, he lets out a breath. “It matters to me. I could have done more . . . taken greater care with you.”

“This is perfect.” I smile at him and wiggle my hips slightly, causing us both to gasp. “You’re big and I’m small. What did you think would happen? Do I need to give you a lesson in mass concepts, my prince?”

Roshan grins back, the alarm fading from his expression as his large body twitches. “Fuck, Sura, call me that again.”

I shift one ankle up to notch over his calf, my inner walls flexing around his girth. “My prince.”

His deep, primal groan is my reward as his thick eyelashes flicker shut, a dull flush staining his cheekbones. My body has finally begun to feel good, and the more I grind myself against him, the better I feel. Pain rides the edge of pleasure, but suddenly, my core flutters in an I want more kind of feeling. I need movement. My expression must say as much because he laughs and kisses me so sweetly that my toes curl.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he whispers against my lips, and starts to ease out of me. The burn on the heel of his withdrawal is satisfying instead of painful, and when he pushes back in, I feel the pleasure in my core rising again. “Good?” he mumbles.

“So good,” I gasp. “Just go slow.”

“Whatever you need.”

Sands, he’s such a thoughtful lover that I want to cry from the tenderness of it. But I don’t cry. I give over to the heat consuming me instead. With every measured thrust, the pressure in my core builds. The prince gasps against my neck, body shivering against mine. We’re both climbing toward a climax that promises to obliterate us.

“Faster, Roshan,” I whimper, meeting him now stroke for stroke with eager, uncoordinated, hungry pulses of my hips.

To my shock, he stops, nearly making me scream with frustration, and sits up, taking me with him. Then he turns us so I’m back to the position that started all of this—me straddling him. “Pick whatever pace you like, my starling.”

So I do. At first I’m unsure, my movements jerky, but then I find a rhythm that makes my jaw slacken, and when he circles his hips and hits a spot inside of me, my legs start to shake. More urgently now, I lift my body and lower it, riding him as though I’m racing a horse over the desert sands of Coban. My eyes drift shut as I chase the release that’s just out of reach.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says. “A goddess.”

I open my eyes to see him staring up at me in wonder, lips parted and pupils blown out. I won’t lie. Seeing this large, powerful man splayed out beneath me while I have my wicked way with him goes to my head like the finest elderflower liqueur.

That’s all it takes to light the fuse . . . me watching him and his stare owning mine just as his body does. My climax thunders through me, making my inner muscles clench down on him as starbursts explode behind my eyelids. He comes, too, with a ragged shout, hands clutching my hips as he drives up into me.

Panting, I collapse over him and bury my face in his damp throat. Sands, I love how he smells, like a sweaty, well-pleasured, satisfied male. Satisfaction that I delivered. I grin proudly against his neck.

“Why are you smiling?” he says. “I can feel your lips curling.”

I don’t think twice about my answer. “Because I’m happy.”

His fingers dance down my spine. “I’m happy, too.”

“Thank you for today,” I tell him.

His reply is soft, tinged with something I can’t decipher. “You’re welcome.”

We fall quiet after that, cherishing the soft, tender pleasure in silence for as long as we can. After a long moment, when our breathing and hearts calm, Roshan shifts to his feet, scoops me up into his arms, and walks to the edge of the rock. That lopsided grin is full of mischief.

“Don’t you dare!” I warn him. “Put me down, you monster!”

He growls and bites my shoulder. “Monster, is it?”

I scream bloody murder when he hurls us both into the water, the balmy sensation an invigorating shock to my overheated skin. We separate in the depths, but he finds me, wrapping his slippery limbs around me before he kisses me, soft and sweet.

And then I forget about being vexed . . . or thinking . . . or anything at all.

No matter the price of our little outing—to my body or eventually my heart—I’ll pay it gladly. This was one of the best days of my life.

Chapter Eighteen

Lost in my thoughts as I polish the sword I’d let sit in sand overnight, I whirl to see one of the young boys from the market square running toward us, his face red with exertion.

“Sir!” a small voice calls.

Roshan pokes his head out from the other side of the forge, a smudge of ash smearing his jaw. I wipe it away with my thumb when he comes to stand beside me.

We didn’t get into trouble for the secret jaunt to the aqueduct, and I still haven’t been able to wheedle out of Roshan just how he’d managed it. He must have made another deal or traded valuable information with the commander. Nothing gets approved without his say-so. Reward for good behavior perhaps?

“How did you do it?” I’d begged him.

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

I’d glared at him. Technically, we’d done a lot more than kiss. But I’d let it go. Some surprises were good ones, so I’d let him keep his secrets. But now, working in close proximity to Roshan without being able to act on my desires has been even more excruciating.

“Sir,” the boy squeaks. “Sri Aran sent this.” He glances at me before shoving a piece of parchment at Roshan. “There’s trouble.”

Roshan scans the paper, his brows drawing ominously down. “Has he returned?”

“No, but you must get to the portal.”

I’m shocked by the look of alarm on the prince’s face. “What’s happening?”

“Aran left yesterday to get supplies from the Indraloka. Apparently, there’s a reward out for you and mercenaries are coming.”

“Here?” I gasp. If Javed has put out a reward for my capture, mercenaries will be swarming from every corner of the realm. And we can’t let them discover the city, even by accident. Nyriell is a refuge to many, and if I stay here, I’ll put them all in danger.

A muscle flexes in the prince’s jaw. “They won’t find the city, don’t worry.” Then, as if reading my mind, he adds, “But still, we can’t put the people at risk by remaining here.” With that, he begins to move toward the square, pulling me behind him. “He writes there’s a secondary reward for the capture of your family. They’re in danger, too. And that we can’t trust anyone.” His eyes scan the area around us, and then he gives a tense look back to see if we’re being followed. My stomach drops. I had been lulled into a false sense of security here, had forgotten how dangerous things were beyond the city walls. And it had been a foolish mistake, and I couldn’t let my family pay the price.

“We have to warn them!”

He nods. “Yes.”

For a moment, I feel a strange, bone-deep sense of loss for the aqueduct, for Ro and Sura, whose existence was so heartbreakingly fleeting and free. But we both knew what would happen once we left the cave. Life was going to resume . . . reality was going to crash down . . . as surely as the sun was going to rise.

We dash through the crowds, making our way to the lift as quickly as we can.

Clenching my fists, I stand quietly on the platform as we rise to the surface—until the sound of a pained scream pierces the silence.

The scene at the top is horrific. Several dead bodies litter the ground, including those of the soldiers who had been on duty and what looks like several mercenaries. Two rough-looking armed men are still standing, one over the runecaster clutching his chest that has a sword protruding from it and one on horseback. The pieces of jādū fall from his hand as the merc kicks him off his blade.

I glance up at Roshan, whose eyes are slitted with rage.

One of the men looks right at us and I freeze.

“Don’t make a sound,” Roshan whispers into my ear, and I realize belatedly that they can’t see us because of Aran’s illusion.

He tenses, and the next thing I know, he’s leaped across the platform, slashing the closest man with a silent swipe of his dagger. He whirls, and sparks fly as their blades collide, though Roshan is at a disadvantage with his shorter weapon. My lungs squeeze as he levels a savage right hook to the man’s stomach, making him double over, and before he can recover, the prince grabs him by the scruff of his neck and smashes his knee upward into his head.

The second man climbs off his horse and swings his sword wildly—a jādū sword that is more than capable of killing Roshan—anger rippling across his face. The rune etched at the base of the fuller is air, and a frisson of worry takes hold. Air is the most temperamental element for jādū. I once forged a sword with that rune that split in half from the sheer pressure of the charged element.

I charge forward, unsheathing my dagger as I run. “Roshan, look out!”

But it’s too late. I’m too slow. The blade kisses the prince’s neck.

The man leers at me as Roshan goes still. “You! Don’t fucking move, or I’ll slit his throat.”

At the threat, my vision narrows to a haze of red, and visceral heat spikes through my veins. My palms feel like they are on fire as a tsunami of wild, fractious energy crashes over me. Roshan’s gaze collides into mine, and I can see my own alarm reflected in it as he glances down to my hands. I don’t need to look to know they’re glowing and ready to do damage. Weeks of practice, and my magic has never felt this white-hot. This angry.

“What the fuck are you?” the mercenary snarls.

Your death, my simurgh snarls.

Roshan takes advantage of the man’s distraction with an elbow to his gut, followed by a vicious fist into his temple, and the man slumps to the ground. I fight to control the white light arcing between my fingers and stare dumbly at Roshan when he snatches the horse’s bridle and turns toward me.

“Hurry, Suraya. More will come!”

His urgency snaps me out of the shaking haze of rage. I glance around, and sure enough, a dust cloud rises in the distance, indicating more riders. I clench my fists together, trying to control the visceral tingling of my palms and the sparking light.

Calm, breathe, calm.

I swing up onto the saddle, and Roshan mounts behind me, clamping me into place between his thighs. His arms surround me, the side of his chin grazing my temple as his fingers grasp the reins. With a grunt, he urges the stallion into motion.

“They’re getting closer,” I shout, leaning to peer over my shoulder and around Roshan’s side. Relief fills me as they ride completely past the hidden platform, but it doesn’t last when I see the glint of weapons. “They’re going to shoot us!”

We are still in their range.

As my eyes scan the sands for a way out, the shadows around us seem to move, pouring across the surface like a pool of inky darkness toward the dozen men riding hell-for-leather toward us. I look down at my hands in confusion. Is this my magic? But my skin looks normal now, the power subsided. And I don’t control the shadows, only starlight . . .

But something about that shimmering darkness and the sinuous way it unfolds strikes me as oddly familiar. I can feel the immense power of it breaking like an unforgiving wave of viscous ink over our pursuers, the echo of a vengeful satisfaction invading my mind.

I shake my head and tear my gaze away as I’m jolted in the saddle, Roshan urging the horse to go faster.

“Keep your head down,” he says, his breath gusting against my ear.

The stallion whinnies as we race across the dunes away from the outcropping.

“Hold on,” Roshan says.

“I am.” I hold my breath, too, as he gives the horse its head and it runs into a full gallop. If we fall, we’ll break our necks.

“Brace yourself,” Roshan says as dust flies up around us. “They won’t let us go without a fight.”

Sure enough, I hear the sharp thwack of a weapon firing in the distance, and flames dance in a streak across the dark sky. One hits the ground with a boom, and the tremor reaches all the way to us, the earth shuddering.

“What the fuck is that?” I shout, thankful our horse hasn’t faltered.

He peeks over his shoulder. “If I had to guess, jādū arrows inscribed with earth runes.”

My heart lurches. “Jādū?”

I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’d seen arrowheads in Vasha’s forge, but my brain hadn’t put the two together.

We’re almost to the caves; another arrow hits the ground behind us, but as the earth quakes, we reach the hollows, slipping into the welcoming darkness.

The trip into the cavern seems endless, but it’s only a handful of terrifying minutes before we’re well out of sight of the men shooting at us. It’s nighttime, and the light of the bloodred moon casts an eerie, disturbing glow on the gravelly earth.

“They’re going to chase us, you know,” I say, relief choking me.

“I know. We have to keep moving. Our only choice is to get to Aran.”

I stare up at Roshan in horror. “The Indraloka? Have you lost your mind? That’s the first place those mercs will go! And what if others want to claim the bounty? We can’t trust anyone.”

“No, we can’t. But if we need a portal to Coban to make sure your family is safe, that’s the only place I know with jādū to spare.” He exhales a harsh breath. “There’s another Dahaka outpost not far, just on the other side of this basin that will have access to a portal. But we have to be careful. Aran is literally the only one I trust not to sell us out to Javed. Anyone else might.”

Roshan shifts, and I feel the day-old scrub of his beard scraping against my neck. As if he can’t help himself, his lips grace the sensitive spot below my ear. I ignore the flare of warmth at his soft touch. “Are we going to need to bypass the guards then? There has to be security there, right? Otherwise, anyone would be able to waltz in.”

“No one would be that stupid.” His lips dance over my skin one more time, and then he straightens. “Don’t worry. I know what to do.”

I don’t point out the fact that we’re clearly that stupid, and we ride on for a few minutes in silence. As the adrenaline recedes, I feel the dull ache in my thighs and back at the horse’s movement; riding is not something my body is used to.

Roshan shifts against me when I squirm trying to get comfortable, and I freeze at the press of rock-hard thighs beneath my bottom. “I’m sorry,” I say, swallowing. “It’s difficult to get used to the horse’s gait.”

“No, you’re fine. And it’s not safe yet for us to slow,” he says, his own tone strained. “Anything could happen. Sit tight, try to balance, and we’ll be there before you know it.”

I try to do as he says. “How long will it take us to cross the basin?”

“Altogether, with him carrying the weight of both of us, a few hours. Unless we run into a storm, which is possible. The weather patterns are unpredictable out here.”

I suddenly think about the shadows that had appeared out of nowhere, helping us escape our attackers. Had that been a trick of the atmosphere? Or some other strange magic? I glance around, but the landscape arounds us seems normal, and I decide not to say anything to Roshan. Surely it was just an oddity of the area.

As we ride, the air grows warmer. The sky above us remains cloudless, thank the stars twinkling above. Their glimmer, and the glow of a third quarter moon, is the only light in the gloom, and the rolling hillside and rocky crags throw odd shapes across the ground, making me feel like we’re riding through a dream.

I relax against Roshan’s chest a little more. “How do you know we’re going the right way?”

Roshan shifts, releasing the reins with one hand to point upward to a shining pinpoint of light. “We follow that star.”

“How do you know this . . . ?” I begin, but my voice trails away as I feel the warmth of his breath on my sensitive nape, making my skin prickle and goose bumps rise everywhere. His head leans into mine as the tip of his nose grazes the exposed skin above my mesh collar, as if he is craving the contact, as if he needs the touch just as badly. But he doesn’t do more than inhale deeply before settling his cheek into the curve of my neck and shoulder as we ride through the darkness.

“Roshan?” I ask shakily. “Why are you doing this? Putting your life on the line for me. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I can’t just leave you—it wouldn’t be the honorable thing to do. My mother would turn in her grave if I abandoned a woman in mortal danger.”

“It wouldn’t be abandonment if I told you to let me go,” I say.

Roshan says nothing to that, and we ride in silence for a while, preoccupied with our own thoughts. Something between us has irrevocably shifted. Our bond feels deeper, more intimate. It feels like trust. I twist in his lap, tilting my head up to his.

“Use me at the bunker,” I whisper. “We can leverage my magic.”

His entire body stiffens. “No.”

“Why not?”

“You ask me why I’m helping you? It’s for two reasons. One, I will never let Javed use you for what you can do. Too many people have lost their lives in the cross fire of his hunger for power. And two, I could not stand it if anything happened to you. And if I take what you’re offering, I’m just as selfish and corrupt as he is.”

“Not if I give it freely.”

I can practically hear his molars grinding. “No.”

“Why?”

“It was because of me that Javed set his sights on you in the first place at the ball. I refuse to put you in any more danger.”

I shake my head at once, hating the guilt that laces his words. “No, Roshan. Javed knew what I was the moment Helena told him about the arena. It had nothing to do with you.” I force a lighthearted note into my words. “Plus, let’s be realistic—the only thing you’re guilty of is feeling sorry for the sad, food-loving wallflower.”

Roshan exhales a puff of laughter. “You think I felt sorry for you?”

“Didn’t you? It’s not like there weren’t six dozen other ladies far better than me, waiting to swoon at your princely feet.”

His voice is quiet when he responds. “You are oblivious, Suraya. None of those other women could ever hope to hold a candle to you.”

I fight back an indecent rush of pleasure at his words. “If you’re trying to seduce me, my prince, flattery’s not going to work. I’m made of sterner stuff.”

His hips give an infinitesimal shift against me. “What will it take then?”

“Fawning. Lots and lots of groveling and fawning.”

He presses a teasing kiss to the side of my neck. “When this is over and you’re safe, I promise to drop to my knees for as long as you like.”

Seriously . . . damn being on this horse, damn having to be on the run, damn everything that isn’t the image he just put into my brain! We fall into silence again. The only sounds in the night are the measures of our dissonant breaths and the constant thump of the horse’s hooves on the rough earth. The feel of Roshan’s chest rising and falling behind me is steady, the rhythmic cadence unexpectedly comforting.

We’re in this together.

Even if we have no real future beyond what comes next.

I have no illusions about what is in store for us. Even if he thwarts his brother, Roshan belongs in Kaldari and I belong in Coban. Whatever this is will have to end, either in distance or . . . in death.

The crone’s words about the war that will end all wars haunt me and swirl in my mind, and I shudder. At once, Roshan’s arms tighten slightly around me. “What’s wrong?” he asks, so in tune with me that he can sense my spiking unrest.

I want to tell him about Vena’s prophecy, desperately. But another part is afraid of what he will say. I inhale a breath and start before I can change my mind. “In the inn back in Coban once, there was a man from the House of Fomalhaut who attributed Eloni’s vast wealth to the will of the Royal Stars. I knew he was arcanist, but it always stuck with me.” I flex my hands against his forearms. “They’re the same gods that granted me this magic. The old gods from Aran’s stories.”

“Do you believe they exist?”

“I don’t know what I believe,” I say, lifting my palms between his holding the reins. “But how would I be able to wield this kind of magic if they didn’t? As much as I wish it to be true, there’s no power in the realm that can give me the ability to incinerate people with starfire from my hands. Unless I’m high as a kite.” I laugh dully. “Actually, I haven’t given up hope that this might all be a delirious Jade-induced fantasy or Droonish brain fever.”

With a contemplative noise, Roshan adjusts his fingers on the reins. “Morvarid was very vocal about punishing those who didn’t venerate the king, even though the House of Fomalhaut has been known for its secret practices. I’ve always wondered why my mother never returned to Eloni. I think my aunt might have thought her an arcanist. A believer, if not a practitioner, of magic.”

My jaw falls open in surprise. “Was she?”

“Maybe. She knew the stories, like the ones of the Starkeeper, but that’s all they were to me—stories.”

I’d never thought much about arcanism, but the Elonian mystics in the House of Fomalhaut had always been suspected of continued devotion to the old gods. I suppose if secret cities like Nyriell exist, then pockets of arcanism must still exist as well, of those who believe that magic will return one day to Oryndhr when the gods reawaken and akasha flows once more.

“Do you think the commander of the Dahaka is arcanist?” I ask.

Roshan tilts his chin down. “Why do you ask?”

“Because the Dahaka seem so focused on destroying the crown and Kaldari.”

He shrugs, his muscles bunching beneath mine. “Part of restoring balance is allowing people to have freedom of choice in how they live. How they feed their families. Where and what they choose to worship. Why and who they love.”

I can’t help the ripple of sensation at the word love. In the version of the world he’s talking about, maybe there’s a chance for a prince and a commoner to find happiness.

*  *  *

I’m in a state of not quite dozing, lulled by the rhythm of the movement, when Roshan makes a clicking noise with his tongue. The horse instantly slows to a walk, and my sore behind immediately wakes me. The outpost must be close.

“Get ready,” Roshan tells me. He slows the horse even more with a soft sound and brackets his arms on either side of me as a small garrison looms into view ahead of us.

He settles his fingers on the reins as he directs the stallion toward the rear of the fort. Predictably, as we approach, a small unit of armed soldiers snap into position, loaded crossbows pointed right at us. I can’t see if there are runes on the arrows in the darkness, but it would be foolish to assume there aren’t.

“Who goes there?” a voice shouts. “Identify yourself.”

Roshan clears his throat. “Ro Sattari, first division.” I blink at the ease with which he offers the false name.

“Approach,” the voice replies after a protracted beat, and the men at the speaker’s back shift into a nonlethal stance. Roshan exhales audibly into my ear.

I keep my face neutral but say under my breath, “How do they know we’re not a threat?”

“Aran vouched for us. Sattari is his last name.”

My thoughts are whirling in confusion. Why would Aran speak on our behalf? And here at a random outpost of all places? Suddenly, the ease with which Roshan navigates the Dahaka nags at me, not just here, but also in Nyriell. “Roshan, why would he do that? When did he do that? What aren’t you telling me?”

Behind me, I feel his chest expand and contract with a deep breath, and then another, before he answers. “Aran is my cousin.”

I freeze and jerk my head around. “He’s what?”

“My cousin.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “That’s why I’m known to some of them as Ro Sattari. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

My stomach dives. Did he not confide in me because he doesn’t trust me? That hurts more than it should. I frown, wanting to ask more, but he’s dismounting, easily swinging to the ground and holding a hand up toward me. My legs feel like jelly as I slide down and stumble, steadied by Roshan’s arm. Wincing, I rub my knuckles against my thighs, attempting to return some feeling to them.

Roshan peers at me, and I shove the tangled snarls out of my face and attempt to tame the escaping strands.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing.” He hands me a low-brimmed cap purloined from the saddlebag. “Wear this. You’re too noticeable.”

Without argument, I tuck my hair into a bun under the proffered cadet’s cap and pull the brim low. Once it’s in place, Roshan walks toward the men, leading the horse and keeping me slightly behind him. At the checkpoint, he hands the reins to one of the guards, but not before patting the stallion’s foam-streaked neck with affection. “See that he’s well fed and watered.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replies.

Roshan pulls a medallion from his pocket. It’s different from the ones we were both given before, but I don’t have a chance to study it as he passes it to a second guard and then slips it back into his cloak when it’s returned. The guards move aside, and I let out the tiniest breath of relief when no one asks me to identify myself. Feigning confidence, we walk toward the entrance.

Standing there is a portal runecaster—one who doesn’t look friendly, even if he’s on the side of the Dahaka. But Roshan doesn’t speak, so I don’t, either. He simply nods briskly to the man, and the runecaster begins to chant, the jādū shard in his palm brightening as a pool of iridescence forms. I can’t keep the awe from my face—I’ll never get over how beautiful portals are up close.

And now, I see there’s a similarity between its blinding glow and mine. For a moment, I wonder if I can direct the shard’s magic to portal us to Coban instead. If the power inside of me and the power of these crystals are one and the same, theoretically, I could. But as I’ve learned the hard way with Aran, theoretical knowledge isn’t always practical action. I could incinerate everyone here in a moment. And I’d rather not have more blood on my hands.

Silently, I follow Roshan through the portal.

Chapter Nineteen

The crowded supply post of the Indraloka is a hubbub of activity, despite the lateness of the hour, with men unloading crates of weapons, fuel, and food from nearby wagons. Overseers bellow back and forth. Despite my worry that we’re going to get instantly arrested, Roshan and I exit the portal without anyone paying much mind and begin to weave our way through a high maze of stacked cartons inside a massive warehouse.

I almost slam into him when he comes to a sudden halt. “What’s wrong?” I whisper.

He curses under his breath. “We’re on the wrong side. We need to be all the way over there.” He points to the far end of the space—one that’s crawling with soldiers, and any one of them could be a spy for Javed.

My palms tingle as if alerting me to their presence. I raise them uncertainly. “I can try—”

“We can’t risk that.” He steps closer, and a muscle jerks in his cheek, as if he’s reconsidering using my power to blast our way through, but then he shakes his head. “No, it’s too dangerous. Wait here, I’ll be back.”

With that, he crashes his lips into mine and kisses me hard, his mouth commanding, his body crowding me in the most possessively delicious way. He kisses me so senseless that I forget to argue. When he pulls away, I’m seeing stars inside my fuzzy brain.

“Don’t do anything rash,” he whispers.

And then he’s gone, disappearing around one of the walls in the crate maze, and I sink to my knees, trying to collect myself. A residual shiver coasts across my skin, and I bite my bruised, swollen bottom lip, wondering what had gotten into him.

Maybe he did it because we’re probably going to die in the next thirty seconds.

Literally a kiss of death.

A wild snort leaves me as sweat trails down my back, and I rise back to my feet to see if I can spot him.

“You there,” a voice barks from behind me, nearly making my heart burst out of my chest. “State your business.”

Palms high, I turn to see a hatchet-faced officer holding me on the business end of a crossbow, and I swallow my immediate jolt of panic. I try to look as young and as innocent as possible. “I’m supposed to be . . . on, ah . . . loading duty, but I think I got the wrong place. I’m new and kind of lost.”

His eyes narrow with suspicion, and the weapon doesn’t budge. My oblivious act is not going to work, not with this man, and not now with the entire fortress on full alert for intruders. “You look familiar. Wait, you’re that girl from the bounty . . .”

Greed flares in his stare as he trails off. The bounty on my head must be enormous. I don’t hesitate for a second more. I sink back into the countless exercises I’d done with Aran and reach deep. It’s me or him. Imagining my magic like a sticky web, I throw it out. Please work, please work, please work.

In the seconds it takes for him to inhale, bands of light from my palms have flared out, encircled, and immobilized him.

By the everlasting stars! I’m doing it!

My light flickers, and I suck in a breath, focusing hard. The greedy look in his eyes shifts to shock and then fear when he can’t move a muscle, even his tongue, and all I can do is hope that no more soldiers are patrolling with him. It’s taking all my concentration not to melt his body into a human puddle, but at least my control is holding.

For now.

At that moment, Roshan appears around the corner. He stops short, staring from me to the man. He doesn’t say a word, only gives me a stunned nod. The officer’s eyes widen, though with something other than fear—relief, maybe—as I release the web, and Roshan moves to stand behind him.

“Sir—”

But Roshan’s strong forearm cuts the rest of the man’s words from his mouth, and within seconds, he is slumped unconscious. The prince lowers his body carefully to the ground.

Relieved, I stare down at the sleeping officer. “Why did he call you sir?”

“Probably because of my uniform,” Roshan replies.

Belatedly, I notice that he has changed into an ebony uniform with gold bars on the sleeves, complete with a long official-looking purple cape, one that goes to the heels of his polished boots. He shoves a half-helm over his head that obscures the upper part of his face. I gape at him in awe—he looks even fiercer and more formidable than usual.

And absurdly hot.

Sex-on-a-stick Captain Roshan tosses a sealed bag at me. “I have a plan. If we can blend in, we can get across.”

Opening the package, I let out a curse at the soft, sheer fabric within. “What in the flaming sands is this?”

“A Kaldarian noble’s ceremonial dress.”

I narrow my eyes at him as I finger the sheer silk of the extravagant gown that probably costs more than a soldier makes in a year. “I’m not putting this on. I’ll look ridiculous.”

“It will buy us some time. Please, Suraya, trust me,” he says urgently.

“How about I just magic-web everyone?” I suggest with a confidence I don’t feel.

His lips flatten. “And then what? We just stand here holding them indefinitely?”

“Then you could put them all to sleep like that man. Piece of cake.” Literally anything would be better than dressing in this scrap of silk. “Besides, how do you expect me to run in this thing anyway without displaying my goodies to all and sundry?” I add, holding up a fistful of the voluminous fabric, irritated at the petulant note in my voice.

“I’m partial to your goodies.” He gives me the crooked smirk that I love, and I studiously ignore it because I’m too aggravated. “You’re wasting time. I’m dressed as a senior commanding officer of the Dahaka. It will be easier for us to get across if you look like a dignitary from Kaldari whom I’m escorting elsewhere. Trust me.”

I open my mouth and shut it. He’s right, the flaming Scav turd. Scowling at his logic, and because I don’t have a better plan, I mutter a curse under my breath. “Fine, but I’m keeping my dagger. Turn around.”

When he does so without taking the opportunity to tease me about my modesty, I realize how serious he is. I shimmy out of my dirty gray jumpsuit and pull on the gossamer layers of handspun silk. I won’t lie—the fabric feels like heaven against my skin after the coarse material of the Dahaka gear, but it also makes me feel vulnerable. Exposed.

Grimacing, I palm my dagger from its sheath and slash a piece of fabric from the jumpsuit to fashion a makeshift holster, securing it around my thigh. I swallow my discomfort and tug on the last part of the outfit—a pair of supple, beaded slippers—and then straighten.

The soft silk overdress falls from my shoulders in graceful folds, and though the matching split skirts are slightly long, the cuffed ends hold them in place around my ankles.

“I’m done,” I grumble. “Though I don’t see why I couldn’t have been a junior aide and wear something less . . . racy.”

Roshan turns to face me, his hot gaze sweeping me from top to bottom. “You look good in racy.” Bold appreciation glitters in his eyes, and I fight not to flush at the perusal, keeping my mouth compacted into a scowl. But my body has other ideas. Blood rushes to places it shouldn’t, making me bite back a hum of pleasure. “One more thing,” he adds, and closes the distance between us. His hands remove the cap on my head and thread through the snarls along my scalp.

Well, now the blasted hum turns into a needy throb, making it hard to breathe. Roshan combs gentle fingers through the heavy mess of curls that loosens to tumble halfway down my back. His touch lingers over the pale swath of curls on the left side of my crown. My eyelids flutter as his fingertips tangle in a knot and the small bite of pain makes me hiss on the heels of the pleasure spiraling through me.

“I fail to see how any of this is going to help us not draw attention to ourselves,” I grit out, fighting the rush of arousal with everything I have. Obviously, this is neither the time nor the place, but it doesn’t stop me from the wicked fantasy of yanking him into a dark alcove and demanding that he soothe the ache he started down south. With his tongue.

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?” I echo.

He peers at me. “You would fail to see it. Come on. Chin up. Do not react to anything you may see or hear. Act like all of this is beneath you. That even I’m beneath you.” He smirks. “Emulate my aunt, if it helps.”

Roshan’s fingers slip around my elbow as we saunter forward past the crates. With no time to think, I do as he says and hold my head high, channeling a frigid hauteur to rival Queen Morvarid’s. It’s no easy task as a dozen pairs of curious eyes swivel in our direction and discreetly fall away.

I peer up at Roshan through my eyelashes. His handsome face is stern and authoritarian, as befits his supposed rank. Then again, he is a prince, so arrogance and command come naturally to him. He takes long, confident strides, and I notice all the men standing at swift attention, cupping their left hands over their right fists at chest level in a show of deference, along with muted whispers of “sir” echoing through the warehouse.

The high-ranking uniform is doing the job more effectively than we could have hoped. The men’s gazes drift to me, too, but skitter away as fast as they land. I feel the press of a gaze, and a familiar, heart-shaped face framed by a skein of black glossy hair snags my attention for a half second. Clem? I stumble and crane my neck, searching the sea of faces.

“What is it?” Roshan asks.

“I thought I saw . . . never mind. I was mistaken.” There’s no logical reason Clem would be here. It must simply have been someone who looked like her.

As we walk, I feel Roshan’s comforting presence behind me, his palm once more at my elbow, and I absorb some of his strength to calm the erratic patter of my heart. His hand falls to the small of my back as we approach the security checkpoint, an unreadable gaze meeting mine. That cool mien betrays nothing—he’s back to the controlled royal, ever in command of his emotions.

“Identification?” a soldier at the checkpoint asks, and my heart trips.

Roshan hands over the medallion from his pocket.

The soldier pales at whatever he sees etched there, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Sorry, sir. All clear. Thank you, sir.”

We enter the doorway, and I turn to Roshan feeling nearly delirious with relief. “Thank goodness for that medallion. Was that also courtesy of your cousin?”

He gives me one of those sardonic smirks, and I roll my eyes. Of course it was.

“What do we do now?” I ask as we walk down the corridor.

His mouth curls into a wry smile. “We find Aran.”

*  *  *

Luckily, Aran finds us before more trouble can.

He leads us past a mess hall that’s teeming with soldiers, through a winding set of corridors, and to a trapdoor near the back of a grain storage room. We slip down into a dark shaft before he drags the bags back as best as he can and secures the way behind us.

The tunnel is dark and smells of dust and old cobwebs. I imagine one of the residents of those cobwebs skittering over the base of my neck, and I swallow a whimper. I fucking hate spiders.

Don’t think about spiders, think about staying alive.

Though perhaps some light might help. I focus inward as Aran has been teaching me and envision the rune for the sun—a dot within a circle—and call my magic. At first, nothing happens, but ever so slowly, a golden sheen creeps over my palm. Elation fills me. Until I see just how many cobwebs are above me, and the light winks out.

Maybe it’s better not to know.

Soon, and spider-free, thank fuck, we end up in a small cavern that is lit by a single lamp. The room is littered with drawings, maps, paper scrawled with ancient hieroglyphics, and ashen shards of burned-out, old jādū crystals.

“We’ll be safe here,” Aran says. I’m glad to see that he’s completely healed from what had happened in Nyriell.

I sink down, the exhaustion of the last few hours catching up to me. “Why can’t we portal from here?”

Aran sniffs. “We need jādū to do that.”

Roshan shoots me a reassuring look. “Don’t worry, we will get to Coban.”

“If what you’ve told me is true, we need to get her to Eloni,” Aran says from where he stands, his eyes unfathomable. “To the temple. Think about it, Ro, it makes the most sense for her safety. And everyone else’s.”

Roshan glances at his cousin. “What happened exactly? Your message said our cover was blown. How?”

I’m still in shock that they are relatives and slightly irritated that he kept such information from me. I suppose it doesn’t truly matter, but I thought we were past having secrets by this point.

“The palace placed an astronomical bounty on her head,” Aran said. “Enough to turn some of our own. Someone let it slip that she was in Nyriell.”

I don’t miss the tension underpinning his words, but my mind is elsewhere. “I need to go home. I have to ensure my family is safe.”

“They’ll know that’s where we’re headed,” Aran says, still looking at Roshan.

Roshan nods grimly. “Probably.” He lets out a breath and removes the helm from his head. “For now, we should eat and get our strength up. Then we figure out the portal.”

Aran tosses a tin from a nearby pile to me, and I force myself to open it despite an unsettled stomach. The smell of honeyed beans wafts up, and my belly cramps. Wincing, I tip some of the slop into my mouth and chew. It’s cold and coagulated, but I know the nourishment is important.

Roshan finishes his own tin quickly and then moves to the chamber entrance.

“Where are you going?” I ask him.

“To check that everything is secure,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Try to get some rest if you can.”

After Roshan leaves, I make myself comfortable on a chair on one side of the room, warily eyeing the rough-hewn ceiling of rocks. So far, we’re safe enough here, but I can’t help feeling like we’re treading a precariously thin line between survival and stupidity. I need to get back home to make sure my family is safe. And the truth is I just want all of this to be over.

Though I don’t even know what that means.

Will there be war? Will the prophecy come to pass? Will we survive whatever is coming? Things can’t go back to the way they were, but what if the only thing that lies ahead for all of us is death?

Panic slices down my spine. The utter inability to control anything at all makes me feel untethered, as if I’m drifting in an endless sea at the whim of fate.

Breathe, Suraya.

I glance over at Aran, wondering if he can give me some more concrete answers—at least a foothold to not feel so powerless. “You said you wanted to get me to the temple in Eloni. Why?”

He stares at me for a long time, then glances toward the narrow tunnel where Roshan had disappeared. “For help, perhaps. Protection, too. The House of Fomalhaut believes that the Starkeeper has very special magic, one that can be used and twisted. If the power you bear is indeed a weapon of this magnitude, you must be safeguarded at all costs.”

The crone’s prophecy whispers through my brain. “From the twin gods.”

“Not both, just one,” Aran replies. “The twins hold equal but opposite dominion in the realms of light and darkness. Fero is the one you need to worry about.” My heart quakes at the sound of the name. “As Saru was seen as a creator, his brother, Fero, was the destroyer. The entire world was their playground as they competed for mortal souls.”

“And the Royal Stars?”

“The four Royal Stars were the instruments of the twins, fated to guide all life. Venant is the keeper of the northern sky and the brightest star in the darkness. His magic is transformative, a soul energy, and he is the summoner of the Starkeeper—the hand of the gods created by the four of them. You, in this case.”

Grimacing, I don’t inform Aran that the guardian of the northernmost Royal Star has manifested to me as a woman named Vena. “You really think I’m this mystical weapon of the stars?”

“I don’t think, Suraya, I know. You are a weapon, one that is neither good nor evil, but a fusion of the two. Akasha runs in your veins. Until you become a master of your magic, you must serve it. And as its servant, you are bound to the will of your creators . . . the Royal Stars.”

I shiver, wrapping my arms about myself. I don’t want to be bound to anyone’s will but my own. “So, what are you saying? That I don’t have a choice?”

“You always have a choice.”

I stare at him, annoyed by his noncommittal response. “Do I? You make it sound like I wanted to hurt the people I’ve harmed with my power.”

“You misunderstand me, Suraya,” Aran says. “We all have elements of light and darkness within us. As such, while you’re human, you will remain governed by the arms of both gods, but that final choice will always be yours. Think of it this way: there are two creatures inside of you. The one that will grow is the one you nourish. Until you become a master of what you are, you will be ruled by the pull and push of both the light and darkness that live within you.”

Well, he’s not wrong about the creature inside of me.

“The nature of your magic encompasses both the good and the bad, and everything in between. Those who wish for Fero’s return will do anything to turn you to their side.”

“Their side?” My laugh is bitter. “You make it sound like a competition.”

“No,” Aran says in a solemn voice. “It’s a war, and you are its pivot. If you give in to the lie instead of the truth and become seduced by the lure of darkness instead of the promise of light, then we all lose.”

“That’s enough, Aran,” a stern voice says sharply, making me jump. “You don’t need to scare her.”

We both swivel to see Roshan leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest. I wonder how long he’s been standing there and how much he has overheard, but I’ll bet my cursed palms that he is familiar with most of this already. He is half Elonian, after all, and if his cousin is a starsdamned magi, then none of this would be new to him.

As I look at his grim face, I suddenly wonder what other secrets Roshan might be keeping from me.

He leans forward to squeeze my shoulder. “You can’t trust anyone, Suraya, and not just because of the bounty. By now, news of your magic would have spread throughout Oryndhr, and regardless of what people believe, they will look at you differently and treat you differently. Many will be afraid of what you can do, and some will curse you for it.” He glances at Aran, his face grim. “And just as there are those magi who serve Saru, there are also those who follow Fero. They will stop at nothing to twist and coerce you.” He pauses, brow furrowed. “There are worse people than Javed out there. He just wants power. There are others who covet your soul.”

A horrible thought occurs to me, and I turn to Aran. “Explain exactly what you meant by ‘Fero’s return.’”

Aran flicks his gaze to Roshan for permission, and the prince nods, his forbidding expression making my insides coil and knot. “The divine power of your blood and the transformative energy of the Starkeeper will allow the remnants of his essence to take root, if you will.” He stares at me in silence. “He will eventually possess you. Hence, Fero reborn.”

Gross.

“That’s not possible,” I say, wrapping my arms about myself and shoving out of my chair to put some distance between them and me. “You realize how preposterous this all sounds, right? Tell me you don’t believe any of it . . . that people are going to use me to summon and embody some dead god.”

Roshan blows out a concerned breath at my wild expression, as though he knew the revelation would be too much to handle. “It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

I scowl. “And what about Saru? Why can’t I embody that god? He sounds like a lot more fun.”

“Saru is in god sleep,” Aran responds, ignoring my obvious sarcasm. “It took almost every drop of his empyreal energy to banish his brother the last time. If Fero returns, we’re on our own.”

Roshan nods. “Either way, with your magic, we have to keep you safe. Especially from my brother.” He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s focus on getting you back to your family. Try to get some sleep if you can. We’ve got a few hours before dawn.”

My mind is spinning. I need space to process everything, so I take Roshan’s advice and quietly head to the adjoining antechamber, where there’s a small cot. Sinking to its edge, I stare at my palms. On my left, I trace the fate line running from the base of my index finger to my wrist. My mother had always spoken of those lines as reflecting what was written in the stars for us—heart, mind, life, marriage. Fate.

Ironically, the shape of one’s palm is also connected to the elements of earth, air, fire, water, and akasha. Earth palms are square and thick, and those defined by earth are practical in nature. Water is associated with long palms and long fingers and with intuition. Air palms are narrow and bony, their natures more analytical. With my long palms and short fingers, I sway toward fire—passionate, risk-taking, and driven by desire.

But the fifth and most elusive element has always been a mystery to me. The fate lines on each hand represent akasha and are different for everyone. Mine are bold and pronounced.

I stare at the interlocked points of the star on my skin and suppress a cold shiver. Is embodying Fero my future? My fate?

Forcing back the hot prick of tears, I lie down and close my eyes.

Suddenly, everything shifts into a strange sort of time lapse. The flickering lights beyond my eyelids elongate as if time has slowed. I blink, my lashes sweeping like branches in the wind, and focus beyond the tiers of dirt and rock above me . . . through the earthy layers and past the thick band of clouds above.

Is this real or in my head?

My breath snags in wonder as brilliant star clusters of all shapes and colors—red, blue, yellow, ice white—grace a shimmery green backdrop. They fade in and out of luminous, milky streams, some brighter than others, forming the distinct shape of recognizable constellations. I can feel them reaching out to me as if they recognize one of their own.

Who am I?

Closing my eyes, I spin in orbit in the beating heart of the open sky. I am the epicenter of the four-pointed astrological cross—the Royal Stars of the world: Venant, Tascheter, Satevis, and Haftorang—their colossal combined power tugging at my skin and making heat rise in an abundant swell.

Light rushes through me as I receive their reply to my question.

You are our heart. Our infinite hope. A soul of truth bred from the stars.

Chapter Twenty

When the thin mattress dips, I turn, letting Roshan gather me into his arms, taking shameless comfort in the fact that his strong body is curled around mine.

“Are you all right?” I mumble blearily.

He kisses my forehead. “Yes. Sorry I woke you.”

“Where’s Aran?”

“Getting us some jādū. Try to go back to sleep.”

But as the warmth pools in my veins with our bodies lying flush, I don’t want to sleep. I want to forget about the mess we’re in. I want to calm the voices in my head. I want to feel something other than fear. I drift one hand down his back and under his shirt to the warm skin beneath. Dark eyes glint in the gloom. “Sura,” he whispers, “you need to rest.”

“I need you more.” My hands skim up to his pectorals, brushing over his broad chest and then down his abdomen to the trail of hair leading to the waistband of his trousers. I trace the edge of his pants around his backside and curl my nails into the firm rise of his buttocks. Sands, everything about him is sleek and strong.

Breathless, I burrow closer, feeling his length harden against my stomach, and I lift my face to his in silent plea. He doesn’t disappoint as warm lips cover mine. The taste of him is intoxicating, the velvet slide of his tongue a feeling I can’t get enough of. Roshan’s kiss is soft and tender as if he wants to reassure me that everything will be fine. But I don’t want tender, I want hungry and hard. I want to be breathless . . . mindless with passion.

I want to forget that I’m marching toward death and there’s nothing I can do.

Digging my fingernails in, I grind against him as I tease his lower lip and then bite it gently, drawing a husky groan from him. His mouth drags to my throat, a palm sliding up to cup my breast, and I can’t help the needy whimper that escapes me.

“Now, Roshan,” I beg.

His hands curve around me, unfastening and loosening, as we hurriedly rid each other of our bottom layers, aware of the fact that Aran could return at any minute. I’m already so wet that it doesn’t take much for Roshan to slip inside me. We both moan at the snug fit, when he angles my knee up over his hip for purchase and inches deeper, seating himself entirely. The position is shallow, but every time he rocks, he hits a spot that makes me quake.

“Fuck, you’re tight like this,” he growls.

Needing more, I roll to the side and take him with me so he’s on top. I wrap my legs around him. “Faster, Ro.”

He claims my lips again as he thrusts into me, making the small cot shake with the force of his movements. It’s nothing like the aqueduct when we took our time with each other. This is frenzied, as if we both need the physical reminder that we’re alive . . . that we have something to live for even if time isn’t on our side.

“Sura, I’m close,” he mutters against my mouth, his motions growing jerkier.

I feel my own climax coalescing as his pubic bone hits me just where I need it on each downstroke, and my legs start to tremble as white edges my vision. Jerking my hips upward, I chase the pleasure until it envelops me with the intensity of a shooting star rocketing across the heavens. Roshan comes, too, slamming as deep as he can go with a muffled curse, his body shaking. His weight collapses on me, but I don’t mind. Panting as we lie there, our racing heartbeats form a discordant melody. Not a single word is needed.

I wrap myself in his arms and his scent, imagining us in a parallel universe where he’s just a man and I’m just a woman, and happiness is a joyful possibility. But our moment of comfort is much too short as a slamming thud echoes down the hall.

“Roshan!” Aran calls out. “We need to go. The officer from the supply warehouse is looking for you. He claims he saw Suraya and what she can do. It’s anarchy up there. I have the jādū we need to summon a portal, but it’s just a matter of time before they find us.”

We lurch upright in unison, my head nearly crashing into Roshan’s as we both reach for our discarded clothing and yank it on. For a second, I can’t control my panic, and his harsh expression has my heart thumping into a frantic pace. “Why can’t we portal from here?” I ask Aran, opening the door.

“These crystals are too weak for the distance, and if the magic fails, we could end up somewhere we don’t want to be. Or worse.”

Roshan shudders beside me. “I’ve seen a man split in half from failed portal magic. For our best chance, we need to be out, under moonlight and starlight. They’ll boost the crystal’s power.”

Jādū is a finite resource, but given the source of my own magic, it makes sense that the stars and the moon might provide some enhancement. Finger-combing my hair, I walk to where Aran is cramming his belongings into a rucksack. He, too, looks exhausted and unkempt. “We can go that way.” He points to a dark opening at the end of the room that I didn’t realize was another tunnel. “That one leads outside. To the Dustlands.”

I lurch back. “The Dustlands?”

“It’s our only chance.” He glances toward the trapdoor. “It won’t be long before the men find their way here. They’re tearing the warehouse apart.”

I let out a hiss of frustration. “What’s the bounty? Gold?”

“Jādū,” Aran says, and my heart sinks.

No wonder men loyal to the Dahaka are turning on the commander. “But in the Dustlands, we’ll be hunted by Scavs,” I say, glancing at Roshan, whose face is tight with rage.

Aran shakes his head and hands both Roshan and me a pile of clothing each. “They don’t come this close to the fortress. We will be well. Put those on.”

I don’t believe him, but I stand and swipe a hand over my gritty face, before going into the adjacent room to pull on the blessed change of clothes that he brought, grateful I don’t have to try to brave the desert in filmy silk. A tunic and trousers instead of a dress, thank the heavens, and sturdy boots.

When I’m dressed, with my dagger secured and my nerves calmed somewhat, I give them a brave nod, and we leave as quietly as we can.

We follow the tunnel for a few minutes, until we reach a series of rungs embedded in the rock wall, rising up to a distant hatch. I swallow down my fear of the Scavs and climb, and all too soon, fresh air hits my face. The Dustlands are cool, the light of the half-moon and the twinkle of stars the only pinpricks in the darkness. The soft howl of some animal makes me jump. I peek over my shoulder to the rising walls of the battlements. We’re not that far from the perimeter of the Indraloka, which means we have to get out of sight.

Huddling together, we run hard and fast toward the west.

Behind us, I hear another howl, followed by a series of hoots much too close for comfort. The odd pitch makes me stumble. Are they wolves or coyotes? Or something worse?

“Rosh—”

A hand darts out and pulls me behind a tall rock, and another hand wraps around my mouth—Roshan’s. He gently presses me to my knees, and I tremble between him and Aran, peering anxiously into the surrounding darkness. My heart is going to pound its way out of my chest, the fear overwhelming. Out of instinct, I reach for my dagger. I feel better holding it, but I’m careful not to incite any magic that might make it glow.

Calm, calm, calm.

“We’re being tracked,” Roshan whispers.

Oh, fuck. By what kind of animal?

The realization is like a brittle slap. Not animals. Scavs.

“They’re sentries, so we have a chance. Just don’t move for now and stay quiet.”

I try to think back to what I know about Scavs. They work in packs like hyenas, sending out trackers and hunters in smaller groups that function as part of a larger group. Sentries sound deceptively benign, but all Scavs are deadly, hooked on Jade and not something you want to come up against.

“What do we do?” I whisper.

Roshan swallows. “We have two choices: keep going and hope they move on, or take our chances facing them.”

“Neither of those sounds good.”

We freeze as a few more of those unholy howls and short, owl-like hoots echo on the wind. “Fuck,” Roshan whispers. “Guess we stay put, hide behind this rock, and hope that they go right past us.”

“I could incinerate them,” I offer quietly.

Roshan hesitates but shakes his head. “Even if you could get rid of these scouts, more of them won’t be far behind.”

Despite it being my suggestion, I’m glad he’s nixed it. The thought of killing anyone—even Scavs—leaves me cold. And if my soul bound in akasha does indeed end up being for grabs to one of the twin gods, I want to do everything I can to control the outcome.

It seems like hours pass as we crouch there waiting. And then . . . movement, a stone’s throw away. They’re here!

The smell is the first thing to assault us, and I fight the bile rising in my throat at the foul odor of decay on the wind. I hold my breath, my body starting to quiver. Roshan notices and slips his hand into mine to squeeze reassuringly. “Breathe through your mouth,” he says softly into my ear, his fingers tightening. I focus on breathing, willing my heart to slow its stampeding pace. I’m white-knuckling the hilt of my dagger.

Heavy footsteps halt.

“False alarm,” a deep male voice says, and I nearly jump out of my skin at how close the Scav is to our position.

“Are you sure?” The other voice is raspy as though something has strangled its throat. I clamp Roshan’s palm in a numb grip, hairs rising in terror.

“Coyotes?” a nasal female voice chimes in as I silently triangulate the three of them to us.

“Too big,” the second replies. “Keep looking. Decker says he saw movement.”

A grunt of agreement.

I breathe an inaudible sigh of relief as the footsteps eventually recede. A few more of those eerie howls and hoots echo in the night much farther away. We’re still alive, for now. Roshan puts a finger to his lips and stands, reaching into his pack for a weapon. He hands a knife to Aran.

What are you doing? I mouth to him.

He presses his lips to my ear. “They know we’re here. We have no choice. We need to take this Scav and his companions out first, then we go from there. Stay put.”

I shake my head and grab hold of his shirt. “No. I can fight, Roshan. I’m not some sandsdamned damsel.”

We engage in a silent battle of wills for a few intense moments before he capitulates with a muffled curse. “Fine, but stay close.”

We inch in single file through the gap in the rocks, our movements careful and quiet, sneaking behind the closest Scav. Roshan snaps his neck with a flick of his wrist before he can make a sound.

Aran stoops to remove the blade from the dead creature’s hands, along with the crossbow strapped to his vest. “Don’t look,” he whispers to me.

Call it morbid curiosity, but I can’t help myself. As I step over the body, I see matted hair framing a face ravaged with oozing channels and sores. His nearly toothless mouth is agape, his two remaining canines long and sharpened to predatory points. More weeping lesions pepper his arms and torso, and my eyes are riveted to his—their unseeing and overly dilated irises colored and vined with the telltale chartreuse shimmer of distilled jādū.

Roshan holds a fist up and then two fingers, and my shock dies on my lips. His look to me is ferocious, indicating that I should remain where I am. This time, I don’t argue.

He disappears, and I duck into a crouch—but freeze as movement to my left catches my eye. I swallow a scream and brandish my dagger. This Scav looks even worse than the last. He’s hunched over, and his head is shaved bald but covered in the same festering blisters. His eyes are ringed in acid green, his shark-toothed smile gluttonous.

“Hello, pretty one,” he growls, his breath fetid.

“Stay back!” I hiss. “I don’t want to hurt—”

He’s quicker than I expect and I react much too late when he lunges. My magic brightens in an instinctive rush to my hands, right before I feel the pierce of something tiny and sharp at my nape. A cool, slithery rush follows, and everything stills. The last thing I think before my limbs turn to rubber is that I’ve never felt such intense euphoria in my entire life.

I slump to the dusty ground, and as I lie sprawled there with utterly languid limbs, the Scav topples beside me, his tongue snaking out to lick my cheek. I giggle at the wet scrape, my fingers mesmerized by the texture of the ground beneath me as it turns into the consistency of a fat, puffy cloud. It feels as though I’m flying, a feather being carried away on salt-filled breezes.

Intoxicated with pleasure, I laugh and laugh. Everything fades away, and I am sucked into a shimmering, opalescent space that welcomes me with beautiful, delirious arms.

Chapter Twenty-One

The crone is watching me.

She is older and more wrinkled than I remember. Or maybe I’m the one imagining her features melting into scooped ridges and hollows. I flutter lead-weighted eyelids, struggling to focus on her face, but it keeps losing its shape. Now she looks like a clump of dough with twin starlit eyes blinding me and making the world spin.

I blink again, snatching my gaze away and dimly taking stock of my surroundings. It’s bright from an overhead lamp and it stinks. The sharp metal grate of the ground pinches the skin of my back, and my legs are covered with a ratty woolen blanket. Metal bars surround me like a rusty cage.

Cell. I’m in a cell.

Why am I in a cell?

Snatches of memory cloud my brain in incoherent succession. Escaping the mercenaries. Going into the Dustlands. Scavs hunting us. Scavs—their sore-ridden faces pop into my mind like something out of a night terror. One of them attacked me with a needle. Have I been poisoned? My fingers drift to my neck to a tender spot there, and I wince.

Beyond that, I remember nothing.

How did I get here? Where is Roshan? Aran? Why—?

I lose my train of thought as a bout of nausea steamrolls through me, making me retch. I clutch at my bare stomach. All my clothes are gone. In their place are two indecent strips of dirty linen barely serving to cover my private areas. My head is pounding so hard that I can feel it through my clenched teeth.

Grateful I haven’t bitten off my own tongue, I relax my jaw. There’s a horrible taste in my mouth, metallic and sour. My cheeks itch. Something prickles beneath my skin like sand beetles . . . scouring . . . scouring. I scratch hard, the sharp sting of irritated skin bringing me back to reality. And the cell. And the crone.

Who is watching me, silent and still.

“Whatshappeningtome?” The words rush together like some strange language. My lips won’t work to separate them.

Heal yourself, Starkeeper.

“Whyareyoufollowingme?” I roll each syllable over my tongue, enunciating each word as if learning to speak for the first time, but they still come out rushed.

Heal yourself, Starkeeper.

“Yousaidthatalready.”

My mouth can’t keep pace with my brain’s erratic thoughts. The crone floats toward me. Her features morph back into place. Only this time no wrinkles line her face. Her skin is smooth, pale, and glistening. She is so radiant that I can’t focus on her in my befuddled state. Cool fingers feather across my cheek, the butterfly touches igniting a rush of heat. Sands, is she even real? I laugh out loud at the evolution of my neurosis. Whatever those tricky Scavs drugged me with is making me trip something fierce. I wonder groggily if there’s more of it.

“Yourenotrealareyou?” I murmur.

You have been intoxicated. You must purge it now or risk becoming a Scav yourself. Wake now, Starkeeper.

Becoming a Scav? What the actual—?

Her luminous palms press against each of my temples, and a bolt of what feels like lightning surges between them. My brain goes blank, and my entire spine cracks. The rush of awareness is instant. And excruciating. I swallow and cling to the thin thread of clarity that’s tethering me to her withered form. Somewhere deep down, my fragile mind understands that she’s the only escape from whatever toxin is binding me in its grasp.

Jade.

Those rotten fucking pricks. Focusing on a shuddering exhale, I rub my hands together, the loud rasp of skin on skin like sandpaper in the silence. A pale radiance emanates from them, but not much more. Everything inside of me feels uncontained, like sand falling through a sieve. Gritting my teeth, I summon my power again, and silvery sigils erupt over my skin. A kernel of heat unfolds inside of me, pushing outward and purging my Jade-saturated veins. With each breath, light fills me.

They are coming.

With that, the crone vanishes.

Trembling from the effort, I lie still on the ground and even out my breathing. I’m not fully back to myself, but at least I’m feeling clearer. Clear enough to fight for my life, if I have to. I can still feel the residual effects of the Jade lingering in my muscles and brain tissue, and the yearning for more leaves me terrified.

The stench of my warden reaches me before he does. I peek up through my lashes and almost wish I’d resisted the urge. Unlike the previous Scavs I’d seen, this one appears to be female. Stringy hair in balding patches dangles around her gaunt, lupine face, and shiny metal bars are embedded into the puffy flesh of her cheeks. She prods me with the toe of her boot through the cage wall, and I keep my eyes closed.

“Good price,” she mutters, reaching for a key connected to her belt as she approaches the entrance. That’s my bloody dagger in her waistband! Belatedly, I recognize the nasal female voice from when Roshan, Aran, and I had hidden in the rocks. She must have taken it then, when I’d been captured. Through my lashes, I see her open the gate. She’s not a frail woman—I have one shot to take her down.

Swinging my legs around, I swivel and hook my ankles around hers. She topples forward, smashing face-first into the grated floor. Without hesitation, I slam a knee into her back and wrap my forearm around her neck. I ignore the stench of infection and squeeze my arm toward me. She bucks upward, almost tearing out of my grip, but I squeeze harder until her struggles finally weaken. I release her only when she goes quiet in my arms, and I pant in relief.

No one comes running, thank the stars. I’ve barely made any noise, other than the thud of her body hitting the floor from my first strike. Working quickly, I remove the unconscious Scav’s clothing: a half-armored vest, a tunic, a metal-plated skirt, leggings, and a gear belt with my dagger that I place on the floor. Her odor is ripe with sweat, blood, and a sour tang like vomit, making me gag as I pull them on, but I don’t have much choice.

She’s bigger than I am, but I manage to hook the skirt in place before throwing on the rest as best as I can. Using the linen strips I’d been wearing, I tie her hands and bind her mouth. Similar raw, half-healed lesions that had covered the other Scavs riddle her stomach and legs. I recall the itchy sensation of my own cheek and shiver. The scouring beetle irritation must be a side effect of the Jade. I can’t even imagine being so desperate as to scratch holes into myself. Hoisting my blade, I point the tip at her chest and swallow hard. I’ve never stabbed anyone in cold blood before. But I can’t risk her waking and sounding the alarm.

Something in her gear belt catches my eye: a silver injection device. I remove it carefully, turning the small crossbow-shaped contraption in my hand. A glass vial is connected at one end. I stare at it, watching the shimmering, iridescent, multicolored fluid undulate like mercury. My mouth goes dry with longing, its siren call compulsive, and I reach for the injector, my breath flattening into pained rasps.

I’d only do it one time, and then I could go look for Roshan and Aran.

It’d only be an hour at the most.

One time . . .

No! Stop, stop, stop.

A wild trembling grips me, and I realize that the hollow needle is dangerously close to my thigh, the tip poised and ready to insert its beautiful poison. With a strangled curse, I hitch my arm back and empty the shot into the Scav’s leg instead. She doesn’t make a sound, but I jealously imagine the liquid pleasure racing through her veins. It’ll keep her occupied for a few hours at least, enough time for me to find the others. I pull her body into the corner of the cell where I’d been lying and throw the tattered blanket over her.

Buckling the gear belt, I finger-comb my hair into a curtain over my face and pull on her smelly hood. With any luck, the disguise could work. Or not, as I stare at my unblemished and much too clean arms. To pass for a Scav, I need to look like one. I take my dagger from its sheath on the belt and slice a shallow cut across my thigh. Stooping to scrape some of the filth from between the floor vents, I mix the dark grime with the blood from my wound. I try not to dwell on what the gore is and smear the muck on my face and arms.

When I’m done, I slip through the door and lock it behind me. The outer passageway is empty, but I can hear low grunts and murmurs. Occupants of the nearby cells? Hoping that one of them contains Roshan or Aran, I creep my way down one end, keeping to the shadows. Twice I encounter other Scavs, but they don’t look twice at me.

At the ninth cell, I spot a pair of hairy legs in the dim light. I pray the key I have works for all the cells as I quietly place it into the lock.

“Aran? Roshan?”

The person murmurs and turns, then pulls himself upward. It’s a fucking giant of a man. Jaxxian, if I had to hazard a guess. He stares at me with bleary eyes in a pockmarked face. Thank the stars he, too, is drugged. He mewls, stretching his arms toward me, and I back away, scraping at the gate behind me, but I’m too slow. He lumbers at me just as I get the key into the slot and the door swings open. I fall backward—right into the barrel chest of another Scav.

“Awake?” he asks me in a grating whisper that sounds as if his vocal cords have been hacked apart and sewn back together. I recognize that voice too—it’s the one from the Dustlands. It takes a second for me to realize that he’s asking about the condition of the prisoner. Righting myself, I make a noncommittal grunt. I peer at him through my hair and nearly lose the meager contents of my stomach. A huge, seeping welt runs across the Scav’s throat. That would explain the gut-clenching rasp. I hide a shiver and try not to gag.

He kicks the oncoming Jaxxian savagely to the floor and then doses him with Jade.

His hair is scraped back off a mottled, scarred face, and what looks like fresh blood spatters stain his neck and clothing. He has to be someone important—the leader maybe?—and from the ruthless look of him, is not someone to be crossed. I must have been gawking for too long, because a pair of piercing eyes narrow at me, his throat bobbing and making the welt undulate like a juicy slug. My palms prickle with heat, but I stifle them with brute force. The last thing I need is for my body to go into starlight mode right now.

But I must look desperate instead of curious, because after a moment, he reaches toward the belt at his waist and chucks something at me. I catch it bare-fisted as he stalks off without another word. My body slumps with relief as I hurry out of the cell.

That was close. Too fucking close.

My eyes dip to the object in my palm, and I suck in a convulsive breath at the glass vial full of Jade. Sands, it’s mesmerizing. Hastily, I pocket the vial and continue my search for Roshan and Aran. They have to be here. They have to.

But I’m starting to lose hope as I walk past cell after cell with no sign of them. This entire area is a neat maze of cages. Inside some of them, I’ve seen a half dozen prisoners from different cities. The one commonality is that they’re all stoned. A few of them are in withdrawal, scratching themselves bloody as I’d started to do and clawing at the bars, desperate for more. I cringe as I peer into one cell to see a desiccated body lying in a pool of its own excrement. Whatever it is, it’s dead. And the smell is worse than anything I’ve encountered so far. Holding the back of my hand to my nose, I hurry past, losing hope with each step. I have no concept of how much time has passed.

Maybe they’ve already been sold.

Or maybe they’re dead.

“No,” I mutter fiercely. They’re still alive. I have to believe that.

I hold on to my hope as I move onward to locked rooms with small windows in the doors and nearly collapse with relief as I find Aran in the second-to-last one. His eyes are closed and his complexion is sallow, but his chest is rising with each shallow breath. In desperation, I peek in the last room, but it’s empty. I scour the space, searching for any sign that Roshan might have been there at some point. But there’s nothing—nothing but a grated floor, slick with congealed blood. I don’t know how fresh it is or even if it’s his. But deep down, instinct tells me that he was here. Maybe it’s the phantom scent of bergamot lingering in the stale air.

Or maybe I’m imagining it so that I don’t crack into a million pieces.

Aran. Help Aran. He’s still alive.

Smothering my pain, I use my key to enter Aran’s cell.

“Aran, it’s me, Suraya,” I whisper, shaking him. “Can you hear me?” His eyes flutter open and focus on me for an instant without recognition before rolling back into his head. Tucking the Scav’s goggles atop my head, I shake him again. “Wake up. Where’s Roshan? Did you see him?”

“More,” he moans.

“Wake up.” I’m less gentle with my third shake, grabbing him roughly by his arms. He, too, is dressed only in a loin cloth covering his lower extremities, but I don’t care about his state of undress. “What happened to Roshan? Where is he?”

“He went.”

“Where?” I ask urgently. He closes his eyes, slumping out of my hold. “Is he dead?” I hesitate for a moment, and then I slap him. Hard.

“Jade . . . more . . . please,” he begs.

“There is no more. You need to wake up and tell me where they took him!”

But it’s no use—he’s under, lost in the seductive grip of the addictive hallucinogen. Hoping I don’t kill him or fry his brain, I place my hands on either side of Aran’s temples like the crone had done to me. I have no runes or magi skills. I only have my will and the power of my magic.

“Please don’t die.” I whisper up a prayer to Vena and the stars as tiny white-hot sparks leap between my palms, and I envision my magic flowing into Aran’s head and spreading through him. Cleansing him. Exorcising the green demon in his blood.

Aran’s body seizes, the ultramarine tattooed runes along his cheekbone growing bright, and then he goes scarily still for a breathless moment before bolting upward. He spears me with wild eyes, hands curled into fists and poised to attack, but no sound leaves his open mouth. Nothing in his demeanor says he knows who I am. Stars, did I break him?

I raise my palms slowly. “Hey, it’s me, Suraya. Do you know who you are?”

“Aran Sattari,” he answers after a long moment, delayed recognition flaring in his eyes. “Why are you dressed like that? What did you do?” He scrabbles at his temples with a soft groan. “I feel like I got hit by godsdamned lightning.”

“You kind of did,” I reply, and wiggle my fingers. “You were high on Jade and I burned it out with my magic. Listen, we don’t have much time. Do you know what happened?”

“They had you.” He winces, rubbing his head. “We surrendered, and after that, I don’t remember much.” He stares down at his half-clothed body. “They drugged us?”

I nod. “Where’s Roshan?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “There was a scuffle, then a Scav with an awful voice said to take him for purging.”

Fuck! Bile fills my throat. What does that mean? “We need to find him now!”

Aran nods and shivers weakly, his shoulders shuddering from the aftereffects of the Jade, and I chuck my second weapon at him.

“We need to get you some clothes.”

The sound of nearing footsteps makes us both freeze. “Lie down,” I tell Aran hurriedly. “Face the wall. They’ll keep going if you’re still unconscious.”

But the creak of the open door echoes through the silence. With my luck, it’ll be the big captain from before. But the leg that appears is much thinner, as is the body that follows. Flattening myself against the wall, I hit the entering Scav in the side of the head with the butt of my dagger, and he goes down like a sack of shit. A trail of blood seeps from his temple as I drag him inside the cell. Working quickly, Aran and I strip him of his clothing.

“Get dressed,” I tell Aran.

I see his stare descend to the injector looped into the Scav’s belt, and I gently remove it from its fastenings. Three of the six vials are empty. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I know what it did to me, and I can’t take the chance.”

He swallows hard, tearing his gaze away with effort. “No, I get it.”

“Here,” I say, and point to the blood on the Scav’s face. “It looks more . . . believable if you put some blood and gunk on your face.”

He recoils but does as I’ve suggested and then stands. With his wild, bearded blood-streaked chin and cheeks, he looks the part. He gestures to the unconscious Scav at our feet. “What about him?”

“Same as I did to the last,” I say, and inject a full vial of Jade into his thigh. “Quick, help me drag him into the corner. With any luck, they’ll think he’s you.”

Once we get the Scav into place, we slip from the cell and run to the end of chamber. The exit leads to a long, narrow passageway with a locked door at the other end, and using the key on my belt, we enter the next room.

And come face-to-face with my worst nightmare.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Roshan is spread-eagled on a table . . . and not breathing.

My horror is the only reason that the big Scav with the slashed throat gets close enough to grab me by the throat. “How did you escape?” he growls.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aran being restrained by another Scav as a third hovers near the table. Boldly or stupidly, I can’t quite decide which, I counter the Scav’s question with a one of my own. “Is he dead?” My voice is a wheeze from the pressure of his fingers, but I meet his stare head-on. “Answer me, you sick fuck!”

His lips tighten. “You answer me or I break your neck right here. How did you resist the Jade?” He snaps the words through his teeth like he wants to grind each one into dust.

“Break my neck and you’ll never know. Is he fucking dead?”

“If he isn’t, he’ll be soon.”

“If he dies,” I seethe through clenched teeth. “You will not live to see another day, I promise you.”

His lip curls at the corner into a sneer. “And how will you do that, little one?” He reaches for something at his belt with his free hand. “Perhaps I need to make you more compliant.”

I sense the movement of the injector before I see it. Fear and desire lance through me at the sight of the device with its bliss-filled vial. He drags the point of it up my arm to the base of my ear. My pulse drums wildly, almost veering into the tip.

“I will ask you one more time—where did you get the inhibitor?”

“What inhibitor?”

His fingers tighten with the force of his displeasure, and I feel a defensive instinct flaring in the core of my body. Heat detonates through me as the captain shoves me to the ground and slams a booted foot into my gut. He pulls another set of vials from his belt, but these are bright orange in color. My mind registers dully that it must be some sort of counteragent. “This. Tell me where you got it.”

I wheeze from the pressure of his foot. “No . . . inhibitor.”

My lungs are burning with the lack of air—my star magic is going to defend me no matter what, and I don’t think I’ll be able to control it this time. Fire and fury race outward, shimmering along my veins like liquid flame. The Scav’s eyes narrow at my abnormally flushed skin, the swirls on my arms lighting up beneath the smears of dirt and blood like a macabre web.

“Let me fucking go,” I say, panting heavily as I try to pull the tide of magic back. “Or you’ll die. I can’t control what it will do.”

“You talk too much.”

With a foul grin, he lowers himself to his left knee, keeping his right boot lodged in my stomach, and slams the Jade injector to my throat. His lip curls and his finger squeezes the plunger, but nothing happens. A faint sizzling echoes between us. He turns the injector in his palm, disbelief flashing across his face. The needle of the device has melted away.

“I warned you,” I gasp, just as his boot at my belly ignites.

“Lord!” The other Scavs rush forward as the one holding me stumbles back, stomping his flaming foot on the floor.

Pushing myself upward, I turn my back toward Aran, who has flattened himself against the far wall, watching with wide, terror-filled eyes. He of all people knows exactly what I’m capable of.

“Aran,” I grind out, “get behind something now.”

Darting in front of Roshan’s motionless body, I clear my head of everything but the power seething inside of me as the creature flexes against my rib cage. Roaring, I fling my palms out, white-hot energy spearing from them in flickering bands. The blast knocks all three Scavs into a heap. They claw at their blistering faces, their cries of pain echoing in the chamber as the temperature hikes to lethal, blood-boiling levels.

Enough.

Enough.

For a victorious moment, I feel the magic respond and slow, halting its devastating, ravenous course. It flickers impatiently as the screams around me turn into weak groans, and I take some small comfort in the fact that no one is dead. They might be monsters, but I don’t need more deaths on my conscience. Not yet, at least.

“Aran, get their weapons!”

I watch as he does what I ask, and then inhaling a deep breath, I tamp down the energy until it’s nothing but a faint glow.

“Get the fuck up,” I growl to the big Scav.

He obeys, but with reluctance, his dead eyes glimmering with interest, falling from my still-glowing chunk of hair to my rune-covered arms. “What are you?”

“Nothing you want to take on,” I say, and snatch the ring of keys at his belt. “Now move, all of you.”

We herd the captain and his men quickly toward the cellblock, using the push of my power. I need to get back to Roshan, but Aran is too weak to secure all three on his own.

“Watch them,” I tell him, after I shove them in a cage and lock the door.

My heart is in my throat by the time I rush back the way we’d come to where Roshan rests limply on the table. My sigh of relief to see his chest moving is audible, though short-lived. It’s hardly rising. He’s alive, but barely. I run a fingertip over his ice-cold brow. Suddenly, his entire body seizes without warning, spine bowing so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t snap.

“Roshan!” My hands flutter uselessly; I don’t know how to help him. “Snap out of it, wake up. Ro!”

His body convulses uncontrollably as I try to make sense of what is happening. A seizure? Heart failure? A guttural groan bursts from his mouth, and his eyes fly open, unseeing. They roll back in his head, his body jerking. I grab his shoulders, trying to hold him close, and then he goes deathly still.

No, no, no.

Desperate, I place two fingers on the side of his throat feeling for a pulse, but there’s nothing there. No flutter, nothing. Seconds pass in silence, each of them meaning Roshan will be more brain-dead without oxygen, if he isn’t already. My hands hover over his chest. Pulling my magic to my center, I feel the raw energy fill my cells. This isn’t going to be like burning out a poison. I’m trying to jump-start a fucking life.

You’ll kill him. My inner voice is adamant.

He’s already gone if I don’t do something.

With a deep breath, I place both palms on his chest. Please, Vena. If you ever wanted to help guide me, now’s the time.

Sigils race up my arms, and then I swallow hard and push. Roshan’s rib cage jerks beneath my hands, and something thumps under my palm. I thrust forward again, willing my star magic to jolt his unresponsive heart.

“Fight, you stubborn, bossy shit,” I scream. “Fight!”

I blast my energy forward again, and Roshan’s back arches upward off the table as sparks fork through him. An eerie glow surrounds him for an eternal moment as if he’s suspended in threads of shimmery starlight. And then, as he flops back down, his chest moves and he hauls a breath into his lungs.

My fingers climb upward to frame his face. “Roshan?”

Thick, dark eyelashes flutter open, and those beautiful brown eyes fix on me. “You . . . like . . . me . . . bossy.”

The corner of his lip curls upward into the barest echo of his lopsided smirk, and my tears break free. “Maker, I thought I’d lost you,” I whisper brokenly, flinging myself forward and peppering his cool cheeks and chin with kisses. He’s still as pale as a ghost, but his pulse is strengthening, and color is coming back into his face. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“M’sorry.”

Inhaling sharply, Roshan pushes himself to a wobbly sitting position, grasping the lip of the table to steady himself before collapsing against me. His body feels like ice, and he smells strange—of antiseptic—but I don’t care about his odor or even my own, I hug him tightly, nestling my body between his thighs.

“I thought you were dead,” I say, my voice ragged as I clutch him to me.

Gentle knuckles brush my cheek. “It’s good to see you, my starling.”

Sands, my fucking heart. “I—”

Roshan’s lips find mine, and I sigh into them, the tender pliancy of his mouth transporting me out of the horror of this moment. My lashes flutter shut as tears sting my eyelids at the softness of his lips. As if sensing my rioting emotions, his hand winds around my neck, holding me close as he settles me with his kiss. As he tells me we’re in this together . . . and that he’s going nowhere. It grounds me, takes away my fears, until there’s only him.

Only us. No Scavs, no Dustlands, no Jade.

“Where’re my clothes?” he rasps against my lips, breaking the kiss. Oh, right. He’s naked. It’s a decent signal of my fear that I hadn’t even noticed, though my eyes make quick work of that lapse in attention when I reluctantly disentangle myself from his embrace. I search the room to where his belongings are strewn carelessly in a corner. “Here.”

His face tightens. “The big Scav, did you see him?”

“Big, ugly brute with a slash across his throat?” I ask, and he nods. “It’s under control,” I say, waving my hands with a wry smile. “If you hadn’t noticed, this gift has a tendency to defend itself when necessary.”

“Where’s Aran?”

“He’s fine. He’s good,” I say in a rush. “They’re in the other room. We need to get out of here.”

Roshan stands and sways on his feet as he pulls up his trousers. “Help me with this, will you?” He gestures at the metal enclosures on the waistband. “My fingers feel like jelly.”

“Sure.” With a calmness I don’t feel, I close the distance between us and pull on the strap, cinching it tightly around his trim waist. Upon closer inspection, I notice the faint outlines of old scars crisscrossing his skin. My fingers trail over the faded marks, and his body goes still at my touch. “What are these?”

Shuttered brown eyes meet mine. “Overzealous sparring with Javed. He refused to use wooden weapons. Even as a child, he was fond of inflicting pain.”

Inexplicable rage fills me. “I hope you returned it in kind,” I grit out.

“I, unfortunately, was required to spar with a wooden sword,” he says as I hook in the closures. “Using a real weapon against the heir apparent would constitute treason, and I was constantly reminded of the fact that I was nothing but a bastard spare.”

“He’s the bastard, not you,” I spit.

Roshan shrugs, then goes to fasten a pair of forearm cuffs. “It was a long time ago, Suraya, and those wounds have long been forgotten. Plus, I was forced to learn to be quicker on my feet to avoid being slashed, and as a result, I am a far better swordsman than Javed could ever hope to be.”

Swallowing the spike of anger on his behalf, I wait until he’s finished dressing. “Who is the Scav leader? Is there one?” I ask. “We might need someone in power to guarantee safe passage.”

“General Vogon, I believe. He’s ruthless.”

“Shocker,” I say. “You’ve met Slash Throat. He’s quite the charmer.”

Roshan’s lip twitches at my dry tone. “Then let’s start with him.”

We make our way back to Aran, who seems much more alert now, eyes locked on the prisoners. Slash Throat hasn’t moved from his position leaning against the wall of the cell. The thin gash of his mouth is the only indication of displeasure. “I see you found him alive,” he says as Roshan appears behind me. “Pity. I always find the most spirited ones taste better.”

“You’re disgusting,” I say coldly.

The Scav leader smirks at us as if he has a secret, and the almost exultant expression makes me uneasy. “It might be worth your while to go into the next hall.”

“What’s in there?” I ask.

The Scav’s smirk widens as he gestures to the doors. “Go see for yourself.”

“I’ll go,” Roshan says. “You stay here.”

“Take Aran with you and be careful,” I tell him, and hand him a crossbow. “Shoot first if anything comes at you.” While I wait for them to return, I stare down the two others watching me in stony silence.

“Why aren’t you like them?” I ask Slash Throat, curiosity winning out.

“Addicted to Jade?” he asks, and I nod. For a second, it seems as if he’s not going to respond, but then he does. “Jade has its uses. I control it.”

“With the inhibitor,” I say. “Why do you even bother if it makes you dependent on getting a fix?”

He smiles, making his face seem even more gruesome than it already is. “You already know the answer to your question. Didn’t you feel it? What Jade can do? You become invincible. The rush is unlike any other—three parts invulnerability, one part bliss. Mother’s milk to any soldier.”

I remember the feeling that had swept through me when the Scav had injected me. True, the high had been indescribable, leading me to feel like I could conquer the world. I’d felt strong. Fearless. And the pleasure had been infinite. But I couldn’t imagine being so dependent on that feeling, even if I could control it.

My thoughts flash to my magic, and I flinch, shaking my head. It’s not the same. I’m not addicted to using my power. In fact, I have no desire to use it at all, no matter how tough it makes me feel. But I can’t deny the rush of omnipotence it brings or the thrilling taste of the invincibility sluicing through my veins.

“Suraya, get the ring of keys and come in here.” Aran’s voice filters into the room.

I meet the captain’s eyes. “I told you,” he says with another smug grin.

Without hesitating, I grab the Scav’s heavy key ring. As I walk down the corridor, the feeling of uneasiness intensifies, curdling in my stomach like spoiled milk. I enter the adjacent hall, which contains only two sealed cells. One is empty, but the other is not.

I peer through the thin bars to see a body lying in the middle of the space—a human body. Roshan is crouched down in front of the cell door, gripping the iron. Every nerve in my body goes on alert.

“Do you know who it is?” I ask. An ashen Aran nods.

“Open it,” Roshan rasps out, a shocked expression on his face. “We need to be sure.”

Frowning, I use the captain’s key to open the lock. The door swings open with a soft creak.

The prisoner doesn’t move, only moans softly. He has cropped dark hair, and he’s clad in a band of linen draped over his hips, similar to what Aran had worn earlier. His body, though grimy, is slender but muscular. I prod his bare foot with the tip of my toe. He moans again and then rolls toward us.

Everything inside of me freezes as a heavy-lidded ice-blue gaze collides with mine. Eyes that are imminently recognizable. Holy fucking shit. When he faces us fully, a gasp shudders out of me at the sight of the unsightly burns on one side of his face that stretch down to his neck all the way to his chest. Guilt and horror rush through me; I’d put those there. Clenching my jaw, I shove those feelings away. He’d put his hands on me, and I’d defended myself. All actions have consequences, and he’d met his.

Javed. The king of Oryndhr.

“What in the flaming fires of Droon is he doing here?” I whisper out loud, rocking back onto my heels. Stupefied, I turn to Roshan. “It’s him, right?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t believe my eyes at first.” Aran exhales. “How did they capture him? He never would have left Kaldari, not without his kingsguard.”

“He went after me,” I deduce, my mind racing. “He knew that Coban would be the first place I’d go, and he must have tried to get there in secret . . . and the Scavs intercepted him somehow.” I throw Aran the captain’s belt. “Give him a shot of the inhibitor, and you take one, too, for good measure.”

Aran blinks, gripping the strap. “Where are you going?”

“To get some answers,” I say grimly.

There’s sly satisfaction on the big Scav’s face, and the gash on his throat ripples as he chuckles at my return. I swallow my revulsion and school my expression. “Why do you have the king of Oryndhr?”

“Come now, young warrior,” he drawls. “Surely you understand the ways of the Dustlands. Nothing comes for free.”

“You’re in a cage,” I counter.

“And my mouth is my own.”

“And what if I cut your tongue from your mouth?” I respond silkily.

He draws his finger along the raw, lacerated flesh of his throat. “You think I’m afraid of pain? No, little one, out here you must give me something for the price of my information. A question for a question should be sufficient.”

“What is it you wish to know?”

“What are you?” Curiosity glitters in his eyes. Curiosity . . . and avarice.

“A woman.”

“Not entirely so. That glow from your body, what was it?”

I eye him. “That’s two questions. My turn. Why do you have the king?”

“Our scouts sent word that he was in an unarmed escort outside Coban. And Queen Morvarid will pay a hefty price for the return of her son.” He lifts his bearded chin to me. “Your glow?”

I pause, searching for the right words. “A gift from the stars.”

His eyes narrow, calculating knowledge sweeping across them, and I falter for a second. Does he understand what I am and what I can do? These men weren’t always Scavs—they became Scavs, and this Scav in particular isn’t like the others. Despite his self-professed addiction, he’s clever. He could be from any city in Oryndhr. From any house.

Holy fuck.

I almost don’t want to ask, but I do. “Where are you from?”

“Your question is vague,” he says, humor twisting his ugly lips as if he knows exactly why I am asking the question. “I am a Scav.”

“What is your house then?”

“We are the nameless,” he says with a mocking look. I glare at him and fold my arms across my chest. He smiles, and suddenly, I know the answer before the gravelly reply leaves his lips. “Eloni, formerly the House of Fomalhaut.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

A commotion behind me grabs my attention as Roshan and Aran enter with Javed hanging like a rag doll between them. He’s more conscious after the dose from the inhibitor, but his face is still pale, and his ice-blue eyes are bloodshot. His head keeps lolling backward as if it’s connected to his neck with strings. They’ve wrapped a threadbare woolen cloth over his shoulders, but glimpses of his bruised and beaten body peek through. Javed is a piece of horse shit, but I still feel sorry for him.

“How badly is he hurt?” I ask.

“He’s out of it, but he’ll live.”

“Roshan—” I begin, and halt with a harsh breath.

“I know, Suraya.”

His brown eyes meet mine, and I can see the conflict within them. I don’t have to explain what I was about to say—my thoughts are the same as his. We both know that Javed, no matter his current state, can’t be trusted. But we also can’t just leave him here to die. He’s the king, after all, and Roshan’s half brother by blood.

Plus, we have far more urgent matters to deal with, like getting out of this garrison before we’re surrounded by an overeager troop of Scav reinforcements hopped up on Jade. I also can’t help feeling a twinge of pity for them and their addiction.

“Don’t feel sorry for me, little one,” the captain says, reading my expression and confirming some degree of emotional intelligence as well. “I make my own choices.”

“Where’s your war room?” I ask him abruptly, slightly unnerved. Most military strongholds have them, and it’s clear continuing to underestimate the Scavs—especially this leader—would be a mistake. We need information. Maps, records, plans, anything useful.

“Through there,” he answers helpfully, indicating a pair of exterior doors.

Roshan stares at the captain, a muscle ticking with slow menace in his jaw. “Could be a trap with a dozen of your men waiting.”

Slash Throat smiles. “That’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

His words send ice down my spine. So far everything in this shithole has been the worst. Unlocking the cage, I lift my dagger and point it at the Scav’s head. “Try anything and I will not hesitate to put you down like the rabid thing you are. This blade can cut through bone.”

My words only make him smile wider. “Such sweet nothings, Starkeeper.”

“You told him?” Roshan’s eyes fly to mine as we leave the cell and file toward the exit, Javed lolling limply against Aran.

“He already knew,” I say. “He saw when I had to use my abilities earlier. And he’s Fomalhaut from Eloni. Arcanist, if I have to guess.”

We enter a narrow hallway that connects to another chamber. Inside, the handful of Scavs on duty fall at ease at the gruff order from their captain, even though they stare at us with suspicion and hostility.

My mouth falls open as I scan the room. There’s jādū everywhere. Like, enormous stockpiles of it, enough to make the magic in my blood hum in response.

I scan the Scavs and realize two of the four have runic markings on their skin like Aran. And like their captain, they seem clear-minded.

Slash Throat stares at me, pale eyes indecipherable. That stare makes me nervous. For a moment, I think about shooting one of the remaining vials of Jade into his neck as a precaution. But we need him conscious if we want answers quickly.

“What is all this?” Roshan demands.

The captain cants his chin, and two of the Scavs—magi?—move forward, each armed with a piece of jādū. “Roshan,” I warn, but he doesn’t move, only angles his crossbow at the captain’s heart. The two men cast a rune I’ve never seen, and I hear Aran inhale sharply behind me.

Something shimmers to life in between the crystals. Though similar in appearance, it’s not a portal. It looks like a mirror . . . a communications mirror. I’d heard of the Imperial House using a similar contact method with the heads of the houses in the different cities, but I’ve never seen one. And to think that these Scavs have both the jādū and the runecasters to conjure such a thing makes my worry heighten.

Just how powerful and organized are they?

Once more, these Scavs surprise me. The idea of them not being mindless addicts is terrifying. The hairs on my nape stand at stiff attention, the magic in my veins going from a hum to a howl.

“Contact your superior,” Roshan growls to the captain. If the prince is surprised by the jādū mirror, he’s not showing it.

The captain nods at the runecasters to do as commanded. The opalescent panel shimmers outward like a stone falling into a still lake before a picture forms.

“General Vogon,” one of the runecasters says in a low voice, making us both gape.

“You’re contacting Vogon?” Roshan asks. “He’s your direct commander?”

He doesn’t respond. A chill scuttles over my shoulders when a face finally appears. This Scav is a small woman with spiky dark hair and a line of metal studs piercing both cheeks in a swirling pattern. A forbidding crowd of armed Scavs stand at her back.

“We await your command, General,” she says, and bows.

It hits like the force of an exploding volcano. My heart begins to pound as I look from her to Slash Throat. I move into a defensive stance, dagger at the ready, despite the fact that the general hasn’t moved a muscle. “You’re Vogon.”

“I expect some form of introductions should be in order,” he replies with a casual nod. “We know His Majesty, the king, along with Prince Roshan, the second son of the late King Zarek.” His cool, calculating gaze flicks to me. “And you, of course. Such an unexpected prize.”

My stomach plummets to my knees at this point, magic and instincts firing inside of me with nowhere to go. Something feels off . . . something we missed. My fingers tighten of their own volition on the blade in my hand, even as wild power roils through me. He knows who Roshan is, too. But if he is Vogon, why is he here in this garrison, at exactly the same time we are? It’s too much of a coincidence to be believed.

We need to go. Now.

“Ro—” The name freezes on my tongue as I swing around. But I’m a half second too late as a very alert Javed leaps away from Aran’s hold, knife in hand. A second later, its very deadly edge is pressed to his brother’s neck. We all freeze.

A cold smile spreads across Javed’s ruined face as a laugh that chills my blood spills from his lips. “I could not have executed this better if I had planned for eternity.”

“They didn’t capture you, did they?” I say slowly.

“How clever of you, Lady Suraya,” he replies with a mocking bow. “They did not. I knew that you had disappeared with my maggot of a little brother for parts unknown. And that he was clever enough to make sure you were well hidden.” He shifts the blade slightly, and a deep line of crimson appears on Roshan’s brown skin. Javed chuckles at my gasp, his gaze falling to my curling fists. “Come now, sweeting, let’s not do anything stupid.”

I wipe my face clean of emotion. “Go ahead, do what you will. What do I care about some royal Oryndhrian by-blow?”

Javed’s eyes dance as he makes a clucking sound of disapproval. “But you do care, don’t you? I saw the way he looked at you in the palace, and vice versa. I saw the way you looked at him just now, the way your heart tripped over itself at the sight of his blood staining the edge of this wicked little blade.” His leer widens. “I’d slice his worthless throat open in a heartbeat, but then I’d lose my leverage. It’s written all over you, your feelings for him . . . and that’s why you’ll do fucking nothing.”

That conniving piece of shit isn’t wrong. With Roshan under his knife, I can’t risk using my magic. As powerful as I am, I doubt my magic can repair a severed throat if Javed makes good with his threat. Aran shoots me a worried look, and I send him a tiny shake of my head in return. I glance at Vogon, who hasn’t said a word during the king’s grandiose speech. His silence is unnerving. I haul deep breaths into my lungs, attempting to calm the sparks starting to flare deep inside of me. “What does the general have to do with this?”

Javed waves a nonchalant arm. “What do you think all of this jādū is? Payment, my girl. I needed an army, one that can be bought, and since I control all the mines in Oryndhr, it was easy.” He grins and taps his chin. “My great-grandfather discovered Jade, you know. His runecasters formulated it to control the nameless—but then I found a much better use for it.”

“They’re people,” I whisper. “You can’t just feed them Jade to turn them into puppets.”

“Why not?” His eyes glint with arrogance. “They get high; I get steadfast soldiers. Win-win.”

I feel sick. “You’re a monster.”

He goes on as if I hadn’t spoken. “My kingsguard reported seeing this traitor to the crown fleeing with you. I planned to draw him out, you see, and find out where you were hiding. But my brother was slippery, so I had to resort to that obscene bounty to flush you out.” He directs his attention to me. “But I didn’t bet on Vogon’s scouts finding my brother in the Dustlands. With you! That was pure luck. Destiny, as it were.” He has an odd, fanatical glimmer in his eyes. “You were delivered to me just as you had been in Kaldari, willed by Fero himself.”

I suppress my shiver at the mention of the god of death.

“And your bruises?” I ask, trying to buy some time, but not quite sure of what I’m going to do with it if he does keep talking. A part of me hopes that he’ll become distracted enough to lower the dagger and give me a chance to take him out. Without Roshan at his mercy, I’ll have Vogon at mine. But Javed is not stupid. It’ll take a lot more than words to get him to lower that blade.

“Some are real. Had to make it look believable. I grow weary of talking. Do we have an agreement? Your hand in exchange for my brother’s life?”

“My hand?” I echo dully in shock. “You want to marry me?”

“I did make that clear before the Dahaka attack at the palace, if you recall.”

“That . . . that was a farce.”

“No, my bride-to-be, that was real. You will be mine in all ways. Body and starlight soul. You will comply, or I’ll carve the meat from my brother, one bone at a time. You’ll be surprised at how long a person can last while parts of them are cut away. Just ask any of our flesh-mongering hosts.”

“Suraya, no,” Roshan chokes out against the blade. “Not for me.”

Javed rolls his eyes and sighs at my horrified silence. “Of course she will, brother. Women, so transparent when it comes to matters of the heart. She’ll offer her troth to save you, and a Starkeeper’s bond can never be broken.”

I rear back in surprise, and then I remember the text Aran had had me read in Nyriell, the one that spoke about birth chart vertices and bonds. Was this the same? I wish I could ask him now, but betraying my ignorance would make me even more vulnerable.

“What is it you hope to accomplish?” I ask him. “I won’t kill innocent creatures beyond our borders to satisfy your lust for power. There are worse things at stake than your fragile, spoiled ego.”

“What kind of things?” The quiet question is from Vogon.

I study him, recalling that he was once Elonian. Does that mean he is familiar with the prophecy? If he can unsettle Javed, it’s worth the risk. “There is an Elonian prophecy, told by the diviners from the House of Fomalhaut, that the Starkeeper will summon an ancient god who will bring nothing but destruction in his wake.”

“Heresy,” Javed says, his hand jerking and making a fresh trickle of blood descend the column of Roshan’s throat. My heart crashes against my rib cage.

Ignoring him, I focus my efforts on Vogon. “Once the Dahaka have been dealt with, do you think your people will be immune from the yoke of his reign? You’re too much of a threat to him. And now, you have your own runecasters, jādū, and a sizable army. Do you know what he and the queen have been doing within the four houses ever since the king died? Eliminating any hint of a threat, just like they got rid of the king. If they’re capable of regicide, what do you think they will do to you?”

“She seeks to weaken us, Vogon,” Javed growls. “My father died of heart failure during a Dahaka attack on the palace.”

“You fuck,” Roshan snarls. “I saw him alive!”

“Shut up!” Javed hisses, and pressed down with the blade hard enough to make Roshan stiffen in pain. I clench my fists as more blood trickles down his skin.

“I have witnessed what she can do.” Vogon’s calculating pale eyes fall to me, and I hide the triumph swelling in my chest—the enemy of my enemy is my friend has never rung truer. “And now, Your Majesty, my terms have changed.”

Rage ripples across the king of Oryndhr’s face, pulling at his burns and making him look even more gruesome. “The agreement has already been met.”

“You dealt in bad faith by concealing vital information. Her power is worth far more than the negotiated price. And since you are in my territory, I offer you a chance to consider new terms.”

“Name them,” Javed grits through his teeth.

“All the mines east of the Dustlands.” Vogon purses his chapped lips. “And your vow that you will not bring the magic of the Starkeeper against us.”

The gasp is mine. That would mean more than half of the jādū-producing cities. Javed can’t want me that badly to give up so much control to the Scavs. But of course he does. He’ll do anything to drive the Dahaka insurrection into the ground. And he’ll take out the Scavs, too, despite whatever he says here. I know it.

“Done,” Javed snarls with an irritated glower. “Now, Lady Suraya, your answer? My brother’s life for yours.” He bares his teeth. “And just in case you don’t think I’m deadly serious, here’s a little more incentive for you.”

He points to the communications mirror, which shimmers slightly . . . and then the smoking embers of Coban fill its surface.

The gruesome image is like a kick to the gut, making me double over as tears spring to my eyes. The entire town has been razed. I see the charred remains of Saab Inn, half of it still standing, the other gone. The market square looks like an explosion has been discharged at its center.

Is it real or a cruel illusion?

“What have you done?” I whisper, knees nearly buckling.

“I told you—I’ll do anything to convince you.”

Is my family alive? My fingernails dig into the flesh of my palms so deeply that blood wells into the crescent-shaped wounds, but the sharp pain serves to tether the grief welling within me. The enraged simurgh in me wants to lay waste to every monster in this fortress, starting with Javed himself.

“How could you?” I burst out. “They were innocent.”

“I am their king. Their lives are mine.”

“People are not property, you twisted prick.”

My stomach clenches as the mirror flickers and reverts to the previous Scav delegation. Someone is being pushed to the front.

Please don’t be my father or Amma. Please don’t be my father or Amma.

But as matted green hair comes into view, relief is the last thing I feel. The blood drains from my body at the sight of my best friend. The dullness in her eyes disappears as she sees me, her nostrils flaring with suppressed emotion. “Sura, you’re alive,” she whispers, her speech slightly slurred, and my face tightens. Has she been drugged, too?

“Laleh, are you all right? Did they hurt you? Did you see my father? Amma?”

“Amma is here, but she is too ill to walk.” Rage fires in my chest as Laleh’s lip trembles, her eyes darting in fear to the king of Oryndhr. “Your father wasn’t here when he and his fucking army came.”

“Now, now,” Javed chides her. “Don’t make me regret sparing you.”

Laleh swallows a strangled sob as fury settles deep in my belly. My blood boils to unbearable levels, the wings of the beast inside of me beating harder and harder. I glare at the king, wanting to claw that satisfied smirk off his face with my bare hands, to scorch him to coal where he stands, but I can’t. It would be consigning Laleh, Amma, and Roshan to death, and who knows how many more innocent lives. Control, calm, control.

Shuddering, I exhale and inhale, tears stinging my eyes.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Javed crows, tongue snaking out from between his lips as if he can taste my power in the air. “That this all depends on you—a commoner with such uncommon magic.”

“Go to the pits of Droon.”

“A more than generous exchange, I say. You for them.”

My magic flails, helpless, a trapped bird behind my rib cage. We have been outplayed and outmaneuvered despite all our efforts, and I have only one option left to me to save the lives of three people I care about most in the world. Not that I’ll ever get to tell Roshan that. After this is over, I’ll be wed to Javed, and according to Oryndhr’s laws, I will belong to him in every way.

“Your oath that my family and my friends will be safely released and remain safe,” I whisper through clenched teeth, though I know trusting him is pointless. He’s a liar and a killer. “And that my family will be left in peace and returned to me. You must release Roshan and Aran as well. Unharmed. To a city of their choosing.”

Javed’s mouth curls at my familiar use of his brother’s given name, but his eyes glitter now that victory is in his grasp. “Very well. Now kneel to show your fealty.”

“Suraya, no!” The cry is from Aran, being restrained by the two other Scavs in the room. “The prophecy—”

“This is the only way, Aran,” I cut him off.

Maybe that prophecy is built on nothing but myth and my magic is a mysterious fluke of nature. But all I can do is barter what I have in hand, which is my life for theirs. I’m out of options and out of time. I hope that Aran is wrong, but as his eyes meet mine, I see the real fear in them—fear of what I will do . . . and fear of what I might become.

I slowly lower myself to kneeling, the pitted floor biting into my skin. I swallow and meet Javed’s gaze, even as my heart drops. “I accept your terms, Your Majesty.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

God of Night

My shadows writhe with rage, but I subdue them in an iron fist.

They’ve become much too possessive, much too disobedient. They aided her escape from Nyriell. They’d taken vicious pleasure in ending the lives of the men who’d thought they could touch what wasn’t theirs. I’d paid the price, of course.

I’d been lost to my father’s fucking curse for a fortnight.

And now, a bargain has been made and though I long to obliterate every soul in that room, I cannot. A red haze descends even as I struggle for calm. With a snarl, I bury the bond.

She’s on her own . . . as am I.

The fates will only be manipulated for so long, Darrius.

I growl at the unwelcome intrusion and slam the barriers down in my mind.

Vena, that meddling crone, needs to mind her own fucking business.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The royal selection ball and the Dahaka attack on the palace were not so long ago, and yet the capital city is once again a shining beacon of prosperity and wealth. All the ruined buildings have been repaired, and the streets are thronged with townspeople in brightly colored clothing. Rose petals cover the cobblestones. It looks nothing like the desolate, burning metropolis Roshan and I had escaped. Then again, it’s astonishing what stolen money and hoarded wealth can do.

The engagement parade in honor of King Javed and his new bride-to-be is a spectacle. Ugly, garish, and unnecessary. I want no part of it, though of course, I have little choice but to suffer the king’s whims. Decorated horses, fire-eaters, belly dancers, smartly attired soldiers, and elephants pave the way for servants bearing baskets full of gold coins, which are showered upon the adoring citizens. I feel sick at this empty display of excess when I think about the refugees in Nyriell and those who are starving to death in poorer quadrants of the kingdom. But mostly, I’m sick about the reasons for the celebration and the fact that everyone here has no inkling of what their king has planned.

Javed is a fucking monster.

Since our arrival at the palace, hope has eluded me at every turn, despair weighing on my soul like a stone. Amma, Laleh, Roshan, Aran, and my father, wherever he is—their lives all depend on my choices. While the thought of marrying Javed is sickening, it’s the only way I can protect them. And as for Aran’s prophecy and my perplexing visions of Vena, I’ve no time for that. For now, it’s all I can do to keep my cursed magic under wraps and my loved ones alive.

Which means marrying the tyrant cantering beside me, who is all regal benevolence, while sitting upon his throne of blood and lies. The clear half of his face is bronzed with gold powder, and his eyes are heavily lined with kohl. A jeweled mask covers his burned cheek, the high collar of his coat hiding the rest of the scarring. Apparently, it was the best his royal healers could do.

Clad head to toe in purple threaded with gold—a far cry from the rags he’d worn at the Scav garrison—Javed is every inch the king of Oryndhr. An embroidered headdress rests on his forehead, the priceless sapphire in the middle surrounded by azure plumes. He rides a massive stallion, a smile on his face and his back perfectly erect, waving charmingly to his people—the head of the Imperial House . . . the consummate royal.

The consummate starsdamned liar.

His gloved fingers rest on his mount’s jeweled pommel, a sword sheathed in the scabbard at his belt. My jādū dagger is also tucked into his belt like some kind of symbolic prize. My fingers itch to grab it, but I remain still, outwardly calm. Because lives depend on it.

As part of the charade, we have been dressed to match, only my outfit reveals much more than it covers. My fingers wind viciously in the fine gold silk of my skirts, threatening to rip the costly fabric to shreds. As is Kaldarian custom, I am covered from crown to heel in a filmy veil, a strand of jeweled coins falling across my forehead, with only my eyes visible through a slit cut in the material. My mass of hair has been brushed to a mirror shine, the glossy curls wound with ropes of sapphires and hanging halfway down my back. In all honesty, when I’d looked at myself earlier, I hadn’t recognized the woman in the mirrored glass. She’d stared back at me just as confused, as if she hadn’t known me, either.

I’d rather walk through the streets of the capital naked than wear any of it.

A heavy jeweled belt rides on my hips, the sheath for its matching dagger conspicuously absent. Probably because Javed knows that if I had access to a blade, I’d stab him in the testicles.

With violent pleasure.

I don’t even get to ride as he does; instead, I’m confined to a raised silver-and-gold litter hefted by six bearers. The king’s glacial eyes flick to mine. Strange how I’d once thought them beautiful. But the rotting soul inside has tainted them. “Are you displeased?” he asks.

“No.” I clear my throat and choke out the address. “Your Majesty.”

“I would hope not.” His gaze insolently inspects my person. My skin crawls at the lust and possession sparking there. “You look like the wife of a king.”

The words not yet spring to my lips, and I strangle them. Instead, I lower my eyes demurely and pretend not to want to raze him to ash and spit on his fucking embers.

Upon our return to Kaldari, I’d racked my brains to come up with a solution that did not end with me bound to a despot for the rest of my life, but Javed holds all the cards. I can’t run away—he’ll punish those I leave behind. I can’t kill him. Such an act of treason would be an instant death sentence for my entire family and Queen Morvarid would not hesitate to enact it.

In a surprising gesture of “benevolence,” Javed had allowed Laleh to serve as my personal handmaiden. I’m certain the act had nothing to do with pleasing me and was entirely about suiting his ends. The king isn’t stupid—he wants me agreeable, but he also wants to taunt me and remind me who has the power to kill my loved ones.

Earlier that morning, Laleh and I had managed to sneak some time together while I was in my bath. I’d dismissed all the servants, aware it would get back to Javed, but I hadn’t cared. I had to take the chance of punishment to have a few private minutes with my best friend.

“Did he hurt you?” I’d whispered over the loud gush of water from the taps.

“Define hurt.” She’d shrugged at my expression. “Don’t worry, I survived, even when he tortured my parents in front of me. Your instincts were right about him.”

I clasped her hand, tears forming. “Oh, Laleh, I’m so sorry. Are they . . . alive?” She’d nodded, thankfully, but the pain in her eyes for what her parents suffered had made me ache for her. “I’m so fucking sorry. Sands, I hate him! I want to tear him apart.” We’d cried for a moment, holding each other. But time was too short to sit with any grief.

“Did any others escape?”

“Some.” She sent me a sidelong glance. “It was a bloodbath. The king was in a rage when he couldn’t find you or your father.” She took a breath. “Suraya, people are saying things about you.”

“What things?”

“That you’re some kind of sorceress. That you can kill with your bare hands.”

My smile was a grimace. “Everyone can do that.”

“They say you were born with . . . raw magic.”

I’d debated not telling her for her own safety, but then something inside me had snapped. Laleh was my closest friend, had been my best friend my entire life. She deserved the truth, even if she chose to run in terror from me. But she hadn’t, not even when I’d let the pearly, luminous radiance of the Starkeeper magic overtake my skin and the rush of light from the shimmering runes along my arms bathe the room in an otherworldly glow.

“Holy flaming sands,” she whispered.

“Definitely,” I admitted. “And yes, it’s deadly. I’ve hurt people without meaning to.”

She pursed her lips, putting two and two together in her head. “Did you do that to Javed’s face?” I nod, and her smile is slight but hard. “Good. So that’s what the king is after. He wants the ultimate weapon.”

“Yes.”

“Can you, you know”—she wiggled her fingers—“fry the rest of him or something?”

“How can I when he still has you and Amma. Roshan, too . . .”

A glimpse of the old Laleh had appeared for a beat. “Roshan, is it?”

“It’s not like that.”

But it was exactly like that: I’d gone and fallen for a prince, after all.

I’d wanted to tell her everything. But we didn’t have time. Sure enough, an army of guards had drummed on the door so loudly that the walls trembled with the force of it. When the lock splintered, Javed had barged in, enraged. “This is how you repay me?”

“What exactly are you accusing me of?” I replied, the picture of wide-eyed innocence from my position in the middle of the tub. “Laleh was helping me bathe in private. Did you expect me to run from the palace stark naked?”

Javed was far too smart to not know when he was being duped, but he hadn’t been able to fault my logic, especially as I was in the middle of a bath. His eyes had flicked to the foam-covered surface of the water—where, mercifully, my body had been concealed from his foul gaze—before he’d dismissed his entourage with a curt nod.

“Three handmaidens must remain with you at all times,” he’d snarled. “It is for your protection. You are to be the next queen of Oryndhr. Your safety is paramount.”

But despite those seemingly protective words, I know what Javed is really afraid of: now that I’m in his grasp, he doesn’t want me escaping from it, either by my own means or by someone else’s. Not before the wedding and my binding vow, at least. The accounts of my powers have spread like shooting stars across the sky—on the whispered heels of a blasphemous prophecy—and the only way Javed can safeguard his claim is via a royal marriage.

Via my sacred bond.

With me by his side, his position and the Imperial House will be untouchable.

The procession stops, jarring me from my thoughts. Gleaming blue eyes meet mine as Javed slows his horse and leans down. “You are about to greet my mother, Suraya. You will remember your place.”

As if I have a choice. I wonder if she suspects what her loathsome son has been up to—the crimes he has committed in his obsession for power. Suppressing my hostility as he commands us forward with a flick of his wrist, I gaze at the crowd with unseeing eyes. A familiar face leaps out at me, and I blink, my stare swiveling in reverse to search the throng in earnest. My eyes land on a man in a cowl who looks bizarrely like Aran.

What would Aran be doing in Kaldari? I’d watched both him and Roshan enter a portal to Eloni as part of my deal with Javed. I’d begged my prince to take the chance to get away for good, but I’d seen the promise of retribution in his eyes.

Is he here?

Heart in my throat, I scrutinize the crowd more carefully, but the faces start to blend, and then the parade is past the gates and coming to a stop in the main palace courtyard.

Nearby is the wall where I’d first seen Roshan, and I feel something clench in the pit of my stomach. I’d give anything to see that crooked smirk, to watch him vault down from atop that wall, alive and well.

The men carrying the litter lower me to the ground, and my handmaidens accompany me inside the palace to the receiving hall. The atrium looks the same as it had the last time—ornate and opulent—but I have no taste for it. Its beauty feels rotten, like exquisite silk over a desiccated corpse. The hall is crowded with visiting dignitaries and nobles, all dressed in their finery. They turn their eyes to the ground in deference as I walk past.

Unlike my last time at court, there is only one person on the raised dais instead of two. Eyes glittering, Queen Morvarid regards me down the length of her nose. The viceroy steps forward to present me to the queen, and I execute a faultless curtsy.

“Lady Suraya,” she greets me in that clipped voice with a curl of her lip that passes for a smile. “Please do me the honor of sitting on my right.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” I murmur, our eyes colliding for the briefest of seconds as I stand. When they do, I rear back in shock. The hatred I’d expected, but the conniving awareness in them knocks the breath out of me.

Sands, she knows.

Of course she knows what I am. The invisible collar around my neck cinches tighter when I take her jeweled hand in mine. A sharp current zings between us, one I can’t readily identify but, oddly, makes me think of Aran. Fighting a numbing rush of dizziness, I snatch my hand away.

A cushioned stool immediately appears in the spot indicated by an elegant flourish of her fingers, and I am ushered onto it. My handmaidens bow their way back, and the sham of an engagement ceremony begins.

Surveying the hall, I recognize many faces, including that of Reza, the young nobleman who had escorted me so very long ago, and a sneering Helena, the woman from the arena. I feel like crying. I wish I could go back to the day I’d received that fateful invitation. I’d burn the starsdamned thing to ashes. Then again, none of that would have changed who I am. This star magic would have manifested sooner or later.

And I still would have been hunted for it.

After what seems like an eternity, the entire hall falls into silence as the smiling king of Oryndhr saunters forward with all the arrogance in the world.

This is it—this is when he officially expects me to kneel.

Publicly.

As if on cue, my body fills with warmth, droplets of sweat beading along my upper lip and beneath my arms. Snatching hold of the ornate fan resting on a low table beside me, I fan myself vigorously. The queen’s taciturn gaze flicks toward me, but suddenly, her face starts to morph and pucker. My vision goes fuzzy, and then the room starts to fade.

Not now, not now, please not now.

But it’s not like I have ever had any say in when my favorite crone appears in my visions. Vena comes when she wants. Her form descends to the middle of the room—only we are no longer in a room. We are suspended against the backdrop of black velvet space like the stars we are.

She greets me as she always does. “Setareh sar lokkar.”

“Vena,” I say.

“You have grown stronger, Starkeeper.” Shooting stars spin from her mouth as she speaks. “But you have lost sight of your path. You ransom your gifts for the sake of three.”

“They are my friends. My family.”

“A Starkeeper has no family. Mortal lives are of little consequence to the fate of the world.”

“You need us to believe in you, so we must matter.” I eye her, frowning. “And if you’re asking me to sacrifice them, I won’t.”

“You refuse to sacrifice one for the many?” Her starlit eyes burn like hot embers. “Perhaps we should do it for you. You belong to us, after all.”

Betrayal stabs through me like an icy blade. “Touch one hair on their heads, and Fero won’t be the one you have to worry about. That I promise you.”

“The darkness of the abyss creeps upon you, Suraya.” She has never called me by my given name before, and the sound of it on her lips makes me shiver, and not in a good way. “Infecting your spirit with a need for vengeance, a desire for blood. That is the path to the lie.”

Is she blaming me? Anger rises like a bitter tide, the taste of ash salting my tongue. “You were the ones who gave me this cursed magic. You know what it’s capable of, yet you tell me nothing of how to control it. If there’s darkness in me, it’s because you put it there.” The last word breaks on a wild cry. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Mastery comes from a place of wisdom, of enduring love.”

I breathe wildly. “That’s just it—I don’t know how to master any of this. Just take it from me, please, I don’t want it.”

“What is given cannot be rescinded.”

“Then let me die,” I say. “Find another who is worthier.”

The crone approaches, nearly blinding me with her iridescence. Her fingers feather along my temple and the touch is achingly familiar. Warm. Drawing me down into the well of memory where my mother used to lull me to sleep and caress my brow.

“Dig deep, darling Suraya,” the crone whispers in a voice that isn’t hers. “Find the smallest seed of who you are. All the answers you seek are here in your heart. The strength you need has always been here. And know that you are never alone—I am forever with you, my fierce little firebird.”

That nickname, that voice. My eyes meet hers, and everything slams into me all at once as my heart hammers a rapid staccato in my chest. Her face . . . the voice and the face are my mother’s. “Mama?”

But she’s gone, the smile on her lips unforgettable. After all, it’s seared into my memories along with a thousand laughs, a thousand kisses, and a thousand shared wishes.

I blink stickily back to reality, coming to myself amid the sound of hushed voices. Confusion fills me. This isn’t the receiving hall. It’s a chamber—a very opulent chamber by the look of it, with ostentatious masculine touches and gold accents everywhere as if its occupant needs to be constantly reminded of his own magnificence.

The king’s chambers.

“She’s coming to.” Javed’s face looms over me, as does his mother’s.

“Water,” I croak, and a chalice is placed to my lips.

Gentle hands stroke my hair, neither of them belonging to the king or the queen mother. I search for their owners, and my eyes collide with Laleh’s. I’m surprised that Javed has allowed her to tend to me, but maybe he was desperate. Her eyes are guarded but worried. “Are you well?”

“Fine,” I rasp, taking another cool sip of water.

“Out,” Javed commands. “Everyone.”

The guards and handmaidens scurry away, the queen following at a slower pace. The door shuts with an ominous click behind her.

I shouldn’t be alone with him in his quarters without a proper chaperone before the wedding, but Javed won’t care for propriety. His eyes wander down the length of my body as if he can read my thoughts. I fight the urge to yank the counterpane over myself. “What are you staring at?” I snap.

“My property.”

My jaw clenches. “I am no man’s property.”

“I am your king,” he says, his fingers fluttering to my silk-covered kneecap. The light touch makes me cringe, and his eyes harden. “Or perhaps my bastard brother has already stolen that which is mine.”

Stolen, no. Happily received what was openly given, yes.

Javed’s palm creeps upward, and I stop it with the heel of mine, midthigh. “That doesn’t mean you own me, and king or not, you and I both know what I can do.”

“But you won’t.”

My smile is cool and vicious. “Sometimes my magic defends itself, don’t you know that by now, Your Majesty? One wouldn’t want to risk the falsehood of beauty you cling to underneath that mask. Or the very cock you require to procure an heir.”

At that unsubtle threat, he flinches, snatching his hand away, and rises to walk to the foot of the massive bed. His teeth bare in a snarl. “One day we will address that mouth of yours. Tell me what happened in the throne room.”

“It was hot. I fainted.”

His mouth curls downward. “It was more than that. Your runes were glowing.” At my look, he continues. “Don’t worry, I took care to keep them concealed.”

Waiting for my explanation, Javed taps his toe impatiently against the polished wooden floor. I don’t have a ready excuse, so I opt for the truth. It’s not going to matter either way.

“I have visions.”

Searing ice-blue eyes hook on mine. “What kind of visions?”

“Celestial ones,” I say, enjoying the look on his face more than I should. “Visions of the old gods in all their glory.”

“What do these visions tell you?”

“That I am a vessel.”

I’m unprepared for the fanatical smile that Javed sends my way. In fact, I’m downright disturbed by it. He looks thrilled. Elated.

“You know, my ancestors were shortsighted fools. And my mother enjoys culling the weak from our ranks. Calling the worship of the old gods heresy is as good an excuse as any to do so, and it ensures only the strongest and the most devoted will endure.” He studies his fingers, brushing his polished nails against his embroidered shirtfront. “The magi have foretold the rise of a new god.”

I’m lying on a bed, but it feels as though I’m falling, sinking into a space that is dark and suffocating. “And you think that’s me?”

Javed comes back around the bed, sitting beside me. His fingers stroked the side of my face in a caress and then tighten, grasping my chin hard so I meet his gaze. “No, my silly little brainless bride, I think that’s me.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The door of my gilded prison is locked, with a half dozen armed guards standing beyond it. I don’t even have the luxury of my handmaidens. Javed has decided that I need time to reflect before the wedding, which is his thinly veiled way of saying I have to decide whether Amma will live or die. If I resist, she’ll be tortured. If I retaliate, she’ll be tortured and then killed. The idea of my sweet, innocent aunt being subject to Javed’s sick brand of cruelty leaves me cold.

My father was not off the mark when he’d said that Kaldari was full of monsters and deception. The thought of him makes my stomach clench with worry. I hope beyond hope that he’s still alive, but Laleh had said that he and a few others, including Cyrill, had fled into the desert. I’ve lived in Coban my whole life and know that chances of survival there are slim.

Sitting in my empty bedchamber, I study my palms—the five-pointed stars with the M shapes so easily distinguishable now. They glow faintly, humming beneath my skin. My captive, detestable magic . . . caged by threats and blackmail and bound by a divination as old as the stars.

I ball my fists and stare at the four walls of my chamber. Like Javed’s bedchamber, this room is grandiose, covered in colorful tapestries and plush carpets, but it makes my skin crawl. This entire palace is a mirage.

Sighing with frustration, I collapse cross-legged to the center of the carpet in the middle of the room. I place my hands on my knees, palms up, and close my eyes. I’ve never been a disciple of meditation—I’m a doer, not a thinker—but I’d rather aim for tranquility than be chewed up and spit out by resentment and bitterness.

I start with my happiest memory.

Mama. The one I turn to when all else fails. My teacher. My light. My truth.

Sweet sands, I miss her. She would have known exactly what to do and how to save everyone. She would have made different choices, better ones than mine, and no one would be hurt or dead. I’m just her daughter wearing too-big shoes, trying and failing miserably to fill them. I think back to the times we’d sat on my bed, staring at the painting of the palace and making up our stories.

She had lived here in Kaldari, too, with my father. But they had left. They had run. I have no doubt they had fled for their lives . . . for my life. And Amma had said that she’d protected me until her last breath. How?

Mastery comes from a place of wisdom, of enduring love, she had said.

“Help me, Mama,” I whisper.

With a cleansing breath, I focus on my mother and every memory I can remember, even the earliest ones tucked away in the deepest corners of my heart. Birthdays, festivals, hurts, nighttime rituals, dinners, lost teeth, skinned knees, singing, dancing, crying, hammering swords even though she’d had no idea what she was doing—she did it because I loved it.

Because she loved me.

Everything she’d ever done was out of love.

As I sink into that knowledge, I sense an inner serenity start to spread, and I feel the warmth, saturating my pores and flickering along my skin in feathery ripples. My magic is not like before, hot and wild and intense; it’s thick and soothing like a well-worn blanket on a cool night. An extension of me, of my soul.

Let go, daughter mine.

Without hesitation, I do. And I feel myself lift, floating out of my body. Stunned, I push outward, traveling on incandescent particles of light until my spirit has moved beyond the confines of flesh and bone, connected to my mortal shell by tendrils of starlit magic.

Energized, I soar farther, amazed that my consciousness goes with me, and slip past the walls of my prison. There aren’t six guards as I’d thought. At least double that number stand in neat rows on vigilant alert. For a moment, I wonder if they can see me, but of course they can’t. I don’t have a physical form. I glance over my shoulder, eyes widening at the sight of wings. Holy mother of sandstorms! They’re not made of feathers but curling licks of bright rose-white stardust. The curls of iridescent multicolored tailfeathers shine in my peripherals.

My simurgh is beautiful!

The worry that the farther I go the weaker I will get gnaws at me briefly, but my magic doesn’t wane. It strengthens with every beat of my heart. Grinning with delight, I fly, coasting the tides of light within the palace like an invisible rider. Slowing, I recognize a voice coming from one of the nearby chambers—it sounds like the queen—and I follow it. It’s the same bedroom I’d been in two days ago during the engagement ceremony, and Javed is pacing before the fireplace, arguing with his mother, his face sullen.

“What if she doesn’t go through with the wedding?” he whines.

She grabs his chin with her thumb and forefinger, and I flinch. Her touch is not kind, but Javed takes it like a docile lamb. “You are my son. The king. Make her.”

“How?” he asks. I’m mystified by the wheedling sounds leaving his mouth. “She has magic. Akasha flowing in her blood.”

“And you have her family for leverage.” The queen lowers her voice to a hiss. “Listen to me, son, this is your only chance. This is what we have been planning from the minute that girl was born and her birth chart written. You are destined to be a god, and she is the key to your immortality. This is your vertex—your fucking destiny.” She rakes her son with a vicious look that makes him cower. “You must consummate the marriage immediately following the ceremony. The blood moon is in alignment above Kaldari. Tonight is the night. Fero will come for her, and you will lay your claim and take what is yours. Do not fail us.”

His shoulders square. “I won’t, Mother.”

“You’ll cut out her heart,” she says.

“Yes.”

A shiver courses through me at her words. I watch as the queen turns to stare directly at me and I recoil in silent horror. Even outside of my body, I can feel my phantom heartbeat echoing the mounting heart rate of my physical self.

Fuck, can she see me?

Eyes fixed like a serpent’s, she approaches, but when she lifts a hand to smooth a tendril of hair into place, I realize with a relieved breath that she’s looking into the mirror behind me. She’s so close that I can see the dark veins twining beneath her skin and the dull red glow in her eyes that I imagine must be reflected firelight. I lurch backward. Even though I have little to fear in this spectral form, every instinct inside is screaming at me to run.

Trembling, I close my eyes and reenter the hallway. It won’t be long before someone comes for me—the mortal me imprisoned in my room. Maybe I can find Amma before I have to go back, see if she’s safe. But how?

Akasha connects all living things . . .

I don’t know where the lilting female voice comes from, but it sounds like the creature that’s one with me.

I immerse myself into the well of my magic, feeling the coolness envelop me in a silken cocoon. This isn’t like flying around—finding a specific soul is more intentional. It requires concentration, and mine is scattered at best after what I just witnessed. I close my eyes and feel, seeking the ebb and flow of akasha. It’s so thin here, but I can sense the underlying magnetic tether that connects all the souls in the palace within the light.

Amma, I think, and I feel the link brighten almost instantly.

Her soul is a beacon.

It takes me all of nothing to reach her. Walls present no obstacle; neither do the armed guards patrolling every corridor and every doorway. Amma is in a far wing of the palace, asleep in a spacious room. Thank the stars she isn’t in a dank cell somewhere. But her hair is matted, and her jowly cheeks are no longer upturned and rosy with laughter, but sunken and sallow.

“What have they done to you, my sweet Amma?” An ethereal hand forms out of my stardust magic to gently brush the hair from her face. She murmurs restlessly in her sleep. I can’t bear to leave her, so I hum a lullaby that my mother used to sing to me.

Her eyes fly open . . . and land directly on me. “Suraya.”

My starlit lips whisper her name. “Amma?”

“It is you.” She reaches a bruised arm upward, her fingers passing through me, a hand caught in between beams of magical light.

“Can you see me?” I whisper softly as if it’s a trick and she’ll disappear any second.

“So bright,” she says, squinting up at me. “Shimmers of wings and vibrant tail feathers. Akasha. Your magic is a beautiful firebird, just like my sister used to say.”

“Are you well? Did they hurt you?”

“No.”

“How is this possible?” I whisper.

“Nasrin was like you,” she says, “with akasha rich in her blood. She was a gifted healer. I don’t remember her aura being as strong as yours or so bright. I was not blessed with similar abilities, but I could sense hers. We were bound by blood.”

“She was a Starkeeper?”

She nods. “One who was not awakened. It was not her time.”

I remember what the crone had said to me the first time I’d met her—the fates will wait until they are called.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” I press my marked hands forward even though they are not fully visible. “I was marked as she was. She knew what I could become.”

“She and Hassan wanted to protect you.” She pauses, pain breaking across her face. “They came for you once, when you were two. Morvarid wanted to invoke the dark ritual, to bind you to her son.”

“The queen did?” I ask, startled.

“She was—is—a death magi,” Amma says. “The only reason they were not taken unawares was because a friend in the palace warned them.”

Phantom goose bumps break out over my spirit flesh. A death magi. I knew she was rotten to the core. But then my eyes narrow. “A friend? Who was it?”

“The queen’s sister, Nihira. She was Elonian, from the House of Fomalhaut. She knew of her sister’s obsession.”

Roshan’s mother. The artist behind the painting my mama so loved. I wonder if Roshan knows that our mothers were friends. It seems we have always been connected, even before we met, before we were born, as though we were always meant to protect each other, joined as we were by our mothers’ love.

“Nihira was the one who alerted your parents and helped them flee the palace and Kaldari. She and Nasrin put the protection runes on you so you would not be found. Your mother tied that magic to her own life essence.” She swallows, sorrow filling her eyes. “She gave every ounce of her soul’s healing power to cover you.”

My heart clenches. “So I killed her?”

“No, love. She did what any mother would for her child. She protected you to her last breath with a smile on her face.”

Mama . . .

“Hassan and I swore to safeguard you to the end. We meant to tell you so many times, but the years passed, and it seemed like the queen had forgotten or given up. We were foolish to believe such a thing.”

“She hasn’t forgotten,” I hiss through my teeth, emotions raging through me.

“She hid her past well. The Order of the Magi was disbanded because of dissension in their own ranks. The death magi wanted to resurrect Fero to bring back magic and power to Oryndhr. The queen was biding her time until they found you and King Zarek was dead.”

“I believe she murdered him,” I muse aloud, “under the cover of the Dahaka attack.”

“I suspect the same.”

“Amma? How much do you know of the prophecy? I met a diviner who told me that I would be the host for the twin god. But the queen said that Javed would be. Which is it?”

“I don’t know, my love,” she says. “Elonian prophecies have always been open to interpretation.”

“She said that Javed has to consummate our marriage and take my heart,” I say. “What does that mean, besides the obvious?”

“A Starkeeper is the ultimate sacrifice to Fero, but if Javed lays claim to you and the akasha in your precious lifeblood, he can command a god’s power for his own.” Amma’s eyes cloud over and then she groans, clutching her side. The groans turn into a series of wet coughs.

Amma is not going to last much longer as a prisoner. And the moment that Javed performs the ritual and gets what he wants, her life will cease to be important. I have to figure out a way to free us before that happens. My fingers graze her brow. “Try to get some rest. I’ll figure this out.”

“Suraya,” she coughs. “This magic, I don’t know much about it, but from what my sister told me, it straddles the space between the truth and the lie. The space where akasha thrives. Do not let yourself be deceived or you will fall prey to the darkness. Seek the truth.”

I sigh—if only it were so easy. Truth is one of the hardest things to determine.

“Sleep now, sweet Amma. I’ll find you and I’ll bring us home, I promise.”

Moving away, I decide to try to find Roshan, if he is somehow here in Kaldari. It’s possible my magic will stretch that far.

However, as soon as I think his name as I’d done with Amma, I feel something contract sharply in the core of my abdomen. The sensation is like an itch I can’t locate, burrowing under the skin around my navel. My mortal skin.

Gasping, I snap back into myself in the blink of an eye, my supernatural form merging with my physical body, and open my eyes to see a commotion in my room. Laleh is shaking my shoulders, surrounded by a dozen chattering women and an outer circle of guards.

“What are you doing?” I mumble dully, batting her hands away.

“Oh, thank the maker, you’re awake. They were going to summon the king. I couldn’t bring you out of your trance. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I’m fine. I was meditating, trying to get calm.” I glance around, my eyes falling on the yards of silky fabric being carried in. “What’s all this?”

“The queen has instructed us to prepare you,” one of the handmaidens whispers.

I frown. “The wedding is hours away.”

“It’s tradition,” a cold voice interjects. Everyone drops to the floor as Queen Morvarid sweeps into my room. Dread and terrified silence follow in her wake. She waves a hand and activity resumes, only now there’s an unnatural frenzy to it because of her presence. “Come, child, let us make you a bride.”

I collect myself, watching her warily. Now that I know about her part in my mother’s death, I feel nothing but a bone-deep anger. Laleh has a similar expression of mistrust on her face, and I take her hand in a reassuring squeeze. I’ve never been one to give in to bullies, and I’m not about to do so now. Not for this woman, no matter who she is and who her son is. I am someone to fear, too. “I’m no child and I’d rather get ready on my own,” I say.

Every breath in the room is caught and held. The queen’s gaze swivels to pin me, and I can feel Laleh wither from the sheer force of it. Morvarid has perfected that look for so long that it’s as effective as a hard slap, but I refuse to quail, squaring my shoulders and meeting her stare head-on. My heart thunders against my rib cage, adrenaline and sweet, glorious heat filling me.

I am a Starkeeper. Not the same country girl from the courtyard whom she can coerce and intimidate. My chin juts forward, and darkness roars to life in her eyes. The tension in the room is so thick that no one breathes. They are all waiting for her to punish me. But, of course, I know she won’t.

“It’s an Imperial House tradition,” she hisses.

“I am not of your house.”

“Out,” she says, and the room clears faster than it had when Javed had issued a similar command.

I grasp Laleh’s hand, keeping her firmly by my side. Who knows what will happen to her out there because of what she means to me? “She stays.”

“Who do you think you are, you insolent ingrate?” the queen snarls once we’re alone, her face contorting with rage.

“You know exactly who I am.”

My calm answer makes her mouth tighten, her furious gaze faltering for a second. “You think you can insult me and get away with it?”

“It was not meant as an insult, and if you take it as one, then that falls on you, not me. I simply want to prepare on my own.” I stare at her pointedly. “Without you.”

“The king will hear of this.”

“And what exactly is your weakling of a son going to do?” Growing weary of the verbal games, I step forward until we are nearly nose to nose. “I know what you are,” I say. “And I know what you have done to your poor husband. My special gift allows me to see everything, and I see you. You will pay for your wrongs, Morvarid.”

Her eyes narrow at the deliberate slight in my address, fear slinking into them before it is swallowed up by hate. “Your aunt’s life is on the line. Hers as well,” she says, pointing to Laleh. “Would you sacrifice them so easily?”

“Hurt either of them, and you’ll get a taste of just what I can do.”

A slap cracks across my face, my head rocketing to the side as pain erupts along the side of my cheek. She stares at me in alarm, not because of what she’s done . . . but at the cool iridescence of my magic that instantly flares to soothe my stinging skin. I smile as the runes on my arms ignite, and her face pales.

With her standing there alone and exposed, a feral thought enters my head. I could offer Javed his mother’s life in exchange for Amma’s. My hands heat with deadly purpose, but the same thing must have occurred to her, because she summons the guards with a frantic shout. As they enter the room, I prepare to take them all out, and then I remember my best friend standing steadfastly at my side.

And Amma.

And Roshan.

My anger recedes while the queen departs in a loud swish of silken clothing. “See that she is ready,” she barks to the waiting handmaidens.

They filter back into the room, their eyes downcast as if even looking at me means a death sentence will follow. In all likelihood, it could.

“You need to get away from here, Laleh,” I whisper as the handmaidens run me a scented bath in the adjoining bathing hall. I remember us dreaming about swimming in the palace baths what seems like a hundred years ago and smile sadly.

“How? We’re both trapped.”

I place my lips close to her ear. “If I cause a distraction, you can escape. There’s an underground passageway near the kitchens. Look for a storage room close to the baking hearths, one with grain and flour. It leads to an exit west of the city. Find a weapon, a knife, anything. And if you run into trouble, do what you have to, do you hear me?”

Her expression is fearful. “What about you and Amma?”

“Let me figure that out. Be safe, Laleh. Go, please!”

Eyes stinging, I give her an encouraging push and move to the bath. I pretend to undress and center my energies on the bed in the middle of the adjoining chamber, where I imagine a spark and focus on it. My magic feels full and malleable. I sketch the rune for fire in my mind’s eye until a flame bursts to life. Aran would be so proud.

Laleh’s eyes take in the tiny spire of gray smoke, then meet mine through the doorway, widening with shock that hardens into determination when the blaze takes root, eating away at the cloth and the canopied tapestries.

Pandemonium erupts as the handmaidens run screaming from the burning space and my guards rush in. I look for Laleh, but I don’t see her. With any luck, she’ll escape this hellhole. Calmly undressing myself, I release the tie holding the curtain between the rooms and slip into the scented bathwater. Fire can’t hurt me, not when I’m burning far hotter inside than any meager earthly flame.

In the midst of the uproar, I finish my bath, rubbing the rose oils into my skin and drying myself with heated towels. I am sitting at the mirrored dressing room table pulling a brush through my hair when the king himself storms in.

“What did you do?” he says, grabbing hold of my upper arm.

“I took a bath as instructed.”

“And the fire in your chamber?”

“There was a fire?” I ask, eyes wide with false innocence.

“You didn’t hear the screams?”

I keep my face expressionless and my tone mild. “Your mother was in here earlier. She tends to cause that kind of reaction. Why don’t you ask her?” I smile at him in the mirror. “You do know that the diviners say it’s ill-fated luck to see the bride before the wedding, right?” I glance pointedly at his fingers biting into my flesh hard enough to leave bruises. “Either way, I’m sure your fawning court won’t approve of such marks on your bride’s skin.”

He drops my arm and turns on his heel, gnashing his teeth. “You did this.”

“From the bath?”

“Your magic,” he hisses.

“Are you suggesting that I can start fires with my mind?” I ask sweetly. “Come now, Your Majesty. That is an interesting idea, but I’m sure you’ll agree that one of the servants overturning a lamp is a much better explanation.” I eye his state of half dress with amusement. “You look nice.”

“You think to jest?”

“I never jest about clothes,” I state with wide-eyed horror.

His eyes narrow as if he can’t quite decide whether I’m baiting him or being this obtuse on purpose. I swallow the itch to incinerate him as easily as I had the bedclothes and continue brushing my hair. One of the handmaidens rushes forward to assist, and soon she is followed by another and another. His eyes slide over them. “Where’s the other one?”

“Which other one?”

“You know fucking well which one. Your friend with the green hair. Where is she?” The last three words are a bellow, rage making his face go purple.

I force my eyes to go wide with fright and then brim with tears. “What do you mean? Where’s Laleh? Why is she missing?” I lay it on thickly, tears spilling down my cheeks. “What did you do? You promised she would be safe!”

At this point, Javed stares at me with such violence that I feel a tiny frisson of alarm. I know that he can’t hurt me—my magic will protect me—but I suddenly understand how much he’s like his mother. Perhaps even worse than the queen mother because he doesn’t have her stony control. He stalks from the room, and I hear him give the order to search the palace from top to bottom or heads will roll. I can only hope that Laleh managed to get out or stays hidden. My stomach churns with dread. Maybe it was a mistake to send her away. If she gets caught, I’ll never forgive myself.

“Clean up this mess and move her to the east tower.” Javed strides back to me, his fury palpable as the women in the room scatter like ants to do his bidding. “You’ve just lost your aunt her fingers. I’ll cut them off myself.”

All traces of my alarm vanish, and my expression is ice cold as I glare at him. “You won’t touch a hair on her head. You have very little leverage, Majesty. Don’t push me.”

The threat hangs like a blade between us, razor sharp and thirsty for blood. Javed looks like he wants nothing more than to tear me to pieces with his bare hands. Struggling to compose himself, he slams his fist into the wall and curses vilely.

“One way or the other, you’ll pay for this, my foolish bride.” He bares his teeth. “You have one hour.”

My last hour of freedom.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I stare at myself in the mirrored glass.

Glistening gems drip from the top of my veil to the top of my chest in a beaded curtain. The embroidered jacket over my undertunic is fitted, handsewn with exquisite pearls and rubies, tapering to my waist and then flaring out in wide, gold-dusted panels to the knees of its matching undergown.

Unlike the sheer golden outfit I’d worn for Javed’s engagement farce, these wedding garments are heavy and crimson. From the translucent scarlet covering my bejeweled hair to the tips of my ruby slippers, I am a bride dressed in blood. A sacrificial lamb. Though not one being led to the slaughter. I’m willingly going there with my eyes wide open.

I’ve thought about trying to find Amma for real and blasting our way out with magic, but I don’t know exactly where her room is in this maze of a citadel. My stardust simurgh form had passed through walls and floors. All I remember is that she had been in the northern section of the palace, near what looked like servants’ quarters. Attempting escape would be a risky gamble with time I don’t have.

Right now, the only half-baked plan I’ve formed is to wait until we are in the middle of whatever ritual the queen has concocted with her son and attempt to take them both out at the same time. Of course, that will mean that I’ll have to consummate the marriage vows with Javed. The very thought of him kissing me or touching me is sickening, but whatever pain he has in store for me on our wedding night won’t last forever.

Sacrifice one for the many.

Vena’s words—but I’ll be the sacrifice, no one else.

“Lady Suraya,” one of the guards calls through the bedroom door. “The king requests your presence.”

My escort’s words are much too close to the ones that had been printed on the cursed invitation that had set me on this path. A heavy weight settles upon my chest, making it hard for me to breathe or reply. I fumble for words. “Thank you. I’ll need a moment.”

Gasping for air, I dismiss the waiting handmaidens and lean against the closed door, savoring my last minutes of privacy and freedom. This is it. Countless women in Oryndhr have dreamed of this moment—of marrying a royal—all except me. I don’t want to be queen. I don’t want to be some starlight warrior. I don’t want to be immortal. I just want . . .

What do you want?

I’m not sure I’ve ever asked myself that question. Not truly.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes. I want to go back to a simpler time. I want peace for my countrymen and goodwill between the houses. Happiness. A hopeful future. I want love blanketing me. I want my father to live to a ripe old age. And Amma, Laleh, and life at the inn. A family of my own one day. Old friends and new. I want to see Clem again. Sands, I’ll even tolerate Simin and Cyrill.

While I’m making impossible wishes, I want love, too. But there’s only one man I desire and he’s hopefully far away from this palace of lies. His handsome face with those sparkling, soulful brown eyes and that perpetual smirk is imprinted on my mind. Stars, I miss him.

If only wishes were so easy . . . or real.

Overcome with misery, I swipe at my damp eyes and try to put some steel in my spine. I’m moving toward the door when a waft of air blows into my face. My gaze flicks to the stained-glass window, but it is firmly shut.

A second eerie gust makes my skirts billow. My eyes scale the room, catching sight of shifting fabric on one of the walls. One of the tapestries on the right side of the room undulates, and my breath quickens. A form takes shape—a large, ominous form, pushing outward into the embroidered bands of textile.

Suddenly, all I can think of is the starsdamned prophecy.

Has Fero come to claim me?

My hands and runes begin to glow of their own accord as my magic surges to the fore, ready to defend. Hot white light arcs through me when the dark shadow moves to the edge of the tapestry and a covered head emerges along with a familiar face . . . one I’d never expect to see in a million years. I rub my eyes in disbelief.

“Cyrill?” I go stock-still and then shake my head as the rest of his body materializes. It is him. I lower my glimmering hands and rush toward him. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you Javed would try to take your light.” He reaches a hand to me, holding the fringe of the tapestry aloft. “Come, your father is waiting.”

Hope soars in my chest. “Papa? He’s alive?”

“Yes, we don’t have much time. It took forever to navigate the mines and find the right passageway after you arrived at the palace. And then you changed towers and rooms and that was a whole mess, too. There are guards everywhere.”

Hurrying behind him, I enter the low stone corridor, the secret door snicking shut behind us. We move at a clipped pace, the silk of my skirts getting caught on the rough-hewn rock. When we emerge in an underground dungeon that smells of musk and mildew, I almost weep at the sight of my somber father standing with a group of armed men. I fling myself into his arms.

“Did he hurt you?” my father says, his voice gruff with emotion.

“No,” I sniff, ripping the veil from my head and grinding it into the dirt beneath my heel. I eye the men surrounding him, recognizing many of the faces from the tavern. “I thought you were dead. How did you survive in the desert? How did you get here?”

“We hid in an abandoned jādū mine,” Cyrill says from behind me. “And then we rode here.”

“You rode?” I ask my father weakly, and he nods. I’m shocked. Without a portal, a trip like that would have taken weeks through the unforgiving desert. “How did you find me?”

He waves a wrinkled map at me. “When your mother and I lived in Kaldari, King Zarek gave me a record of the palace plans and all the deserted passageways beneath it.” I blink owlishly at him. King Zarek. Roshan’s father. He’d helped them, too. “It was how we escaped the queen,” he says tightly, a grimace furrowing his brow.

“Amma told me.” I hug him fiercely. “We have to get her, Papa. She’s sick and still in the palace. North wing.”

His eyes cloud over as he takes me by the arm with a noncommittal grunt. “Let’s go. We have a wagon and fresh horses waiting. We need to get you to safety at least for tonight.”

The way he says that suggests that there’s more at play. Why at least for tonight? Does it have to do with the alignment of the blood moon and the ritual the queen hopes to perform?

I halt, tugging against him. “Papa, does this have to do with the prophecy?”

“We don’t have time, Suraya,” he growls. “The more we wait, the more danger you’re in. I’ll tell you when we’re safe.”

“What about Amma?”

He swallows hard, his throat bobbing as pain rips across his face. “She knows what is at stake, and she will make her peace with that.”

I stare at him in shock. “You’ll just leave her to die?”

He grabs my shoulders. “You are what is important, Suraya. You.”

“Because of a stupid prophecy?”

“Listen,” he barks, startling me with his vehemence. “Everything is happening as the diviners of Fomalhaut claimed it would. Your birth chart foretold this vertex, too. This specific karmic encounter. We’ve always known this day would come.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “The blood moon has risen, and the constellations of the sidereal zodiac are in alignment. The queen will use her death magi gifts to summon Fero”—his voice breaks—“to take you.”

“You believe that?”

In response, he grabs my arms, flipping my palms over. “How do you explain what you can do? The magic of the stars in your human body? Morvarid has coveted you from the day you were born for this one reason: to return the god of death, eternal darkness, and destruction to his wretched throne.” His face hardens, and an expression I’ve never seen settles on it. “Do not let your mother’s sacrifice be in vain.”

Sacrifice. She died protecting me, using magic that had sucked up every drop of her life essence. It might have been her choice, but I still killed her. My throat tightens, pain and loss burning up my rage. All the fight drains from my body in one fell swoop.

He’s right. She died for me. To protect me from this very fate.

Feeling numb, I let him lead me through the rest of the dungeons into a wide, dark courtyard. A bloodred haze filters down from the moon, bathing the yard in an unnatural hue. I’m so consumed by my guilt that I don’t notice the dead silence in the space until it’s too late and the hairs on my arms stand at eerie attention. My runes writhe below my skin.

“Papa—”

“Shush,” he whispers, raising one fist. Everyone else behind us crouches down, blades and bows appearing in their hands.

Slow clapping draws our collective attention to a parapet almost hidden from view on the far wall of the palace. Queen Morvarid appears. She is clad in black and silver and wears no veil. “Hassan,” she calls out, her voice mocking. “Couldn’t stay away?”

“Be gone, demon.”

Her laugh is chilling. “I’ve been called worse. You’ve eluded me so cleverly for years. Did my late husband and his treacherous soul-fated lover have a hand in that?”

Soul-fated. My eyes round in shock.

“Zarek and Nihira knew what a monster you were,” my father says.

Morvarid inclines her head. “And she paid for her treachery.”

“You fucking murderer!” I shout.

Her stony stare turns to me. “I should have removed your tongue that first day in the courtyard. My own sister bedded my husband and bore him a bastard son, and she paid in blood for taking what was mine.”

A collective gasp winds its way through the men around us. Roshan had said the truth of his parentage was a carefully guarded secret. Now, not anymore.

“He loved her, never you,” I snarl. “You kept them apart. You took him from her, knowing they loved each other, because you couldn’t stand that he was hers and not yours.”

As far away as I stand, I can feel her rage and jealousy burning.

“And what do you know of love?” she drawls. “It is a sickness. A disease that infects the weak. Take these two for example.” She hooks her fingers, and two of the guards at her side push two figures forward: Laleh and Amma. I swallow the howl that claws up my throat. Blood covers half of Laleh’s swollen face. “You love them so much that it makes you weak. You are not worthy of the magic you bear.”

“And you are?” I fist my hands, clenching my teeth as my tears flow, despite my efforts to stanch them. Blood rushes in my ears as I summon the Starkeeper’s power. I don’t even hear the terrified murmurs from my father’s men as they watch my skin glow luminous silver and the section of my hair burn iridescent white. All I am focused on is my enemy. “Release them.”

“As you wish.”

Before I can move, before I can blink, a gleaming jādū blade with a carved golden simurgh for a handle slides across Laleh’s throat. My dagger. If I could have foretold this moment, I never would have forged that fucking blade. Time slows to a trickle, Laleh’s hopeless eyes meeting mine across the space. Blood pours from her gaping neck. An agonized scream tears its way out of me as I rush forward, only to see her lifeless body sink to Morvarid’s feet.

“Laleh!”

My vision tunnels to red. Heat saturates every part of me, hissing through my eyes and mouth, thirsty for vengeance. They’re all going to burn. Every last one of them.

“Suraya, no!” It’s my father’s voice, but he has no sway on me.

Morvarid’s words do, however. “Your choice, Starkeeper. Your precious aunt dies next.”

Amma.

My skin sparks with magic and I come to a halt. Sobbing openly, I quake with the effort to subdue my ravenous soul, my breath shuddering through my anguish as a hundred armed royal soldiers march into the courtyard to encircle my father and his men. Resigned to the queen’s will, I release my gathered magic and fall to the ground, my heart in fucking pieces. I don’t even struggle when two guards yank me to my feet and someone approaches. Javed, my betrothed. I don’t care anymore. Let him take me. Let Fero come. There’s enough blood on my soul. Let it rest on someone else’s for once.

“Quickly now, my son, the moon is almost aligned,” Morvarid calls down as he drags me to a nearby door leading up to the tower.

Suddenly, a second wave of armed men—not guards this time—swarm the line of royal soldiers with a roar. Dahaka. Fighting breaks out in earnest as a tight circle forms around Javed and me. He shoves me into the tower, pulling me by my hair up the steps to stand before a trembling magi. House of Fomalhaut, by the looks of his navy-blue robes with the laurel wreath and two birds. I guess the rumors of that house being heretics and arcanists have been true all along. An entire secret society of death magi plotting the downfall of the realm . . . led by a devious, power-hungry queen.

“Invoke the rites for the handfasting,” Javed orders.

The cleric starts speaking hastily, binding my hands to Javed’s with a satin ribbon. I don’t struggle or protest. I can’t even think beyond the sense of grief and futility swamping me. A crashing sound echoes up the stone steps leading into the turret, the clang of clashing blades swiftly following.

Javed thrusts a golden chalice into my face. “Drink.”

The liquid within is dark, thick, and reeks of rust. Blood?

Nearly gagging, I stare at him, my lips descending to obey his command, but the delicate cup is shot out of his hand as a jādū arrow impales it to the far wall, exploding it in a shower of sparks. The brackish, sludgy fluid splatters over the ground.

We turn in unison to see Roshan standing there like an avenging angel, bow aloft and dark eyes flashing. I’m no delicate rose who swoons upon rescue, but my nostrils burn and my eyes sting at the sight of him. I knew he’d come.

Has he been here the whole time? And by the heavenly stars, why does it feel like I need him to fucking breathe?

“Get the fuck away from her,” he roars, discarding his bow for a curved jādū blade carved with an earth rune.

Javed does the opposite, pulling me to him as he squares off against Roshan, his own saber drawn and at the ready. “Good to see you, too, brother.”

“Sura?” Roshan asks, eyes finding mine.

My eyes brim anew. “Laleh’s dead.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Roshan says softly. “But she would want you to fight. Don’t give up now and let her death be for nothing.”

Javed laughs cruelly, his fingers winding into my hair. His blade kisses my torso, and I feel its cold bite through my clothes. “So predictable that you’ve come to retrieve your lost prize. You’re too late—she’s mine.”

Hearing Roshan’s soft words makes something warm flicker to life inside of me—a spark of sadness mixed with love and hope. I see Laleh’s face, her courage and her determination urging me to listen. She can’t have died for nothing. My beaten spirit rises to the fore, like a firebird from the ashes. The irony of the symbolism is not lost on me. As long as there’s breath in me, I have to fight. For my best friend. For myself. For everyone.

With a scream that comes from the depths of my soul, I hurl my elbow back with all the force I can muster, catching Javed in the ribs, and stomp on his instep. He curses, weakening his grip enough for me to twist out of his grasp. His blade whistles across my bodice, two pieces of silk falling in frozen panels to the floor. His blade is carved with an ice rune.

I snarl at the king, “I’ll never be yours, you fucking monster!”

I glance at Roshan, longing to throw myself into his arms, but I have other things to take care of—like the bitch of a death magi who still has my aunt. Roshan’s gaze meets mine, his lip curling into that half smile I adore as he mouths the word go. Heart full, I race up the steps to the parapet, where I’d seen Morvarid and Amma last.

Four guards stand outside the wooden door, but I dispatch them easily with a white-hot blast of my magic, feeling nothing as ash flakes from their skin. I hear chanting coming from the topmost tower room, and cautiously, I peer through the view hole. Amma is trussed and tied in the corner, and Morvarid is intoning something, holding up another shallow goblet. Four Fomalhaut magi in navy robes and hooded cowls surround her. The queen dips two fingers into the chalice to draw runes of rot on her skin, and my magic recoils at the unnatural nature of it. Is this what a death magi ritual looks like?

Exhaling a breath, I call my light forth and shove open the door.

“You,” Morvarid growls, and throws her neck back. “You can’t stop this. Even if my son cannot claim your power, the dark god will come and he will feast on your soul.”

I follow her stare, looking up. This tower has a skylight, and the moon is almost aligned in perfect eclipse position with a ring of constellations winking in the velvet darkness. A tiny sliver of a red crescent remains, growing smaller by the second, until it winks out and disappears. The tower shudders, and I don’t know if that’s from the eclipse or Roshan’s magicked earth blade below us.

“My lord Fero, come forth to claim my offering. The Starkeeper is yours.”

I’m rooted to the spot, gooseflesh rippling along my arms. There’s something foul in the air—a slick essence, slithering down on a carpet of darkness. Morvarid swallows the contents of her cup, teeth stained dark red, her body crumpling to the ground and shuddering in the throes of possession as the malevolent essence wraps around her. I stare in horror. The chanting of the four death magi grows louder. A ring of jādū lights up around them, and suddenly, the queen goes preternaturally still, her back frozen in mid-arch.

No one moves. No one breathes.

The tower groans and quakes again.

“Suraya.” The urgent whisper from my aunt drags me out of my petrified trance. Gathering my wits while the magi remain frozen by whatever ancient magic has them in its grip, I slip around the smoldering fire and untie Amma quickly.

Without stopping, we hurry down the stairs . . . to find Javed propped against the wall, his body motionless but for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He and Roshan are not alone. A few Dahaka soldiers I recognize from Nyriell surround them.

“What are they doing here?” I blurt out. “Are they—”

“They’re loyal to me,” Roshan pants.

Since when? Doesn’t he mean loyal to Aran or to the commander? But I don’t bother to dwell on it as I nod my gratitude. If it had been Aran I’d seen before in the square, they would have come to overthrow the king, but they’d ended up saving my father and his men from a massacre, and I’m grateful to them for that.

“We need to get out of here. The queen—she’s possessed or something.”

“Fero?” Roshan asks, rushing forward to help me with Amma.

“I don’t know, but whatever rites they’re practicing up there, it’s beyond anything natural,” I say. “We need to get all these men out.”

“What about Javed?” he asks, hooking a thumb at the unconscious king.

As much as I want to leave the prick, I shake my head. “Take him with us. He’s leverage, if we need it.”

Two men prop the king between their shoulders. Holding on to one another, we move as a unit toward the stairs.

“Wait,” I say, glancing to the upper parapet where the queen had slit my best friend’s throat. “I want to get Laleh. She doesn’t deserve to be left here.” I turn to Roshan. “Please.”

“Of course.”

His soft agreement is a balm, and I swallow past the lump in my throat. He takes my hand and we move to retrieve Laleh’s body—but even as we step forward, the tower starts to shake and crumble. I let out a whimper of frustration. She’s so close.

“My fault,” Roshan says, lifting his blade with the earth rune. “Earth magic is hard to contain.”

“It’s going to collapse,” someone warns from behind. “You won’t make it.”

Roshan looks to me, letting me decide my fate . . . and his. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

I glance toward the crumbling passage and swallow my grief. “No, let’s go,” I say hoarsely, unwilling to risk his life. “Laleh’s soul is already in a good place. Whatever’s up there isn’t her.”

His gaze searches mine. “Are you sure?”

I swallow against the tears rising in my throat, stinging my eyes. “No. But I can’t lose anyone else.”

Once we reach the bottom, we spill out into the bloodied courtyard. Behind us, the tower gives a huge groan and collapses inward, taking its remaining occupants with it. It would be a miracle if Morvarid survived that. Then again, she’s a death magi who practically invoked a fucking god in front of my eyes, so I’m not sticking around to find out if she did.

Frantically, I search for my father. He’s alive, I note with relief as he stumbles toward me, his clothes spattered with gristle and blood.

“Take Amma,” I say, embracing him for a scant second before we exit the courtyard with Roshan and the Dahaka, running toward a cramped wagon already pulling out and a group of waiting horses. I calculate quickly—five horses, more than ten of us. I fall back slightly, and my father swivels, a questioning look in his eyes.

“Suraya, what are you doing?”

Kneeling, I snatch a crossbow off the ground and throw the strap over my shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll find another way out of here.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“You need to get Amma to safety.” I pause and force a reassuring smile. “Morvarid was in the tower when it fell.” His eyes narrow, but I nod reassuringly, hiding my qualms. “No one could have survived that collapse. Get Amma to Coban while you still can. I promise I will find another way out, but you need to leave now.”

“No.”

I cup my palms against his bearded chin. “Please, Papa. Just go. I can’t bear if anything happened to you or Amma. She’s been through enough. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Roshan says, striding to my side. “Make sure to secure the king. His kingsguard might come for him. There’s another stable on the south side of the palace where the Dahaka entered the city. We’ll go there and get horses.”

My father looks startled for a moment as recognition dawns in his eyes, his head bowing in immediate respect. “Of course, Your Highness. It is my honor.”

“The honor is mine.”

After a searching look at my face, my father nods at me. I watch as he helps Amma into the wagon. I don’t want to think that this could be the last time I see them alive. All I tell myself is that they’re going to be safe. Somehow.

The small convoy departs, taking the others out of harm’s way. The magic surges in my body as I turn, ready to face my fate. I look at the grim-faced prince at my side, and while his presence is bolstering, I can’t risk putting him in peril. I can feel it in my bones: this is far from over. “You have to go, too, Ro,” I tell him.

“I won’t leave you.” His gaze burns into mine, his brown eyes hot with emotion.

“If the queen is still alive, you’ll be in danger. She knows”—the words catch in my throat—“that you’re . . . a vulnerable point for me.”

“Then you’ll know why I’m staying.”

The admission makes something precious bloom in a secret corner of my heart. But the knowledge also brings fear. Fear of loss. Fear of losing him . . . for good this time.

“She’ll use you against me.”

“She will try. And I have my own score to settle with Morvarid.” He gives that familiar lopsided grin that makes the boulder of ice in my chest thaw slightly. “And for all we know she’s already dead.”

I haven’t forgotten what she did to Roshan’s mother, but this is more dangerous than he knows. “With a powerful magi like her, we need to see a body to know for sure. Because if she did invoke the god of death, she could still be alive.”

And whatever Morvarid is, she might not be human anymore.

“Then we burn it down.” Roshan’s face is fierce. “Together. I won’t let you do this alone.”

With a glower at his doggedness though my heart inexplicably warms, I sigh and then roll my eyes for effect. “Fine. If you’re going to go all gladiator beast-mode and muscle your way into helping out of some misplaced damsel-saving ideal, then take this.” I thrust the crossbow strapped to my back into his hands.

“Good thing you’re no damsel, Starkeeper.” With a wink, he slings the weapon over his arm and flexes. “So you think I’m a beast?”

My grin is watery. “I think you think you’re beast.”

“Too late,” he says with an irreverent wink that reminds me of our first meeting here on these very grounds. “You already admitted that you like me. And we both know how you feel about my body. Especially when you commandeered it so well.”

Blushing at the innuendo, I shake my head. “You poor thing, you must have been so disoriented and confused that it scrambled your wits.” I break into a jog toward the citadel and the royal stables. “Try to keep up, will you? And use the muscle in your brain instead of the one between your—”

I cut off as the air around us is filled with blinding bright light. An enormous portal is opening in the courtyard . . . and I recognize the armed warriors pouring from it, including their leader. The telltale maroon stripe across her chest and the studs in her cheek slam into me like a boot to the gut. That’s the woman from the communications mirror—the one who reported to Vogon.

What the fuck are the Scavs doing here?

But I’m distracted by a group of Dahaka soldiers who are running our way from the opposite direction, shouting and waving their weapons. “Commander!”

Three of the men veer toward us, their arrows flying as they ward off the incoming wave of Scavs. I recognize Aran running next to a slight female soldier with her head down holding a brace of arrows on her back, both followed by the commander from Nyriell. He moves quickly for such a big man.

“We need to get you to cover, sir,” the commander rumbles.

I blink at Roshan. My gaze automatically drops to his clothing to see if he’s purloined another Dahaka uniform like he’d done in the Indraloka, but he’s dressed in plain brown trousers and a tunic tied with a yellow sash. He looks much like he did the first time I saw him on that courtyard wall . . . like a lowly gardener. But the commander knows he’s the Oryndhrian prince and not some foot soldier in their ranks so maybe it was a slip of the tongue in all the chaos.

A conflicted look crosses Roshan’s face just as the men reach him. “Sura, there’s something—”

The commander stops short of Roshan, grasping him by the shoulder. “This way,” he shouts. “We secured transport.”

“Scavs!” Aran shouts, holding on to a jādū crystal and sketching protection runes as we race down the start of the maze near the forge. I shake my head at our lack of foresight. The Scavs are controlled by Javed—he must have been using them as an extra layer of defense in case the Dahaka attacked. Of course they’d be here.

We reach a long wagon pulled by four horses and climb in. The female soldier offers me a seat, and I freeze as her face comes into view from beneath her hat. Happiness slams into me, and I grasp her forearm. “Clem, you’re alive! What are you doing here? How—?”

I break off as it takes my sluggish brain a second to understand that Clem shouldn’t be here . . . in a warzone . . . wearing soldier’s gear. Unless it’s something to do with House Antares. But still . . . how is she here?

“Clem?” I whisper, but her eyes fall away as she ducks to hide her face.

“Where are the rest of the men?” Roshan barks, making me jump and swing to him. “Report, Hamid.”

My brows rise at his curt tone, but the burly leader only nods. “Scattered. We took the victory in the courtyard, but we lost more than we bargained for. The Scavs caught us off guard in the open. We didn’t see them coming.” He stops, his face grave. “They’ve secured the king, Commander.”

A huge explosion detonates, this one much too close for comfort. Screams and shouts rend the air, but I hear nothing but that single devastating word falling from the man’s lips: commander.

My pulse pounds with the three-syllabled sound of it. The noises fade. The lights wink out. Everything goes still—dangerously still, like the eye of a sand cyclone when you think everything has passed, only the worst is yet to come.

Roshan reaches for me, and I jerk backward, breaking the sticky time lapse in my brain. He nods curtly to the commander—no, not the commander—and my heart free falls in confusion and treachery.

“Get us to the hangar, Hamid.”

“Copy, sir.”

Stars on fire. They’re his men. All loyal to him. They’re fucking here for him.

Including Clem. It had been her in the bunker, not some random hallucination. She’s one of them. One of the Dahaka. She finally meets my eyes, guilt and an odd defiance swimming in them, her mouth twisting down as she reads my embittered expression.

Had she ever been my friend, or had that been a lie, too? My mind rears back to the explosion in this very palace during the ball that had started this whole thing, and I spear Clem with a look of betrayal. Shame makes her flush as her gaze falls away. I’d been so worried about her safety and being ill, and I’ll bet everything she’d been the one on the inside who set off that blast.

Because the precious fucking prince couldn’t be implicated . . .

And then he had to pretend to save me.

As the wagon takes off, more truths slam into me all at once like sucker punches to the gut—the way Roshan was treated in Nyriell and the Dahaka fortress. The respect, the deference. He even slipped up and said that the men in the tower were his. It had nothing to do with the uniform he’d been wearing, the medallion he’d carried, or being an undercover imperial prince, and everything to do with him being the fucking leader of the Dahaka.

I’d been so blind to it. To all of it. No one else looks surprised, not even Aran, and that perhaps feels like the biggest betrayal of all.

My heart shrivels until it’s nothing but a husk. “You lied to me.”

“Sura—”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap, feeling everything inside of me start to unravel—everything I’d held on to feels brittle and fragile. The last few weeks. My blind, idiotic trust. My fucking infatuation. Me throwing myself at him, feeling sorry for the poor cast-aside prince, thinking we had only each other. Believing we had so much in common. Recalling every tender, mortifying moment in brutal heartbreaking detail. Confiding in him. Kissing him.

Giving him my starsdamned virginity.

“I trusted you,” I say thickly. “You let me believe you were helping me, when all along you were like everyone else. You wanted me for what you thought I could do.”

Sands, I’d offered up myself—the precious Starkeeper—to him on a platter. I am such a fool.

“That’s not true.”

I grab his shoulders roughly. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that.”

“It isn’t.” He hesitates. “I don’t want to lie to you, Suraya. In the beginning, it might have started out like that. You had magic that could change the fate of the kingdom. Once I learned what you were, you became an objective, one I couldn’t allow my brother to have, so I played the part of the fugitive prince. But it was to keep you safe, I swear.”

I glance around. “Who knew?”

“Not many. Hamid, Aran, and Clementine later on.” He pauses as if pained. “My role in the Dahaka isn’t common knowledge. I needed everyone else to treat me as you saw me.”

I stagger backward. It feels like his jādū earth blade is quaking through the middle of my chest, leaving rubble and bloodied organs in its wake. I can’t fucking breathe, the pressure on my lungs too much . . . the pressure on my heart utterly excruciating.

I think of all the time we spent in Nyriell and the times I’d mistaken for intimacy, me moaning like a wanton in that cave and offering myself up to him, and I want to die. How could I have been so wrong? So desperate for my feelings to be returned. I drop my hands, and he reaches for them, catching me at my wrists.

“No, wait, please, you have to listen. Everything changed.”

“How did it change?” I bite out. “You kept the truth from me. You had every chance to tell me who you were, and you didn’t. You let me believe we were in danger from the Dahaka when all along we weren’t.”

“The danger was real because of Javed’s bounty! I didn’t know who I could trust, while Hamid was ferreting out the turncoats. And I wanted to tell you so many times.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Javed needed to be dethroned, and you know what Morvarid is. A death magi! If word got out that I was the leader of the Dahaka, I would not have been able to destroy their hold on Oryndhr. I am a prince. This is my father’s legacy.”

My tone is soft and flat. “So now you’re a prince again? That’s convenient.”

“Suraya, please.”

“And him?” I ask with a vicious glare to the fake commander holding the reins hitched to the horses.

“Hamid is the face of the revolution. I’m its . . .”

“Heart,” I finish for him, my voice cracking on the word along with the very real organ in my chest. “Was it all a lie?”

“No.”

He shifts toward me, his hands sliding up my arms, and even as I hate it, I want to lean into him. I hate my weakness. I hate him!

“Please, you have to trust me.”

“Trust you?” I flare slightly, letting a wave of heat rise to the top of my skin, my runes blinding in the darkness. He pulls away sharply, his eyes wide as he holds his smarting hands to his chest. I only singed them a little, but still. “No. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Sura . . . I love you.”

I almost don’t hear the achingly quiet whisper, but I don’t need to hear it. I don’t need any more of his lies. “No, Commander. You don’t lie to the people you love.”

With that, I leap from the wagon.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Jumping out of a moving carriage isn’t one of my smartest decisions.

The graveled earth is rough—sharp stones cutting through my delicate wedding garments that offer little in the way of padding. There’s no light to guide my path as I thump to a graceless stop, my elbows and knees battered by the unforgiving ground.

But I don’t feel much of anything as I lurch unsteadily to my feet and run in the opposite direction. I don’t feel the wet, warm blood dampening the silk or the sting of abrasions lacerating my exposed skin or the soothing heat of my magic as it begins to heal me. I feel nothing but the blade of betrayal lodged in my back. I trusted him.

You fell in love with him, too.

That admission cuts worse than the stones. Groaning, I stare up into space. The eclipse of the blood moon is no longer visible from this part of the palace, but parts of the ravaged sky are fraught with fire and shadow. Chaos and fury. Morvarid was right. Turns out I don’t know a starsdamned thing about love.

I love you.

I scour the agonized whisper from my brain.

It’s all a fucking lie. I thought Roshan had wanted to help me, but all he’d wanted was to keep my magic close and out of his enemy’s clutches. I’d been a valuable pawn to him—a piece to be played at his whim. I feel the storm start to build in the pit of my stomach. Roshan had once said that my starlight gifts were linked to my emotions, and now as the creature inside shrieks with rage and agony, I feel myself crumbling to its pain.

All I want to do is roar and punish.

Javed. The Scavs. Morvarid’s death magi. Any one of them will do.

Magic drenches my core, flooding through me like wildfire and demolishing anything that resembles reason in its path. Time to let my vengeful beast fly. But first, I have a tower to burn.

I skirt through the gloom of the outer palace walls until I’m near an archway. I look up at the scalloped turrets. They bear flags of different colors depending on their location. Pushing my palms upward, I spear a beam of starlight toward the cupola resting at the peak of the spire. The flags whip in the breeze. Emerald. I’m on the south side of the palace, not that far from the crumbled tower and the maze that leads to the main courtyard.

Good.

The outer quadrant of the palace is deserted but for a few terrified faces peering out of darkened corners of the servants’ quarters. I slip past the stables and then retrace my steps to go inside. I’m in need of some other clothing. These voluminous wedding garments are more of a hindrance than a help. But the stable isn’t empty. An assorted group of servants and groomsmen are huddled in the front stalls. One of them brandishes a rake, while the horses in adjoining stalls nicker restlessly.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I say gently. “I need clothes.”

They stare at me with huge orbs for eyes. I’m sure I must look a sight in my half-torn, dirty wedding dress. I slip the heavy embroidered jacket from my shoulders and place it on the ground. It’s a fortune for them. The pearls alone would fetch a huge sum.

“Fair trade,” I say, watching them confer among themselves. A plump woman nods to the man holding the rake. He gestures to a tack room on my left, and relief fills me. I don’t want to have to hurt any innocents. Only the guilty will burn.

Inside the room, I find several pairs of loose trousers hanging on a peg, along with folded shirts and tunics. They smell clean, but they’re all at least three sizes too big. Then again, anything is better than these useless pieces of silk. I lift one of the shirts from the shelf, and then I catch sight of the burnished leather riding gear hanging nearby. It’s similar to the ensemble the queen had worn when we’d first met in the main courtyard, after Laleh’s veil had decided to make a break for it.

Funny that a piece of cloth made by my best friend had had the right instincts. I should have run, too. Maybe she would be alive still.

My thoughts turn to the smirking gardener from the courtyard who had prevented its escape. In a way, he’d caught me then, too.

And he’d lied. The prince of lies.

He is nothing to you.

With grim purpose, I strip off the tattered remnants of my wedding clothes and pull on leggings and a soft gray tunic. I knot the back so the fit is snug and then pull on the queen’s leathers. Morvarid is obviously much thinner than I am, because it feels like a hardened corset is cutting off all my airways. I loosen the side buckles and suck in a much-needed breath. With the adjustment, I can breathe, and it will keep me from getting an arrow to the chest, so it’ll serve its purpose.

I strap on the wrist cuffs and, lastly, the armored leg coverings. I rummage through the lower shelves of the tack room to find a pair of sturdy boots that fit. Finally, I tuck a knife into my belt. It’s not my dagger, but it will have to do.

A flicker of light catches the edge of my vision, and I swivel, ready to fight, but it’s only my favorite crone sitting in the corner.

“Making a last stand, Vena?” I ask her.

“Careful, Starkeeper,” she says in a singsong voice that scratches on my nerves. I’m not in the best mood to deal with any of her over-the-top doggerels. “You tread in the path of the abyss, of the unseen.”

And there she goes.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” I say, spreading my arms wide. “With all your long-winded ramblings? Me to become a master of the star? To take control? Well, that’s what I am doing.”

“No, child, the star masters you.” She raises a hand, and all the light winks from the room. Except me. I’m glowing, but the glow is tinged with shadows creeping along its edges. Tendrils of smoky ink slither inward like sandworms, poisoning the pearly luminescence of my aura. She sweeps her palm toward me. “If the lie wins, you will be lost. All will be lost.”

“You wanted this,” I say. “You told me that I would be the bitter, beautiful end.”

She shakes her head sadly. “You are the end. You were created to protect, but you were also made to destroy. As such, you hold the balance in your hands. The fates will bend to your will, as will the stars that guide the heavens.”

“Can you just say what you mean for once?” I snap, furious.

“All life dies with you.”

More blood on my hands. So much that I’m drenched in it. Sinking like a stone in it. I fall to my knees as a rush of pain stabs me in the center of my chest. Vengeance takes a back seat, and all I can feel is the hollow ache folding in on itself in the middle of my chest where my heart used to be—Laleh’s death, Roshan’s betrayal, my fast-fading hope.

“What’s happening to me?” I gasp, clutching my breast. “It hurts so much.”

“The most precious things in the world come at a cost.”

“Let me guess, like love?”

“Yes,” she agrees.

My tears are spilling freely now, making me even angrier. I’d rather feel nothing, to be numb, than to feel this grief wrecking me from the inside out and scraping my soul raw. Love makes you vulnerable. It makes you ache and burn. It makes you yearn for impossible things. And when you don’t get them, you only have yourself to blame for foolishly wishing and hoping for something unattainable in the first place. As much as I loathe Morvarid, she was right. Love makes you fucking weak.

“You’re wrong,” I choke out. “Love is the lie.”

“Suraya.” My mother’s voice.

I flinch. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

“You have to let yourself feel. If you don’t it will break you.”

“You can’t break a thing that’s already broken.”

She approaches, and I inhale the scent of peonies. “No, my darling firebird, you are stronger than you think.”

“And you’re wrong. I am letting myself feel,” I say. “I feel hate, and rage, and pain. I’ll kill Javed and his mother, if she’s still alive with whatever foul power she embodies, and I’ll banish it back to the hole it came from.”

“Don’t give in to the lie, my sweet Suraya, my love. Find the truth. Your truth.”

Strangely, her words echo the conversation Aran and I had had when we’d first met—and his warning that the lie will lead to the path of darkness. I also remember my conviction that I’d never willingly hurt a soul, and yet here I am, heartbeats away from eviscerating anyone who has wronged me. The thought makes me falter, but I grit my teeth. I don’t care. Javed and his mother deserve their fate. So do the Scavs.

It’s not their fault, either.

I banish that voice of reason and empathy, too.

“You know, Vena, I’m starting to think that you are the lie.” I turn to the vision with my mother’s face, feeling a blessed numbness taking over. I welcome the clarity that the darkness brings. “Now begone, crone, unless you want front-row seats to your mouthful of a prophecy.”

With a sad bow, my mother fades from view. “As you wish, Starkeeper.”

I feel a twinge of a barbed emotion buried deep within my chest—regret that I’ve disappointed her, perhaps—but I don’t dwell on it. It’s time I started making use of this magic of mine. It’s time I became what I was destined to be.

A weapon of the gods. One I’ll wield as I see fit.

Vibrating with restless energy, I depart the stables and cut through the maze toward the palace. The space is a warren, but I take each turn with confidence. Something else is leading me now—a compulsive, soul-blistering need for revenge. If the fates bend to my will, then my enemies will be in for a sorry reckoning.

I’m so intent on getting to my destination that I don’t see the barricade of Scavs until it’s too late. I run smack into Vogon, and as his familiar, pungent odor fills my nostrils, I smile with vicious relish. I even allow the runecasters that I recognize from his war room to cast some kind of runic net around me that secures my arms to my sides. I’m not afraid. Jādū is powerful, but nothing can compare with the raw, infinite energy of akasha surging through my veins that will break these bonds like spider thread. “General, I’d hoped to find you.”

His turns to me. “Your presence is required.”

“Is it?” I drawl. “Because I’m kind of sick and tired of being summoned.” To prove my point, I flick a hand, envisioning the rune to pulverize, and the dozen or so Scavs to my right explode into blazing, blood-flaked ash. “Sorry, about that. I’m still getting the hang of which finger gets the best result.” I peer up at him. He hasn’t batted an eyelash at the loss of his men. Then again, they’re all disposable.

“You can come quietly or kicking and screaming, your choice,” he says.

“I prefer kicking and more kicking.” I wriggle against the magical shackles and purse my lips. “Tell me, Vogon, are you on Jade now? You seem so lucid.” He doesn’t respond, so I continue my cheerful one-sided conversation. “You’re Elonian, which means you know what I can do, so why don’t you allow me to pass, and we’ll let bygones be bygones?” He stares at me, mute, and huge, and impassive. I widen my eyes. “Well, if you’re not going to be any fun, then there’s no point in me being nice, is there?”

He lifts one hand, and I sense a handful of projectiles flying through the air toward me. My magic flares outward, runes of protection and defense igniting on my body as I catch one of the arrows in midair. The rest of them combust ineffectually against the white-hot aura pulsing off my skin.

“Is that it?” I taunt, and snap the arrow shaft in half with a dismissive sound. “Seriously, Vogon, haven’t you been listening? You can’t stop me, and to be honest, I respected you because you were all ruthless cannibal overlord and stuff, but now you’re starting to wear on my nerves.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of running that mouth of yours?” a familiar voice cuts in from behind us.

“It’s my weapon of choice against toxic masculinity,” I say brightly, turning to see my precious betrothed with a small contingent of guards at his flanks. I notice his burn scars are once again covered by an ornate mask, only this one is made of onyx and gold. “Oh, hello, almost husband. A little bird told me that your cowardly self managed to evade your captors. Where’s Mommy dearest? Please tell me she’s dead.”

The king’s lips flatten, but he doesn’t lose his sneer. “Waiting for the guest of honor.”

“Oh, my sweet summer stars, is that me?”

Those pale eyes narrow. “You think to joke?”

“It’s a little funny, admit it.” I gather my magic, feeling it swirl powerfully to my fingertips. “Kind of sad that no one will mourn your death, Javed. Except for your egg donor, and that will last all of one minute before she joins you.”

“Now!” The command is from the Scav general.

I stare as four huge crossbows loaded with bolts marked with ice runes appear in the midst of the Scavs, all pointed toward me. I crook an amused eyebrow.

The crossbows fire as I raise my arms high, summoning my power . . . but the surge of magic never comes. An ice-white glow surrounds me, rendering me immobile. Frost spreads over my skin and catches on my eyelashes, dusting them in white.

“What is this?” I say, struggling to feel anything at all. The first flickers of alarm fill me as even my breath slows in my lungs.

“The Scavs call it a runic web,” Javed explains, walking forward, his sneer more confident now. “Jādū isn’t just for blades and bows; it can work wonders with the right runes. Remember my azdaha? This is how I trapped it and brought it down. It’s a big old fishing net, and we’ve caught the biggest fish of all.”

“Your tricks won’t hold me for long,” I bite out, feeling my magic start to heat. “Ice is no match for me.”

“I know,” he says, “which is why we brought this.” My eyes widen at the huge syringe in his hand with a thin needle as long as my finger. The plunger is filled with a viscous, opalescent fluid that makes me crave it and hate it in the same breath. “Now try not to move a muscle, sweeting. I won’t lie—this is going to fucking hurt.”

True to his word, the last thing I feel is the excruciating stab of the needle plunging into the inner corner of my right eye and the glorious dissipation of Jade into my bloodstream.

*  *  *

When I come to, my eyeball is throbbing and my vision is blurred, but I feel vibrantly, deliciously alive. Of course, because I’m fucking stoned out of my mind. With a grunt, I detect the toxin in my system, but the poison running through my body is potent—much headier than the first time I’d been dosed. I can’t seem to hold a single thought for longer than a heartbeat. The sweet lassitude fills my veins, making me feel blissfully languid. My senses are dulled but functioning. Barely. Whatever dose they’d given me had packed enough punch to fell a full-grown elephant.

Blinking, I struggle to get my bearings. I’m in a wide room with huge marble statues—a temple?—lying on a wide stone altar with my arms and legs bound. The sound of more chanting—by all the cursed gods, am I sick of chanting—fills the air, and I fasten my stare on a group of Elonian mystics in Fomalhaut robes eerily similar to the ones who had been in the tower with Morvarid. Hadn’t they been crushed? Maybe they’d survived like the vermin they are.

“The ritual must be completed before the sun rises.” A female voice pierces the haze.

My brain feels peculiar, unable to process information as it normally would, but then the woman who had spoken comes into view. Morvarid, the death magi queen. How in Droon is she alive? My mind tries to keep up with my frantic thoughts, trying to make my unresponsive body act.

Get up get up get up. Fight flee fight flee.

“What about the marriage rites?” A male voice this time. Familiar. I recognize those obsequious tones. Javed.

Blearily, I try to focus on him, taking in the masked cheek and striking eyes. He’s the half brother of the other prince. Warmth gathers in my chest as another face forms in my head—the prince with the intense gold-flecked brown eyes and disarming smile. The feeling fades as strands of memory curl around the image—betrayal and bitter lies, shared confidences and laughter, friendship and love twined with virulence and pain.

Snatches of conversation slam through my thoughts.

Not every woman wants to be rescued by some prince. Perhaps she’ll rescue herself.

I thought every woman dreamed of being rescued by a prince?

Was it all a lie?

No. Please, you have to trust me.

I love you.

“It’s too late for that,” the queen says. “We have less than an hour. Dawn is fast approaching.”

My gaze drifts to the nearest window, and sure enough, I can see the palest shimmer of light creeping across the black velvet carpet of the night sky. There’s nothing else out there but darkness. The stars have forsaken me. Or maybe the reverse is true—I’ve deserted them. I’ve killed the stars.

“Should we wake her?” Javed asks.

“She’s already awake.”

“Good of you to join us, beloved,” Javed says, looming over me. “How’s the eye?”

My bark of laughter is a weak puff of air that scrapes my throat. Beloved? He wouldn’t know love if it branded him on the ass. “How’s your face?” I mumble back. “Want me to make both sides match?”

He rears back and slaps me, but I barely feel it.

Save yourself, Starkeeper, find your truth.

The command is razor sharp and urgent, reminding my fogged brain that I’m far from powerless. If I can get my shit together. I bite my lip hard and begin the arduous process of quietly flushing my body from crown to toe.

After a few agonizing moments, the smog in my head starts to fade, and the room comes into clearer focus. I look down beyond the altar, a sudden wave of nausea making me shudder.

A crimson four-pointed star—a symbol of the four elements with the glyph for akasha at its center—has been painted around the stone slab in what looks like blood. Two vertical incisions along my forearms confirm that it’s mine. No wonder my body feels so weak—I’ve been drained of blood, too.

Javed props himself on his elbows on the stone, a leer on his lips as if reading my mind. “Not so mouthy now, are you?”

My eyes flick past him as three men are escorted into the chamber—I instantly recognize one of them. Covered in blood, his body slumping against his captors, Roshan has been thrashed within an inch of his life.

Javed follows my gaze and grins, signaling for the guard holding his brother to come closer. “He came for you. Offered himself as a trade. Did you know my cunning little brother is the commander of the Dahaka? Too bad he didn’t know that there’s no choice. You have to be sacrificed so a god can be born.” Pushing off the altar, Javed shoves Roshan’s chin upward. Glazed brown eyes meet mine, the emotion in them making my bones ache as Javed’s face twists with malice. “I want you to watch, brother, when Fero swallows her soul.”

My tongue feels thick, but I force the words from my mouth. “You think when Fero takes over, he will spare you?”

“I am the king.”

“And he is immortal.” I inhale a shuddering breath, my voice weak. “Javed, if your mother performs the ritual, it will be the end of the world as we know it, ushering in an era so dark that nothing good will survive. Is that what you want?”

“It will be my legacy.” Releasing his brother, his fingers reach out to stroke my cheek. “Be silent. It will all be over soon.”

The chanting grows louder, and Morvarid approaches me.

Her eyes roll back in her head as red-hued darkness flickers in the air between us, flaking from her body like an extra layer of skin. I recoil in horror, struggling feebly against my bonds, my entire body wanting to distance myself from her and those blood-touched embers.

In response to my panic, my starlight sparks and flares outward, and I feel the metal clasps securing me to the altar melt. Groaning, I yank my arms up and teeter on the edge of the stone slab.

The effort nearly makes me pass out. I fight to stay conscious, but the combination of the Jade and the loss of blood undermines what little strength I do have. I might have colossal star magic in my veins, but my body is still all too human.

The crimson-laced obsidian flickers fall faster, melding together, coalescing in the shape of a faceless, spindly man, his limbs and torso framed with smoke.

This creature’s essence . . . feels oily. I don’t know if this is Fero, but I can sense the malevolent power radiating from the mass like a palpable force. It may be made of swatches of darkness, but its poisonous aura is revoltingly real. Fear tastes like sour bile in my mouth.

With all my strength, I shove off the altar and try to summon more of my magic, but it’s as though the burst before was all I could manage. I feel it inside of me, but I’m too sluggish and weak to wield it. Fucking Jade!

“Secure her,” Morvarid orders. “Begin.”

Rough hands drag me back onto the altar. I forget about escape as slimy touches creep up my limbs, slithering their way around my body until I’m shrouded in a membrane of oil. It settles on top of me and penetrates, slowly at first and then all at once. Every nerve in my body braces for it, the stink of decay filling my nostrils as tiny spikes burrow under my skin, tunneling below flesh and gorging their way through bone and marrow.

Scream after scream echoes around me, until I realize that the gutted sounds are coming from me. I’m screaming.

“The dagger, Javed,” the queen says. “You must be the one to complete the ritual. Pierce her heart, command her soul, and the power will be yours.”

Find your truth, Suraya.

A sob escapes me. The pain is excruciating. I don’t know what my truth is.

The truth is what is real. Open your eyes, forget revenge, and release your anger. The truth is wisdom, love, hope, beauty, light.

Vena? Never have I wished for her flowery ramblings more. I’m so afraid and so lost. I need help. How? I whimper.

Choose to serve instead of to rule. Therein lies your fate.

My mother’s face fills my visions, and I feel her strength. It’s not enough. I can’t do it.

You can. Reject the lie.

Clarity is slow to come, like the shifting sands on a calm day. One grain can topple a whole dune. I’ve been swayed by the lie. The one that corrupts and taints. It breaks from within, stealing control and spreading doubt and insecurity. It’s the thief of joy. I’ve let others steal my power from me.

But I am not powerless.

I am a single flicker of light in a dark sky. Resilient and resistant. I float in the midst of chaos. My peace is within my grasp—I only have to be brave enough to reach for it. A whisper of courage beats in my chest. Rediscovering my truths is a simple series of steps. What are they? What are the things that ground me?

Family. Friendship. Forging weapons. Reading. Stories with Mama. My beautiful desert home. Baths. Books. Amma. Papa.

Laleh, my best friend, whose soul is soaring high. Whose smile could light the world.

Clem, who saved my life more than once.

Roshan . . . who came for me even when I chased him away.

Forgive, forgive, forgive.

Peace blankets my soul like a salve. I can feel the shadow recoil and then renew its attack. Gritting my teeth, I fill my heart with images of my life. With love and joy. Memories fire in my brain and I bask in them, feeling hope and laughter fill me until the tendrils of darkness wither and withdraw. I feel my soul start to flicker with life—to shine like the star it is. The inky shape shrinks to hover above me like a noxious cloud, and I can taste its malevolence. It wants my anger and my rage. It wants pain, violence, and hate. It wants to consume.

But darkness can never thrive where light burns.

My fragile concentration falters as Javed rises above me, his mouth a rictus, a curved blade poised right above my heart.

“It’s time, Starkeeper,” the king croons.

Runes on my arms brighten in defense . . . but the runic net nulls them.

Fuck, I’m going to die in the middle of the most epic epiphany of all time.

Shouts fill the room, and a low whine cuts through the air. I scream as a force slams into Javed’s body with a wet thwack. His arm drops limply and his body crumples, and I see an arrow protruding from the left side of his chest.

There’s no way he could have survived a shot at such close range—but someone isn’t taking any chances. The earth rune on the arrow ignites, and I look away as his rib cage cracks in half. Morvarid lets out a shriek of agony that rings in my ears as the Scavs pour in, plunging their weapons into the surrounding mystics and palace guards.

“What are you doing, Vogon?” the queen screams.

“Taking what is mine,” the general says, striding over to Javed’s fractured body to retrieve the blade in his dead hands. “I, too, know the prophecy. He who claims the Starkeeper’s heart becomes the hand of the gods.”

“You killed my son.” An enraged Morvarid flies toward him, dagger raised.

My dagger, I realize painfully. The one she’d murdered Laleh with.

Mayhem ensues as steel clashes against steel, Kaldarians against Scavs, and for a moment, the ritual is stalled. Magic from the jādū weapons salts the air. Bodies ice over and are lit with flame, lightning sparking and more cracks fissuring through people and along the floor. I push upright and swallow a burst of nausea. I’m still hampered by the unholy amounts of Jade swimming in my veins.

Gingerly, I slide off the altar and crawl toward Roshan, who is slumped where Javed had left him. He’s still alive, though barely. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. The sentry who had been securing him lies staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, half his skull missing. Grunting, I drag Roshan’s body to the hollow space beneath the stone platform. He’ll be safest there. All around us bodies are falling in the conflict, Scavs and guards alike.

“Wake up,” I whisper harshly. “Damn it, Roshan, wake the fuck up! This is no time to play Sleeping Beauty!”

“So no kiss then?” Lips tipping upward, his eyes flutter open, and the hint of amusement in me dies at what I see there. Instead of teasing, they’re filled with so much pain that my eyes well. “I’m so sorry, Sura. Didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know. Just hold on.” I search his broken body, seeing him flinch as I brush his cracked ribs. Peeling the blood-soaked material away from his torso, I blanch. Even I can tell that the wound on his belly is a fatal one. He’s lost far too much blood already.

Trembling fingers reach up to brush my temple. “I know you don’t believe me, but I think I fell for you from the beginning. The moment you stared me down outside the palace. Those fierce, storm-cloud eyes of yours did me in.” He wheezes a laugh and groans in the same breath. “My fate was sealed from that very first day.”

My eyes sting. “Don’t talk. Save your strength. I’ll get us out of here somehow.”

“It’s too late for me.”

“No—” I shake my head, but he presses his fingers against my mouth, stalling the words tumbling out.

“I’ve been at war a long time, Suraya. I know about wounds.”

No matter how sad I am that he didn’t trust me enough, I don’t want him to die. “Don’t you get it? I won’t let you die.” I lean close, brushing his forehead with mine. “I restarted your heart once before. I can do it again.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the Dahaka. Or who I was.”

I swallow my residual flicker of hurt. “It doesn’t matter.”

He nods, grimacing. “It does. I trust you with my life. I need you to know that.” A glower gathers on his brow. “How did Javed get you?”

“Jade and some runic web that’s inhibiting my magic somehow. I can still feel it pushing in on me.”

“Can I help?”

“No, I just need you to rest and stay alive.” I prop him against the stone slab and press his hand to his wound. “Keep pressure on it and promise you won’t die on me. I’m going to end this once and for all. And when I’m done, you’re going to have to come up with some really great, inventive, sexy ways to make all this up to me.”

He forces a weak smile. “When did you get so bossy?”

“I was always bossy.” I grin. “You were just too infatuated to notice my obvious character flaws.”

“I meant what I said, you know.”

His soft words sound like goodbye. Despite everything, despite the fact that he broke my heart, I swallow past the lump in my throat, refusing to entertain the possibility that this might be it, and meet his eyes. “Tell me again later when this is over.”

I square my shoulders and stand, feeling renewed purpose coursing through my body. For the first time, I feel alive. Not with magic, but with the force of my humanity.

My gaze finds Morvarid standing over the body of Vogon, a saber in one hand and my dagger clutched in the other, both dripping with his blood.

I bare my teeth. “That’s my fucking dagger.”

She lifts it and licks the blood-covered blade. “Mine, now.”

“Let’s finish this,” I growl, crouching to grab the closest weapons—two mismatched swords. I hook a thumb toward the window at the rapidly lightening sky. “Looks like you don’t have much time.”

Snarling with fury, she meets me in a shower of sparks as her saber collides with one of mine, the impact ricocheting up my arm. I narrowly miss being skewered in the skull by my own dagger, but weave to the side at the last moment. Still, a lock of my hair falls to the ground. She’s a skilled fighter, if the dead Scav general is any indication. Retreating out of her range, I glance down at the ordinary swords. Jādū blades would have been better. My magic, even more so.

But I have neither . . . only the skills my father taught me.

I dodge a vicious lunge, moving out of the way as she comes at me, mirroring me step for step. I parry a thrust, and my right sword flicks out of my grip, flying overhead. Sands, she’s good. Or maybe I’m just out of practice.

Switching hands with my remaining weapon, I nearly trip over a dead Scav, and she presses the advantage, her saber winging across my thigh. I wince at the bite of the blade as I attempt to scramble beyond the reach of her second strike with the dagger. This time I’m not fast enough. The edge catches my forearm.

Fires of Droon, that fucking hurt!

I almost laugh. My own blade drawing my blood. But I don’t feel any magic from it. As I think that, a slight glow lights up the runes I’d carved . . . the symbol of the stars for me and the moon for my mother. The star magic won’t hurt me, though the blade is still razor sharp.

“Careful, Starkeeper,” she croons, raising the tip to her lips and running her tongue greedily across the flat of it, this time lapping up my blood. “Don’t want to lose too much of this precious elixir. I need that heart of yours beating.”

I bare my teeth. “If you want my heart, magi, come and get it!”

Screaming, she charges me again, saber spinning blindingly fast as I awkwardly parry her strokes. I can barely hold my own, and my adrenaline is starting to wane. I stumble a couple times, my vision blurring. I keep the altar between us, knowing it won’t be long before she claims the advantage. But all I have to do is hold out for the dawn.

“So valiant, yet all for naught,” she taunts. “And now we will finish what we started. The power of Fero will make my son rise again.”

“Your son is cracked in half,” I say. “Nothing’s going to bring him back.”

Her smile makes my blood curdle. “You know nothing, child.”

“That may be, but at least my parents loved me,” I say. She thrusts at me again, but instead of fighting with blades, I fight with words. “You delivered your only son to his death. What kind of mother does that make you?”

A muscle jerks in her cheek as her eyes turn red with rage. Her first sign of weakness. She fumbles, blade driving into the stone and falling from her hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that Roshan has crawled away from the altar, a crossbow in hand. A trail of blood follows in his wake. Lifting the weapon, he groans at the effort, and I cry out, distracted for a second. It’s all Morvarid needs. Leaping over the slab, she knocks the remaining sword out of my hands and plunges the dagger into my side. I scream at the agony spearing through me as I feel the sharp tip scrape bone.

“Shoot her,” I cry out, but Roshan shakes his head.

“Do it,” I scream. “You can’t let her finish the ritual.”

Morvarid’s eyes glitter with triumph, just as something buckles on the far side of the room, and a rush of power surges like a flood within me. A second twang echoes through the air. Oddly, I’m growing stronger by the second, and I realize what Roshan has done. Instead of shooting her, he has eliminated the Scav weapons binding me. He aims for the third as Morvarid sends her fallen sword spinning through the air.

Her aim is true as the blade slams into his shoulder and pins him to the wall. With a soft cry, his weakened body goes limp.

“Roshan!”

“Time for you to join him, useless little firebird,” she snarls, twisting the dagger still lodged into my side. I feel it pierce my flesh and slide between my ribs, reaching for my heart as the specter of Fero swirls like a hungry beast between us.

White dots cloud my vision as blood pours from the gash at my side, but the power billowing inside my body is gaining by the second, my magic desperately focused on healing my half-broken body. I’m nearly unconscious, but I grab Morvarid’s wrist, forcing her back with shaking hands.

Her eyes meet mine with hatred in them. “Impossible.”

“I’m not just a firebird. I’m human, too, and where there’s hope, there’s always a way.” With the last of my physical strength, I heave the blade I’d forged so long ago from my side. “It’s over, Morvarid. You lose. The dawn is here.”

“I’ll kill you first,” she snarls. Morvarid’s hands reach for my throat, and I call upon the rune I’d painstakingly carved, seeing my pretty blade illuminate, the imbued jādū glistening with starlight and steel. “What is that rune?” she demands.

“My rune,” I rasp. “And my mother’s. Go fuck yourself.” And then I plunge it right into her dark heart. Mouth agape in a soundless scream, as white light explodes in a shower of sparks around us, she slumps over me, and it’s all I can do not to collapse.

Sensing my vulnerability, the blood-red shadow flies toward us, ready to devour me in the last seconds of night. I throw my dimmed magic up and out with a plea to Vena and my mother or anyone else listening.

It’s a miracle as the first rays of the sun’s light shimmer across the brightening dawn sky, and I hear the shadow let out a keening wail. It fades and shrivels before my eyes, consumed to crimson dust motes as light pierces its smoky hide. Within seconds, it slinks away and disappears, winking into nothing but burnt embers, banished by the dawn.

I whisper my fervent thanks. Then I crawl over to Roshan, yank the saber from his shoulder, and cradle his limp body in my arms. His eyes are closed and he isn’t moving.

“Roshan?”

There’s no response. I press my hands to his cool, clammy forehead and then to his chest. Nothing. No heartbeat, no breath.

“You promised you wouldn’t die on me,” I weep softly. “You have to live, do you hear me? Your people need you to. I need you to.”

But it’s no use and I know it. His body sags like a deadweight against my side. The pain comes in full force then. He can’t die, not now, not after everything.

I close my eyes, feeling my magic humming inside of me. Roshan had saved me. He’d saved countless women and children in Nyriell and across Oryndhr. He’d saved everyone from what I would have become.

He of all who had died deserves the most to live.

He has to live.

I press my hands over his temples and force my gathering magic to flow out of me into him. An ethereal glow surrounds us both, and I hold him close, willing my rallying life force to heal his. I’d give every last drop of magic up for him. Our glow brightens impossibly, turning into the vibrant colors of the desert sky as we burn hot and fierce. My strength gathers with each beat of my heart, and I wrap my arms about him, keeping him safe as my heart goes supernova, surrounding us in magic, hope, and stardust.

A star will die and another will be reborn.

I brush the hair from Roshan’s beautiful face, tracing his eyelids, that teasing mouth, his noble nose, and that obstinate jaw. I never got to tell him how I felt. How very much I love him, too. “Live, please,” I whisper, kissing him. “Live.”

The light ebbs, but still I pour myself into him until there is nothing more to give. Pressing my lips to his, I imagine I feel a soft waft of breath, but it’s only mine, feathering lightly against his mouth. I push until my heart slows—willing his to beat in its stead. And then I close my eyes, and everything becomes so quiet and still that I swear I can hear the whisper of his voice telling me he loves me.

But it’s only the sound of my breath being expelled for the last time.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The stars will shine eternal.

They burn because that is all they know to do.

Suspended in space, I stare at the glistening backdrop of the heavens, watching my sisters glimmering, their colors bursting in vibrant hues of red, yellow, blue, and green. And it is more beautiful than anything I have ever seen.

The crone stares at me, approval written all over her face. “You survived, Starkeeper,” she says. “You have become Setareh Framātāram—the master of the star.”

“I mastered nothing,” I say. “I died.”

“In sacrifice lies true mastery of your gifts.”

I laugh. “You talk in riddles a lot, Vena, you know that?”

“You offered your magic to save another,” she says, and I feel something like sorrow settle upon me. “You sacrificed your life for someone you felt was more deserving.”

“It didn’t work.”

“Of course it did.”

My heart hitches. “Roshan is alive?”

Vena tilts her head to one side, studying me. “You care for him.” It’s not a question, but I still nod, and after a while she continues. “He sleeps. His future rests in the hands of the fates.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Then why am I here?”

This time she is the one who laughs. “And by here, do you mean in your dreams?”

She has a point—it’s not like our many conversations have been real. Then again, I can’t feel my body, so I must be dead, or doing whatever it is departed stars do. We float side by side in companionable silence, watching the constellations orbit overhead.

“What’s going to happen now, Vena?”

She shrugs. “There will always be those who covet power—those who pursue the lie to disable and disrupt. You will forever remain one of the champions of light and a beacon to those who are lost, those wandering few who seek the truth. But as far as you, Suraya Saab, daughter of Nasrin Saab, are concerned, you have a choice. You may stay here as one of us, guarding those who walk below.”

“Stay here as a Royal Star.”

“Of sorts,” she says. “You are part of us, after all.”

“Or?”

“Or you can return to the world from whence you came and live out your remaining years as a mortal woman and return to us when your time comes.”

I ignore the startled leap of joy in my heart. “And my gifts?”

“They are a part of you, Starkeeper, and you have proven that you are fit to wield their power even in the face of great fear. The fates will slumber sound, waiting until they are called. Until they are needed.”

She turns to face me, starbursts erupting in the apples of her cheeks, her eyes glistening like meteors. She takes my hands in between her own, tracing the five-pointed stars upon them. With a dawning smile, her fingers trail the path of the M shape on my palms along the heart, head, life, and fate lines, lingering on the last. Her thumb grazes over the narrow side of my palm beneath my little finger, and a small gasp leaves her lips.

“Soul-fated,” she whispers so softly that I barely hear her.

“Me?” I ask in shock. “What do you see?”

Vena smiles. “I see two incomplete souls finding their missing halves. I see a magical fated soul bond blessed by the gods.”

Mine. The gravelly whisper comes from everywhere inside of me. A possessive throb fires deep in my chest, making me gasp, but I can’t make head or tail of it.

“But the bonds of akasha are ever fluid,” Vena muses softly. “Perhaps . . .”

There she goes again with her cryptic statements. “Perhaps what?”

“Never mind, child,” she says with a sigh, patting my hand. “The future is yet to be written. Perhaps your destiny will be the one you choose, not what has been written.”

I frown, definitely lost now. “Which destiny? Do you mean Roshan?”

Inscrutable starlit eyes meet mine as her hands fall away. “Forgive me. I am rambling.” She smiles, but her gaze slides past me as though there’s something she doesn’t want me to see.

“Will the prince awaken?” I ask after a beat of silence.

“That depends on you.”

“On me? But you said it depended on the fates.”

Vena shakes her head with an exasperated laugh. “You are the Starkeeper. The fates bow to your wishes.”

“Oh.” I reach over in a spontaneous motion and pull her into my arms, squeezing hard. “Thanks for never giving up on me.”

“Nasrin was right about you,” Vena says after a while. “She said you had more strength than even she knew.”

“Mama chose to become a guardian?” I ask, eyes going wide.

Vena shakes her head. “Your mother died to safeguard you. The parts that you chose to see were your own memories—the pieces of her that were in you. You saw her because she is important to you. She is a large part of that strength you carry.”

“So, she’s not really here?”

“Not in the form you expect,” Vena says. “She is akasha, in the moon and the stars, in the ever-changing fabric of the sidereal universe. She is your hopes and your dreams, your past and your future. She is you, and me, and the air we breathe. She is life as you know it. She is part of your everlasting truth.”

And we’re back to soothsayer-speak. I roll my eyes with a fond grin. “I will miss our little chats, Vena. So how do I get back to Oryndhr?”

“You are already there, Setareh Framātāram.”

*  *  *

My room in Coban is the same as I left it—a mess. Then again, it’s not surprising considering half the inn has been burned down, thanks to Javed. If he weren’t already dead, I’d incinerate him for the senseless, selfish devastation he’d left in his wake. But as my father had said, Cobanites didn’t learn to thrive in the desert for nothing. Thankfully, many of them had escaped into the sands and survived the attack. Undaunted by the challenge, the villagers of Coban are already rebuilding.

Though covered in a thick layer of soot, my room had been on the side of the inn that had escaped being torched. I stare at the grime covering every available surface and grimace, picking through my belongings and trying to decide what to take and what to leave behind. It seems like eons ago that Laleh and I had packed my trunk to go to Kaldari for the engagement celebration.

Laleh.

I pull a vivid emerald scarf from beneath my bed and press it to my nose. Underneath the smoke, it smells faintly like her—like ripe grapes and sunshine. I’d visited her parents, and we’d cried together, mourning the brightest light that the world had lost. My eyes sting from the prick of tears. I’d finally let myself grieve, but the pain remains too fresh and too sharp. I suspect it will be a while before I can think of her without sobbing.

Laleh’s spirit was like a burst of flame that brightened everything it touched, and even though it might have lasted for only a short time, I’ll always remember the warmth and the brilliance of it. She had lived life with so much joy, relishing each moment. She was unapologetically herself, and she’d treasured each day as if it’d been a precious gift.

Don’t worry about me, I imagine her saying now. Life is for the living, and you, my friend, need to live. Just please use some lip stain and maybe a dash of kohl. And for the love of all things holy, try to do something with that hair.

I smile through my tears and wrap her scarf around my ponytail in a sequence of stylish knots. I like to think that souls who leave the mortal plane end up among the stars, watching their loved ones. I hope that wherever she is, Laleh is happy.

Fastening the two bags with my most treasured possessions—mostly my books and some forging tools—I open the window and breathe in the fresh air. The desert ripples like molten gold beneath the rays of the midday sun. A sketch of the Kaldarian palace like the one in my workshop lies smashed at my feet. It must have tumbled off the wall from one of the explosions.

I touch the shattered glass with a wistful smile, envisioning my mother’s painting in my head. I remember thinking that it hadn’t done the palace justice, and that is still true. The palace is still magnificent—and hopefully when Roshan wakes to take the mantle and be coronated as its new king, it will be beautiful on the inside, too.

My memories are scattered after what happened in the temple, but Aran had written to my father that Roshan is alive, though still unresponsive. For the health of the kingdom, his condition is being kept quiet.

I still can’t imagine Roshan becoming the king of Oryndhr, but I have no doubt he will be a better ruler than his rotten brother. All four houses and the houseless have widely accepted him as their new leader. It didn’t matter that he was born on the wrong side of the blanket, not when his mother had been the queen’s sister. He’s a blood descendant of the Imperial House. As far as the Dahaka, I can’t think about them without feeling conflicted and hurt. Will Hamid take over in truth now that Roshan will be king?

Are they even going to be needed?

If Roshan is king, no doubt he’ll make sure all those people in Nyriell are safe and get to live the lives they deserve. That’s what the Dahaka had been fighting for—the simple right to choose how they want to live.

The House of Fomalhaut denied having any hand in the existence of death magi or knowledge of any Elonian prophecy involving Morvarid’s rituals. The rest of the magi have gone to ground, but as Vena said, the fates will slumber until they’re summoned . . . if Fero tries to rise again.

In the end, the newspapers proclaimed that King Javed and the queen mother had been killed during a Scav attack, and the Dahaka had been the ones to save the day—along with the life of the future king. I feel sad that the Scavs had been blamed, when they were only doing Javed’s bidding, but then I remember that Vogon had tried to kill me. That had been his choice, no one else’s, and he’d paid the price for it.

The Dahaka were hailed as the heroes of Oryndhr. Little did the houses know that their precious successor had been the leader of the Dahaka all along. But that’s Roshan’s secret to tell.

“Suraya?”

I turn to see my father standing in the doorway, his face covered in soot and grime. He has spent the better part of the week cleaning out the rubble and putting up scaffolding to rebuild the tavern walls. “Papa,” I say, rushing into his arms, uncaring of his dusty clothes. “Where’s Amma?”

He laughs his deep belly laugh. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it that it makes me laugh, too. “Where do you think she is? In the kitchen.”

“Good, because I’m starving.” Hugging him tightly, I snuggle into his comforting warmth and sigh. Sometimes all you need is a hug from someone older and wiser than you. After a long while, I release him and search his face. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Amma told me that when you and Mama left Kaldari, you ran because of Morvarid and what she wanted to do with me.”

He nods sadly, propping his shoulder against the doorjamb but still cuddling me to him. “We had our suspicions about her devotion to the death god.” He brushes a strand of pale hair from my cheek with a sad look and then lightly touches the now barely visible runes on my forearms. “We thought these could protect you, keep you from her.”

“These runes are Mama’s?”

“Yes, and yours.”

“Then why did you let me go to Kaldari when the invitation came?”

He sighs. “Poor judgment. I kick myself every day for it. But I foolishly assumed that the runes would work and that Morvarid had no reason to know who you were. Why would she? We were so well hidden for years. For all she knew, we died in the desert. You’d never displayed any signs of the gifts Nasrin had, and you seemed so happy for the chance to visit the palace. I hoped you would be safe for a few days.” Frowning, he pauses, taking my hands in his and thumbing the stars on my palms. “Like I said, I was foolish, and I have regretted it every day since. I should have foreseen that these would make an appearance.”

“How could you? They only did—” I break off, my mind racing as I consider exactly when my power had materialized and when I’d seen the first vision of the crone . . . the very day the summons had come. Papa’s brow tightens at my expression as he waits for me to continue. “It was when I received the invitation.”

“Morvarid’s work.” He grinds his teeth in frustration. “I thought we had erased any record of your birth chart, but clearly that wasn’t the case. More death magic at work, if she could dig up buried information from long-gone record keepers and forge an identifying spell.”

It makes sense. The queen must have used hidden runes on each invitation to make my magic awaken. She had plotted this ever since my parents had fled her reach. She had waited nearly a quarter of a century for me to come to her.

No wonder she’d been so pissed off in the temple.

“I should have put my foot down and insisted you marry Cyrill,” Papa says jokingly.

“Not a chance!” I snort, shaking my head. “It’s not like you had much of a choice. You are not to blame, Papa.”

“I could have gone with you.”

“And done what?” I ask gently. “You might have been hurt in the Dahaka attack on the palace.”

“I would have kept you safe.”

“You’ve always done that,” I say, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Mama said that I was strong, but I don’t get that strength only from her; I get it from you, too. Thank you for taking care of me for all this time. I don’t know that I would have survived otherwise.”

“That’s my job,” he mumbles, sounding strangely choked.

I grin at him. “Your job should be to take care of Amma now.” His brows draw together and he opens his mouth, no doubt to argue. I cut him off before he can say anything stupid. “You love her, and she loves you. I think it’s time to make it official. And with me gone, you’re going to need each other.”

Disappointment clouds his face. “So you’re leaving then?”

“For now,” I say softly. “I need to be in Kaldari.”

“The prince hasn’t woken yet.”

“He will.” I exhale slowly. “And I want to be there when he does. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I have to see it through.”

“You love him, then?”

With a heavy sigh, I rest my head on my father’s chest. “I do. Or I thought I did. I’ve never felt anything . . . like this.” A mortifying sob breaks free from me as the words rush out. “But in Kaldari he lied to me about who he was. He did it to protect me. He regretted it and said he was sorry, and I forgave him. But I’m scared my heart won’t let me forget or that I can’t trust him.” I hiccup. “Or that he’ll do it again.”

My father strokes my hair. “Everyone makes mistakes, love. The point is how you fix them.”

“But if there’s no trust, where does that leave us?”

“Then you rebuild that trust brick by brick. Nobody ever said love was easy.” He tips my chin up. “You are the only one who can know if he’s worthy of a second chance.”

I think long and hard about that. “He might be.”

His eyes filling, my father pulls me close and kisses the top of my head. “No one, not even a king, will ever be deserving of you, my Suraya. But if he is the one you have chosen, then you have my blessing.”

“Papa?” My tears—bittersweet ones—dampen his shirtfront as I squeeze his strong shoulders tightly. Vena’s cryptic words and Morvarid’s comments in the tower about the late king and Nihira echo in my head. “Were you and Mama soul-fated?”

“No,” he says, his voice tight. “We were not, but I loved her with every ounce of my undeserving soul.”

I tuck my cheek into his chest. “Then how did you know it wasn’t a fated love?”

“She once described a soul-fated claim as a transcendent bond that snaps into place to provide a magical anchor. An ability to share power, to become one.” He stares down at me. “I don’t have magic.”

Air leaves me in a rush. If what my father says is true, Roshan can’t be my soul-fated. Because he doesn’t have magic either.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t make the choice to love him like my father did with my mother.

“So, two soul-fated might never meet?” I ask.

He exhales and strokes a hand over my hair. “Destiny doesn’t always get it right, my girl. A vertex might appear in someone’s birth chart, but never be actualized. We can decide our own paths. The gods and the fates might have their own plans and their own prophecies, but sometimes love is a choice you make, and one you keep making every day.”

“Speaking of love finding a way, Mama would be happy for you and Amma, you know. She’s up there, watching us, and that’s all she wants—our happiness. She told me so. She told me to find my truth, and I think it’s time you found yours, too.”

“How did my little pea pod get so wise?”

I thread my fingers into his beard like I used to do when I was a little girl. “I have great teachers.”

We make our way downstairs, navigating the crumbling stone steps. Much of the foundation of the tavern is still intact, which means that rebuilding won’t be as difficult as I first imagined. There’s still a lot of work to be done, but my father seems to have a lot of help. There are at least a dozen people milling about. I even spy my old nemesis, Simin, sweeping the floor alongside her mother. She darts a few curious looks at me but makes no move to come over. Surprising myself, I smile at her and wave, and she hesitates before waving back. After dealing with Helena—or worse, Morvarid—Simin is a delight in comparison.

I shouldn’t be surprised to see so many familiar faces. After all, the Saab Inn is home to many in Coban. I wave at some of the regulars clearing rubble and cleaning instead of downing ale as they would have been if the tavern had been standing. There’s no shortage of food, thanks to Amma, and I suspect that’s why half of them are here with a sudden interest in volunteering. I grin. Nothing like her cooking in all of Coban.

“Cyrill,” I call out to the man dangling precariously from the nearby scaffolding, “thank you for everything.”

“You are welcome.” He swings down and approaches me, eyeing the bags at my side. “Leaving us?”

“Yes.”

He purses his lips. “Thought you might finally want to settle down and accept my marriage proposal.”

I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s joking, but I’m at a loss for words. He’d been one of the few who had known the truth, and he’d been trying to protect me—even with his unsolicited and fervent propositions.

“Her heart is elsewhere, Cyrill,” my father interjects, clapping him on the back.

“You’re going to make some woman very happy,” I tell him, and then as my gaze slips to the dark-haired woman working beside her mother, I have an epiphany. Maybe not everyone is here for the food. Come to think of it, Simin had always acted her worst toward me whenever Cyrill had been in the tavern. How had I not noticed before? I elbow Cyrill. “I’ve seen the way Simin looks at you.”

“She does?” he says with a surreptitious glance over his shoulder.

I nod firmly. “You should definitely look into that.”

“I might have to,” Cyrill says with a grin. “Be safe, Suraya.”

“You, too, Cyrill,” I murmur.

The deferential expression on his face makes me blush. But he is one of the few who knows who I truly am and what I’ve done. Despite the events of the last few weeks, things have already settled back into some form of normalcy. And I feel ordinary, as if everything has been part of some surreal fever dream.

“Where’s Amma?” I say, peeking around the makeshift kitchen that has been set up within the bones of the old. My aunt is nowhere in sight.

“You know how she gets,” Papa says, coming up next to me.

I swallow—she’s never been a fan of goodbyes. “Tell her I love her.”

One of the kitchen girls rushes up with a large basket, shoving it into my arms. “Food for your journey. Your aunt wanted you to have it.” I blink, staring at the hamper. It’s large enough to feed a small army. And even though my journey is a short step through a portal, I never say no to her food.

My father laughs at my blissful expression. “Better than Jade?”

“Don’t even joke about that,” I say, my lips curling. “This is way more precious than any shitty Jade.”

We have to stop to greet more people on our way to the square, but we eventually arrive at the middle of town. To my surprise, the waiting runecaster is the same one who transported me to the palace the first time, what feels like forever ago. I let out a huff of laughter at having come full circle and peer upward with an eye roll.

The fates—and Vena—have a unique sense of humor.

“Be safe, daughter,” my father says, and kisses the top of my head. “And don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t.”

As the portal shimmers into existence, I fight back a wave of sadness. Coban has been my home for so long that it’s hard to think that I’m voluntarily leaving it behind. But life is too short not to take chances and embrace change. Kaldari may be vast and fast-paced, but the one I need to be with is there. I close my eyes and take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the stars in my mind’s eye.

I imagine that one of them is Laleh, urging me on. Another is my mother, pride and love glittering in her eyes. My gaze flicks to the brightest Royal Star resting in the north, and I incline my head.

Vena is watching. She always will be.

I take the step through.

Chapter Thirty

The future king of Oryndhr’s face is beautiful in repose. His hair has been trimmed, his body washed and groomed, and he’s clothed in rich garments. I wonder wryly if his inner circle thinks he’s going to wake up and want to have a coronation ball straightaway. The Imperial House certainly has a skewed idea of celebration.

I glance around—the chamber is full of advisers and specialists, as well as the aldermen of the four houses—all sworn to secrecy, of course, and there’s no chance that anyone’s going to listen to me about getting a minute alone with him. The Imperial House is not going to let the future of Oryndhr out of their collective sight, not while he’s still breathing. If he dies, there’ll be anarchy in the non-blooded succession of a new monarch. The houses will be at war.

My gaze coasts over a familiar face. Helena, one of the chosen from the arena. That seems like a lifetime ago. Her haughty, icy gaze meets mine, hostility burning in her eyes. Clearly, she hasn’t gotten over her issues where I’m concerned, but that’s on her, not me. I can’t believe she’s still here, but her father is the alderman of Regulus. It makes sense that she’d be at court. A few women from the contest surround her, all watching me with varying degrees of envy and enmity.

Wonderful.

Save the realm and people are still out to skewer me.

The runes on my forearms heat beneath my gloves, and I calm them with a thought. No sense in causing a fiery ruckus in a palace that’s just been rebuilt. And besides, using my starlight gifts to prove a point isn’t exactly nice baby goddess behavior.

But damn, would it be satisfying.

“Lady Suraya,” a man’s voice says, making me jump. I turn to see the royal viceroy. I’d remembered him as being friendly, and sure enough, his smile is wide and genuine. “It is wonderful to see you again. A pity that it is under such somber circumstances.”

“Thank you,” I say. “What is the prince’s condition? Any change?”

“None.”

I lean close. “Is there any way I can have a few moments alone with him?”

For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse as he stares at me in silence, and then he lowers his voice, drawing me aside. “My father was Elonian. He served the alderman of the House of Fomalhaut for many years—Queen Morvarid’s father.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, a shiver running through me. I’ve had enough of Elonian intrigues to last a lifetime.

“Because there are those of us who know what truly happened here.” He bows and presses a kiss to the back of my hand. “We are in your debt, Starkeeper. All of Oryndhr is in your debt.”

I suppose it’s to be expected that those who believe in the old gods will suspect what truly happened, even if the news outlets proclaim otherwise. And I can’t pretend that I’m not who I am, either. Inclining my head, I accept his quiet sentiments.

“When did you get here?” someone shouts, and before I can process the voice, I’m pulled into a bear hug. The viceroy melts into the crowd, and I focus my attention on the newcomer. Or newcomers, as I see Clem over his shoulder as well. She’s dressed in royal armor, likely now one of Roshan’s future kingsguard.

“Aran!” I clasp him back just as tightly. I had to forgive what they’d done to release my anger in that temple, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t still hurt. They say that forgiveness releases the forgiver, and that’s true, but no one ever tells you that the sting of betrayal doesn’t just vanish. Forgiveness takes work. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. You, too, Clem.”

I see the instant relief brighten her face, and it warms me. When Aran finally releases me, she sweeps me up so tightly I can barely breathe. “It wasn’t all a lie, you know,” she says. “I liked you from the start, and even though I was there to ferret out information on Javed and the chosen for the Dahaka, I felt like I had made a friend in a court full of vipers.”

“I know what you mean,” I confess. “I felt the same.”

She exhales, her regret heavy. “I don’t want to lose that. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Already done.” I laugh and reach for Aran, pulling him back in with us. “I am happy to see the two of you.”

“Not as happy as we are to see you,” he says, his face and voice choked with emotion. “After what you did in that room for him . . .”

He breaks off as I stare at him, while Clem moves a discreet distance away. “What do you mean? How do you know what happened?”

“Because I’m the one who found you both.” His eyes flick to his motionless cousin. “Lying tangled in each other’s arms. He had a heartbeat, while you had none . . .” He trails off, staring at me as if unable to collect or articulate his thoughts. “I saw what you did.”

“What I did?”

He swallows hard. “I saw you become what you were meant to be. In all my time as a magi, I never knew what it meant to feel the touch of Saru. I felt his light blazing through you when you saved my cousin. Thank you for that.”

A tear trickles down my cheek. “I couldn’t let him die.”

“So, you offered him your life.” He wipes the tear away, his own eyes damp. “Your magic saved him. It saved you both.” He laughs aloud, embracing me again. “It has been a true honor, Suraya. You are everything we Elonians ever hoped for—the guardian of Oryndhr.”

I shake my head, stunned by his words. “I didn’t do any of it alone. We did it together.”

“You brought us together.”

I shake my head and glance over my shoulder. No, it was Roshan who had brought them all together. The prince who had fought for his people’s freedom, who had battled tyranny in his own house, who had put everyone else’s lives before his. Even mine . . . and even though he had broken my trust. The ache in my chest intensifies as I stare at the sleeping figure. “Will he wake, Aran?”

Aran turns to meet the eyes of the viceroy, who claps his hands once. Like magic, people melt from the room until we are the only two left, aside from Clem and a small contingent of guards at the entrance. “I hope so. People are praying he will.”

“Do you believe?”

He eyes me. “In the gods?”

“Yes.”

“People choose to believe in something. What’s important is that they have a choice. To believe, not to believe, to be arcanist, to be modern. It’s all the same thing. Good versus evil. Light versus dark. The truth versus the lie. We’re all searching for meaning, Suraya. How we get it isn’t the goal . . . it’s in the journey.”

“I think you’re a very wise man,” I say.

He winks. “Let’s just keep that between us. I’m thinking of cultivating a reputation of being a scoundrel.”

We both chuckle quietly until the moment grows somber and we both stare at our future king, so strong and beautiful in repose. “What do I need to do?”

“You know what to do, Suraya. It’s your magic that burns inside of him. You just have to give him a reason to live.”

“Oryndhr needs him more than ever,” I say.

He cocks his head. “Only Oryndhr?”

“I’m working on it, Aran,” I admit softly. “Trust takes a lifetime to build and a blink to demolish. I love him, but he shattered my heart.”

Aran’s eyes are full of regret. “He’ll make it up to you, I know he will. Just give him the chance.”

After Aran joins the others, closing the doors behind him and offering me a modicum of privacy, I sit on the edge of the bed and brush my fingers along Roshan’s tanned, clean-shaven jaw. He’s so handsome, it hurts. I remember his quip about being Sleeping Beauty in the temple and waiting for his kiss, and I laugh softly.

“It’s time to wake up, my stubborn prince,” I murmur, and press a kiss to his soft lips. My palms begin to glow, and I place them directly over his heart. “Time to lead your people and be the ruler you were born to be. Time to become a king.”

A current of powerful magic charges between us, and Roshan’s chest heaves up against my hands. He exhales a sharp, shuddering breath. I can feel the deep, steady throb of his heartbeat beneath my fingertips, the bright burst of his soul flaring in response to the call of my starlight. I want to bask in him, to cocoon myself in his warmth. I let the wings of my simurgh brush his living aura, and I almost purr with the pleasure of it. He might not have magic, but he is mine.

Slowly, slowly, I coax him out of his slumber.

Wake up, Roshan.

His eyes flutter open, and that brilliant, glittering topaz-flecked brown gaze focuses on me. For a heart-stopping beat, there’s no recognition in their glossy, vacant depths, his pupils looking like pinpricks of oil, but then his lashes dip and a slow smile breaks over his face. “Sura.”

“Hi.”

“Are we dead?”

I smile. “No.”

“You’re here,” he murmurs.

“Where else would I be?”

Stiff fingers reach out for mine as if he doesn’t trust his own eyes that I’m here sitting beside him. “You know . . . up there.”

“I was. I came back.”

“You did?” he asks. “Why?”

“You know why.”

That slow, lopsided smile snatches my breath away. “Because you want to ride me into the sunset?”

I burst into laughter, despite the devastating heat spreading like wildfire all along my insides at his wicked words. “Who would believe the future king of Oryndhr has such a deliciously filthy mouth on him?”

“Not all the time. Only when you’re around.” He blinks, guilt flashing through his irises. “Does this mean you forgive me?”

“I’m trying. It’s easy to forgive, much harder to forget,” I say, not wanting to damage our fragile new start with another lie.

“That’s all I can ask for,” he says earnestly.

Unable to help myself, I drag my fingers along his jaw, and he stalls my hand, drawing it to his mouth. The brief press of his soft lips on the pads of my fingers makes every single nerve in my body go haywire. Attraction was never the problem between us, and I want nothing more than to replace my fingers with my mouth and tongue and kiss him until we’re both senseless. But there are questions that need to be answered, and if we start kissing now, neither of us will stop.

Gently, I pull my hand away. “Roshan, wait. We need to talk. How are you truly feeling?”

Those full lips tighten with disappointment, but he nods. “I feel . . . alive,” he says, sitting up.

He rolls his neck and shoulders, and for an infinitesimal moment as he turns to face me, a hint of reddish smoke bleeds through his irises. My breath stills. His lashes sweep down and up, and there’s nothing there. I shake my head, wondering if I’m seeing things, but that golden-brown gaze is wide and lucid with no trace of anything else in them but melting candor. I’m being paranoid about nothing. Morvarid is dead. Fero is dead.

Roshan’s solemn stare meets and holds mine. “And lucky to be, I know.”

“You’ll be king now.”

“Javed?”

“Gone. Vogon killed him. Morvarid is dead, too. What exactly do you remember about what happened?”

He frowns, a host of emotions flashing across his face. “I remember most of it. I remember Morvarid’s sword pinning me to the wall. It hurt like hell.” He rolls his shoulder, one hand pressing to where the wound had been, a furrow notching between his brows. “I knew I was bleeding out and dying.”

“You did die,” I whisper hoarsely. “Your heart stopped.”

“I felt it. You saved me, Suraya, because there wasn’t any pain anymore. I remember feeling so much darkness creeping through me, and then you came and banished it. I remember thinking you had never looked so bright, and then there was nothing but light. So much dazzling light. It was hot and blinding and vibrant, like I was seeing the real you for the first time.” His words weave a spell around me, and when he leans in to seal my lips with his, I can only yield to the sweetness of his kiss. “My lovely, infuriating, brilliant star,” he murmurs against my mouth, his hand curving around my waist. “I felt everything—every beat of your pulse that somehow became the beat of mine. You know how I know this?” he says, grazing his lips against my jawline to my earlobe.

I can barely get the word out. “How?”

“Because I love you. Even if you don’t love me. Even if I have to prove my love to you over and over again to earn back what I lost.”

The poignancy of the moment nearly kills me. “I do love you, Ro.” I exhale and push forward. “But as much as I’ve come to care for you, what you did was wrong—keeping something like that from me was devastating.” He opens his mouth, eyes shining with remorse, and I hold up a hand. “I know you’re sorry, I believe you. But what’s to say you won’t lie to me again to protect me in the future over something that you deem more important than my own choices?”

“I won’t,” he says fervently.

“Not even to save the realm?” I ask.

His face is grave. “Not even then. I swear it on the maker and any god in existence.”

We stare at each other, his forehead resting against my brow for an eternal moment. I never want to let go.

“Can I please kiss you now?” he whispers.

Nodding, I barely open my mouth to say yes before his lips crash into mine, the familiar iron, spice, and bergamot scent of him filling my nostrils. His tongue sweeps in to tangle with mine, devouring me as if he can’t get enough . . . as if the whole time he was asleep he was starving for me. The kiss goes on and on, neither of us wanting to release the other, but eventually we pull apart, breathless and panting.

“We should probably tell the realm you’re awake,” I say. “I shouldn’t be selfish and keep you all to myself.”

“Well, it’s just as well I wish to keep you to myself for a bit longer. And since I’m the all-powerful king, I can do what I want,” he murmurs, his arms gathering around me, and I’m glad for it. He feels like home.

“If your head gets any bigger, it’ll explode all over us.”

“I can tell you what’s getting fit to explode.” He points at his lap with a heated smirk, and I gasp at the prominent bulge there, glad to know I’m not the only one whose passions are out of control. “Promises, promises.”

“I’ve only one promise for you.” Roshan leans close, even though there’s no need to whisper. “When we get to my chambers, I’m going to kiss every inch of you, and then I’ll dine on my favorite dessert until I’m good and satisfied, and then I’m going to make love to you until you can’t walk straight.” He bites my earlobe, making me gasp, and swirls his tongue over the shell of my ear. “Because the maker only knows how much I’ve missed the taste of you and the feel of you clenching with pleasure around me.”

I go boneless at his wicked words. “I’ll hold you to that. My altar has been bereft.”

“Your altar will be flowing by the time I’m done with you.”

I gulp, core clenching and already well on the way to said goal. Sands, could a girl combust from sheer anticipation?

He grins as though he knows exactly what kind of reaction his words have caused, and with a husky growl, he crashes his mouth to mine. Between whispered words of devotion and deep kisses, Roshan keeps me close, tucked into his side, until the doors break open and the chamber is flooded with a sea of jubilant, reveling people.

“The king is awake! Long live the king. Long live Oryndhr!”

The cheers are thunderous, but I hear none of it. Instead, all I can see is the man sitting before me, and I savor the precious words of love that had fallen from his lips. I know without any doubt that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. We might not be soul-fated, but love, like my father said, is a choice.

And I choose him.

Epilogue

God of Night

The Oryndhrians might call her Starkeeper.

I call her my fucking end.

The azdaha beneath me spreads her enormous wings and roars a mournful song for her own mate—a male taken captive by the new king’s brother a year ago. We had both felt it when he had met my soul-fated, the burst of akasha that had connected them in the space beyond the realms. His pain had been agony, but until that single moment, he had been lost to us, his magic dampened by forces insidious enough to render him invisible.

Indira had been inconsolable, mindless in her rage.

Is it time, Darrius? she rumbles in my mind.

“Soon, my friend.” I pat her venom-spined neck with gloved fingers, feeling her restlessness. I’ve promised to get her mate back. I might not desire to keep mine, but bonded azdahas would weaken over time and eventually die. Indira is strong, but she isn’t invincible.

Unlike me, she needs her mate.

And Vena, that meddling diviner of the fates, is not wrong . . . the winds of prophecy have spoken.

War is upon us.

Acknowledgments

To my absolutely brilliant editor, Priyanka Krishnan, a huge thank-you. I wish I had magic so I could sprinkle stardust all over you! We inherited each other, and honestly, this had to be kismet. Talk about karmic destiny and a vertex-fated encounter! It has been an absolute honor and pleasure to work with you on this book. I could not have asked for a better partner for my adult romantic fantasy debut, and I’m beyond grateful that we were paired together! Thank you for all your revisions and suggestions that really made me deepen and strengthen the mythology, sweeten the romance, and sink into the epic vibes of this story.

The Starlight Heir was definitely a book of my heart. As a longtime lover of fantasy, being able to craft and publish a story that delves into my Indian, Middle Eastern, and Caribbean roots as well as indulging my fascination with astrology, mythology, and chiromancy was a dream come true. I feel so lucky that I was able to bring my vision to the page, and I truly hope that it resonates with readers. To this end, I also want to shout out Erika Tsang, who bought this book at auction. Thank you so much for acquiring me! Avon truly is a dream imprint.

To my superstar agent, Thao Le, who consistently keeps taking me and my career to the next level, I can only scream my enormous gratitude to the stars. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for believing in me, for valuing my thousand-and-one creative ideas, and for being such an incomparable force and the fiercest literary advocate in this constantly changing publishing landscape. I would not be where I am without you.

A massive thank-you to the entire production, design, sales, and publicity teams at HarperCollins for all your efforts behind the scenes—so much goes into the making of a book. I’m so very appreciative of all you have done and are doing to give this book the best chance for success. Thank you so very much.

To my besties who keep me company on this wild publishing roller coaster, I have so much love for you. Your friendship means the world to me. Thank you especially to Katie McGarry, Angie Frazier, Jodi Picoult, and Wendy Higgins for being kind enough to read the messy first drafts of this book and for all your advice. I adore you. To my assistant, Karen Delabar, thanks for allowing me to do what I do best. You are a social media maven! To all the readers, reviewers, booksellers, librarians, educators, writer friends, extended family, and close friends who support me and spread the word about my books, I appreciate you more than you know.

To my wonderful husband, Cameron, who always encourages me to spread my wings and never be afraid to take the leap with something new, thank you for being there to catch me no matter what. And to our three beautiful children, Connor, Noah, and Olivia, thanks for making my world a truly magical place. I’m so proud to be your mom.

Last but certainly never least, dearest reader, thank YOU for taking a chance on this book. As a diverse author bringing a different mythology to the page, I truly hope you enjoyed the story. It was a delight writing it, and I cannot wait for you to see where I take you next in this series. Seriously, buckle up, because even ancient, cursed shadow gods can’t resist a soul-fated bond.

Announcement for Queen of the Night Sky

The story continues in Queen of the Night Sky

Glossary

Arcanist: worshipper of old gods and practitioner of arcanism or death magic

Akasha: the infinite ether of the universe and source of magic

Azdaha: a gigantic snake-like, winged mythological monster, resembling a dragon or wyvern

Coban: a poor desert city

Dahaka: the rebellion and separatist militia opposed to the monarchy

Droon: an abandoned city drowned by lava from an active volcano

Dustlands: an expanse of arid wasteland at the center of the realm, inhabited by Scavs

Eloni: a wealthy city, second richest to the capital city

Eskorit: a city in the plains, home to the skores

Fero: the god of death and destruction

Indraloka: the military base of the rebellion

Jade: a hallucingenic drug distilled from Jādū crystals causing euphoria and temporary immunity to pain

Jādū: crystal remnants of magic, used to embue weapons with elemental magic, open portals, and send communications; also used for Jade

Jaxx: a poorer forested city in the west

Kaldari: the capital city of the Kingdom of Oryndhr

Magi: an akasha-blooded practitioner of magic; formerly a member of the outlawed Order of the Magi

Nyriell: a hidden underground city and the secret home of the houseless, protected by the Dahaka

Royal Stars: minor deities, hands of the gods, and creators of the Starkeeper

Runecaster: the official handler of Jādū crystals for magic and portal use, usually part of the Imperial House

Saru: the god of light and creation

Scav: nomadic outlaws who live in the Dustlands and are addicted to Jade

Setareh sar lokkar: servant of the star

Setareh Framātāram: master of the star

Simurgh: a benevolent mythological creature with the head of a dog and the body of a giant bird, reminiscent of a phoenix or a firebird, generally female

Soul-fated: a fate-ordained bond between two magic users, which acts as both an anchor as well as an amplifier of magic once the bond is sealed

Starkeeper: a celestial warrior created by the Royal Stars to save the realm of men during the War of the Gods

Veniar: a wealthy city, third wealthiest after Eloni

Vertex: a point in a birth or star chart that represents karmic destiny, marked by significant life events and fated encounters

Xersten: a small city nestled in an isolated mountain range

About the Author

AMALIE HOWARD is a USA Today and Publishers Weekly bestselling romance author. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found reading, being the president of her one-woman Harley-Davidson motorcycle club, or power-napping. She lives in Colorado with her family.

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Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE STARLIGHT HEIR. Copyright © 2025 by Amalie Howard. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

Map designed by Nick Springer, Springer Cartographics, LLC

Cover design and illustration by Damonza

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

Digital Edition JANUARY 2025 ISBN: 978-0-06-335585-9

Print ISBN: 978-0-06-335584-2

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