We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

“In the same way a book can reenact the history of civilization, instruct upon a delicious dish, or tell a tale of pleasure,” she said, as if Zafira had asked the most obtuse question known to man. “Do you question how a girl like yourself returns from the Arz?”

The witch was adept at answering questions with more questions.

“And you expect her to go alone?” Deen asked. “Why not have the caliph send men with her?”

“If I wanted a party, boy, I would make one,” the witch said. She turned, cloak fanning around her. “Death will be her companion. He’s kept her safe all this time. Why stop now?”

Zafira shivered at her choice of words. Deen’s pinkie tightened around hers, pinching until she tugged away. She heard the woman’s voice once more, a hushed whisper in her ear despite the distance between them.

Farewell, Huntress.

An icy fist tightened around Zafira’s throat. She struggled to breathe, and when she could, the witch was gone.

CHAPTER 11

Nasir woke to a manservant beside his bed. He scowled and dragged a hand across his face, stubble scraping his palm.

“What is it?” he rasped.

The man looked at his own feet, dark hair cresting his near-translucent skin, an angry scar on his cheek. Demenhune, as far as Nasir could tell. The servants of Sultan’s Keep hailed from nearly every caliphate except Alderamin, for safin bowed to no man. It was Ghameq’s luck that Alderamin and Sultan’s Keep were separated by the Arz and the Strait of Hakim, for Nasir doubted his father would sit on the throne otherwise.

“The sultan—”

“I’m coming,” Nasir snapped.

The man flinched and hurried out the door.

Nasir slid from the bed and stepped into the adjoining washroom. His stomach growled, thunderous, but as he finished dressing, he knew he wouldn’t have time for a meal, for the sultan didn’t tolerate tardiness.

What would it matter if I were late?

His mother was dead. Kulsum had lost her most prized possession. But there would always be something—the sultan could carve out Kulsum’s eyeballs, peel the fingernails off Haytham’s son. There was always something Sultan Ghameq could do to make one wish he had obeyed, to make one wish for death.

Nasir focused on the soft thuds of his footsteps until his breathing slowed. The massive doors to the throne room groaned as they swung inward, revealing the sultan on the Gilded Throne, receiving emirs. He was always awake, alway

s at work, always sharp-eyed.

Nasir waited, even as the emirs sneered at him while they walked past, proud they were given the sultan’s attention before the crown prince was.

When only the two of them remained, Ghameq eyed Nasir’s clothing. “Where are you going?”

“You summoned. I thought it was for another kill,” Nasir said, realizing his mistake too late.

“How many times have I told you not to think?”

Nasir clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Do you wish for me to change?”

“I don’t care what you wear, boy,” the sultan said.

I don’t care echoed in Nasir’s eardrums.

“Fetch something to eat and meet me in my rooms. Make quick.”

For the briefest of moments, Nasir couldn’t move. The sultan had just told him to eat.

His surprise must have been evident on his face, because the sultan scoffed. “Your hunger is pinching your face. I need you clearheaded so that you can remember what I tell you in that ineffective head of yours.”

Of course. How could he think, for even a moment, that his father actually cared?