We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

He hurled knives at oncoming ifrit, their shrieks numbing his eardrums as he slowly fought his way toward the first tree. The Silver Witch was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Zafira, but he trusted her to stay safe and protect the Jawarat.

They all did.

Without it, they would have nothing more than five bloody hearts locked with power beyond imagination.

He reached the tree, even more enormous up close. The heart could be anywhere, hanging from some limb, tucked within the trunk—no. He paused.

A steady beat pulsed at his feet.

The roots. He cut his scimitar across a line of ifrit, giving him a moment to hack at the twisting roots. Another ifrit howled, the heat of a stave licking Nasir’s neck. He turned and put down another horde, hurling knives to hinder the next wave. Come on, he gritted, digging beneath the dirt, nails turning black, fingers going cold. The beat grew louder the farther he dug.

There.

He nearly recoiled as he drew the organ from the ground, insides lurching at its pulse, at the rubbery softness. Strains of blood mixed with the dirt on his hands.

Kifah appeared at his side and barely flinched at the sight before she barked, “Four more to go. Yalla, yalla.”

More ifrit hounded forward in black waves, fiery staves flashing, and Nasir quickly wound the inner cloth of his robes around the pulsing heart, leaving it hanging at his hip.

He locked blades with an ifrit, shoving with all his strength before hurling the last of his knives at the surrounding creatures. He made way for the next tree, but Altair met him halfway with a panicked look, another pulsing heart held gingerly in his palms. Nasir took it and tucked it into the folds of his garb.

Kifah felled ifrit upon ifrit as she headed to the next tree, her spear a moving shield and weapon at once. Nasir fought off another horde and looked up in time to see the pump of her fist as she retrieved another heart.

Two more to go.

He retrieved another, suffering a gash across his leg before he shoved his sword through the ifrit’s throat. He stumbled to the next tree, stopping when Altair rose from its roots, the final heart in hand.

The ground rumbled.

A stillness fell over them. The land sighed and groaned in relief. An exhale of contentment, finally liberated from what it was not. Sharr was free.

Which meant that across Arawiya, the Arz had begun unfolding into the ground.

Rimaal. Nine decades of encroaching darkness. Of a forest that stripped them of their sea. Of caliphates cursed to suffer endless snow, darkening skies, and dying lands. Of hostility gnashing razor-edged teeth.

It had ended.

It was over, and Nasir had been a part of it. He nearly swayed with the realization. He had been a part of something good.

The elation in his chest fell when an ifrit nearly decapitated him. He saw a flash of silver as the Silver Witch slowly rose to her feet, her power no longer receding.

But there were two sides to this coin: The Lion was no longer tethered to Sharr. They had to move quickly.

“Gloomy weather you’ve gifted us,” Altair called as he stumbled toward Nasir, blood across his brow. He seemed to be bracing himself before he turned back to the surrounding din, where ifrit swarmed, trapping them. The dark creatures were thriving, drunk on the shadows Nasir had unleashed. Retrieving the hearts meant nothing if he and the others died in these endless hordes.

“Eh, old tomato!” Altair yelled.

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The Lion paused mid-stride, robes billowing in the wind.

“The retribution promised begins now.”

“What are you trying to do?” Nasir snapped. “If you die, I will kill you myself.”

“Akhh, I love conundrums. Careful, little brother, I’m beginning to think you’re worried for me.” Altair patted Nasir’s cheek with a bloody hand before Nasir could wrench away and then strode toward the Lion of the Night.

Altair heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’d been saving for a special occasion, something with more flair. You know, a wedding or my beloved Nasir’s coronation or—akhh, words fail me. But beggars can’t be choosers, can they? I suppose this, uh, the Skirmish of Hearts, is just as special—”