We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

“Shut up, Altair,” Nasir growled against the twitch of his lips.

His half brother only winked, and Nasir realized what he was doing. Drawing attention to himself, for Altair’s every action was done in deliberation, carefully calculated.

Then Altair al-Badawi lifted his hands to the skies, a crooked grin upon his face, and Sharr exploded with light.

CHAPTER 89

Zafira paused her desperate search when light erupted across the world of marble and wood. It took her a moment to find its source amid the blinding white: Altair’s outstretched hands. This was his affinity. He truly was the light to Nasir’s dark. As Deen had been to mine.

Panicked screeching filled the silence as the ifrit skittered to the shadows of the ruins. She saw Nasir, Kifah, and the kaftar snatch at what Altair had given them—a distraction—and returned to her task.

Her fruitless task.

She dropped to her knees and grabbed fistfuls of sand. Digging, searching. Looking. Begging. The others trusted her to keep the Jawarat safe. She swiped sweat from her brow as Altair’s light began to fade. But even in the dim she could see: sand upon sand, no bolt of green.

Her fingers snared against something beneath the sand, and her heart clambered to her throat. Please. She wrenched it free—but it was only a stone. She hurled it away with a cry. The island mocked her even now.

Someone grabbed her wounded hand and ran, pulling her along. Fear pounded in her eardrums.

“We have to go,” the voice said, and for a moment, she thought it was Benyamin before she remembered he was dead, and it was only Kifah.

The cut in her hand throbbed. She had been a fool, and that gash was the reason she had inadvertently bound herself to the Jawarat, body and soul. She had failed.

Some must be given for us to succeed. She startled at the Jawarat’s words. She hadn’t been a fool. She was suddenly glad for the gash in her palm that had gifted her this connection. That had given her such immeasurable knowledge.

But the Lion was nowhere to be seen. Which meant he had the Jawarat.

“We have to go back,” she protested, wrenching free from Kifah’s grip.

The warrior grabbed her hand again. “For what?”

“I dropped the Jawarat. The Lion must have it!”

“Oh, keep your wits,” Kifah snapped, and leaned close, her whisper almost lost in the din. “I’m a miragi, remember? I have the blasted book. I took”—her voice cracked and she drew in a steadying breath—“I took Benyamin’s book and illusioned it to match the Jawarat. Then I grabbed the real thing from you and threw the decoy onto the sand. The Lion grabbed it in the frenzy.”

Zafira nearly wept with the realization. Safe. The Jawarat was safe.

“It won’t last long, though, now that Sharr’s magic is gone,” Kifah said with a slight frown before spearing another ifrit. “So grab your bow, Huntress.”

“Wait, what about the kaftar?” Zafira said as her mind slowly cleared from the haze of panic.

Kifah shook her head. “They fought well. I offered them passage back to the kingdom, but they refused. Sometimes, when you live a life of captivity, trapped for so long, freedom becomes a thing to fear.”

Zafira understood that. It was how she feared the defeat of the Arz. The loss of her cloak. A life where she wasn’t the Hunter.

They joined Nasir, who limped as he slashed at the ifrit brazen enough to step into Altair’s fading light. Slowly, they battled their way out of the confines of the towering palace of marble and stone with the help of the Silver Witch. As Zafira, biting her tongue against the pain in her hand, nocked arrow after arrow, she guiltily recalled how she had lashed out at Benyamin for trusting the witch.

Without the sorcery of Sharr, the shore was not so far from them now. Dawn returned to the island, a beatific sight after the depthless dark skies they had been cursed with these past days. They were soon rushing past the island’s gates, prim between the towering hewn stones of the wall. Benyamin and Kifah had come in from that front entrance, the one Deen had wanted to find.

Loyal, softhearted Deen. There is no man in Arawiya more loyal to the Hunter than I.

He had believed in her until his very last breath, and now he was all but a ghost in her thoughts, a fragment of her past. What would she tell Yasmine?

Yasmine. Oh, Yasmine.

They hurried through the gates, steadily nearing the ship. An arrow whizzed past Zafira’s ear, and everyone froze. It had come from the ship. Another volley headed for them, and Zafira ducked. The Silver Witch hissed as an arrow struck her.

Kifah sighed and shouted, “Oi, Jinan! Quit firing at us.”