We Free the Stars (Sands of Arawiya 2)

The world bled black and white and bereft of color, the possibility of forever halved in a single strike. The elder roared, shadowy wings rising into the night. Perhaps it was Nasir’s sudden stillness or the telltale drop of his breathing, but Altair knew to release him and take a careful step back. Pain and anguish stirred into anger. His blades thrummed at his wrists, and the sounds of the battle faded.

He pulled the Jawarat from his robes and pressed it into Altair’s hands.

“Protect it,” he rasped, and sprinted forward, snatching a broken sword as he went. His vision blurred as he arced his blade across an ifrit and shoved a hashashin out of another’s path, for in this moment, they were allies still sworn to Ghameq.

Nasir swiped the dampness from his face, and when the elder swept its talons, he leaped atop its arm, charting his upward path. It shrieked in panic, flinging its hand. Nasir launched toward its head, narrowly missing another lash of its claws before he grabbed one of its horns. The elder teetered off balance. Nasir swung toward the second horn with a grit of his teeth, wrenching himself between them.

People screamed far below as Altair unlocked the courtyard gates. The Great Library windows flashed like dandan teeth in the moonlight, glancing off Nasir’s blade as he plunged it into the elder’s skull, a spray of blood coating his clothes, his hair, his face. The beast swayed. Nasir drove the sword into it again and again, and with one last howl, the elder collapsed in a heap.

The silence made him want to weep.

Nasir stepped from the creature’s head and dropped the sword with a clatter. A score of people stared. He did not need the sun to read their faces, to understand the troubled looks and the fear widening their eyes.

He had been the Amir al-Maut until she had come and torn the monster to shreds with sharp words and coy glimpses. It was only fitting that the Prince of Death had returned, now that she had been taken from him.

He’d had enough. He would let the Lion do as he willed. He would take her, bury her, and—

Seif stopped him. “He will not cease until every last one of us is dead. We must leave.”

“And let him have the throne?” an official from one caliphate or another asked. “Your kind has always left us to suffer.”

Seif turned, his scythes quick as snake tongues as he sliced an ifrit in three.

“I’m not in the mood, mortal. Confront him yourself if you wish. Die, if you’d like.”

The official blustered before catching sight of Nasir and deciding his chances of persuasion were slim. He stormed off in anger.

Altair jogged to them. “Yes, good, great talk,” he said with false cheer, tugging on Nasir’s sleeve. His stare was fixed at the open window, where another wave of ifrit gathered. Lana, Kifah, and the rest of the Nine were nowhere to be seen. “I love words, don’t you? Let’s share some later. Now, yalla.”

“Front courtyard. Horses. Meet me at the Asfar trading house,” Seif shouted, sprinting back toward the palace.

“I can’t leave her,” Nasir said, stopping inside the gates. “Not like this.”

Altair dropped a hand to his shoulder, and Nasir took a fortifying breath when his gauntlet blades hummed. “Some honors must be forfeited so we may fight another day. If anyone can understand that, it would be Zafira.” He worked his jaw. “And Benyamin. I will never forgive myself for leaving him there, but we had no choice. That throne is yours by right, and I need you alive to put you on it.”

The horde thickened, and the crowds continued to thin as people either fled or fell. A fire rippled to life, casting the dead in orange. He was neither soldier nor general, but even he could see that this battle would not be won. As long as people remained in the courtyard, the ifrit would attack, but the Lion was no fool: He wouldn’t harm anyone beyond these gates. Not yet.

Nasir dropped his shoulders. He left behind half of his soul and the whole of hi

s heart.

* * *

The horses were glad to flee the Lion’s dark kin. The dappled coat of Nasir’s steed glowed in the moonlight, reminding him of silver silk. Fear tainted the city, rumors slipping from loose tongues even at this hour, but he and Altair paused for no one as they raced through the streets.

Nasir was numb and aware of nothing. Only his inhales that would never be matched with another’s. Only his exhales that would stretch for the rest of his days.

Altair led the way to the Asfar trading house—a narrow building with a bronze gate, two camels idling just inside, a third asleep behind the low swaying shrubs. Nasir dismounted with a wave of exhaustion. A gentle breeze looped through the blue-black sky, slipping beneath the hair brushing his neck. Moments ticked by with his heartbeat, each one playing out Zafira’s death afresh. They’d been in such a hurry before, every instant leading to something else—the medallion, the feast, Altair.

Time had no meaning anymore.

Haytham’s son approached as if Nasir were a wild animal and said, “Shukrun.”

Nasir stared back.

He hated him, this innocent boy of eight. He hated his pale skin, hated his lilting accent. Hated that he still had a father. Anguish tore from Nasir’s mouth.

She was gone.