We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

The Huntress crouched beside him, sand dipping beneath her boots. “Iced cream. My best friend. A vial of honey. My sister’s smile. Don’t ask if you can’t provide.”

It took him a moment to realize she was teasing. And by the time he did, she had moved on.

“What’s on your arm?”

Nasir paused. She had seen it and had the audacity to be curious. He felt a flood of shame because she didn’t fear him and a crackle of comfort because she didn’t fear him. What were these warring sentiments? The hissing of steel filled the silence as he resumed his grinding.

“Cloth. Or a gauntlet and its blade. Teeth marks from an old lover since I tumble one every night. Depends on which part of my arm you’re asking about.”

“Arrogance will get you nowhere,” she said.

Her ring twinkled in the sunlight, blinding him even with his gaze pointedly down. Did you love him, fair gazelle?

He had been so sure of so much, but now he wasn’t certain of anything anymore. He paused and met her eyes. If a poet were to describe them, he would say to look into her eyes was to see the sea’s first glimpse of the sun, drinking its reflection with endless ripples. Or something like that. Nasir was no poet. And though she held his gaze unflinchingly, some part of her had retreated. Did his scars repulse her? Did he repulse her?

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he said.

“This would be my definition of nowhere.”

Her slow drawl was accompanied by a look of amusement. A breeze wound through the grass and she shivered, reaching for her hood before her eyes tightened in the realization that she wasn’t wearing her cloak. Her fingers brushed her ring, and her lips parted ever so slightly. He watched, transfixed, wondering how those small, mindless motions always drew his attention.

Something had shifted between them last night. Want pulsed at the pads of his fingers.

He swallowed. “This doesn’t look like nowhere to me.”

This was as peaceful as their journey would be. The waters undulated a brilliant cobalt beneath the teasing wind. Rare, clear skies cupped the sun. It was softer, fighting the growing darkness, barely lifting the small hairs on the back of his neck, but it was more than he had seen in a while. And if he were feline like Benyamin, he would be curled beneath it, relishing in its warmth. But he was no stray, nor was he one to sit idly and relish anything in life.

It wasn’t peaceful, he decided. It was a moment between moments. The calm before a storm.

“Looks can be deceiving,” she replied.

Beneath the beat of the sun, all he saw was the starkness of her skin and the sharp cut of her lips. But last night, beneath the glow of the moon, that skin had coaxed and those lips had beckoned.

They still do. Nasir twisted his mouth and resumed his sharpening. The hiss of a blade knifed the sway of the tall grass, and a hand extended toward him bearing a jambiya, the point facing away. He took the dagger and studied the simple leather hilt, worn from age and the exchange of palms. Her father’s or mother’s, he assumed, and likely the only blade that felt comfortable in her hand.

Murderer, she had said that first day. It was no small deed, handing over a trusted weapon to an enemy.

He set his sword down and started grinding her blade. “It’s Safaitic.”

“What is?” she asked, watching him.

“The ink. My arm. It’s Safaitic. I don’t expect you to know how to read it.” Kharra. He should have phrased the words as a question.

She only pressed her lips together and neither denied nor agreed. “Then there’s no harm in showing me, is there?”

“Define ‘harm,’ Huntress.” He ran his fingers along the edge of her blade, and it snagged on the leather of his glove—sharp, but it could be sharper.

She glanced to the others. Altair made Kifah laugh as she tossed her lightning blades at a tree. Benyamin had climbed up the same tree and was lazily flipping through his book.

“Physical pain,” she said.

He gave a dry laugh, her dagger wheezing under his ministrations. “Then you’ve never experienced real pain before.”

“Emotions are an inconvenience.” But her tone suggested she didn’t believe the words. She was saying them for his benefit, to study his reaction with those sharp eyes.

“Until they broach into the level of pain,” he said softly. He stood and passed her jambiya back. His fingers brushed hers and despite the barrier of his glove, he drew in a sharp breath, every part of him alert.

She slid the dagger back into its sheath. How could a hunter be so delicate? Not even a speck of dirt marred the skin beneath her nails. She started to leave but stopped, head half turned as if to say, This is your last chance.