We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya 1)

She would toy with the ring around her neck and slip it over her pale finger, once, twice, icy eyes pinched in torment.

“I see you ogling,” Altair had sung beneath his breath yesterday.

Nasir had ignored him. It was his job to notice such things.

He told himself he watched to ensure she wouldn’t escape. But even when instinct told him she wouldn’t, he still found himself looking for her, studying her. The Huntress.

The proud curve of her shoulders, daring him. The cut of her mouth, lips dark from her constant chewing on them.

As if hearing his thoughts, she glanced up, eyes drifting past Kifah’s gold-tipped spear, past Altair’s bare arms, and alighting on him. She lifted her chin, barely, and it took a moment for Nasir to place the slight tilt for what it was: a show of courage.

He knew, then, why he favored Altair’s company. Why his gaze sought her. Because neither of them looked at him through a veil of fear that deemed him a monster the way everyone else in Arawiya did.

“All right, zumra—”

A scream in the distance cut off Benyamin’s words. It wasn’t one of despair, or anguish. It was a roar of rage, promising vengeance. A reminder of the island—its vastness, its otherness. And that here on Sharr, Nasir was prey, not threat. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “Very few of the desert creatures we know remain on Sharr.”

Altair made a sound. “Here I thought the growling prince was terrifying.”

Nasir ignored him, and Kifah asked, “Zumra?”

“It’s old tongue for gang,” Nasir said.

“I can handle schoolroom Safaitic, shukrun,” she bit out.

As he slid on his gloves, Nasir wondered, for the umpteenth time, why he ever bothered speaking.

“I’m not joining any gang,” the Huntress said. “I work alone, and I will continue to—”

“Trust, Huntress,” Benyamin said softly.

Something shattered in her gaze. Remembrance. A memory. Her fingers drifted to the ring, and Nasir looked away.

“We’ve all arrived on different counts,” the safi went on. “You, with a silver letter; the prince and the general, each with their orders; Kifah and I, with the notion of setting all accords right. You were told to hunt down the lost Jawarat, and here you are, like moths hunting a flame, blindly reaching for a mirage to break the decades-long curse over our lands.”

Nasir pressed his lips together. Kifah folded her arms and tapped her foot.

Benyamin looked between Nasir and the Huntress. “Both of you met the liar who cannot lie. Neither of you received the full truth. Yet you fell prey to the allure of her words.”

The Huntress drew a sharp breath, and Nasir felt the weight of her gaze, slowly dismantling him.

He had received his orders from the sultan, who had counted on the Silver Witch to aid him. Had he fallen prey to her words? To the compass she had pressed into his palm?

It still pointed to the Huntress no matter how hard he shook it.

“Do you know where magic went that fateful day?” Benyamin asked as the sun lifted higher into the sky, the beat of its rays quickening.

“It disappeared,” the Huntress said.

“You’d need magic to make something disappear,” Kifah pointed out.

“Akhh, I love conundrums,” Altair said.

“If you want us to hear the end of your story, safi, we need to leave, or only our crisp corpses will hear the last of your words,” Nasir said. He did want to hear the rest of the story. H

e wanted to understand before he continued on his father’s orders. But he would slit his own throat before he admitted that.

Kifah chortled. “Who knew the crown prince had a sense of humor?”