Zafira lifted an eyebrow and regarded her tiny, murderous sister.

The gleam in Lana’s eyes faded to a look of contemplation. “He stunted the lives and futures of thousands of women, Okhti. You and Qismah found ways to endure, but the others? Anytime I was with Ammah Aya before—before everything happened, when she commanded men in the infirmaries and waited for no one, it was a reminder of how differently we’re raised here in Demenhur. And that’s the caliph’s fault.”

That didn’t make what Zafira had done any more right.

Lana helped her stand. “Yalla.”

“Lana,” Zafira whined as her sister dragged her to the antechamber.

“He’s dead. You’re still you. The rest is up to you to fix.”

“What rest?”

“The imbalance. Inside you.” Lana smirked. “Then you can revel freely.”

A bewildered laugh bubbled out of Zafira. “When did you become this wild creature?”

“I was always here,” she said with a nonchalant shrug, but she didn’t meet her eyes. “You just never noticed me.”

A spirited chuckle echoed from beyond the door—Altair. As if on cue, Kifah’s equally loud, dry response followed, along with several pairs of footsteps. They came close to her room.

And didn’t stop.

Zafira listened through the pounding in her ears, but no one turned back. No one knocked.

We’ll be leaving soon. Sweet snow, they had finalized a plan and she wasn’t even a part of it. These were her friends, her zumra. Her family bound by resilience and hope.

And they had left her.

Laa, she had broken their trust.

Zafira sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself as her wound screamed and her heart screamed louder. She was empty of feeling, a hole chipping wider and wider. A void of a disease by the name of loneliness.

Bint Iskandar.

She tightened her jaw. The Jawarat was the last voice she wanted in her head. She shot to her feet.

“Where are you going?” Lana asked. “Wait!”

Zafira marched back to the room and grabbed the Jawarat with an angry snarl. She dug her nails into the leather, and a dull pain like the blunt edges of ten knives cut across her back.

The book was silent. It was the rued kind of silence that came when someone felt they deserved to be chastised.

We only thought to please you.

Its despondence was as peculiar as when it had led her to the caliph and asked to be forgiven. As if it had ceased its desire to control her when the Lion had stolen it away.

“How?” she whispered. The caliph flashed in her thoughts, split in half like an apple in her palm. How could that please me?

“Okhti?” Lana crouched beside her, draping a blanket over her shivering shoulders. “Don’t do it. Don’t talk to it.”

Zafira shrugged away. “I need to fix this. I’ve—I’ve lost them, Lana.”

“Lost whom?”

“Them. My friends. Kifah, Altair. Nasir,” she finished in a whisper. You, for though Lana was here and concerned, she was concerned, and Zafira didn’t want her to be. “They don’t trust me anymore.”

“Then win them back. You can’t undo what’s done, but you can decide the future.”

Tags: Hafsah Faizal Sands of Arawiya Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net