Ferma brought over a pitcher of chilled water; Yassen, a platter of dates. Elena smiled to see the deadly assassin of the Arohassin serving refreshments. He had found a new suit, one that fit him properly—too well, she thought, observing how it stretched across his broad chest. Oddly enough, he wasn’t sweating. She turned away before he could notice her looking.
“Any word from Majnu or Arish?” she asked.
“The king should be done with his meeting soon,” the Yumi answered.
Elena glanced behind her at the Yoddha Base. It was a large military compound with gated checkpoints. The base had also been built by King Farzand. Heavy guns sat atop steel towers, while Ravani soldiers worked tirelessly under the desert sun. Her father was in there. When she had tried to join him after greeting the dignitaries, he had quietly told her to stand beside Samson and oversee the preparations.
“Everyone’s eyes are now on you,” he had said. “So take your place at the forefront and act the part.”
A part of her chafed at his tone, the other warmed to think that he was beginning to realize and accept her ascension to the throne. She knew her father did not think she was ready. He had ruled this land for so long, protected it for many suns. But the throne called for the heir to ascend when they reached twenty-five suns, and her father was, above all else, a man of tradition.
What is taking him so long?
Elena scanned the crowd, but she did not spot her father’s Astra or Spear. Was he in a meeting? Shehadseen someone in the room behind him, come to think of it. A woman. It had likely been Muftasa, but Elena had not gotten a good look.
Mother’s Gold, is he discussing intel without me?
Perhaps Leo’s comment had been a diversion, one meant to appease her in the moment. Elena flapped her dupatta harder. She knew he was hiding something. Maybe his meeting was linked to the scrolls, but why would Muftasa—
The sound of a horn ripped through the air. Elena straightened as Leo strode out of the compound, the edge of his red angrakha sherwani flapping in the breeze. A golden silk scarf draped across his right shoulder. He had chosen not to wear his military uniform. It was a slight, but one Elena understood. The king, though the protector of the land, was above all else. He did not need to don his brass and medals to show the world his mettle.
Elena, Samson, and their guards bowed as Leo joined them.
“Shall we begin?” he said.
The soldiers in the valley below were still and erect, waiting for a signal.
Samson withdrew the urumi looped around his waist. It was a Sesharian weapon, long and snakelike, with twin tongues that could bend and cut into a man. With his other hand, he raised a slingsword, the traditional Ravani blade. Both weapons flashed as he raised them to the air.
“The king is the protector of the flame, and I its servant,” he intoned. “Together, we shall give our blood to this land. I swear it, or burn my name in the sand.”
He brought his swords down, and the first Black Sands Day began.
First came the infantry. Rows and rows of Black Scale soldiers marched through the valley, accompanied by the blare of horns. They moved in unison, their legs and arms weaving in and out like a well-oiled machine. Behind them came the tanks that left no tracks in the sand. Fighter jets shaped like the heads of tridents zipped through the air. They flew low, and as they neared the valley, they rolled off, spreading across the sky like the wings of a bird.
As the infantry approached the embankment where the royals stood, the soldiers swiveled their heads. Commanding officers barked out orders, and five thousand men turned and snapped their heels to attention. They raised their hands in salute.
“All hail King Leo!”
“All hail the heir!”
“All hail her betrothed!”
Elena returned the gesture. Her eyes swept their faces, each as resolute as the last. These were true fighters, men and women of unbendable steel and remarkable courage. She saw it in the jut of their chins, in the furrow of their brows.
“All hail the Kingdom of Ravence!”
The tanks fired up into the sky, one by one. The shots rang through the valley.
The commanding officers gave the order, and five thousand of Samson’s soldiers—her soldiers—resumed their march. The valley shook underneath their feet.
“Your Highness, what was the purpose of the Black Sands march?”
“To show the might of Ravence and the Black Scales,” she replied to the journalist with the mouselike nose.
“But, Your Highness, some might say it’s a provocation against the Jantari,” another voiced.
“Are we going to war?” another asked.
