Elena sighed as she sank to the floor. She cradled the orb, letting the warmth of the small fire seep into her chest. A drop of water curved down her chin, hissing as it fell into the flame.
“I stayed here during my registaan,” she said.
Two months into her initiation, she had discovered this spot after chasing a desert hare. The small animal had hidden here, but when she cornered it into the back, it had leapt out and around her, rushing past. She had been too tired to pursue it. Now, as Elena stared around their small shelter, she whispered a silent thanks to the desert.
Yassen sank down across from her. His long legs splayed awkwardly in the small space.
“You knew the way despite the storm,” he said, his voice tinged with awe.
“Your desert walk,” she said, “it’s proficient but sloppy. You’ve been gone from Ravence for too long.”
“Thanks for the compliment, I guess.” Yassen looked down at his hands. His voice was quiet. “But I’m here now. Aren’t I?”
And he hadn’t tried to harm her.
“These storms don’t last long,” she said.
“Ferma will be outraged.”
She shot him a look. “We’ll be back before morning.”
Sand fell as Yassen ran his hand through his hair. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Elena placed her chin on her knees and listened to the storm. After a while, she heard him snoring softly.
She studied him. It was hard to imagine he was capable of assassinating kings and queens. Before her, she saw only a man too tired to be afraid of her.
As Yassen slept, Elena withdrew the scroll, unraveling it carefully. The fire flickered beside her. She used its light to trace the movements of the dance.
The forms of the woman looked even starker, her expressions fiercer. The text was written in Herra, the same ancient language the priests spoke in, but underneath each phrase, her mother had translated it into Hind.
Elena whispered the words underneath her breath. “Agneepath netrun. Fijjin a noor.”
The path of fire is dangerous. Tread it with care.
Care. Did it meancautionorlove—like how Aahnah had taught her to navigate the library and keep it a secret between them?
Elena thumbed the corner where her mother had drawn the jasmine. She remembered watching Aahnah prune delicate stems in her garden, her fingers lifting the leaves, her voice soft as she spoke to the flowers, treating them as if they were listening.
Elena pressed her hand against the warm glass. She needed to hold the flame with care, tenderness—buthow?
Slowly, she rose. Yassen was as still as before. Elena set the orb before her and began to imitate the dancer.
She had grown up dancing and that skill had transferred to the art of the Unsung. After all, a fight was a dance. There was pull and push, a rhythm set between bodies that could be broken, twisted, or made anew at every turn. And this dance was the same except for one thing.
It wasn’t a rhythm between two bodies.
It was between her and the inferno.
Elena folded her hands behind her, as drawn in the second form. The flame flickered. She tried to balance on her right foot, but she teetered. She flung out her arms to steady herself, and her left foot hit the cruiser. She nearly yelped.
Elena hopped on one leg and threw a sour glance at Yassen. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. She let out a breath and resumed the first position.
It resembled the Warrior pose of the sun meditations—one that Ferma had drilled into her. This was a dance that required poise, rigidity, yet also softness. Dance, like many things, was an act of balance. She would need to regulate her breathing, to give and take from the air around her. To empty her mind and heart and fill them with the brilliance of song. Except there were no drums to accompany her—only the wind’s roar.
Elena rose from the Warrior and balanced on her right foot again. This time, she held steady as she folded her hands behind her back like the wings of a bird. She tried to intensify the strength of her pose, the fluidity of her movements. Sweat beaded down her brow, mixing with sand and dirt.
As she unfolded her arms and dipped her head, the fire bowed.
Elena gasped. The flame rose and licked the side of the glass bowl. She watched, transfixed, as it grew taller.
