I would have pressed the matter, but the king whipped his head in our direction and his mouth tightened in disapproval. “You should be beside me, as the heir,” he said to Kamaal.
“I’m fine here,” was the prince’s low reply. I sat back in my chair, trying to avoid the awkward tension that fell over us like a shroud.
The king would have argued, I could sense it—the danger Aliah warned me of, the temper and power that made the Legion of Fyrevein despise him. But a wyvern roar cut through the low murmurs of the spectators and a hushed, anticipatory silence fell.
“We’ll discuss this later,” Bakshi said, giving his son one last glare before his face transformed. I watched from the corner of my eyes as mirth and a good-natured grin changed him to a different person. Unthreatening, friendly, almost boyish. Thevivid colours of his djellaba gave the same impression—young, unserious, a little boisterous.
Another wyvern screech came from beyond the square, and like everyone else, I craned my neck to see the source of it, taking my cue not to panic from Kamaal. If there was trouble, I had no doubt he’d be on his feet brandishing a weapon. This must be part of the show.
“Wyverns?” I whispered to Mihrunnisa. “How can wyverns perform?”
Her lips were thin, bloodless, the colour a little dull in her face. “They don’t perform. They fight.”
Wyvern stopped fighting for our entertainment decades ago. My brow pinched, an oily feeling beginning in my stomach.
A giant black wyvern covered in spikes and ridges was led into the square, the crowd parting for thetenhandlers who struggled to convince the mighty beast to walk. Four horns thrust back from its enormous head, and pronounced ridges ran down its head, past its bright green eyes, to its parted maw. Needle-thin silver teeth snapped at the nearest handler, and the man screamed, stumbling back. I cringed, my stomach turning when I saw the wyvern had bitten off the man’s hand.
“Barbaric,” Kamaal hissed under his breath, while the king’s laugh boomed around the square.
“The beast is hungry!” he called, and the crowd cheered.
Hungry forwhat?In the old tales of wyvern battles, they fought each other or tigers and other wild animals, and when those opponents ran out,faewere sent into the fighting pits. None walked out.
Anger churned in my belly, crystallising in my heart until it beat fast and enraged. I pressed my palms to my knees to stop their trembling, rage building like a storm, pressure searching my ribs for a weakness, for a way out.
A chill of foreboding went down my spine when King Bakshi stood, staring at the black wyvern as the remaining handlers led it into the middle of the square. I hadn’t been this nervous to be close to a wyvern since I first met Makrukh, but there was no denying that the enormous wyvern that snapped and roared as it was guided into the heart of the square would kill any of us.
That cold fear clashed with a new spike of rage, quickening my heart and making my palms damp. It took me far too long to realise it didn’t belong to me, that it bled through the link between Raheema and myself.
When the king began to speak, his voice carrying over the rapt, blood-hungry crowd, Iknewwhat he would say.
“You privileged few who got tickets will witness a wyvern fight of a generation.” Bakshi turned to address the crowd, his beloved audience. Hatred boiled in my chest, and this time I couldn’t tell if it was mine or Raheema’s as he said, “You know my new daughter Lalla Ameirah by now. She is the finest pride of my son, to have married someone so delightful and sweet, and I could not be happier to have her in the Saber family.”
I wiped all but a neutral smile from my face, but it took effort to keep it there as a familiar cry screamed through the air, gaining the attention of the mighty black wyvern in the square.
I’ll give you delightful and sweet.There was no hiding the hate burning in my eyes, but thankfully his attention was on the handlers that dragged Raheema, fighting and screeching, into the square. It took fifteen handlers, I noted with pride.
Fight like hell,I silently communicated when our eyes locked across the long metres of tan stone and froth-mouthed spectators.
I intend to,was her fierce reply.
“A woman as fine as Ameirah, belonging to our noble house, deserves a war-bred wyvern capable of razing our Kaldic enemies to ashes.”
The crowd’s cheer this time made me sick. They were hungry for blood, for more people slaughtered for reasonswe couldn’t even recall.For more children, like the boy I saw in the Last Guard to be cut down where he stood. They hungered for it, worked into a frenzy by the king, by the newspapers that printed a bold, damning headline each morning, by rumours and gossip and fear. Hearing them cheer for the war made me want to turn and snarl in each of their faces, but I remained still, facing Raheema.
I became acutely aware of the deadly position I was in. At the king’s mercy, with only his own children as my allies. Alone, abandoned by my husband and his legion. No, not alone. I had Raheema. Her narrowed eyes locked with mine; I dipped my chin in a subtle nod. We would fight our way out of this, whatever it took.
“Muhannad the Undefeated is a decorated wyvern with over a hundred victories to his name. He flew with his former rider at the Paper Flower and led the legions at the Third Sunday, holding the Fallow Gate against a pack of tigers fifty-strong. He’s bred for blood and victory and would suit my daughter far better than the blue runt.”
Not your fucking daughter.
Runt,Raheema scoffed, and followed the word with a shriek so loud it made the crowd flinch back. Muhannad eyed her warily, already circling before the handlers had even dragged Raheema into the heart of the square.I’ll show you a runt, you treacherous piece of shit.
My thoughts exactly.
King Bakshi raised his arms, nothing but excitement on his face, rounded eyes aglow as he said, “Let the battle to be Princess Ameirah’s mount begin.”
I held Raheema’s stare for a moment longer, my heart racing, hands curled into fists now.
