We left the house, the early rays of dawn filtering through the empty streets. A sound echoed across the square, the smashing of glass, and a muffled groan.
Mazin and I both reached for our swords at the same time.
I knew the direction it came from.
“The smith.” I looked at Mazin.
My father’s house.
The last time I’d been there I had learned of his death. I’d cursed the man now beside me and promised I would find retribution.
But all I wanted now was to find the people I cared about and get them out of this alive.
We jogged to my old home, falling in step beside each other, like an old dance we both knew the steps to.
I knew Maz, knew his moves, his breath. I felt the burden on my shoulders ease now that we were on the same side again. We stopped on the edge of the village, watching the smith and the little house connected to it from a distance.
I cast a glance at Maz as he crouched beside a stone wall, his scimitar in hand, dark eyes focused on the smith. He flicked his gaze in my direction and stilled, the shadows playing off the angles of his face.
That feeling of anticipation rushed to my stomach when he turned those intense eyes on me, something that didn’t feel like relief or calm or comfort, but altogether like dropping into a dark sea. Something I never thought he’d make me feel again.
“What is it?” His voice was lower, rougher than before, and I wondered if working together again had made him realize those same feelings.
“It feels good,” I said, my abrupt way of blurting out uncomfortable truths catching us both off guard again. “Having you beside me again.”
His eyes darkened, and he drew closer, close enough so that I could hear his low words.
“I’m sorry I ever made you think I wasn’t.”
I exhaled, the quiet ferocity in his voice shaking me.
We crept closer to the small stone building surrounding the smith, but no other sounds came from it. I finally pushed through the door, my sword in hand ready to take on whatever I would find there.
But every room was empty, the same as it was before.
All my father’s possessions gone, the house still looted.
Until I got to the final bedroom—my parents’ room.
There a figure sat on the bed, alone, closed in on itself, almost resigned.
“Nanu?”
She started and looked up at me, her light eyes a little brighter than usual, her crinkled, dark skin the color of burned embers. But something seemed… off.
“Dania.” Her voice was plaintive, not a question exactly, but an acknowledgment. As if she had been waiting for me.
I rushed forward, wrapping her small body in my arms. She was cold and didn’t return my embrace.
“Nanu, are you all right? We thought something had happened to you—the house you were staying in—”
“I’m fine. Really,” she said in a disconnected sort of way. As if she were talking to me from a long distance.
I frowned, my eyes sweeping over her. “What are you doing here alone, Nanu? Where is Noor? She was meant to find you.”
Had Noor even made it to the village?
At the mention of Noor’s name, my grandmother’s pale fire eyes flashed. “Dania, your friend could not be trusted.” Her words were a hiss, an unfamiliar savage tone, and I stepped back from her, unease filling my stomach.
