Varok's eyebrows shot up."Another one?"
"This one's different."
"They're always different."Varok crossed to Ragnar, clasping his arm in the warrior's greeting."Tell me, Khan—is she worth dragging us all across the Ante-continent for?"
Ragnar met his eyes."Yes."
Varok’s grin widened."Good!Good!"he turned to face the others."Then what are we waiting for?Let's go bring home the Khatun."
The Ameachi prince drank his wine as he watched his swine of a father beg.
The old man knelt on the cold stone floor of the throne room, his robes torn, his crown discarded, his dignity in ruins around him like the remnants of a shattered vase.Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the blood from the cut above his eye, and his voice cracked with every plea.
"Please—my son—I beg you—I was wrong—I should never have—"
"Should never have what?"The prince's voice was soft, almost curious.He took another sip of wine, savouring it."Touched her?Should never have fucked my wife?Because of you—" he raised the sword in his free hand.“She killed herself!”
The Igwe was shaking so badly his teeth clattered.He had no way of defending himself.
"She was innocent; she wasn’t born into a disgusting family like ours.She was—" His voice cracked, just slightly."She was carrying my child."
The Igwe's face went grey.
"You didn't know that, did you?"The prince's laugh was broken.
"Please—"
The prince spat in his father's face.
The Igwe flinched but did not wipe it away.He simply knelt there, trembling, waiting for a mercy he knew would not come.
The prince raised his blade.
"I have thought about this moment every day since the first time," he said quietly."Every night, when I couldn't sleep.Every morning, when I woke and remembered she was gone.I have imagined it a thousand different ways."He pressed the tip of the blade to his father's throat."This is the kindest version."
The blade fell.
He granted mercy to the vilest creature he had ever had the misfortune of being born to.
The prince stood over him for a long moment, breathing hard.
Then he threw his blade, letting it clatter towards his brother’s body; the corpse had been reaching for his dead wife.
The prince drained his wine glass."Clean this up," he said to the guards who stood frozen at the doors."And find me somewhere to bathe."
The bath was hot and scented with oils from Kemet.The most expensive aromatics, but it did nothing to wash away the memory of his father's face.
He lay in the water for a long time, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing.Not even satisfaction.Just the same hollow emptiness that had lived in his chest since the day she died.
When he finally rose, dried himself, and dressed in loose robes the colour of mourning, the sun had begun to set.
Taking another glass of wine, he downed it.He inhaled and exhaled to calm himself, then he walked to his balcony.
A Djinn sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the drop, looking out at the sprawling city below.His back was bare, marked with wounds both old and new—the scars of a man who had survived things that should have killed him.His braids hung loose, brushing his shoulders, and in the fading light, his skin seemed to glow under the setting sun.The prince watched for a moment, his throat feeling rather dry at the sight.
He turned at the sound of footsteps.
Blue eyes met the prince's gaze, utterly at peace despite everything.
