Before he could continue, Alarik merely shook his head. “We’ll need a pair of fast horses. Better not dawdle.”
He blinked. His brother had always been the steady one, the pragmatist, the one reminding him of the reality of things rather than what could be.
Yet here Alarik was, urging them to hurry.
Kaelen found himself smiling. “Let’s go, then.”
They outfitted themselves quickly—light yet protective layers to guard against the desert’s extremes, sturdy belts, reinforced boots, scarves to shield their faces against the fury of sudden sandstorms.
For horses, they sought function over bloodlines and purchased two of the small, hardy breed from local traders—built for endurance rather than show.
As Kaelen ran a hand down his new ride’s flank, he couldn’t help but think of Shahram, the stallion he’d left behind in Asadia’s royal stables.
He’d tamed Shahram as a brash fourteen-year-old, more stubborn than sense allowed. The beast had thrown him more times than he cared to count, but he’d always gotten back up, brushing off the dust and trying again.
They’d been inseparable ever since; rides across vast deserts, wind whipping at their backs. Skirmishes where Shahram had carried him without fear, hooves pounding against the earth like a war drum. The stallion had been more than a mount—a partner, a piece of Kaelen’s soul forged in sweat, dust, and unspoken understanding.
Now, crossing the arid plains without Shahram felt strangelyunmooring, like stepping forward without his own shadow. He reached for the reins of the horse he’d just purchased, feeling its unfamiliar weight. Sturdy, yes. Dependable, hopefully.
But still, it wasn’t his.
“I miss Ruhasul too,” Alarik murmured knowingly.
Kaelen glanced at his brother, noting the way his hand lingered on his own horse’s neck, fingers brushing against the coarse mane. A quiet admission—one Alarik rarely voiced aloud.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of nostalgia. “Well, no better time to make new friends.”
He gave his new horse a firm pat on the neck and swung onto the saddle. The animal shifted but held steady, ears flicking as if listening.
Alarik mounted his own, casting Kaelen a wry look. “Try not to get thrown off this time.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “No promises.”
They rode on. Bashkor shrank behind them, the wind carrying the scent of dry grasses and lingering spices.
The road ahead was long, the days uncertain, but one truth remained—Princess Reiyana was out there.
And they would find her.
Chapter Seventeen
REIYANA
Days blurred together in a haze of dust, jolting wagon wheels, and endless stretches of road.
When the caravan finally crested a rise and the city of Zohara spilled into view, Reiya sat straighter, a slow knot of anticipation tightening in her chest. It sprawled outward in every direction, a chaos of colours, scents, and shouting voices—pulsing with a life she hadn’t realized she missed until it surrounded her.
The paths twisted like rivers through a forest of colour, each canopy of silk and linen snapping in the breeze like sails waiting for the tide. Smoke curled from roasting spits, thick with spice and meat and incense, clinging to her skin and clothes as they passed. The wild blend of scents and sounds stirred something in her chest—a restless, eager beat she hadn’t felt in far too long.
Her gaze swept the stalls: bright cloths spilling from tables, lantern-lit alcoves tucked into shadowed corners, the fading murals of a domed temple peeling into soft, sun-washed memories. There was a rough, earthy pulse to this place—a hum of voices and laughter, of deals struck and names shouted into the heat.
So different from the neat, friendly markets of Nymaris.
Yet somewhere beneath the noise and smoke and clatter, something in its rhythm tugged at her—familiar, and aching.
She thought of Nymaris’s narrow market lanes, where she used to wander with Fia trailing behind her, marvelling at goods unloaded from the piers. There, all the vendors knew her, greeting her with warm smiles and respectful bows. Those walks had been a sanctuary—a reminder that beyond the demands of court, life unfolded in a thousand quiet stories.
Here, she was just another face in the crowd.
