Page 7 of Queen of Shadows and Ruin

There he was.

Sitting on his throne, his posture casual, with one knee tossed over the other.

Abishek. King of Andhera. Her father.

He sat up straighter, his hands clutching the armrests as they assessed one another from across the room.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d been picturing.

Someone with the same features. Someone with the same dark hair and eyes. What she wanted to see was something that proved she belonged to him. Something that confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that she belonged here.

She could sense Yasen and Rabin on either side, half a step back as they waited for her to react. She placed one foot in front of the other as the king slowly rose from his seat. Zarya briefly noted the woman dressed in fighting leathers standing on his left, her arms folded and her stance wide, before returning her attention to Abishek.

As the king watched her intensely, she slowly approached—another step and then another.

She stopped a few paces from the dais, and they stared at one another.

Tracing the shape of his nose and his mouth, she realized these were the pieces she’d inherited. This man was a part of her.

Maybe she still hadn’t believed any of it was true.

Maybe a tiny part of her had still doubted until this very moment.

But suddenly, she understood that her arrival had always been inevitable, no matter her reservations or Row’s warnings. She’d spent too much of her life wishing for a family to ignore that he lived and that he’d been waiting for her.

“Father,” she whispered.

TWO

The word seemed to hang in the air, coalescing into something solid and malleable, dense but shapeable depending on what direction the wind blew. It tethered her to the floor, cementing her to the snow and mountains and gusts of cold air howling across the tundra.

Father.

There he stood, blinking as if also trying to convince himself she was real. He wore black leather pants and a black kurta, his wavy hair brushing the tops of his shoulders. Like all Aazheri, his appearance belied his age, but they did age, albeit slowly, and the finest lines hugged his forehead and the corners of his eyes. He was at least as old as Row—nearly ancient—a fact that became obvious in the bottomless depth of his assessing stare.

“We bring news from Gi’ana,” Rabin said, bending at the waist and pressing a fist to his heart. “And as you can see, I also bring a few visitors who I think you will be pleased to meet.”

“Is this… her?” Abishek asked, raking Zarya from head to toe. “Zarya?”

She nodded, tears pressing her eyes as she suddenly felt the strangest urge to cry.

Abishek took a slow step down the dais and paused, almost as if he was worried about approaching too quickly. She responded by moving an inch closer.

“Pleased indeed,” he whispered, descending another step and then another before his boots hit the floor. Slowly, he neared, studying her face. She felt his assessment in how he took in each of her features.

Eyes. Nose. Mouth.

Hair. Head. Face.

He stopped and cocked his head.

“You look exactly like her,” he said, but she couldn’t determine the essence of that sentiment, good or bad.

She offered him a rueful twist of her lips. “So, I’ve been told.”

Abishek huffed out a small breath that might have resembled a laugh. “Remarkable. Absolutely remarkable. When Rabindranath told me you existed, I couldn’t quite believe it. Perhaps I didn’t dare. A child. Though, you are already a grown woman.”

Zarya nodded. “I didn’t know of you until a few months ago, either.”