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He wore a turban, though his fiery form obscured the color of the cloth. He towered a full head over Nasir, and his thobe stretched across his broad shoulders. Power rippled from him.
“Well?” the man asked Nasir by way of greeting. The cool tone of his voice was almost like Nasir’s. Zafira could barely make out the prince’s features, but he seemed to have changed.
Weakened. Shrunk.
Her confusion amplified, and so did the fear ricocheting in her chest. She shivered, and if she hadn’t been so focused on the scene before her, she would have heard the footsteps behind her. But when the barely perceptible crunch of sand sounded directly behind her, it was too late.
A hand clamped around her mouth. She struggled as silently as she could, trying to part her mouth and use her teeth.
“Shh,” a voice whispered, warm breath on her ear. “I’m going to let go, and you’re going to keep silent. Understood?”
Altair. Oh, this kept getting better and better. She nodded, and after a beat his hand fell away.
He stepped to her left, face grim.
“Ten days have passed,” Nasir said to the fire, voice flat. Dead.
The fire figure shimmered. “Do you think me inane like you, boy? I know how long it’s been.”
Zafira flinched at the man’s discourteous tone. “Discourteous” was describing it mildly. He had the same gray eyes as Nasir but an even colder version of them. The rest of the man’s features looked vaguely familiar, too. Is that…?
“Who is that?” she whispered, dread settling in her stomach.
Altair set his mouth at an angle. “Your king. The Sultan of Arawiya.”
The man who had murdered Sarasin’s caliph. The man who had sent two men after her. The man who made the Prince of Death, feared across Arawiya, cower before a fire.
Nasir cleared his throat. “You wanted me to summon you.”
“I know what I told you to do.”
With that, the sultan turned away, leaving Nasir clenching his fists and staring at the back of his father’s head. His daama father.
“What is the sultan doing here?” Zafira asked slowly.
“Not here. He’s in Sultan’s Keep—Nasir summoned him using dum sihr,” Altair said, frowning. “Likely with blood from the Silver Witch, because there’s no other way to perform such a spell in Arawiya.”
“He looks as grumpy as Nasir,” she said, then nudged Altair forward with her shoulder, whispering, “Say hi.”
He cut her a look of disgust. “This isn’t funny.”
She nearly laughed at the look on his face. “I didn’t say it was. I’m so used to you cracking all the jokes. I missed them.”
Zafira paused. Altair stilled. “Did you—” he started, just as she said, “Actually—”
Did I really just say I missed something about him? No, she told herself. She missed his easy banter, because she missed Yasmine’s. She missed Yasmine, khalas.
“Why would Nasir summon him?” Zafira asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence. She refused to believe Nasir would do whatever the Sultan of Arawiya ordered. He was a prince. He was deadly. He was privileged. He—
“He follows orders.”
“But why? Is he afraid of the sultan?” She recalled the scars on his back. The rows and rows of black. “He’s afraid of being hurt.”
Altair scoffed. “Nasir? He doesn’t fear pain. Not anymore.”
Not anymore.
The chamber brightened with a shift in the fire, and Nasir took a step back. Altair grabbed her hand and they froze, though they were safe in the shadows.
