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He was dead now. A lonely, honorable death, where he would rest with the Sisters of Old for eternity.
Altair watched the zumra leave. He saw the fall of Zafira’s shoulders, knowing what this battle had cost her. He saw Nasir, felling ifrit after ifrit, leading the others to the Alder ship. He saw his mother, weakened by Sharr.
None of them looked for him. Not while they boarded the ship. Not when they loosened their sails. Not when they left him. Even the lonely kaftar had pitied him before dispersing into the ruins.
Leaving him shackled by the Lion’s shadows, unable to escape. He had helped the zumra, released that dizzying distraction of light. And they had left him.
Then he was thrown on his hands and knees, forced to work alongside the chittering, shrieking ifrit as they salvaged a ship from Sharr’s ruins. Now, days—weeks?—later, his chains rattled as the ship heaved across the Baransea.
He knew why the dark creature hated him and the prince: Because we have what you do not. We tumbled from the womb with all that you strive for.
They were descendants of one of the Sisters of Old, with magic in their veins. They were vessels of power, even if they weren’t as powerful as the full-blooded Sisters. They didn’t need a magical heart or the light of a royal minaret. The land needn’t host magic for them to wield it.
The shadows stirred, alerting him to a visitor. Waves crashed against the ship, roiling the insides of his stomach. While his brother trailed shadows on another ship, he tossed an orb of light to the cabin’s ceiling.
His visitor’s amber eyes glowed, tattoo gleaming bronze, elongated ears tucked beneath his ebony turban. Ears much like Altair’s own.
“Hello, Father,” said Altair. His voice was rough. “Come to gloat?”
The Lion of the Night smiled.
