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“That remains to be seen, azizi,” he promised, and crossed the final distance to the Gilded Throne, the golden light illuminating an odd pallor to his skin.
Lana whispered a sob, and Zafira knew how she felt, how everyone in this room felt, even the ancient safin. It was one thing to hear that the Lion of the Night was alive. It was quite another to see him in the flesh.
“It won’t accept him,” Kifah murmured with razor-edged hope, banking on a truth every child knew: The Gilded Throne allows only the blood of the Sisters or the ones they’ve appointed.
The room was charged with that very thought.
The thud of his footsteps echoed when he turned, and Zafira thought she caught a hint of fervent green from the folds of his robes, her stomach lurching for the barest of instances before her heart did the same as the Lion lowered himself onto the Gilded Throne.
Nothing happened—at first. The throne didn’t repel him. It didn’t thunder and throw him off.
Laa.
It changed. The gold became black, color draining from left to right, smoke curling like ashes on the wind. Kifah loosed a strangled breath.
The resulting silence was deafening, the death of an era, and the Lion’s soft, triumphant sigh was a roar immortalized in history.
A silver-liveried guard stirred from the foot of the dais, the thick suspense in the hall slowing time as the fool dropped to his knees, awe hollowing his voice when he said, “Sultani.”
The Lion frowned. “I never did like the word. The sultan is dead. This night, we abandon the old ways and bring forth the new: I am king. King of Arawiya.”
And then he flourished a hand, his command like a knife.
“Kill them.”
ACT II
VICTORIOUS UNTIL THE END
CHAPTER 53
The room erupted in chaos as ifrit pulled away from the shadows and every last person realized why the Lion had invited them, the governing heads of Arawiya. Zafira was a reed in a flood, helpless, hopeless, before she found her roots and stood her ground.
“The doors,” she shouted over the din, and if her voice cracked, no one heard it. “We need to get them open.”
Or not a single ruler would be left.
Kifah’s features were frozen in shock. “Laa, laa. It shouldn’t have—the throne—it—”
“Kifah,” Zafira snapped, and the warrior recovered with a lamenting breath. She flicked open her spear, and with a few rapid nods, disappeared into the fray.
Ifrit clashed staves with guards, hashashins, and armed dignitary alike—all while the Lion reveled in the ruin of his own making.
“You need your bow,” Lana said eagerly.
“I need you to stay safe.” Zafira gripped her shoulders, digging her fingers in to stop their trembling. “Look at me. Stay with the crowd. Don’t help anyone.”
Disappointment flashed across her sister’s face. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
“Don’t,” Zafira warned, wavering. The blank horror on Kifah’s face had shaken her will. “I’m not going to dig you a grave, Lana. Do you understand? Do this for me.”
Lana finally appeased her with a nod.
A few cowardly guards braved the steps to swear loyalty, and Zafira seized the distraction. She leaped over the table and dropped to her knees in front of Nasir on the first step of the dais.
“We need to go,” she said. “He will kill you.”
“Let him.” Desolation swallowed his already quiet voice.
