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“I understand in some way,” she corrected. “To have words collect on your tongue, but feel as if they aren’t worth voicing. To feel as if no one wants to listen.”
It was his truth, a lie ingrained into the fibers of his being: His words were not meant to be voiced. No one cared. He looked away, and she knew she had struck true.
“I want to,” she said.
His head lifted, and the last of the sun lit his eyes in gold. She wanted every word he would give her. She would listen for as long as he would let her. But he looked at her as if she were a knife to an already bleeding wound.
“I can’t—I don’t want this,” he breathed. “I don’t want to pick one of them as my bride.”
“Then tell him,” she said firmly, though knowing it was not so easy. “Tonight, at the feast itself, tell him. Do as your
soul desires.”
CHAPTER 46
Altair had spent the entire night searching for clues and racking his brain for why the Lion might need Aya, to no avail. He hadn’t been able to talk to her again, either, for the Lion had kept her secured. Precaution, in case his son decided to kill her. It spoke to how little the Lion truly trusted him, but Altair didn’t mind.
He knew what he needed.
The door opened for the Lion and several ifrit. In the center of the room, one unfurled a bedroll generous enough for a sultan. Another set out a tray of tools, instruments meant for a healer. A third brought in yet another tray, empty and pristine.
Upon it, the Lion set down an organ, crimson and pulsing.
The final heart of the Sisters of Old, the embodiment of Altair’s mistake. Because he had planned and schemed and plotted, but he hadn’t even considered he might be kidnapped himself.
“Well done, my kin,” the Lion said, the Jawarat in his hand. He met Altair’s confusion with a staid smile. “Are you ready, Altair?”
“Er,” said Altair, “for what?”
“To live forever,” he said simply. “We will be at the forefront of a new Arawiya.”
Altair opened his mouth, dread stealing his ability to make light of the moment. A frenzy bubbled in his veins, and his pulse quickened when he noticed that beneath his open robes, the Lion wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“Now,” the Lion said to the ifrit near him. “Bring us Aya.”
A healer and a heart.
Altair wished his mind didn’t work so quickly. To be blissfully unaware was a blessing of its own.
I would need a heart to claim otherwise.
The Lion was half ifrit, half safin. Born without a heart, but with the cavity for one. There was an actual hole in his chest. What better way to fill it than with the object he desired more than anything else?
Altair struggled for air. With this, his father would be as powerful as the Sisters of Old. Limitless in his capabilities. Unmatched by anyone else.
The Lion set down the Jawarat.
Altair didn’t think. He lunged, slower than he should have done, which only made his triumph blaze brighter when his hands closed around the Jawarat. The Lion remained still even as the ifrit scrambled.
As power shifted in a single, dividing moment.
The book hummed in Altair’s hands, a low, almost imperceptible sound akin to that of a content cat. It was connected to him in a way his father might soon be, as it was forged with the blood of the Sisters of Old, the very same that coursed through his veins.
And Altair was going to destroy it.
He opened the book to its middle, its worn pages rough.
“I should have known,” the Lion remarked softly, almost sadly. “We are mirrors, you and I. Only you cannot see it. Go on, my son. Tear it apart.”
