On a makeshift bed, behind the iron bars of his prison cell, Lasura sat staring at the two figures on the other side with an unshakable feeling that the real catastrophe to eclipse the quake they'd just survived was about to come. From his mother.

His mother, who should have been held captive somewhere by Deo to use as bait, or leverage, or a weapon against his father, had somehow managed to talk her way out of a hostage situation, muscled Deo into giving her directions through the tunnels, and arrived at the Barai long before the quake had begun. She had come, she'd said, to bring his father the terms of alliance offered by Sarasef––terms she appeared to have negotiated on his behalf, from Lasura's own deduction of the story.

The directions had brought her into the Barai the same way they came––through Chief Yaran's chamber––and by pure chance during his conversation with the healer regarding the assassination of the Salar. Long story short, she'd stayed hidden until the room was vacated, followed the healer to his quarter and switched the content of the vial his father was to be given with something else, then got herself into the Salar's chamber to make sure everything went according to plan. She'd done all this by utilizing the windows, making her way across the building from the outside to avoid being seen. She was born and raised in the Vilarhiti, she'd said, where everyone was taught to scale mountains twice as high as the Djamahari to hunt. In winter. By ten.

His mother, who had also killed the healer with a blow on the back of his head using a nearby oversized paperweight, having waited to see if he'd truly poison the Salar, then dragged her husband off to shelter under a desk, saving his life in the process.

His mother, who was now reciting the list of ingredients for medicine to an assistant healer, after having snapped orders for Akshay to relocate the wounded to the prisoner quarters––the least damaged buildings from the quake––and to throw her injured son into a prison cell, lock the door, then hand her the key. To keep him from running out to find Djari, the moment she had been told what happened.

'Akshay has sent out men to look for them,' she'd said. 'You're nothing but a burden with your injuries, and I don't have time to chase after a missing son.'

She hadn't spoken a word to him after that. She'd spoken to healers, to guards, to messengers, to Akshay who had somewhat given her control of the Barai. Why? Because there had been no one else who could do a better job, because her orders had made sense, because she'd demanded it, because the Salar's life was in her hands, and because she had seemed to be––and truly was––the only one who had her wits about her in the midst of this chaos.

It made sense, in a way. She was a Bharavi who had been through a massacre, a riot, a burning, two decades of court maneuvering, and the only woman who understood Salar Muradi of Rasharwi more than anyone alive, whether she liked that fact or not. And Akshay, who had authority in the Barai and was smart enough to see all of this, had decided to simply hand her the command, discreetly, of course. There was no way a Shakshi––or a woman––could hold real and public power in the Salasar, but to those who found themselves under direct command of Akshay, she had, quite naturally and smoothly, held them all by the balls in less than a day.

It made his hair stand, seeing her grab these reins as the one in power, how fast she could do it, how efficiently, and how easily the men around her were willing to follow her instructions. She even looked like his father when she snapped her orders, when she stood her ground, when she gestured for someone to be dismissed, or killed.

She also had, as of this morning, threatened to throw a guard off the balcony, having forgotten they weren't exactly in the Black Tower anymore, and then mumbled something about having lived with his father far too long.

To which he resentfully agreed, while Akshay simply nodded in approval.

It was a strange, scary thing to witness. Apparently, during their times as fugitives, his parents had miraculously come to some kind of an understanding and been working together to seize back his father's throne. On top of the fact that the two most toxic and insufferable humans in his known universe who just won't die had now formed an alliance, he also had a feeling this alliance had much to do with him. It meant that a catastrophe of epic proportions was coming, and he was to be a part––if not the center––of it, if his intuition turned out to be right.

If his father could be revived.

That wasn't certain yet, judging from the looks on his mother's face when she'd checked on him. She'd been giving him Shakshi remedies that were supposed to help him sleep, relying on his own strength and body to aid his recovery. She prayed, to Ravi, of course, as Shakshi healers did as a part of their traditional healing process. She'd been wearing white, and keeping her hair braided Shakshi style as she managed everything inside the Barai. She was overwhelmed with tasks, like his father back in the Tower, and angry most of the time, like his father, but even so, there was a sense of calmness around her he'd never seen before.

His mother was a free woman now, he reminded himself, and had slipped back into the role he imagined she once had long before her captivity. She reminded him of Djari now, not the other way around as before. He was angry she'd locked him up in here, but his mother was also the reason why he felt mostly anger, not loss.

He didn't know if it also had to do with Saya's words about seeing Djari with Rhykal (which could have easily been a lie) or the fact that they'd been given miracles after miracles that convinced him she was still alive, but whatever doubt he'd harbored had been obliterated by his mother's presence, along with the words she'd fired at him upon knowing what had happened, after she had him locked up and kept the key.

'You are of my blood,' she'd snapped angrily, jabbing a finger on his chest hard enough to leave a bruise. 'Even half contaminated with your father's you still have a trueblood oracle's intuition. Whether Djari iza Zuri is alive or dead, you already know the answer. If she's alive, the guards will find her. If she's dead, they'll find her body. Neither are tasks for a one-eyed man with thirty stitches that are yet to dry. You will sit here, stay alive, and tell me if we're searching for someone alive or a dead body.'

A trueblood oracle's intuition. His jaw had dropped at those words. "You knew?"

'I hid your toys when you were young,' she'd replied. 'You found them every time. Which is it, Lasura?'

He'd looked into her eyes, chest filled with another discovery too overwhelming for him to explain with reasons or logic, and realized that he had known the answer. Djari was alive, so was Rhykal izr Zoren. For now, at least, he'd told his mother. He could feel their presence, but not see their future.

His mother had nodded, snapped an order to Akshay, and turned away to deal with other things. There had been no embrace when they were reunited, no tears when she saw his injuries. She'd smiled when she first saw him again, and on her face was only pride when she saw his injuries and his missing eye. She hadn't said it out loud, but he was certain, 'Now, that's my son,' had been the unspoken words.

Not too different at all, from what he'd imagined his father would have done or said, had he been the one to see him arrive in that state.

And he was, as he'd discovered in that tunnel, while he was fighting the beast, he was, and undeniably so, their son.

There was a sense of pride in that, a touch of peace, somehow, in this catastrophe and chaos. There was also calm.

"I'm fine now," he said through the iron bars, to his mother who had been checking his father's pulse in the opposite cell, which had also been turned into an infirmary. "Let me out, Mother. I can help you."

His injuries were not two days old, but he could still walk, move about, help her sort out things, write something down. He'd rather be on the other side––the same side now––as they were.

***

Zahara turned to look at her son who seemed to have aged ten years since the last time they'd parted. Perhaps it was the fight, the injuries, the scars he'd accumulated along the way. Maybe it was something else she had yet to find out. Lasura had always looked like his father, but not this much, and never in presence. They could be mistaken now, from a distance, if one wasn't close enough to compare the signs of aging on their faces.

It should have bothered her more, somehow it didn't. She'd felt only hope and pride on their reunion. She could picture him now, on the throne, in Rasharwi, like his father, except he was also of Shakshi blood. Her people's blood, ruling the Salasar. That made her hair stand.

"If I'd known losing an eye was all it took for you to grow up, I'd have taken one out myself a long time ago," she said and gestured for the guards to let him out. He chuckled at that, and winced painfully as he wobbled over to her side of the prison.

"How is he?" Lasura asked, looking down at his father who suddenly seemed more frail and fragile in comparison, next to his young son.

"There's still a bit of Bayenne in his system," she said, touching his forehead with the back of her hand and finding it still too warm. "The fever is mild, but not gone. He should be all right for now, but if it comes back––"

"It won't," said her son. An interruption that felt less like defiance and more like someone asserting authority. "If you trust my trueblood intuition, that is."

It was only half a jest, that statement, she could tell from his confidence, his body language. He was someone she'd raised, no matter how distant they were. It eased her mind a little. Only a little, because there were still too many things to deal with once Ranveer recovered. If he recovered.

She'd come to bring Sarasef's terms of alliance. There were matters to discuss about how to deal with Azram, to secure an alliance with Niroza Naeem, how to make their next move. Now they were going to have to do all that while rebuilding the city and getting things back up and running as soon as possible. If Azram chose to send his army now, while half the city was in a mess after the quake, they would have no chance at winning. Especially with Muradi still in his sick bed, unconscious.

She could run things, managed many, perhaps plan some defense, but she had no experience leading an army or designing battle strategies. They had to stall for time, for as much time as possible, to wait for Muradi to wake up and start making decisions.

For now, Akshay had been working double time to clear the debris, locate survivors, and get them to healers. Rations had to be distributed to people in the city who'd lost their homes from the quake and the great flood that followed. The latter had wiped out the entire coastal area, damaged thirty merchant ships moored at all its three harbors, and destroyed more than half the city's food reserves according to the initial reports Akshay had given her. They were going to need aid, alliances, and a lot of money from the Raj to restore Samarra to its former glory, and years to do it. They didn't have years to stall Azram's army, and the Raj of Samara were no better than the Kha'as who were always more eager to kill each other than agree on what to be served at a joint banquet.

It wasn't even her city, but even from the rooftop of the prisoner quarter, she could see the ruins, the devastation, the loss of so many lives and homes, of children, parents, husbands, wives, and loved ones. Could still hear someone crying––screaming-–at intervals when a body was found. You'd have to be heartless to still see it as the land of your enemy under the circumstances. It anything, it reminded her of the massacre, the village Za'in izr Husari had burned, and what centuries of war had done to this peninsula. Muradi was right, it had to stop, and it was going to take both sides to do it, just like it was going to take all the Raj to restore this city.

"Mother."

She startled at the sound, felt Lasura's fingers on her arm, and realized she'd gone quiet for a long time. He closed his hand around her wrist, hand that felt as large as his father's. A harder, firmer grip, however, and one that sought to support, not to render her defenseless and unarmed.

"Tell me what I can do."

Men, she thought, could change so dramatically overnight.

"Can you write some letters?" she said, letting go of the breath she had't known she'd been holding, feeling a little less weight disappearing from her shoulders.

He nodded. "To who?"

"Was it Surdar Raj's or Bhira Raj's wife you slept with the last time you were in Samarra?"

***

A/N: Don't forgot to join us for fun for the Valentines Contest! I'd love to see you guy's entry :) (See previous chapter).

Also, a sneak preview of what will be in the special edition: A group of fans have commissioned 7 amazing images for the MCs which will be featured in it. Here's one of Nazir. I'm so so excited to share these with you. Subscribe to the site (siennafrost.com) for more reveals!