Zahara stood by the window, hoping to get some fresh air through the small opening without success, wondering if she would ever get used to the humidity that made every breath more suffocating than the last. She could endure Samarra's weather well enough with some breeze to get the wet, foul-smelling air moving, but on a night like this, when the wind had died down completely and the heat seemed to have multiplied tenfold, the small, poorly-ventilated room felt like the inside of a boiling kettle with its lid shut tight to make sure everyone who resided in it drown in their sweat or suffocate to death by the stench it produced.

Neither her discomfort nor the bad feeling in her stomach appeared to be shared by the rest who'd gathered to hear the briefing for tonight's prison break, however. Then again, none of them had been born, raised, and kept alive solely in the desert, or knew the many expressions of the man in charge as well as she did. The heat and humidity might have been normal for Samarra, the former Salar of Rasharwi's mood was not.

At her end of the dining room table made for six, oblivious to the beads of sweat that began to form on his forehead, Ranveer Borkhan stood with his hand on the prison map, pointing out the three possible exits and the one they'd chosen. Ghaul was a step behind him, as always––an oversized, looming shadow there to make sure everyone's attention never faltered long enough to put his master's life at risk. To his right was Lucidra Naeem, her son Leandras, and her quartermaster Matteo, all visibly uncomfortable with receiving instructions from an outsider but had settled to endure. Qasim and his men filled the rest of the space with nothing but the casual excitement of raiders looking for a chance to pillage and burn for the sake of it. She hadn't seen di Amarra since she'd gone to Lucidra's ship, only an exchange of letters between him and Ranveer. They were all dressed in black for camouflage, armed to the teeth with everything they could carry.

Except their leader who was still in the light tunic he'd put on two mornings ago. Having spent the past couple of days making sure the plan contained no mistakes he'd overlooked, Ranveer had eaten little, slept no more than a few hours, and the fatigue was beginning to show.

It didn't happen often back in the Tower. Muradi, while obsessed with being awake and productive, knew the importance of being ready for a fight. Checking on final details of plans and strategies had always been Jarem's job, and had he been alive, he would have taken over and sent his Salar to bed days ago. She and the late Commander might not have been able to exchange a sentence without needing an enormous amount of self-control to stop themselves from jumping at each other's throat, but one would have to be an ignorant fool to not notice the damage Jarem's absence had left behind on his master. Ranveer's frustration, which had less to do with fatigue than his right hand man being missing, had been accumulating like smoke trapped in a room with no way out, and it was about to choke him to death along with everyone else within a hundred paces radius.

Not a good state to be in before a fight, or to be working with a new crew whose loyalty and obedience still had to be earned.

"The Barai is Samarra's most secure prison," explained Ranveer. "It's proximity to the city guard's headquarter means once the breach is known, we won't have long to vacate the ground. We go in as quickly as we can, as quietly as we can, and leave as soon as we can. The south entrance is your best option and the closest to shore. When Niroza and his crew are free, we drop them weapons, and we leave for Lucidra's ships which will be waiting by the beach between pier twelve and fifteen. You have until the first bell to make it. Fall behind, and you're on your own. We do not go back to save anybody, is that clear?"

A reasonable plan, she thought, one with which Qasim and his lot seemed to be in easy agreement. Samarra's bell tower, it had been explained to her, was there to signal every morning's sunrise, at which time all ships leaving on that day would begin making preparations to sail. The ports would be congested within the hour with sailors, merchants, passengers, and tax collectors, along with their guards. Lucidra's ships would have to be far from shore by then for them to outrun the pursuing navy. Timing was the most crucial part of the plan.

Leandras, however, disagreed. "You expect us to leave our men behind."

Lucidra stiffened. The quartermaster parted his mouth to speak but decided otherwise. Ranveer looked up, gave himself a moment to calm, and replied, though not so calmly, "I expect missions to be accomplished with the least casualties."

"The least casualties," said Leandras, "is accomplished by saving people, not leaving them behind."

Ranveer's hand froze in midair over the map. his blue eyes lit up like a dry flint struck at speed at the defiance on display. He breathed, once, twice, and, to her surprise, managed to keep the heat contained. For now. "Do you," he said, biting back anger at the end of each word, "have a problem with my command?"

It ought to have been enough warning, knowing who he was and what he was capable of, but young men were young, and sons who harbored wounds from a parent wanted closure, not reason. "We do not leave our comrades to die," said Leandras, chin held high enough to challenge a god. "That is not who we are."

Ranveer––no, Muradi now from the way he held himself, and the return of a familiar stench of blood that used to accompany him wherever he went–-having just been dethroned by a son and was possibly being challenged again by another, drew himself up to this full height and replied, teeth gritted tight enough to bite through steel, "I said," the words came out of him like the crack of a whip, like thunder, "do you have a problem with my command?"

Lucidra jumped in front of her son before the end of the sentence, hand wrapped tight around the hilt of her dagger by sheer instinct, ready to clear it from the scabbard. Ghaul mimicked the reaction with his axe in less than a heartbeat, promising to bring it down on whoever made the first move. By now, Zahara knew––everyone knew––it was less about logic than about a young man's need to vent his bitterness at his father, and Muradi being in dire need of an excuse to throw someone off his Tower. Do that here, however, and Lucidra Naeem would climb that table to plunge her jagged-tooth dagger into his eye, but before that Ghaul's axe would find her head and split it open. It would bring an end to their alliance and start an impossible conflict to fix. It could not be allowed to happen.

But insubordination could not go unpunished when you held command, and with Qasim and his men watching, backing down wasn't an option for Ranveer, not when his grip on power was still slippery, not, especially, when he'd been dealing with Jarem's death, the betrayal of his son, and the loss of his throne combined. She wondered if Leandras knew how many lives depended on his answer to that question at this precise moment.

She didn't think he did.

***

The clang of his obsidian blade hitting the table yanked Ranveer out of his thoughts. He turned to look, the same raw, raging pressure that had burst out of nowhere still banging against his ribs, and found Zahara standing beside him with an expression that resembled his need to throw someone off his Tower. The room stared at her, wide eyed, in confusion. She waited for––and earned––three heartbeats of silence before addressing them all.

"I'm sure you all want to do what is best for your men," she said in Shakshi-accented Samarran that somehow managed to turn the smooth, vibrant language into something made for decapitation. "But here and now you are standing in front of the former Salar of Rasharwi, the man you have chosen to lead, to get you what you want. If you think you can do a better job, then clear the room, pick up your weapons, and challenge him."

It dropped into the room like a brick flung down from somewhere high, and for a moment, all who resided in it seemed to have stopped breathing. She drew herself up straight and speared a finger at the table where the blade she'd flung down lay. "Do it," she said, "and do it now before we all die from an unorganized rebellion and insubordination. If you have a problem with his command, you will fight him here, and you will kill him here, or you will die here."

They would, by logic and reasons, have to die if they chose to defy him and lose. He could not afford the risk of having traitors among them at this point. But by making it an official duel, deaths from such fights would be honored and not avenged, and it gave them all a moment to think with their heads clear. He remembered then that she had been born in the desert, and that this was how things were done among her people. A duel involving the Kha'a or Khumar was always to the death. You got one chance to challenge your superior, no more.

For all their display of defiance, no one made a sound or moved a muscle. Time seemed to have come to a stop, and was waiting for her permission to continue. She took her time to breathe and exhale, and, when she was done, turned to him.

"My lord," she said, her expression and words milder now to compliment the use of that title she'd carefully chosen to put on display. "You will have to manage with only one arm. The other must not be put to work. It has not healed."

It was, of course, a point he'd needed to demonstrate, and had hoped to do so some time tonight, carefully, thoughtfully. They all needed a reminder of what he was, who he was, and what they had all gathered here to accomplish. Somewhere along the way, his temper had gotten the better of him, and had Leandras been allowed to make that reply, had Zahara not interfered the way she did, it would have given him no choice, no choice at all, but to maim or kill the boy.

He had wanted to, just now.

"Well then," he said, feeling the pressure in his chest receding by half even as he picked up the sword, "shall we fight it out to entertain my wife, or shall we continue like grown men?"

***

"Is there pain?" Zahara asked as she removed the bandage from Ranveer's arm and massaged the muscles around the old injury. The wrappings had to be changed to accommodate the activities tonight. He could fight now, when all the wounds have closed and healed to a certain point, but there were limits, still, to what he could or should do.

"No," he said, then winced when she moved to an area above it. "There, yes. A little. A lot."

She liked that honesty not often found among her male patients. Muradi was a man who understood the importance of discarding pride for logic. Usually, in any case. What had happened earlier tonight still gave her a chill. "You were lucky they didn't fight you." She thanked Ravi for that afterward. The briefing had concluded well, even if she could see no real loyalty or obedience gained. Not yet anyway.

He snorted. "I can still take them all down."

"Then walk away with no allies and more wounds for me to heal. How generous of you."

He grinned, halfheartedly. "One of those is a good thing."

She knew what that meant, and hated what it did to the creatures in her stomach. "More injuries won't stop me from leaving, if that's what you're aiming for." She knew he wouldn't go that far, but it was a good opportunity to remind him, to wound. She was one of the few who could wound him and survive.

One of the few who was still alive.

He gave no reply. He looked away, to stare at something behind her to his right. Maybe the cheap painting. Maybe the crack on the wall. Maybe someone who should have been there tonight but wasn't.

Another person who could wound him, and was gone.

Wounds, she thought. There had been many. There would be more to come if he continued to walk this path. It was a good thing, she decided. She had told him she was here to make sure he suffered, after all.

"You may have to avoid using your left-handed sword, or go with just one," she said, searching for more ways to wound.

It worked. He hated it, she could tell from his expression. He was used to wielding two blades. It must feel like losing an arm. Good. "Although..." She watched him wait anxiously for her verdict, her permission. Holding power was also satisfying. "A light, short sword might be possible."

He shook his head. "A light, short sword is unimpressive."

That revealed something. "You plan to bring your twin obsidian blades...to reveal your identity tonight? Why?" The swords were the equivalent of a crown for every Salar of Rasharwi, that was why Azram also needed to get them back to the Black Tower. Those blades, though surgical sharp, were brittle and technically useless for parring in a real fight. The blades themselves had had to be remade many times in the past. He usually carried them to war only for symbolism and used them mainly for execution. If he decided to bring them tonight, it was to make an impression, a statement. But to what end?

"I need to lead these men, to get them in line quickly."

Understandable, but still too much of a risk and too soon in her opinion. Azram would then know where to hunt him down, and without a proper army to protect him, he would be dead by morning. Even if he managed to free Niroza and his men, which was still very much a gamble at this point, their number was not nearly enough to go against an army Azram would send to kill him. "You're hiding something." She was sure of it.

"Am I?" He looked at her and waited. He liked to test her intelligence. It excited him.

She went through the facts in her head, trying to see what she'd missed. "You don't have enough men to storm the prison in the first place, which means you have another plan to deal with those city guards...and this plan..." She paused to think. He watched her through it quietly, attentively. "... will also get you the men you need to take the city and deal with Azram's army. You're not telling them because you want them to think they've won this on their own. To give them a taste of victory...and because you don't trust them."

He took her wrist in his hand, turned it around and pressed his lips on the usual spot he liked to kiss. She let him, out of habit. "And failing miserably to fool my wife, it seems," he said. "I should have known."

"You wouldn't tell me in any case." She was the last person to trust, after all.

"Maybe I've been waiting," he said, pressing his thumb closer on the underside of her wrist, "for you to ask."

He liked to do that too––to see how fast he could get her pulse to change in speed by something he did or said. She hated that it worked sometimes, which, in turn, excited him. "I'm not here to replace Jarem, if that's what you want."

She watched him take the knives in her words and congratulated herself for the result. He'd needed Jarem's precision, especially tonight, or maybe just someone to discuss his plans with, both happened to be shoes Ghaul couldn't fill. That wound was still too raw, too recent, and rotting so badly it produced a scent, and she knew bringing it up would rip it open further. He would strike back at her for that. He usually did.

It never came. Not tonight.

Tonight, he took his time. Tonight, something was different.

A breeze came through the window, barely detectable, but could still be felt on her skin, on his. There was no moon tonight, and only the lights from the hurricane lamps allowed her to see his expression and the change in it. Ranveer sat unnervingly still on the bed, stripped down to the skin from his waist up, facing her. She could see the scar she'd given him with her blade, and the ones he'd already carried when they first met. They seemed deeper now, and alive, in the contrast of the dancing light and shadow made by the flames.

It brought back memories that made her feel vulnerable. Vulnerable, to the sight of him, of his skin once painted with the blood of her people, of his body that hadn't changed much from their encounter that first night in the tent, of years and years of having tended to him, learning his gestures, predicting his thoughts, and preparing for his next attack. Which made her realize just now, deep down in her blood, in her bones, that she had come to know and understand this man more than anyone who'd ever lived. And it was because of this knowledge, this expertise, that she could tell he was thinking about something he hadn't before, turning it over in his mind, measuring its size and weight, and, for the first time in two decades, was allowing her to see that uncertainty, that vulnerability, without a veil or an attempt to hide.

"Was I wrong?" he said. It felt like a clenched fist, the way he'd formed those words, one that closed around her heart. "Should I have let him live?"

Something stirred in the room, something came out of hiding and revealed itself to her, to both of them. She had thought once, that guilt was not a thing one could force him to wear, but here and now he was trying it on for size, and asking her if it fit.

What changed? Having lost his throne and Jarem? Being forced to confront his past and a possible son he might have left behind? Being confronted by said son just now?

Or having reached a common ground with her?

Was it possible, she trembled at the thought, that she was being given a second chance here? A woman who didn't know how to fight, trapped once more in a small space lit by small lanterns, holding a small conversation that could turn in any direction. For the first time in decades, perhaps also in her life, Zahara could feel the weight of her response and the power she had been given that could change the fate of the entire peninsula.

"I believe," she replied, taking that small step in a direction she'd never tried, "that Jarem would have taken his own life if you had spared it. That for all his flaws and ignorance, what he believed in, his pride, his integrity as a person, would not have allowed him to live with such mistakes. It is about time you know..." She breathed again, to prepare herself for what she needed to say, what she should have said a long time ago. "...that whether someone lives or dies, it is not always your decision to make." She looked up then, catching his eyes. "Or your sin to carry."

It was an old story everyone knew and talked about behind closed doors: the death of his mother and the hand that had delivered it. She had wondered sometimes, if everything he'd done, if his ruthlessness in seeking power and the attempt to fix everything that was wrong with the world had been to justify that one decision he was forced to make. You could pile endless more bodies that way to cover the stench of the first and made it a bigger pile of corpses for nothing. Or you could bury it somewhere deep and never look back. Sometimes all you needed was permission, spoken somewhere, by someone who mattered.

Have I, she wondered, been doing the same thing?

He gripped her wrist tighter, as if he could hear it, as if she had said that out loud. "Neither," he said, a gentleness there, in his words, in his eyes, also tried on for size, and still struggling to fit, "is it yours, Zahara."

The world went still for a short moment. She stared at him, out of breath and words to say. The weight in her chest she hadn't known was there materialized, quivered, and seemed to shrink at its discovery.

"War makes a prisoner of us all. Those deaths were not yours to carry. They were mine. They were ours. They were the carnage our ancestors left behind for being humans. All we can do is bury the dead, move forward, and do better."

He squeezed her wrist again, harder this time. "Stay, Zahara," he said. "Stay with me. At least until I take Samarra. Stay, when we discuss strategies. Stay until the end of it. Stay as long as you can and tell me how to do better. Make me a better man than I was yesterday. Stop me, as you did tonight, before I cross the line. I need you here."

Small ripples. Gentle waves, crashing upon rocks and stones, shaping and reshaping the world as it did. She could hear it all again, those cries and screams from people she couldn't save. The weight of eight thousand lives on her shoulders. The crushing pressure that had to go somewhere, turning into hate, into vengeance, directed at a man who was trying to do better for two decades.

And he was asking her now, to stop him before he crossed the line.

"You want my counsel," she said, breathlessly. It was hard to breathe.

"I do."

"From a woman?"

"From someone willing to be direct with me."

That, she could be. "Most men hate it."

"Most men are imbeciles." He was grinning now. A good thing to see before the fight tonight.

"I will know your plans," she said.

"I'm aware." He nodded.

"I can use them to destroy you."

"I know that, too." He shifted his weight, trying to deal with a certain discomfort––a discomfort she could identify.

"And stab you in the back when you're not looking." She decided to push it further, out of principle.

"It's not wise, Zahara," he said, drawing a sharp breath between the words, "to excite a man and deprive him of release before battle."

She ignored him for a time, finished rewrapping the bandage, and suppressed a smile to see his muscles grow suddenly tensed when she withdrew.

"We have a saying in the White Desert," she told him, "that it's tougher to kill a man who goes into a fight with his cock hard and weeping. It's why our warriors refrain from sexual activities at least a week before Raviyani and a month before each Dyal. If you are hard and deprived, I'd say you're ready for battle."

He chuckled painfully, and made a face she hadn't seen since Jarem had died. "For battle, Zahara?" he grumbled painfully. "For what you've done to me, I'm ready for two fucking wars."

***

A/N: I know I'm so late but this chapter was especially difficult to get right and life has been hectic lately. I'm so happy to be able to release this on my birthday though and so very happy with it. At least it's longer than usual. I hope this is worth the wait. 

Also, just a heads up for those who missed the chance last time, the ebook of Awakening will be on sale for 99c from 30th of May for 7 days, and the price for the paperback is temporarily marked down to the point where I make zero profit to celebrate my birthday month. Throw a search on Amazon for "Obsidian: Awakening" or "Sienna Frost" if you'd like to grab one. :) Thank you again for being on this journey with me.