He had envisioned her just like this in his nightmares; his mother with her silver hair shimmering like a newly honed blade, her eyes burning an incinerating amber as she told his father he would never have the White Desert in this life or the next. An old story he'd been told by both his parents. A story filled with rage from one and intrigue from the other.

He wondered if this had been how it felt, if his father's heart had beaten just as fast, as heavy, and with so much need to engage. For the first time in his life, Lasura understood why his mother had been kept alive all these years, how powerful her presence had been to his father, looking at the young bharavi standing in front of him in that hall.

There had been no vision in that moment before the lightning struck, no voice in his head that explained what had happened, how, or why. His whole life had begun to make sense. His existence became clearer, like stepping out of a fog or breaking the surface of some dark waters he'd been drowning in. And then, rising from the ground, wrapping around them like a storm—a power so strong, so unstoppable had filled the hall and altered their surrounding. In the middle of it all, he could sense some things being shifted into place, others propelled into motion. Lasura knew then, that their meeting had been planned a long time ago by something—someone—much bigger than all of them.

And so had she, that much he was certain. She knew and was using it to her advantage, standing there so large and tall despite her small frame, fearlessly and deliberately declaring war with the Salasar. With his father, to be exact.

Our warriors, she'd said, as if she had the authority to decide any of it.

No one had seen that coming, not even the Sparrow who was staring wide-eyed at her. It occurred to Lasura then, that she must have decided on it just now.

"The salar is not the only one who can offer you an army," she turned to Sarasef, spoke as if the dais also belonged to her. "Promise a safe return of me and both my men, and I will see that my father sends our warriors to deal with your brother. You can send these men back to the Salasar. There is no need here to start a war."

Words of pure arrogance with no considerations given to consequences. She looked and sounded like his mother, and that pissed him off more than anything else.

"There will be war, my lady," he said, turning from her to address Sarasef. "If you side with Za'in izr Husari, Grand Chief, you break your alliance with the Salasar." He paused, feeling a tug from years of being taught discipline and diplomacy telling him not to finish that speech. Ignored it. "My father will crush you both, I assure you."

She shot him a glare, placed a foot forward as if to challenge him into a duel. "He can try."

"He will try," said Lasura, rising to the occasion, "and succeed as he did in the Vilarhiti."

"Don't," hissed the Sparrow, "be so sure."

"And are you," Lasura sneered openly at that warning, "sure you want to do this? Have you given thought to the consequences of your actions? Our mentor, your master, the man who's bought you from the House of Azalea and set you free, twice, was just held in the Tower's dungeon before we came. He is being charged with treason for aiding your escape, for your murder. He will be," he rasped, a raw, rumbling anger rising in his chest at the thought, "executed for your crime if we fail this negotiation. Be sure, Sparrow. Be absolutely sure where you want to stand. Because as far as I know, he has been your family, your savior, and Rasharwi your home for a lot longer than your bharavi and her khagan, and you will choose this path? To stand there and see them both burned?"

For a time, the hurt in those cold, gray eyes could be seen from across the room. It disappeared the moment the Sparrow took a glance at the bharavi, his expression replaced so suddenly by the look of a man who'd made his decision long ago and was harboring no room for alternatives. There was a bond between them just as clear and irreversible as the crack on the marble made by the lightning, and for all the pain he'd let slip, the Sparrow stood his ground.

"I have sworn only one oath in my life," said the Silver Sparrow, holding none but Deo di Amarra's eyes as he spoke. "It is to Djari Iza Zuri. You ask if I will see them both burned. My answer, Prince Lasura, is yes, and I will do more." He paused and turned from Deo to address the room, making sure the words could be heard and remembered for life. "My place is between Djari and whoever brings her harm. I will kill whoever she wants to see dead and fight wherever she wishes me to fight. If she wants the world set on fire, I will strike that flint myself. I know where I stand. It will not change for as long as I live. The question is," he paused, turning his attention to Lasura, "do you?"

It shouldn't have mattered. Words from a man one barely knew shouldn't hold significance to him, to anyone. And yet he found himself unable to reply to that, not with the same conviction shown by the Sparrow.

"You are a son of a bharavi," Hasheem continued. "Born to a mother who has been captured, raped, and enslaved by the man who's wiped out her home. You don't belong in Rasharwi. Half the Black Tower sees you as an excess, an unworthy residence, the other half wants you dead. Yet you are standing here, proposing to fight for a land that will never count you as its own—"

"No land will count me as its own," Lasura cut in mid-sentence, his control slipping at words he'd heard a hundred times from his own mother, "including the White Desert whose people will hunt you down like a dog if they knew what you were, just as they would hunt me down for my father's blood. If Rasharwi falls, I will die with it. The Shakshis will have my head after they've hacked off my limbs and put it on a spike. That is the land you think I should be fighting for. What's the difference, Sparrow? Tell me. What is it that my father did that you or your people haven't done? How many villages has Za'in izr Husari burned? How many people—innocent people—has he killed?

This is warfare, make no mistake of it. We are all monsters here, fighting for our own survival, for prosperity, for peace at the cost of another's. I will fight for my right to live. That is where I stand, and you can talk to me of righteousness, of mercy, of a world better than the one I live in when the Shakshis are ready and willing to accept us as their own and for who we are." He turned to Sarasef, realizing just then that he was out of breath from having raised his voice to almost a shout. Didn't care.

"There will be war, no matter which side you choose to fight on, Grand Chief. I have brought with me a gift of kings, a young spotted eagle from the same nest as the salar's as a gesture of good faith. An army is waiting for you to utilize against your brother should you choose to use it. In return, we ask that you train our army to fight and aid us on the campaign to take the White Desert, starting with the Visarya khagan. And when all is done, when the peninsula is united under one rule," he paused, took the breath needed to offer what he had been given permission to should the situation calls for it, "you may take your share of the land, an area from the south of Suma to the coastline, given to the Rishi to use and govern under the rule of the Salasar for as long as you remain our ally. That is our proposal."

It was a tremendous offer. Sarasef and the Rishi would control the entire southern coastline, including the ports of Samarra, the taxing of its wine production, and all trades done in the province. It should matter enough to shift a mountain, but if it did, Sarasef didn't let it show.

"And if I refuse?" Asked the Grand Chief calmly.

Lasura swallowed. They could die for this, Deo and him, in that very room where they stood. "Then we go to Saracen and you will have to fight both your brother and the Salasar."

"But not the White Desert," Djari's voice filled the hall, drew everyone's attention.

The girl couldn't be more than fifteen, Lasura thought, perhaps younger if one were to consider only her size and physique, but somehow she could always make herself feel like a threat. Her arrogance, most of all, made him want to prove her wrong. Constantly.

"The White Desert, my Lady?" said Lasura. "How many khagans are at war with each other right now, iza Zuri? Enlighten me, if you will."

"The khagans will unite under a common enemy. It has been done before. When that happens—"

"If that happens." The retort came out of him like instinct, trained to perfection from having dealt with his mother for nearly two decades. "Who do you think will unite the khagans? Who is fit to lead that army? Za'in izr Husari whose legacy has brought the most bloodshed in the White Desert? Another kha'a your father will bend to? You?"

"She is," said the Sparrow, "backed by the gods, do not forget."

And in that moment, just before Lasura could deliver a response, Deo di Amarra did instead. "So," he said firmly, finally, "is Prince Lasura of Rasharwi."

The room fell into an abrupt silence. They were all looking at him now, quietly, thoughtfully. Lasura turned to his mentor, lost, confused, and feeling suddenly sick. "What?"

"You are not the only child who has been born with the prophecy to end the war, my lady," said Deo di Amarra to Djari, to all of them, "nor is the White Desert alone in possession of oracles."

A nauseating feeling pooled in his stomach, rising up Lasura's throat. "Deo..."

"We have been keeping this a secret for seventeen years, my lord prince," Deo said to him with a touch of regret in his tone, one that disappeared all too quickly. "It's about time you and everyone else know of the prophecy made by the High Priest of Rashar before you were born." Turning back to Djari, he continued in a flat, business-like tone. "You could feel it, couldn't you? Just now, before the lightning struck. The prince is your counterpart, your opposing force. You know and have witnessed, as we all had, that there are two sources of power here, not one."

Djari clamped down on her jaw at that, her expression hardened, turned sharp enough to inflict a wound.

"In the eyes of Rashar and the Sky Father who has made his mark here today, the fate of this peninsula is in the prince's hands as much as it is in yours, iza Zuri. Prince Lasura carries the same prophecy to end this war. He was, my Lady, if we are to measure the significance of the hour of birth here," said Deo, holding a small pause to take aim before throwing it at them, "born on the bleeding of Ravi."

There was a hush in the room, a quiet one from them all that together created a louder, bone-chilling sound Lasura would never forget. Him being born on the night of a blood moon—something he'd never been told until now—held as much significance as her being born on the veiling of Rashar. It would matter to his mother, underline his existence as a curse on those who worshipped Ravi, and marked him as a blessing for the ones who opposed them. To everyone in that hall, his existence had now become a key to victory or defeat in the war to come.

To him, it revealed things he had been questioning all his life. "We?"

"Your father and I," Deo replied. "The High Priest was killed the night the prophecy had been made by the salar's order. I carried out the command myself. No one else knows. "

It explained many things, proven a number of his theories, brought forward some truths he'd been trying to dig up. All that attention, those privileges, and countless opportunities that had been given to him above all other princes. Words that had pushed him to try and try despite the disqualification of his blood to become better, stronger, wiser, as if there had been a purpose or a role he needed to fill. Things he had so foolishly taken as something else, as something more—

It came up out of him like a flash flood, an annihilating torrent rushing out of a dam cracked open from being filled beyond its limit—the rage, the disappointment, the pain all rolled up into one unstoppable decision that propelled him on a path he hadn't seen coming.

You have your plans for me too, haven't you, father? Just as she has. That is all you see, isn't it? A key to your victory? A weapon to prove her wrong? A tool to get you what you want?

They were all the same, every last one of them. The same wretched, condescending, manipulating scums who thought they could spin him to their heart's desire, who thought they had the right to move him at will. For seventeen years he'd played all those roles, had bent over backward to live up to expectations. Well, here and now was where it stopped.

Fuck destiny. Fuck Fate. Fuck all of them. And if the sky would come tumbling down from the choices he made from now on, if the whole world would burn because of them, fuck that too.

"Forgive me." A quiet rumbling—a tenth of a much louder one in his head—slipped through the gap of his gritted teeth. "I am," he drew a breath, curled his hands into fists to keep the roaring, rotten beast inside of him from breaking loose, "done with this negotiation and everything it entails. Go ahead and start your war. Burn down this peninsula and everything you see fit. Do whatever needs to be done, but leave me out of it," he told them before heading out the door. "This is not my fucking problem anymore."

***