"Where is the salar?" Zahara asked her handmaiden, staring at herself in the mirror with a bad feeling in her stomach that something was about to go horribly wrong on that day, and the sight of her reflection only made it worse. The ceremonious, ankle-length, crimson tunic had a v-shaped neck that did nothing to conceal the marks of his fingers around her neck. The bruise had become purple around the edges and would likely be visible to anyone standing within ten paces of her. She could really live without dragging that memory around at the moment.

"He hasn't come out of his chamber since last night," replied Kiara as she continued to braid Zahara's hair. Through the eyes of the other Rashai girls in the room, the tightness of her Shakshi handmaiden's jaw might offer a view that she was concentrating on the braiding, only Zahara knew it was more than that. There had been no words exchanged between them regarding what had happened (there had been no opportunities for them to be alone that morning), but Kiara had always been quick in observing and putting things together, and words hadn't needed to be said since she'd seen the damage.

Zahara shifted her gaze toward the nearby window. Outside, the sun was already halfway to its highest point, at which time the ceremony would begin. It was late morning, and the current Salar of Rasharwi was a notorious early riser, had been all his life. He rarely missed the morning bells that signaled prayer time even on nights when he'd gone to bed later than usual.

'Sleep is a complete waste of time,' he'd once said, bitterly. 'So many more things could be done if we didn't have to.'

Such had been his belief for as long as she knew him. He worked tirelessly, Zahara hated to admit, on many things from securing peace within the Salasar and strengthening its army, to improving the infrastructure of its five provinces and their trading routes. There were times when he had awoken in the middle of the night to work on an idea that suddenly came to him, pacing back and forth until morning to try and test the new theory. The solution to build the Madira to bring water into the city had been among those. The canal was the first project he'd put into action as the Salar of Rasharwi, completed by the fifth year of his reign and was still being called the greatest accomplishment in the history of the Salasar today. His most celebrated legacy had, evidently, come when he decided not to sleep one night.

Most accomplishments in his life had also been possible due to his habit of getting things done swiftly if not immediately once decisions had been made. Knowing these facts, it meant that something was seriously wrong with how quiet things had been that morning.

He had, after all, caught her in an act of treason (she still didn't know who it was that had tipped him). Last night, she had expected to die, and since she wasn't dead, Zahara had been certain a mass slaughter of her people would follow first thing in the morning and some arrests were going to be made as soon as the sun was up. So far he hadn't made a move or issued a single command. It wasn't like him.

Neither, she thought, was what he'd done last night.

She would remember it to her deathbed—the madness and chaos that had consumed the man who had spent nearly two decades torturing her, whose hands had, just hours ago, wrapped tight around her life with a genuine will to end it. There had been a fight within him then—Zahara could see it through the tears that had welled up from her shock and suffocation—one so violent it distorted his face, nearly disfigured it into something unrecognizable. He'd fought and fought, his whole body trembled and strained to its limit, to finish a task that should have been so simple, so effortless for who and what he was. And then, when her world had begun to haze out of focus, her last breath used up and spent on her last moment of life, something tore through him, ripped him apart, and the man who had become her mortal enemy for the past eighteen years crumbled, collapsed, and cried out a sound of that cracked open something inside of her.

The grip around her throat had released with a jolt, as if her skin had been on fire and it was burning through his hands, as if there had been some kind of acid or poison on her he'd forgotten about. But she knew, oh she knew, from the devastating agony in his eyes, the pain, the anger, the disappointment, and the deep, deep hatred of his own weakness all rolled into one that had been written so clearly on his face with no way to hide, that there had been no amount of strength or will or reason he could have come up with that night or any time after to bring himself to kill her.

I have won this fight at long last, she had thought then, watching him from the wall she had crawled toward and pressed herself against some time later. Deep down, it hadn't felt like victory, or the victory hadn't brought her what she'd thought it would. All it had done was left a void in her so large she didn't know if she would ever be able to fill. Something had died that night, and she was terrified of the outcome.

Silence had seized the room for what seemed like an eternity. He'd propped himself against the wall opposite to hers, the heels of his hands pressed over his eyes, his face completely shadowed by the arms that no longer looked as strong as she had come to know them.

'You want freedom?' He'd said at length and in almost a whisper, in a voice so drained of energy and conviction that made him sound so frail and fragile. His face, barely visible in the fading light of the hurricanes, had gone as pale as a corpse's. 'I'll give you your freedom, Zahara.'

He'd pushed himself off the floor, tied the belt of his robe absentmindedly as he turned to walk away, his shadow trailed after him like a long, dark stain on the carpet, like the one in her heart.

'I am done with you,' he'd said, keeping his back to her. His voice, she'd realized, had sounded very tired. 'Take what you want and go. After the ceremony tomorrow, you do not come back here. You are free to leave, to do what you want to do with your life,' he'd paused, drawn a breath, clenched his hands into fists. He'd said, 'From here onward, I don't want to see or hear from you ever again. You will stay out of my life, out of my sight, and away from our son. Or they will all die. Every last one of them. That, I promise you.'

And had walked away.

Zahara drew a long breath at the knifing pain in her chest as she recalled the event, wondering why there was a knife there at all. She should have considered it a kind of success, or for the very least a release from nearly two decades of pain and suffering, of having to bend the knees to an enemy she had longed to see dead. She hadn't felt any of it, not then, not now that the initial shock had been gone. There was nothing but emptiness inside her, as if her life had simply lost its purpose and she was now left alone in the dark, confused and not knowing where to go.

It made sense in a way, she supposed. She had, after all, been living every breath for the past eighteen years with a single determination to survive him. Somewhere along the way, his existence had become the only thing left she'd had to hold on to, the only incentive for her to draw whatever strength she had within her to remain standing. And now, even that had been taken away from her. Along with her son.

She might lose more than that if she couldn't get a message to Azram, Amelia, or the salahari.

The plan had been to get her out of the Tower and into the streets where a mob they'd paid for would be waiting. They had been counting on the salar to lead the guards himself to deal with the situation as they held her hostage. Assassins had been planted along the way with poisoned arrows to shoot him from higher ground. When all was done she would be allowed to escape from Rasharwi with a promise of Lasura's release once Azram was crowned. It all depended on the one gamble she had assured them would come through—that she held enough significance for the salar to ride out of the Tower to save her.

A gamble that she had lost the moment he'd decided to come to her to end it all. Muradi, for all the monstrous things he'd done, had always placed the security of his reign, his ideals, his Salasar before all else. He was the kind of man who could do that—separate his heart from his head and could be counted upon to crush the first for the latter. Even now, when he'd failed to do just that, he had decided instead to eliminate her from his life completely, to remove the source of his weakness that everyone could see for good. It would be a folly to believe now that he would come for her when the mob attacked, and the mob would attack if she couldn't get words out to stop them. For all she knew, she could be burned on a pyre before she even reached the temple.

More than that, Muradi was aware now of their scheme (how much, she could only guess) and had up to that morning done nothing about it. From what she knew, all three of her accomplices had been advised to not leave their quarters by orders of Jarem izr Sa'id for security purposes. They were also closely watched by Jarem's new set of royal guards, which meant that it wasn't possible for Kiara to slip a message to them to call off the plan, or even if she could, they wouldn't have been able to call it off without Jarem knowing.

For all she knew, the salar might have been—should have been—ordering their arrests already, but so far he had yet to make a single move, hadn't even appeared from his room.

Something wasn't right, Zahara knew it in the pit of her stomach. She needed a moment alone with Kiara to discuss a way out of this mess, but Jarem had made sure the other handmaidens never leave them out of sight.

Behind her, Kiara unfolded the red veil she was supposed to wear to the ceremony. It was customary for new converts and priestesses to cover their hair when entering the temple. For the ride there, however, Zahara had been instructed to leave her hair uncovered until she reached Sangi. It served as a symbol, of course. That was the point of forcing her to change her faith in front of the crowd.

The veil was therefore draped over her shoulders instead to be used later. As Kiara adjusted and smoothed it over her back, Zahara could feel her companion tugging something into her braid. She knew the weight of that object, the way it pulled on her hair. They'd done that countless of times back in the khagan. If you were born in the White Desert, you carried weapons on you at all times, including a backup one in case the rest were taken from you. It would come in handy if she ever needed one, but would it be enough?

***

Jarem izr Sa'id stood by the balcony of his study with hands behind his back, watching the procession down below that morning with a grimace. The entourage that accompanied the bharavi to the temple of Sangi consisted of thirty royal guards, four handmaidens—including the Shakshi girl closest to her—and a priest of Sangi sent to lead the procession. They had been instructed to take the longer route, passing through as many streets as possible and making a full circle around the main square in front of the temple where the biggest gathering would be waiting. The people of Rasharwi were to witness Zahara—the bharavi wife of the salar, an embodiment of Ravi herself—being carried on a sedan chair bearing the mark of the salar for all to see. She would be seen wearing the symbolic red tunic of their faith, surrounded by the royal guards in black and gold as she made her way to offer herself to the sun god.

It was a powerful message, a great way to smash the hopes of the Shakshis, a brilliant symbol and reminder of the salar's victory at Vilarhiti. People would love this sacrifice. They would find their salar just and willing to do what was right. It would solve all the problems at hand, strengthen the Salasar and Salar Muradi's rule.

Given that he found out in time what in the nine hells was going on.

Imran, his trusted general, the man who was supposed to report to him this morning was nowhere to be found. Up until last night, Jarem had spent every minute putting things into place, making sure everything was to go as planned while also making certain that none of it would reach the salar's awareness. It was a huge risk for him to take—trying to deal with this treason on his own without informing the salar in order to discreetly eliminate Zahara in the process. And the plan had been going so well so far. He'd managed to confine all three accomplices, namely Amelia, prince Azram, and the salahari, in the Tower under the pretense of tightening security so when the time came, they could all be exposed and arrested by the new guards he'd put in place days ago. He'd managed to get Yakim to be the one to suggest that Zahara be converted in this manner, had even managed to convinced the salar to agree by assuring him that she would be safely returned to the Tower afterward. It was a work of art, truly, to have done all this without getting any suspicion from the salar that it had actually been Jarem who'd planted the idea in Yakim's head from the beginning.

He hated keeping secrets from his salar, of course, and was expecting to be reprimanded for not informing his master immediately of the coup he'd discovered, but once all this was over and the three traitors had been arrested, Jarem was certain he would be forgiven and perhaps even thanked for it. The salar would probably be too mad with grief for a while anyway after the death of his bharavi.

Said death was to occur after she reached the temple and once the ceremony was over. He had planned on killing her in the temple and placing the blame on Yakim for when he decided to stick his cock where it didn't belong, then killing him, too, in the process. Two great things would be accomplished by this. They'd be rid of both Zahara and a priest the salar had wanted dead for decades without angering the people. The priest's crimes would be exposed. The people of Rasharwi would thank him for it. A win-win situation for the sake of the Salasar.

It did, however, require that the mob those three snakes had paid for be stopped before it was put into action, for which he had prepared a troop in secret—to be led by General Imran—to deal with this morning before Zahara left the Tower. It just so happened that he'd woken up to find that Imran had somehow disappeared without a trace, and the troop was still waiting for someone to command it. He hadn't told Imran what the man was supposed to be doing, of course. It was important that as few people knew about the plan as possible until the last minute or else it might leak and ruin everything. The man had, however, been instructed with the utmost clarity to report to him at sunrise, which didn't happen. Now he had to find a new substitute for the task or allow the mob to attack her.

It was a bold gamble on Zahara's part, Jarem had to admit, to have suggested using herself as bait. But it also meant that she was fully aware of her influence over the salar, which, in turn, meant that she had to be eliminated as soon as possible according to Jarem.

So from a perspective, he would at least manage to kill one bird if the mob were to be allowed to attack her on the way to the temple. She would likely die from it, or he could make sure she did (it wasn't difficult), and the traitors would still be exposed without any blame coming to Jarem for the death of Zahara.

The only problem was that he, too, believed the salar would be down there to save her, which could kill him if everything were to go as Azram had planned.

The mob, therefore, had to be stopped. Or he would have to inform the salar of all this, now, as soon as possible, and also inform him of the assassins to make sure he didn't set foot out of the Tower. Jarem knew the salar could kill him for this. There was a difference between a plan involving holding information from one's master that failed and one that succeeded no matter how well-meant it was, and Salar Muradi had never been a forgiving man. He didn't take risks to give people a chance to fuck things up the second time.

Jarem spent the next half hour pacing back and forth in his study to come up with a decision, and at last concluded that his life wasn't as important as salar's and his reign. If he had to die to save those two things, then Rashar had determined his life to hold such meaning. And with that, Jarem walked out the door to head to the salar's chamber

Only to find General Imran waiting outside in the corridor with what looked like the troop he was supposed to command.

He could have kissed the man at that moment, truly. "In the name of Rashar, Imran!" He said, half angry, half relieved to see the man. "Where the hell have you been all morning?"

Imran, clad in in full armor and armed to the teeth didn't reply. He stepped to the side and straightened, slamming his right fist against his chest as he did. The troop of a hundred men repeated the gesture in unison, splitting the ranks half way in the middle, the clanging of steel made by the abrupt, immaculately trained action resonated down the corridor like a clap of thunder.

A man stepped out from somewhere around the back, walked up toward him through the neat, perfectly formed path between the two formations. Behind him, a giant bodyguard followed just two steps behind.

"With me," said Salar Muradi of Rasharwi as he reached the front of the line. Rising above each of his shoulders, Jarem saw, were the gilded hilts of the two obsidian blades he only used for execution.

***