We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(123)

Nasir heard a grim shatter of bone before it pierced Benyamin’s heart. But the safi made no sound.

The invisible claws loosened from his neck and Nasir fell on his knees. No, no, no. He gasped for air as he clambered toward Benyamin, sand burning beneath his hands as the chaos continued around them.

Benyamin remained still for one long, silent moment before he fell on his back, graceful even in agony.

Nasir was numb. Lost. His gaze met the Lion’s across the fray, and he felt a surge of anger when remorse fleeted across those amber eyes. His tattoo gleamed in the gloom, nearly identical to the safi’s.

Benyamin’s friend, once. Who repaid kindness with death.

Nasir heard nothing but the soft whirr of Benyamin’s breathing.

People had dreams, thoughts, ideas. Nasir had facts. When he had stepped upon this path the sultan had lain for him, he had always known there was no one left to love him. No one to liberate him.

Some fates were made easier with acceptance.

Yet here lay Benyamin. An immortal safi, vain by nature, embittered by knowledge. Nasir’s hands shook as he regarded the wound. There was so much blood he didn’t know where it began and where it ended. Altair dropped beside him. Kifah shouted out as she fought back to back with the kaftar, but she was too far, too overwhelmed by ifrit, to be of assistance.

Nasir found the point of impact. He sat back on his heels, hope leaching.

“It is fatal,” he said, hands drenched in red.

Dark steam wafted from the stave.

Benyamin spoke lightly. “Now I know what it is like to live as a mortal. Death”—he pressed his lips together against the pain, his brown eyes soft—“is a welcome truth.”

His white keffiyah was smeared with blood. It slipped from his head and Nasir righted it, perfected it as the safi would. Altair clasped Benyamin’s hand, drawing him close. “Oh, akhi, akhi, akhi.”

My brother, my brother, my brother. By a bond stronger than blood.

Nasir had never seen Altair cry. His raw sobs racked his whole body, desolate in the din. Nasir had never thought someone else’s tears could hurt him so much.

“Why? Why did you do this?” Nasir whispered. Something fisted in his throat, hindering his speech.

Altair kept murmuring the word “akhi” over and over, anger and pain shattering his voice.

“Sacrifice,” Benyamin bit out.

Nasir knew sacrifice, but for him, the Prince of Death?

“For you. For her. For the ones who deserve to see another day. Your story remains unfinished, Prince.”

Something cleaved in Nasir. The children in the camel races. The rebels in Sarasin. Zafira. Kifah. They deserved to see another day. They deserved sacrifice. Not Nasir, whose hands had felt the last breath of countless souls. Not the Silver Witch, who had made her mistakes.

“Remember me, eh? Say hello to my beloved, but not my sister,” Benyamin whispered.

Altair sobbed a laugh.

Benyamin struggled to smile. He cupped Altair’s face. “I seized it, brother. Strength was mine. But it turns out”—he coughed and more blood spurted from his wound—“the price of dum sihr is always great.”

A tremor shook his body. Benyamin did not shed a tear. He did not cry out in pain. He entwined his fingers upon his stomach, posture at ease.

Nasir watched the light fade from his eyes, a death that wasn’t his doing, a final breath he hadn’t captured. A sacrifice. He couldn’t move, even as the sounds of battle wound around him.

Slowly, he closed Benyamin’s eyes. Skeins of black leached from his fingers, bidding farewell. He pulled a feather from his robes and touched it to Benyamin’s blood before tucking it between the folds of the safi’s thobe. The black vane glittered red. One last gift from the Prince of Death.

“Be at peace, Benyamin Haadi min Alderamin.”

Altair clasped Nasir’s hand and helped him to his feet. Never had Nasir seen the general so weary, so shattered, streaks of grief staining his golden skin.

Together, they faced the Lion of the Night.

“You have dealt your hand upon one of ours. There will be retribution.” Nasir’s voice was cold. Low. The Prince of Death drew his scimitar, a hiss through the sands, echoed by Altair’s own swords.

Again, Nasir saw that flicker of remorse. A sorrow the Lion did not deserve.

“You’ve come a long way, Prince. But you will always serve the dark,” said the Lion.

The ifrit swarmed, fortified by the shadows Nasir had unleashed.





CHAPTER 87


The world spun black and chaos ran rampant. Through it all, Zafira saw the exact moment Benyamin’s body went still, one with the earth. Pressure built in her throat. This wasn’t Deen or Baba. This was someone else she had come to know the little things about. The things that made Benyamin the safi he was: his penchant for naps, his extraneous words, his silly pride. The value he placed in trust and truth.

You didn’t need to know someone’s darkest secrets to wish for their life. In this moment, we are two souls, marooned.

But what happened when one soul marooned the other? When death decided to stand between them?

The last time she’d spoken to him, it was to tear him apart. Hateful, bitter words she wished she could draw back. Words she could never, ever atone for.

She would never again see his umber eyes or his feline smile. Hear the drone of his endless voice, the rue when he spoke of his son.