We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(125)

Two more to go.

He retrieved another, suffering a gash across his leg before he shoved his sword through the ifrit’s throat. He stumbled to the next tree, stopping when Altair rose from its roots, the final heart in hand.

The ground rumbled.

A stillness fell over them. The land sighed and groaned in relief. An exhale of contentment, finally liberated from what it was not. Sharr was free.

Which meant that across Arawiya, the Arz had begun unfolding into the ground.

Rimaal. Nine decades of encroaching darkness. Of a forest that stripped them of their sea. Of caliphates cursed to suffer endless snow, darkening skies, and dying lands. Of hostility gnashing razor-edged teeth.

It had ended.

It was over, and Nasir had been a part of it. He nearly swayed with the realization. He had been a part of something good.

The elation in his chest fell when an ifrit nearly decapitated him. He saw a flash of silver as the Silver Witch slowly rose to her feet, her power no longer receding.

But there were two sides to this coin: The Lion was no longer tethered to Sharr. They had to move quickly.

“Gloomy weather you’ve gifted us,” Altair called as he stumbled toward Nasir, blood across his brow. He seemed to be bracing himself before he turned back to the surrounding din, where ifrit swarmed, trapping them. The dark creatures were thriving, drunk on the shadows Nasir had unleashed. Retrieving the hearts meant nothing if he and the others died in these endless hordes.

“Eh, old tomato!” Altair yelled.

The Lion paused mid-stride, robes billowing in the wind.

“The retribution promised begins now.”

“What are you trying to do?” Nasir snapped. “If you die, I will kill you myself.”

“Akhh, I love conundrums. Careful, little brother, I’m beginning to think you’re worried for me.” Altair patted Nasir’s cheek with a bloody hand before Nasir could wrench away and then strode toward the Lion of the Night.

Altair heaved a dramatic sigh. “I’d been saving for a special occasion, something with more flair. You know, a wedding or my beloved Nasir’s coronation or—akhh, words fail me. But beggars can’t be choosers, can they? I suppose this, uh, the Skirmish of Hearts, is just as special—”

“Shut up, Altair,” Nasir growled against the twitch of his lips.

His half brother only winked, and Nasir realized what he was doing. Drawing attention to himself, for Altair’s every action was done in deliberation, carefully calculated.

Then Altair al-Badawi lifted his hands to the skies, a crooked grin upon his face, and Sharr exploded with light.





CHAPTER 89


Zafira paused her desperate search when light erupted across the world of marble and wood. It took her a moment to find its source amid the blinding white: Altair’s outstretched hands. This was his affinity. He truly was the light to Nasir’s dark. As Deen had been to mine.

Panicked screeching filled the silence as the ifrit skittered to the shadows of the ruins. She saw Nasir, Kifah, and the kaftar snatch at what Altair had given them—a distraction—and returned to her task.

Her fruitless task.

She dropped to her knees and grabbed fistfuls of sand. Digging, searching. Looking. Begging. The others trusted her to keep the Jawarat safe. She swiped sweat from her brow as Altair’s light began to fade. But even in the dim she could see: sand upon sand, no bolt of green.

Her fingers snared against something beneath the sand, and her heart clambered to her throat. Please. She wrenched it free—but it was only a stone. She hurled it away with a cry. The island mocked her even now.

Someone grabbed her wounded hand and ran, pulling her along. Fear pounded in her eardrums.

“We have to go,” the voice said, and for a moment, she thought it was Benyamin before she remembered he was dead, and it was only Kifah.

The cut in her hand throbbed. She had been a fool, and that gash was the reason she had inadvertently bound herself to the Jawarat, body and soul. She had failed.

Some must be given for us to succeed. She startled at the Jawarat’s words. She hadn’t been a fool. She was suddenly glad for the gash in her palm that had gifted her this connection. That had given her such immeasurable knowledge.

But the Lion was nowhere to be seen. Which meant he had the Jawarat.

“We have to go back,” she protested, wrenching free from Kifah’s grip.

The warrior grabbed her hand again. “For what?”

“I dropped the Jawarat. The Lion must have it!”

“Oh, keep your wits,” Kifah snapped, and leaned close, her whisper almost lost in the din. “I’m a miragi, remember? I have the blasted book. I took”—her voice cracked and she drew in a steadying breath—“I took Benyamin’s book and illusioned it to match the Jawarat. Then I grabbed the real thing from you and threw the decoy onto the sand. The Lion grabbed it in the frenzy.”

Zafira nearly wept with the realization. Safe. The Jawarat was safe.

“It won’t last long, though, now that Sharr’s magic is gone,” Kifah said with a slight frown before spearing another ifrit. “So grab your bow, Huntress.”

“Wait, what about the kaftar?” Zafira said as her mind slowly cleared from the haze of panic.

Kifah shook her head. “They fought well. I offered them passage back to the kingdom, but they refused. Sometimes, when you live a life of captivity, trapped for so long, freedom becomes a thing to fear.”