We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(64)

And the Huntress was going to save her. She raised her nocked arrow, aiming for the safi’s back.

She fired.

The arrow struck his shoulder, buying enough time for the Pelusian to break free. As the safi cursed in the ancient tongue, the Pelusian paused to give the Huntress a small nod of thanks, barely concealing her surprise.

These people were Nasir’s enemy. He had come here to slay them.

Air compressed behind him and he whirled, clashing steel with another safi. Why won’t they die? He clenched his jaw and twisted his blade free, and when he dared to look away, he saw the Huntress.

On the sand, her long body pinned beneath the safi who had first spoken, his rusted scimitar raised to strike.





CHAPTER 37


Zafira could barely breathe. The prince had spoken of death as if he were weighing the sweetness of dates. And now she was being squashed like one.

This was not how she had hoped to meet an Alder safi for the first time. She had never expected to meet one so bare, either. His torso, copper from the sun, glistened with sweat. Her face burned, and she wondered if this was the pathetic moment when she would finally blush, as Yasmine had proclaimed she would at a time that felt like eons ago.

He struggled to hold her down, but she refused to die in such an ungraceful way. Death by suffocation. Because a half-naked safi sat on me. She shoved, managing to break his hold on his scimitar. It sliced through the sands by her head.

He snarled and weighed her down as she jabbed her knees against his stone-hard body. His eyes narrowed between the folds of his filthy turban. Funny how his face was obscured when the rest of him wasn’t.

Sweet snow, she was hot. She craned her head to the hands around her neck and lashed out with her teeth, connecting with weathered skin.

The safi pulled away with an ugly snarl. “I will gut you and feast upon your flesh.”

Her eyes widened at the words. Safin weren’t supposed to be vicious. They were collected, smart, vain, and elegant. These safin were monstrous. She jabbed her knees up again, this time connecting with his unsuspecting limbs. He howled and rolled to the sands.

This time, she pinned him down. He would send her flying the moment he recovered, but she would have her moment. No one, safin or otherwise, would feast on her tonight.

He swiped with his nails. She was more disgusted than afraid now. She threw a fist at him, wondering where she ever learned to inflict pain. She was the Hunter. She killed rabbits and deer with the least amount of agony possible.

Shouts and curses rang out in the distance, and she blearily registered Altair’s voice. The Pelusian woman who had appeared out of thin air was fighting, too. Blood roared in Zafira’s ears. The prince was likely leaning against a broken column, waiting for everything to sort itself out.

“Suffer as I have, Demenhune. Perish here, as I will,” the safi rasped as he reached for his fallen sword.

Zafira unsheathed her jambiya, but a dagger was no match for a scimitar. He kicked her off, tearing the air from her lungs. She fell upon stone, bones jarring, teeth clacking. He swung the sword at her, the sharpened end slicing straight for her neck.

Terror tore through her.

Kill or be killed. The Prince of Death’s toneless voice rang through her ears.

She wasn’t going to be torn apart by a rogue safi while the prince looked on in boredom.

Zafira rolled, once to the right, then to her left as the safi brought his scimitar down, again and again, tossing sand and shards of loose stone with his every strike. There was a crazed look in his eyes.

She kicked at his feet, and he stumbled, righting quickly. His blade arced down again.

I have

to get out of

the way.

But there was nowhere to go. Stones hemmed in on either side, pressed at her back. Panic clawed at her skin. The darkness taunted from where light refused to go, the shadows churning in a frenzy. Fight him. Do what you must.

Zafira pulled him down with a twine of her legs. She gasped for air. Jabbed her blade up. Twisted her hands out of instinct.

“You—” The safi choked, garbling on something liquid-like.

Baba. Baba. I’m sorry.

Stickiness spread through her fingers, and heaviness settled in her bones, weighting her atop the debris. She saw red. Her thoughts flickered, blanked. The safi fell, as surprised as she was.

Dead.

By Zafira’s hand.

She was used to blood dripping from her fingers, seeping beneath her nails, but not the blood of sentients. Of a death from violence.

She dropped her jambiya and croaked. She wanted to scream. I did this. What did it mean, now that her soul had darkened? Kill or be killed. She was a fool for listening to the prince, for not remembering that there was always a compromise. She could have maimed the safi, she could have—

The sands yawned open, but she was too numb to react as the island swallowed the dead safi. Sharr was pleased with her. The wind thanked her with its howl.

Zafira could only watch as the island ate its fill, certain the prince’s soul was the darkest of them all.





CHAPTER 38


Nasir exhaled. It was not lengthier than usual. It was certainly not a sigh of relief because the Huntress was alive and seemingly unharmed. He watched as she shrank into herself, like a girl lost among the many stalls of a sooq.

“Akhh, I thought she’d be a little more useful in battle,” Altair said.