And when the gold circlet nestles in the thick locks of his hair, Amir stands, turning to acknowledge Ammara’s citizens against swelling jubilation.
The image fades, becomes something else.
Ishmah’s curved domes and spiraling turrets splash rust-red across the gilded dunes. An ugly smudge draws my eye skyward. A black plume, smothering the horizon. Smoke? No,shadow. It engulfs the rooftops, masking what teems below: darkwalkers.
They are too many to count, a horde, a stampede. They descend on Ishmah’s population with a ravenous bloodlust, drawing people’s souls from the broken bodies strewn throughout the streets. I spot the red robes of Prince Balior’s soldiers sweeping across the crooked footpaths and cracked roads, swords wielded, funneling Ishmah’s citizens toward the lower ring. The strangest sight of all, however, is Ishmah’s gates. They are closed, likely due to the coronation. Which means the darkwalkers entered the city via other means.
I brush the looking glass with trembling fingertips. They warm with a sudden heat, as if someone holds a candle beneath the mirror. My city overtaken, toppled to rubble. Its people slain, raped, enslaved. I close my eyes, open them on a surge of distress. Ishmah’s denizens continue to flee beasts and soldiers alike. Meanwhile, the same thickening darkness oozes across the dusty earth, laps the base of buildings, and is drawn up the walls and over the roofs to smother those inside.
I lean forward, palm flat against the mirror. It’s not real, I tell myself. If I will it, perhaps that will make it true. But the scent of searing skin hits my nostrils, and I snatch back my hand with a hiss of pain. As I stare down at my reddened palm in bewilderment, blisters begin to form near the base of my thumb.
My heart sinks. If I’m dead, how can I feel pain? Why does Ishmah fall to darkness? Unless… has Prince Balior successfully freed the beast from its prison? In doing so, did he release the darkwalkers with it?
The image again transforms. I now stare down one of the palace corridors, its fluted pillars blurred by the smoke-like shadow dribbling through the open windows. Someone appears at the end of the corridor, moving with haste. I would recognize the broad-chested physique anywhere.
Notus turns a corner and begins to run. It’s as if I’m running alongside him, watching through the mirror as he takes the stairs three at a time to the third level. I’ve never seen the palace so vacant. Where are the sentinels? Fighting the darkwalkers terrorizing the streets?
Eight men safeguard Amir’s chambers. Notus lifts a hand, tossing the men aside as easily as matchsticks. He blasts the doors open with so formidable a wind they’re wrenched from their hinges and crash into the opposite wall.
Amir stands at the window overlooking the city, legs braced, sword in hand. Tuleen shrinks behind him as the South Wind—banished god, features frozen into a chilling blankness—crosses the threshold. A crude wind snaps through the room, yanking books from shelves and toppling a nearby chair. My mouth goes dry at the sight.
Upon sighting Notus, Amir frowns. He doesn’t lower his weapon. “What do you want?”
“Where is she?” He advances toward Ammara’s new king. I imagine the floorboards trembling beneath the might of his tread.
Amir lifts his sword straight out. “Keep your distance.”
The South Wind moves faster than my mortal eyes can track. By the time I process what has happened, he has already disarmed my brother, his own blade resting at the base of Amir’s neck. Tuleen’s eyes are wide, wide, wide. Two tears trickle down her cheeks.
“Where. Is. She?” Notus snarls.
Amir bares his teeth, but doesn’t struggle. “Who?”
“Sarai. She was in her rooms last night, and now she’s gone. No trace of her.”
With impressive calm, Amir reaches up to curl his fingers around Notus’ wrist. As a child, Amir was quick to anger. He was the youngest son, the weakest, always with something to prove. But here is ironwhere sand once stood. He will not be cowed. Already, the crown has changed him.
“Even if I knew where she was,” Amir bites out, “I wouldn’t tell you. Since you came into our lives, you have brought nothing but death and turmoil.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We were fine before you came to Ammara. Yet within months of your arrival, Fahim was dead. You returned, and now Father’s gone, too, and darkness spreads through our realm.” The king bares his teeth. “Tell me you had nothing to do with it.”
The South Wind’s expression is thunderous. “Fool, I’m trying tosaveAmmara.”
“Then why were you not at my coronation yesterday?”
Notus is taken aback, that much is clear. He frowns, lowering his blade a fraction. “I was… called elsewhere.”
A cutting smile curls Amir’s mouth. “I’m sure.”
The sword point returns as Notus spits, “My brother called for aid. I left Ishmah briefly to help him, but I’m here now, and I won’t hesitate to slide my sword into your chest, king or not.” He twists the tip of the scimitar. A spot of red blooms beneath its point and spreads to clot the fabric. “Fahim tried to keep Sarai from me. I won’t let you do the same.”
Amir’s eyes boil with unrestrained fury. In this moment, he has never looked more like our father. “Kill me, and you will not leave this place alive.”
“I don’t care for my life,” Notus says. “I never have.”
The South Wind whirls, sword raised to meet the descending blades of the guards pouring into the room. Tuleen yelps, cowering in a corner near the curtains, face bloodless against the gloom beginning to choke the room.
