“There is no deception on my part, Prince Balior.” The king lifts a quavering hand to rub at his eyes. “I don’t know what madness has overtaken my daughter, but I assure you this union does not have my blessing.”
“Blessing?” he hisses. “What good is your blessing when your hands are tied?”
“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Father says hurriedly, seeking to console his prospective son-in-law. “An engagement can be broken as swiftly as it is made. Once Sarai has come to her senses, I’m certain she will renounce their engagement, and everything will go ahead as planned.”
But the prince will not be pacified. “Princess Sarai was promised tome.” He lunges for me, fingertips grazing my elbow before a wall of wind plows into him with enough force to send him careening against the wall. He hits it with anoofand drops to the marble floor.
A wretched howl tears through the war chamber, ripping curtains from their rods, snatching maps and documents from the table. At once, guards surround King Halim, who stares at Notus with a combination of awe and fear. Those spiraling gusts gather closer to the South Wind’s body as he advances toward Prince Balior. He is an impossibility, a living, breathing body of wind. Unsheathing his sword, he tucks its curved edge beneath the man’s chin.
“If Ieversee you lay a hand on her,” Notus growls, “you will learn the true depth of my wrath. Do we understand each other?”
Prince Balior’s face has gone ashen. He swallows, then nods, flinching back when Notus removes the blade from his neck.
The South Wind’s dark promise feeds through my bloodstream with surprising heat. I am ashamed that it has the power to render me weak in the knees. Notus is calm, always calm—until he’s not. I can’t allow myself to hope that he protects me for any other reason than duty.
Father glances at the prince in uncertainty. Our guest’s behavior has likely given him pause, as it has given me. Angered or not, assault is unacceptable.
And yet, Father has too much pride to change his mind. He turns to regard me in disappointment. “You are the Princess of Ammara.”
“I am also your daughter.”
“Nonetheless, you and I had an understanding. Now you go back on your word?” Then, softer: “What would Fahim think of your selfishness?”
Only years of practice allow me to swallow the gasp before it escapes. His barbs, which never fail to pierce the softness of my heart. So long as Prince Balior is present, I cannot tell him that I fear he is being deceived.
“Think of me what you will, Father, but a decision has been made and my mind will not change. Notus and I will wed at the end of spring.” Time enough to break this curse, to oust Prince Balior. If I fail, it won’t matter who I marry, for I’ll be dead.
“I forbid you to speak of this mockery,” the king bites out. “You do not have my blessing. Nor do you have my respect.” He tosses out a hand. “Dismissed.”
As soon as the doors of the war chamber shut at our backs, Notus withdraws his hand from mine. The absence of his touch carries an unexpected chill.
“You better have a good explanation for this,” he mutters.
As a matter of fact, I do not.
But I merely flash my teeth in a feral grin, burying my uncertainty and sorrow with all the rest. “Follow me.” This is no place for private conversation.
As soon as I turn the corner, Notus must realize where our destination lies, for he strides ahead of me, descends a nearby staircase, taking the shortcut we utilized in those early days of our budding relationship. Eventually, we reach a small garden, its shadowed alcove framed by laurel trees and ornamented with night-blooming orchids. Moonlight cascades in hues of snow and silver through the circular windows cut into the ceiling high above.
I have not returned to this refuge in half a decade. In fact, I have avoided the entire western wing. It is here that the South Wind’s rooms were once located, rooms I found myself in most nights, tangled in damp bedsheets, pressed against heated skin.
I remember our first encounter.
The morning hung wet and heavy as sopping wool. Father searched for me, demanding I attend dinner with some visiting dignitaries later that evening, but I had refused and sought solace among the plants, who would not attempt to recast silver into gold.
The scuff of a shoe drew my attention to the garden’s entryway.
A man stood partially shielded by vines, his eyes cool and unfamiliar above the scarf shielding the lower portion of his face. I glared at him, not at all in the mood for company. He wore no weapons. I could not decide whether it was the mark of arrogance or foolishness. Hours later, the South Wind would be properly introduced, but I could not have known then what purpose he had in the palace.
“Who are you?” I’d demanded.
Shaking my head to clear the memory, I step forward into the garden, exchangingthenfornow. I cannot say for certain what emotion grasps hold. There is no separation between sorrow and longing, bitterness and grief. All are woven into the same tapestry.
Dropping onto a bench beneath a trellis, I sigh. “That went about as well as I expected it to.” I massage my temples wearily.
Notus glares into the gloom dripping shadow onto the foliage. A muscle tics in his jaw, the most irritated metronome. He will not look at me. I hate that I am weak enough to desire otherwise.
“Well?” I say. “Speak your thoughts, if you have them.”
