“What is real?” I ask, continuing to scan my surroundings.
The mirror,says the voice that is everywhere and nowhere.Look again.
My attention returns to the looking glass. It casts no reflection. Instead, moving images emerge from beneath the silver surface. Over time, they alter in color and shape. I am looking at myself gazing out my bedroom window, my body masked in the black of mourning. My eyes are swollen, red-rimmed. These must be the early days following Fahim’s death.
“What is this?” I demand. “Why are you showing me something that has already come to pass?”
The mirror shows what has been, what is, and what will be.
“And what will be?”
Look in the mirror and find out.
The image melts away, becomes something else. I stumble back in horror. The South Wind lies on his back, eyes closed, the grime and blood of battle sullying his robes. He does not appear to be breathing.
This doesn’t make sense. Notus cannot die except by a god-touched weapon. If his downfall has been foretold, then what is fated to kill him? Why does that thought render me breathless with anguish?
I peer closer. No, heisbreathing. But he is… asleep? And then I realize something else. The bed he lies in is mine.
The image fades, leaving me staring at my own reflection. I am pressing a hand against the mirror, relieved to find it solid, when something moves over my shoulder. I whirl around. A figure has materialized, broad-shouldered, cloaked in dark wool. A spacious hood has been pulled forward, veiling the face within.
“Who are you?” I dare ask.
You would not remember our initial meeting. You were an infant then, and sickly.
My eyes widen. “The Lord of the Mountain,” I whisper.
So, you do remember.The Lord of the Mountain sidles nearer. Beneath the cowl of his hood, I glimpse an opening, like a mouth. There is a flash of white—teeth?Do not worry, Sarai. I do not demand your life—yet.
I intend to reply, yet another, more distant voice demands that Iwake. It is familiar, this voice. It promises peace. I’m certain it shouts my name.
Again, I glance around. These alien walls. This sky that is not a sky. The musk of pressed soil. I must be dreaming. It’s the only logical explanation.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask the Lord of the Mountain. “To frighten me? You will have to do better than that.” I must be mad, standing up to the divine. “Father banned black iris from Ammara long ago.”
Do you think the king’s policies will stop me from claiming what was promised to me?There is a pause.Look into the mirror and see.
The impulse is woven into my very core. As I peer into the mirror, my reflection dissolves. In its place stands the Red City. There are its curved archways and pillar-lined temples. There spring the grasses and sweet-smelling blooms of its abundant gardens. Yet I blink, and all becomes shadow, a smoke-like residue blotting out the shining rooftops and marble statues as darkwalkers flood the streets.
The Lord of the Mountain hovers over my shoulder, cold lips brushing my ear as he says,It is coming.
My eyes fly open, and I gasp. A white starburst floods my vision. The ground is hard beneath me, its heat scalding the length of my back, and the sounds of chaos descend, an assault on my ears following the quiet of that strange, unearthly place.
A large hand comes to rest atop my thundering heart. “Steady.”
The low, even tone wraps me in warm threads, and I calm.
The brightness fades as my vision adjusts to the stretch of blue overhead. The South Wind leans over me, dark locks haloed by the sun at high noon. His eyes churn with such deep emotion that for a moment, the walls I have erected around my heart falter. He is always in control. Now? I have never seen peace so far from his reach.
Slowly, I sit up. “What happened?” I croak.
Notus looks away, jaw clenched. I lie in a patch of shade cast by one of the nearby dwellings. A handful of soldiers hover at a distance while additional guards direct residents down the street. When Notus refuses to respond, I look to them questioningly.
Only one of the soldiers is brave enough to come forward. “You fell, Your Highness.” He glances at the top of the tower. It’s a long drop, a few hundred feet by my estimate. None could survive such a fall.
I have no awareness of reaching for Notus, but I must have, for suddenly my fingers slide against his. Just as quickly, he stiffens, withdraws. Curling my hand into a fist, I shove it against my knotted stomach. If he does not wish to touch me, fine. I will not beg for scraps.
“The South Wind caught you before you hit the ground,” the soldier adds. At Notus’ cutting glare, the man falls quiet.
