Arwa was not Nazrin anymore.
She felt new ash unfurl beneath her skin.
His name was Ushan.
His mother had lain with a daiva in the heart of a dreamfire storm, and Ushan had been the result. He’d been born more or less human. His mother had told him so. She had counted all his fingers at his birth; peeled back his lips to see the unformed gums, the tongue, the wailing cry of mortal lungs. And yet he dreamed strange dreams, and sometimes his shadow changed, transforming into inhuman shapes: a bird, a snake, a panther; a thing hooded, a thing naked and all bones.
He met his daiva parent once. Tall, they had been so tall, with hair like a dark flame and eyes of gold; lush mouth and bones like blades. Ushan had offered his parent blood, and they had tasted it, and wrapped him up in a shroud of shadow, lifting him with great wings carved from shadow. This, Ushan had recognized as love.
The memory slipped away.
Arwa. She was Arwa. For a moment.
Then the storm descended once more.
A knife lay in a man named Tahir’s hand. He held it to his throat, trembling, biting his tongue. He thought of his little girl; his girl who would be Tara and lead her clan. At least she was not here. At least she would not have to know what had become of him.
Then Arwa was Ushan again. Stretching his arms wide. Bitter fury bubbling in his blood. Body changing. Grief stretching its wings within him.
His arms were feathered and sharp. Her arms were feathered and sharp. Her mouth opened.
His mouth—
“Girl,” he said. His voice rumbled out of him. “Return to your flesh, before it’s too late.”
She felt something grip her arm. Fingers strong, firm. Something dragging her back, back—
She heard screaming. Her throat hurt. It took her a moment to realize she was the one crying out, that Zahir was holding her and whispering her name, firm against her hair, as he held her pinned.
“Arwa, Lady Arwa, Arwa, please, speak to me. Speak to me. Can you hear me?”
Arwa. She was Arwa. She was not Ushan, daiva-blooded. She was not Nazrin. Not Tahir. She was not an Amrithi with a knife to their own throat. She scrabbled wildly, gasping for words, until finally he understood and released her.
“Do you know yourself?” he asked. “Are you well? Are you safe?”
“Yes,” she forced out. “I know who I am.”No, no, no.
“You let go of our shared roots,” he said. “You consumed ash. You could have—anything could have happened to you, Arwa.” Through her own screaming trauma, she realized he was honestly shaken. His face was gray with fear. “You saw how I nearly forgot myself, when I consumed my grandmother’s ash, and that I did withyoubound to me, to ground me. You could have lost yourself. Arwa, you should not have done it. What possessed you to risk your soul and mine?”
But his words were distant. A buzz in her ears.
She could still feel the blade at an Amrithi throat.
When she remained silent, he swore to himself. Then he shook his head, and stood.
“I’ll get you some water,” he said.
She rose to her feet.
“I need to go,” she told him.
He reached for her once more. She shook him off, and walked up the steps of the enclosure, unveiled. The air pinched her skin.
“Lady Arwa,” he called, his voice all mingled rage and worry.
“Don’t follow me,” she said. “Please, my lord.”
She left despite his protests. Walked for a while, then kneeled down among the plants and retched and wept, blocking her own voice out with a hand between her teeth.
