“I may be no more than a tool, after all,” he said, voice soft, “but I am needed here. I have a job to do. I still believe in its worth.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
“Well. You cannot do the job without me. Unless your family have a secret store of Amrithi blood to utilize?”
“As far as I know, they do not.” A faint laugh, sharp at the edges. “But of course, I know very little.”
She heard him move away from her. She saw the silhouette of his body in the murky night darkness as he moved to light the lanterns around the room.
“You wish to do this, even believing your brothers will see you dead for it?”
He lit the rest of the lanterns, one by one, without answering her. Then he leaned back against the wall, head bowed, heavy with exhaustion.
“Yes,” he said finally. “But it is my choice.”
She nodded, although he was not looking at her.
“I keep thinking of the Amrithi,” she said. “My ancestors. And I have wondered, since then… I’ve wondered what to do.” She curled and uncurled her scarred palm. “I have worshipped the Maha all my life. And yet…”
She thought of the Amrithi. The feel of Nazrin’s tears clogging her throat. She thought of her own sister, dead. Her own father, poisoned by loss, and her mother poisoned by disappointment, never quite the same again.
She thought of Kamran. Of Darez Fort. Of fear burrowing into her skin, the slick terror of a walking nightmare.
She thought of two worlds, feeding on one another’s tragedy.
The Empire was corrupt, but it was home. The bitter knowledge of bloodied foundations and bloodied consequences swam through her skull.
“Then this is my choice, my lord: I will not leave.”
His head rose, finally.
“You have given me the opportunity to see the realm of ash,” he said. “For that, Lady Arwa, I am grateful. More grateful than I can say. But now, I may have chosen this path but—you. No.” He shook his head. “You do not deserve to die, Lady Arwa. You can still live.”
“I am not afraid,” Arwa said.
“I know,” said Zahir, a strange twist of a smile upon his face. “I wish you were.”
She could not understand his expression—she only knew that it made her heart flutter in an unwanted fashion. So she clenched her hands to fists and said, “You are not the only one allowed to make terrible choices, Lord Zahir. Do not deny me my right to be a fool.”
“You do not need to sacrifice yourself. You could be—you are—so much more.”
“So are you, Lord Zahir. And yet here we are.”
He closed his eyes, fierce furrow in his brow. Then he looked at her once more. Said, “If you change your mind. If you want to go, if you doubt even for a moment…”
“I will tell you,” said Arwa. “I promise.”
“Then,” he said, “I suppose all we can do is continue to try.”
The both of them did the only thing they could, now that they had made the choice to face their fate. They entered the realm of ash.
Again, Arwa felt the tug of the realm—the yawning, breath-stealing deep of it—before the tea was drunk or the fire lit and blooded. The ash in her head loomed large. But she said nothing to Zahir, only followed the parameters of the ritual, and entered sleep.
They moved through the realm of ash, from Arwa’s storm to Zahir’s forest of great trees and shadows. They moved from forest to desert, over broken bodies, limbs smooth as stone. They moved farther than they ever had before. In the swirling storm, Arwa thought she saw her sister once more, a distant silhouette wreathed in shadow with a familiar braid flung over its shoulder. Brown, living skin. Head turning, as if to the sound of a voice. Arwa’s heart twisted with hurt, a terrible knot. She looked away.
She could not indulge her grief. Not now.
