Jasim—one of the two guards stationed by my room—glanced over at me. I didn’t miss the eager glint in his brown eyes or the way they lingered on my thighs, my short nightgown tailored for ventilation, not modesty. “Yes, my princess?”
I ignored that look and glanced over his shoulder. No mice. Not even an errant servant with particularly loud sandals to shout at. A defeated breath filtered out of my nose.
So it was to be one of those nights. I didn’t know why it still surprised me.
“My princess, are you all right?”
My eyes slid back to Jasim, to the concern momentarily eclipsing the hunger in his face.
Part of me was tempted to invite him inside and let him tire me out so I could sleep. He’d done it before—rather impressively, I might add—but nearly drowning that girl over and over had exhausted me enough. Punishments were one of my more annoying responsibilities as Gods-Chosen. Now all I wanted was some sleep. And for that gods-damn scratching tostop.
I would be getting neither.
Ugh.
I ducked back inside to grab a shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders. Then I stepped out of my room. Both guards straightened in anticipation. Neither one spoke, thank the gods, but shadowed me as I stalked down the hall.
Chick. Chick. Chi—
“Fuck.” I shook my head. Cracked my neck. The scratching remained. A soft yet incessant noise in my head.
“My princess,” the other guard ventured. His name was… Tarim? Parim? Who cares. “Should we send for a healer?”
I ignored him. My nails dug into my palms.
A healer would not help. Nor would wandering aimlessly through the palace, but it was better than lying in bed with nothing else to listen to. The noise was always there, day or night, but it grew worse when I could not reach Shaya.
The king believed it was the whisperings of the gods, that I was more in tune with them as a Gods-Chosen. He told me that I ought to listen to it more closely, even though no other Gods-Chosen in Ashorah’s history had ever reported hearing such noises, or that focusing on it caused sharp pain. I told King Zaid what he should have known already—that I wouldn’t be able to reach the gods until I was twenty, and trying to bridge the divide early only hurt me.
The king didn’t care. He insisted; I called him an idiot. He struck me. I grinned despite the blood leaking from my lips, which only frightened him, and he hit me again.
Strange to think the most accomplished conqueror in Ashorah’s history could be frightened of his daughter. But when said daughter was really the daughter of Death, I supposed it made sense. If he were a smarter man, he would hold back his fury. Ah well. He’d learn the error of his ways once I had the power of the Underworld at my fingertips.
Although… it was strange for Shaya to hamper our connection just a month from the Igniting. My stomach filled with acid that felta bit like dread. A byproduct of prolonged separation, I reasoned. Just like the increased volume of the scratching.
The king’s voice drifted toward me. My steps slowed, and I peered over the balustrade.
The throne room stretched out beneath me, as expansive and ostentatious as the rest of Khada Palace. Mosaic floors that swirled with cerulean blues, massive alabaster columns, and atop a raised dais a throne made of gold, so large it dwarfed the skeleton of a king within it.
King Zaid was a pile of bones half-heartedly arranged into the shape of a man with the finest layer of skin cloaking him. The bastard was old. Every day I expected some good news, but alas, he refused to die.
“… might be appealing to the princes,” Hamadi was saying at the foot of the dais. My cousin and would-be heir turned king’s lapdog.
“If you’re so concerned,” King Zaid replied in a croaking voice like a tree about to fall, “send a message to Prince Nasir.”
My curiosity was piqued. The scratching briefly faded to a background hum.
Before I was born, the silly little jinn-descended princes claimed that the pointed ears on either side of their heads proved their right to the throne. That the drop of magic in their blood from a centuries-upon-centuries-past ancestor meant they were blessed in some way. They’d created such a fuss for King Zaid, even after he successfully seized the Lotus River. Uprising after uprising, battle after insufferable battle. He’d pushed them all out of Ketopolis—Prince Sen Almassi all the way past the dam, to the Dry Lands—and still they persisted in stirring up trouble.
Then Shaya chose me. And the princes shut up.
The possibility that they would start acting up again now, so close to my birthday, was suspicious. And with Shaya not answering my prayers… The dread I’d felt before doubled.
“And risk that message being intercepted by Prince Ilias himself?” Hamadi shook his head. “If there is any truth to the rumblings about the number of animals he’s sacrificed, we cannot chance—”
My attention was pulled away by a huddle of shadows rushing at me from the other side of the balcony. My maids. Their eyes were wide, rolling around in their heads like spooked horses. My brows furrowed. “What is it?”
They hesitated, exchanging panicked looks.
