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“What are titles if not names, Zafira?”
Knowledge. There is nothing he loves more.
Free magic. Free Arawiya. Free his father.
Because I am the Sultana of Arawiya. Warden of Sharr. Sister of Old. But before all else, hayati, I am your mother.”
We are the past. We are the future. We are history. We are destruction. Free us. “I’m coming,” she whispered
“I’m afraid she’ll kill us.”
Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. Yet another voice whispered: savior.
She wanted him to do to her what he had done to her name.
“The last man who proposed to me didn’t even get to kiss me.”
Pure of heart. Dark of intent.
Death”—he pressed his lips together against the pain, his brown eyes soft—“is a welcome truth.”
“the price of dum sihr is always great.”
One last gift from the Prince of Death.
“You have dealt your hand upon one of ours. There will be retribution.”
All right’ is when you’re bleeding black but it’s not as bad as bleeding red. When the world crashes but you’re not alone when it does. When the darkness is absolute but you hunt down the smallest flame and coax it brighter. When you carve the good out of every bad and claim it a victory.”
Arawiya was being brought from the brink of ruin by a handful of youth.
A woman, through and through.
And the Prince of Death never left a job unfinished.
“Does your mysterious savior have a name?” Misk kissed her cheek. “Altair al-Badawi.”
“Hello, Father,” said Altair. His voice was rough. “Come to gloat?” The Lion of the Night smiled.
