One
“DON’T!” KAMRAN SHOUTED. “THE FIRE—”
The words died in his throat.
He watched Alizeh charge toward the thigh-high blaze with an astonishment so complete he sank to the ground, the cold of the stone floor seeping through the tattered silk of his trousers. Kamran had the benefit of heavy layers and jewel harnesses at least; the fire had been unable to devour him with any speed. But Alizeh—Alizeh wore little more than a whisper, so fine was the fabric of her gown.
The fire will melt the flesh from her bones.
He thought it even as she crossed the blaze without care, her gossamer dress inhaled in an instant by the fiery ring, an abomination magicked to life by the young Tulanian king. Cyrus, the monarch in question, stood just opposite Kamran, sword still held aloft in anticipation of a fatal blow, his hand stayed only by the sight of Alizeh, who headed toward him now. As if from outside himself Kamran watched as she batted away flames from her dress with bare hands, snuffing the fire as one might a light. He stared down at the remains of his own disintegrated garments, then at the blood dripping between his knuckles. Slowly, he looked back up at Alizeh, possessing clarity of mind enough to register that she’d emerged from the inferno unscathed, even as her gown suffered. He blinked at the impossibility of it; he was either dreaming or deluded. He could not make sense of her.
No, he could not make sense of anything.
Alizeh, who’d nearly tripped over the king’s fallen crown in her haste, had sent the weighty heirloom spinning toward Kamran as she ran. He stared at that crown now, stared at it as a sudden tremor seized him, shock and cold combining, reminding him—
His grandfather was dead.
King Zaal was supine before the world, blood pooling beneath his lifeless body in the imperfect oval of an open-mouthed scream. His grandfather had bargained with the devil to extend his life—and in the end Death had devoured the king swiftly and without dignity, the sovereign and his sins withering in unison. The limp, corded muscle of twin white snakes still soldered to the pale shoulders of a beloved king painted a scene so grotesque it inspired in Kamran a sudden impulse to heave; he braced his unsteady hands on the icy floor and wondered, with increasing horror, how many street children had been sacrificed for his grandfather’s serpents.
It was an imagining too monstrous.
Kamran was ill with disillusion, with denial. He willed himself to remain calm, to marshal his thoughts, but an unidentified agony clawed at his consciousness, the pain seeming to emanate from his left arm. He wished to be someone else. He wished to turn back time. Above all he wished, without a mote of hyperbole, that Cyrus had been allowed to kill him.
The whispers of their heretofore silent audience had been growing steadily in the interlude and now built to an alarming crescendo, the din awaking in Kamran years of training and awareness. His mind sharpened against the gossip, duty piercing the fog of grief and replacing it with anger, focus—
A sudden clatter.
Kamran looked up in time to see Alizeh toss Cyrus’s sword to the floor, the young man flinching as glinting steel struck marble. The foreign king stared at Alizeh with an astonishment to rival Kamran’s, fear torpefying his features as she rounded on him.
“How dare you,” she said. “You horrible cretin. You useless monster. How could you—”
“How—how did you—” Cyrus fumbled back an inch. “How did you walk through the fire like that? Why are you not—burning?”
“You despicable, wretched man,” she cried. “You know who I am, but you don’t know what I am?”
“No.”
Alizeh struck Cyrus across the face with the force of a bludgeon, the impact so violent the young king staggered, audibly striking his head against a column.
Kamran felt the shock of it in his bones.
He knew he should rejoice in this moment—knew he should celebrate Alizeh’s actions against the depraved royal—but his mind would not submit to relief, for the scene unraveling before him did not align with reason.
Cyrus appeared entirely too unnerved.
The trepidation in his eyes, his astonishment at her approach, the blind steps he took backward as she advanced—it made no sense. Alizeh had insisted to Kamran but moments ago that she did not know the southern king; yet Cyrus, who’d more than proven his ruthlessness, displayed every sign of alarm in her presence. If they were truly strangers, why would he cower now at the unarmed advance of a girl he did not know? She’d tossed his sword to the floor, insulted him repeatedly, and slapped him in the face—and the young king who’d minutes ago buried a blade in Zaal’s heart hadn’t so much as lifted a hand in his own defense. He’d only stood there and stared at her and all but allowed her to strike him.
Almost as if he feared her.
Kamran dared not breathe as a terrifying suspicion dawned in his mind, the thought provoking in him a spasm so acute he thought his chest might crater.
From the first, Kamran had been mystified by Alizeh’s transformation at the ball. In a matter of hours her injuries had miraculously healed, she’d discarded the iconic snoda of her servant’s uniform, and her drab work dress had been replaced by an extravagant gown no maid could ever afford—and still he’d denied the truth, so desperate was he to absolve her of artifice. Finally, he understood.
He had been deceived.
His eyes flickered again to the fallen figure of his grandfather.
King Zaal had tried to warn him; he’d begged Kamran to see how Alizeh was tethered to the prophecy, to the end of Zaal’s life—and only now that his grandfather was dead did Kamran understand the magnitude of his own folly. Every foolish word he’d spoken in her defense—every stupid, childish action he’d taken to protect her—
Without warning, Cyrus laughed.
Kamran looked up; the southern king appeared pale and disordered. From where he knelt, Kamran could not see Alizeh’s face; he saw only the horror in Cyrus’s eyes as he looked her over. The young man had killed his own father for the throne of Tulan; he’d newly murdered King Zaal, the ruler of the greatest empire on earth; he would’ve killed Kamran, too, had he been granted but a moment more to accomplish the task. Now the copper-headed tyrant steadied himself slowly, blood seeping from his lips, smeared across his chin. Of all the adversaries they might’ve encountered, it seemed they’d both been cowed by the poor, gentle servant of Baz House.
“Damn the devil to hell,” the Tulanian king said quietly. “He didn’t tell me you were a Jinn.”
“Who?” Alizeh demanded.
“Our mutual friend.”
“Hazan?”
Kamran recoiled. He’d not been prepared for the blow of yet another betrayal, and the impact of that single word lanced through his body with a ruthlessness against which he had no defense. That she was somehow allied with Cyrus was torture enough—but that she’d gone behind his back with Hazan?
This was more than he could bear.
She’d playacted at fear and innocence, had outmaneuvered him at every turn, and worst of all—worst of all—he had fallen, madly, for her manipulations. In all the time he’d known her, Alizeh had clung to her snoda, fighting to hide her identity even in the midst of a rainstorm; now she stood unmasked before a sea of nobles, glowering at the formidable sovereign of a neighboring nation, declaring herself to the world.