Shoot.
Nasir’s command encased Zafira in a tomb of ice. As if the Lion pulling her arrow out of his chest with a frown hadn’t been unsettling enough.
This was Aya. Benyamin’s wife. Her ally and Arawiya’s greatest healer. It didn’t matter that she walked shoulder to shoulder with the Lion, her pale pink silk like petals of a flower withering in darkness.
I can’t.
She couldn’t shoot, despite knowing the Lion needed Aya for something important if he was stooping to the level of safin. Despite knowing she could bring ruin to them all.
“Zafira, shoot!” Nasir shouted again, a note of desperation in his voice.
Baba, help me. She stared down the shaft of the arrow, felt its pulse at her cheek, but she couldn’t. Fear crammed in her throat when someone else’s arrow struck bare paces from Aya’s dress. Zafira tried to find that dark voice in her blood. The newfound whisper that reveled in killing and destruction. But it lived within the Jawarat, far from her reach and easily overpowered by something else. The harsha in Aya’s hand. The word “roohi” from her lips. The pearls in her hair. The way she looked at Lana.
Zafira lowered her bow.
With a curse, Nasir ran. Gold flashed in the gloom as Kifah bounded after him. She pulled her arm back, hesitation freezing her form.
But she did it. She launched her spear, her aim true.
It landed on the stone with a whistle and a thump as the Lion disappeared, taking Aya and Altair with him.
