He had been born for this. He had been bred for this. Zafira had—skies, what had he done?
“Why do you look surprised?” Lana asked.
“Did you not hear what he said?” Zafira shot back. “He just gave up the daama crown like it’s kanafah. He’s lived his whole life for this moment, for the crown, and he just gave it up.” Her voice was louder than it should have been. People were turning to stare.
Lana tilted her head, a laugh in her eyes. “Because of you, Okhti. Didn’t you see?”
Zafira closed her eyes, exhaling a slow, slow breath as Yasmine watched. Her stomach dropped, not because of Lana’s words, but because she knew she was one of the reasons why he had done this. Some part of her had seen it flicker in his gray eyes before he even opened his mouth.
Altair ducked beneath the curtains and closed his hands around the burnished rail, his bare arms glistening in the full sun. People murmured of his eyepatch, threaded in gold. They murmured of their love for him.
“Arawiya mocks me even now,” Yasmine murmured with some of her usual bite.
Zafira threaded her fingers through Lana’s. Her sister, who had grown so much. Who would soon know how to heal with a touch. “What do you mean?”
“He’s far too pretty to be a murderer,” Yasmine said with a sigh.
Zafira grinned. Altair was light incarnate. Nasir was right about one thing: He deserved this. And a very different kind of
pride swelled in her heart when the crown was placed on his head.
“Remember when I stole from the sultan?” Lana asked with a smirk.
Zafira let out a long-suffering sigh.
