ALIZEH’S INSTINCTS SHARPENED AS A distinguished older woman appeared as if out of nowhere before her, floating down a dew-touched path with an elegance she instantly admired. The stranger’s powder-blue gown was adorned with fringed epaulets constructed entirely of sapphires, layers of decadent satin rippling gently around her ample curves in the morning breeze. Her hair was the color of fire itself, a shocking wave of red and gold sparingly streaked with gray, the silky locks swept over a single shoulder and clasped at intervals with diamond rings.
Her beauty was breathtaking—irrefutably so—but it was in the woman’s eyes that Alizeh found reason for true astonishment, for there lived in her expression an unguarded enthusiasm that surprised Alizeh so completely she took a step back. A terrifying suspicion had risen up inside her, but even as Alizeh glimpsed the diadem atop the woman’s head, she reasoned with herself that she might be wrong—that the lady drawing toward her now could be anyone, and certainly wouldn’t be—
“Mother, wait—”
Alizeh’s body seized at the sound of Cyrus’s voice, panic causing her heart to pound furiously in her chest.
Cyrus came crashing between them—one hand raised as if to intervene
—when he abruptly recoiled, as if struck, upon sighting Alizeh. His eyes widened in something that could only be described as alarm.
Heat exploded in her body.
Rarely did Alizeh blush so deeply as to feel true warmth, but this humiliation was acute indeed—for she’d nearly forgotten what she looked like.
Moments ago she’d taken inventory of herself and dismissed the results, comforting her pride with the assurance that she’d meet with no one new at this early hour. Now, the burgeoning rays of heat had melted the frost from her hair and eyelashes, sunlight painting her so completely there was no hope of escaping scrutiny.
Alizeh looked like a woman of ill repute.
She was soaking wet; the scraps of her twice-incinerated gown were now entirely see-through, the translucent silk suctioned to her dripping body in a manner so scandalous it was somehow more shocking than a display of nudity. It didn’t help that her stockings had disintegrated in the fire, or that the loose, drenched locks of her hair were so heavy they now grazed her waist, lapping at her curves and emphasizing the gentle swell of her hips, her glistening legs exposed up to her thighs. Little else was demanded of the imagination when her breasts were all but bared to the world, spared only an inch of modesty by a corset so scorched and waterlogged it had slipped to a dangerous degree, one unfortunate movement away from exposing her in an imitation of something so erotic Alizeh thought she might expire on the spot.
Instead, she seemed paralyzed.
Alizeh could only stand there, frozen in a nauseated sort of humiliation, as Cyrus—and the woman Alizeh had to assume was his mother—silently appraised her. Rationally, Alizeh understood that the opinion of this unknown woman should not matter to her, but it was no use; her dignity chafed.
The older woman quickly recovered, her smile wavering only a moment before it came back stronger; in fact, of the two who stood before her, it was Cyrus who appeared truly disturbed.
Alizeh chose to focus instead on his mother.
The latter soon cleared the distance between them, taking Alizeh’s hands with a confounding familiarity.
“You must be Alizeh,” she said, nearly blinding her with a pair of familiar blue eyes. “I am Sarra. I can’t tell you how happy I am you’ve finally agreed to come.”
Alizeh blinked, shock rendering her silent a moment before she was able to falter, “I— That I agreed to come?”
Sarra’s smile deepened. “I’ve been so anxious to meet the young woman who is to become my daughter-in-law. Cyrus has talked of little else
these last few months, but he’s kept the details such a secret I was beginning to worry you weren’t real.”
The nosta awoke without warning against Alizeh’s chest, heat flaring across her skin and provoking her heart to beat harder.
Very slowly, Alizeh turned to look at Cyrus, who was now staring determinedly into the distance. She all but bore holes into his head with her eyes, and he would not face her.
Still staring at the king, Alizeh said angrily: “Cyrus has talked about me? For months?”
Finally, he did look at her—his eyes narrowed in warning. This only made her angrier.
“Odd, isn’t it,” Alizeh went on, “that he’s known about me all this time and yet”—she glanced at Sarra—“did you know, I only met him for the first time tonight?” She hesitated, then frowned at the sun. “Or I suppose it was last night. Regardless, I can’t help but wonder why he never bothered to introduce himself any earlier—or even to ask whether I wanted to be here before tricking me into coming—”
“You must be very tired,” said Cyrus flatly. “This is hardly the time—” “On the contrary,” Alizeh said, meeting his eyes with a fire that
would’ve made a weaker man flinch. “I find that this is the perfect time to tell your mother that I have absolutely no intention of becoming your wife
—”
Sarra laughed loudly and without warning, the hollow, inauthentic sound drawing Alizeh’s attention at once.
The lady had not let go of her hands.
There was something desperate about the way Sarra squeezed Alizeh’s fingers now—with a pressure that bordered on painful—that screamed all manner of things unspoken. Alizeh couldn’t be sure, but as she blinked up into the woman’s strained eyes she was struck by a vague suspicion that Sarra was afraid.
Of what, she didn’t know.
“You and I will get on just fine,” the lady said urgently, her focus still locked on Alizeh’s face. “I’ve been so eager to meet you, and now I know that we are to be the best of friends.”
Again, the nosta flashed hot, and Alizeh went a bit slack with astonishment.
Very well, then.
The situation seemed to demand a more direct approach.
“Your son,” she said, carefully enunciating each word, “is a liar. A scoundrel. And a criminal. Just earlier he murdered the king of Ardunia, no doubt ensuring your empires will soon go to war. And while I do not mourn the loss of the Ardunian king, I do mourn the countless innocent lives that will soon be lost as a result of your son’s stupid decisions. In the short time I’ve spent in his excruciating company I’ve already been exposed to his rudeness, his cruelty, and his disgusting arrogance, and if I’d not decided he might prove useful to me in the short term, I would’ve killed him already. You, on the other hand, strike me as quite kind, but let me be clear: I have absolutely no intention of becoming your daughter-in-law, nor would I recommend leaving me alone with your son, who I’m liable to murder without warning—”
“So much to discuss!” Sarra cried, gripping Alizeh’s hands now with a fervor she found frightening. The woman beamed at her, a sheen of emotion glazing her eyes as she exuded what could only be described as unadulterated joy—so much so that Alizeh was forced to wonder, in a moment of panic, whether Sarra might not be as demented as her own son.
“What a delight you are,” the lady said gently, a single tear tracking a clean path down her cheek. “What happy conversations we’re sure to have.”
Alizeh blanched.
“All that matters is that you’re here,” Sarra said softly, never relinquishing Alizeh’s hands, not even to wipe her eyes. “You’re finally here, and now all will be well.”
Something was wrong, upside down. Wasn’t it? This woman was out of her mind. Wasn’t she? Or was Alizeh so very delirious that she merely felt delusional?
Alarmed, she looked around, instincts urging her to escape, to identify all possible exits—but there were none. Alizeh stood atop a treacherous cliff at the base of a terrifying castle in a foreign empire, where the rising sun glittered mercilessly across the palace grounds. Paces away a tired dragon fell unceremoniously onto its haunches, rattling the earth beneath them as it fell asleep, the silent and sudden exhalations of its deep breaths rippling the rainbows cast in the spray of so many waterfalls.
The obvious way out of here, she reasoned, was through Tulan itself.
The heart of this empire was no doubt accessible only through—or beyond—the castle, but Alizeh doubted she could take a single step toward
the palace without being intercepted. Which meant she could either fight to the death—
Or jump.
She would have to fling herself into the water, into the arms of frenzied, thrashing cascades that, if she even survived, would only dump her into the legendary Mashti River, a body of water so vast and violent its whitecaps were legendary, known for devouring on more than one occasion the ships that dared venture through them. This, she knew she’d never survive, but even the slim chance that she might was pointless: overcoming the river meant she would be emptied into the sea, which would only leave her adrift in the middle of nowhere.
Surreptitiously, Alizeh took a bracing breath.
She’d not slept in what felt like days; she was delirious, frozen, almost entirely naked, and still dripping slowly in the morning light. She stared down at her bare feet, then at her makeshift shackles, the iron grip Sarra kept upon her hands. Were it not for the adrenaline coursing through her veins, Alizeh doubted she’d be able to remain upright for much longer. She was at a terrible disadvantage.
Steeling herself, she said softly: “Very well.”
Cyrus’s gaze sharpened at that, his eyes betraying a flicker of surprise. With a small cry of pleasure, Sarra finally released Alizeh’s hands, clapping her own together in delight.
Alizeh drew back at once.
The southern king followed, stepping cautiously toward her, watching Alizeh with the wariness of a hunter approaching a rabid wolf.
“You will come willingly?” he asked, his brows drawing together. “You will marry me without protest?”
They were close enough then that Alizeh could touch him had she wanted to. She could lift a finger to the silky copper lock curling across his forehead, his golden skin gleaming in the reflected light. His blue eyes were luminescent and somehow frigid, and for the briefest moment Alizeh thought she sensed in him what she still carried within herself—
A vast, bottomless grief.
She stood on tiptoe, asking with her body that he come closer—which he did, drawing toward her then without seeming to realize what he’d done, not until she nearly grazed the shell of his ear with her lips, when she
whispered, for all the world as if they were playful lovers, “Choose your weapon, sire.”
Cyrus drew back so suddenly he nearly stumbled, newborn anger flaring to life between them. His chest heaving, his jaw clenched, he looked as if he might implode with fury.
“This is terribly inconvenient for me,” she said, drawing her shoulders back, planting her feet firmly beneath her. “But I’ll have to kill you now.”
Alizeh heard Sarra laugh.
