Nasir had forgotten how it felt to be on display like a prize goat at the butcher’s. It had been years since the crown had last held a feast. Scores of eyes crowded upon the sultan, and Nasir caught each furtive glance as it slid his way with a bit more discretion.

Being the Prince of Death was akin to being the sun, he supposed. Hard to look at, but, rimaal, did everyone want to look.

“Luminaries of Arawiya,” his father called, genial and welcoming. “Less than a fortnight ago, Arawiya was struck with change. The Arz retreated into the bowels of Sharr, history reshaped and remade in a single act. Magic was salvaged from the ruins of the dark island and transported across the Baransea with vigilance.”

It was foolhardy, this feast. Unwise to trumpet magic’s return when it still hadn’t returned. There was much about his father Nasir could not understand, even more than what he hated.

But Ghameq was never rash or reckless.

“You may wish to know whom to thank for the impending return of magic, for vanquishing the Arz and uniting us after decades of separation. It was none other than my son: the Prince of Death.”

Nasir’s breath caught. Troubled murmurs meandered from person to person throughout the hall, fear stirring the expectant air. It was a title given to him by the people. A moniker never meant for official use. It wasn’t a name to say in front of every ruling power in Arawiya.

Suspicion roiled like a storm at sea, and Ghameq rose as the doors at the far end swung open on weary hinges.

“Such a feat is deserving of a reward,” he said warmly. “My greatest one yet.”

Nasir met Zafira’s eyes as panic flitted across her features. Two cloaked men of the Sultan’s Guard stepped into the room. A third figure slumped between them, the rattle of chains branding him a prisoner.

Whispers thickened the air as the trio began a slow march to the dais.

The guards stopped with matching bows at the foot of the white steps as the prisoner rose to his full height and lifted his dark head.

And Nasir stared into the amber eyes of the Lion of the Night.

Ghameq’s voice was thunder in his ears, unfamiliar. Velvet.

Dark. “Are you pleased with my gift, Ibni?”

The Lion was adorned in finery, his turban the color of sunset. He was not dressed like a prisoner. He did not stand like a prisoner, despite the shackles at his wrists and the collar around his neck.

It wasn’t defeat that stirred in the beastly depths of his eyes, but something else. As if he played a game Nasir still didn’t understand.

Zafira shot to her feet.

A slow smile curved the Lion’s face.

The chains disintegrated into smoke. Shadows. The guards morphed into the shapeless forms of ifrit and drew to his either side. Ghameq stared into nothing.

Like a puppet, cut loose from its strings.

“Human hearts are like glass,” the Lion said softly, rising up the steps of the dais, each one bleeding into black as he

passed. “Fragile, delicate little things.”

The hall doors slammed shut, a vise of shadow barring them in place. Panicked shouts rang out, but not a single person moved, afraid of being the first to fall.

The Lion curled his fingers and Ghameq doubled over, gasping for air with the kingdom as witness. His vow was a snarl. “Delicacy fosters death.”

The Sultan of Arawiya staggered and

fell.

Nasir sprang forward. He dropped to the cushions and carefully lifted Ghameq’s head into his lap. Pain crossed the sultan’s features, but Nasir saw that his eyes were clear, soft, kind.

His father’s.

Truly, wholly. Nasir didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed the falsity before.

“Ibni,” the sultan whispered, lifting a trembling hand to Nasir’s hair.

Distantly, chaos erupted. “Forgive me.”

The hall darkened.

“For the days that I lived to hurt you. For the days that you lived in suffering. Tell your mother—I think of her when the moon fills the sky. Always.”

“No—” Nasir’s voice cracked as a chilling cold swept to him, a presence as familiar as his own. Death.

Not now, he begged as others once begged of him. Wisps of black slipped from his fingers and wound around his father, clutching him as Nasir did. The medallion swung behind his closed eyes. Aya had been right. It had corrupted the sultan

beyond return. He was a fool to have believed his father could survive without the Lion’s crippling hold. To have believed his father could walk free after years of imprisonment.

“Every day, I saw you, and every day I wanted to tell you the same: I am proud of you. He would not let me tell you, but it is true. Now, and forever.”

Nasir didn’t care anymore. About approval, about pride.

He didn’t want any of it.

The shadows scattered.

“Baba,” he wept, but as always, Nasir was too late.