There were arches that led to the palace doors, and before them was the fountain Nasir’s mother had commissioned long ago, shaped like a lion.
Its water ran crimson.
The hairs on the backs of Nasir’s arms rose at the sight. The clamor of men and ifrit echoed from the streets, and from the deeper shadows along the palace walls, soldiers materialized, human in appearance, though the staves against their shoulders gave them away as ifrit.
Nasir drew his scimitar. Zafira nocked an arrow in an unfamiliar bow.
And a figure stepped from the arches. A place he had no right to stand in. A position he had murdered to obtain.
The Lion of the Night. Perfectly poised and dauntingly dramatic.
Laa—he was neither of those things. Not now. Panic painted his stance, glowed in his amber eyes, because that which he valued most was burning to cinders. He looked worn, surprised to see them; a strange sight, for the Lion was adept at masking emotion.
Shadows gathered in his outstretched palms. Nasir sheathed his scimitar.
If the Lion desired a game of shadows, Nasir would give him one. He mirrored the Lion’s movements, lifting his own hands, but he wasn’t quick enough. Darkness shot toward them, the fountain falling to pieces in between, stone scattering to the courtyard. Zafira fell with a cry. Nasir stumbled, but held his ground.
The Lion didn’t wait. He dashed for the gates, abandoning them in favor of the Great Library, still engulfed in flames. Nasir watched, and though he didn’t consider himself petty, he took great pleasure in the Lion’s haste, and then in the way his delicate features morphed into horror, cementing him in place.
As the fire, smoke, and every last ember in the air disappeared.
