Cautiously, he wove his way through the ruins. He was on the lookout only for creatures of the damned, so when he snuck up to the ruined heart of the palace and saw a man—a human man—standing outside, he nearly had a heart attack.
The man was tall and barrel-chested, with arms and legs that were corded with muscle. His face looked as if it had been chiseled by an incompetent sculptor; jagged hook-shaped marks marred his cheeks, and his nose was so crooked it looked broken. Mazen was not sure what scared him more: the fact that the man was human or that he was not Imad.
The dread was still sinking in when he heard a voice, distinctly human, yell, “Yalla! The meeting’s going to start without you if you don’t get your ass in here.”
The barrel-chested man grumbled, then turned and walked through the entrance. Mazen waited a heartbeat. Two. Three. Then he chased him inside.
It immediately became apparent that this ruin was better maintained than the other structures, with most of its walls still holding. The corridor they passed through had a high ceiling and was lined with iron doors. Lantern-bearing ghouls stood sentinel between them, their empty eyes staring blankly ahead.
That was, until one of them turned in his direction. It sniffed at the air, took a step forward, and—
“Ss!” the man hissed. “No wandering, spawn.” The ghoul instantly retreated.
Mazen held back a sigh of relief. Whatever language Imad was using to order around the ghouls, it seemed it was unnecessary for basic commands. He was grateful for the hierarchy of human authority here, puzzling as it was.
They came to a large archway guarded by two ghouls, who froze at a word from the man. The chamber inside was massive. Save for a few torn tapestries hanging from the walls and some dusty rugs scattered across the floor, the space was mostly empty. It looked as if it had been gutted by thieves. Candelabras illuminated the room with an eerie, weak light. Beneath them, Mazen saw bare pedestals that had probably once displayed treasures.
Perhaps in the past, the room had been glorious, but now it looked like a storage room. And standing in the middle of it were men of varying shapes and bulk. Some were old, others young, and all of them wore weapons.
Mazen had just stepped inside when the chatter quieted. He heard footsteps and turned to see Imad enter the chamber. He was followed by a slow-moving man. “Where do you want her, Imad?” Imad’s companion called.
Mazen backed into the shadows as Imad brushed past him.
“Here.” Imad stopped in the center and pointed. The armed men stepped back, giving him a wider berth. “Set her at my feet,” Imad said.
The man shoved his prisoner—a woman—forward. Mazen balked at the hatred on her face. At the anger shining in her single eye, for the other was sealed shut with blood. And then he realized who she was, and he had to stop himself from running to her.
Because though he could see her, Aisha bint Louas could not see him.
She looked as if she’d been through hell and back. Her clothes were soiled, cloaked in layers of grime. Blood stained her skin, and her hair was a mess of tangled waves. Mazen had never been more terrified for her.
And terrified of her.
“So, bint Louas, are you ready to talk?” Imad raised a brow.
Aisha spat at his feet. “I have nothing to say to you, snake.”
“Mm.” Imad shifted. Mazen saw the glimmer of the bangle moments before Imad clasped it to his wrist and became Omar. “What about now? Will you speak to your prince?” His voice was soft, mocking.
Aisha trembled in her bindings but said nothing.
“You think Omar will appreciate your martyrdom? You are easily replaceable.”
“This, coming from the man who was thrown away.” Aisha’s eye swept across the room, taking in the sight of the stoic-faced ruffians who surrounded them. “I see you’ve replaced your comrades with thugs. How the mighty have fallen.”
A heavy silence followed her words. Aisha heedlessly spoke into it. “What are you but an old man who refuses to retire? An old man who was unable to steal a single relic for your prince? I owe you nothing. My king—”
Imad struck her across the face. “Your prince is a monster,” he snapped.
“You only curse his name because you were too weak to honor it. You murdered an entire tribe, and for what? You returned relic-less, with only blood on your hands!”
“Your prince never found the relic either.” Imad reached into his pocket. “But I have accomplished what he has not.” He pulled out an object. A small disc made of wood and glass.