Good. Rawain likes his property in faultless condition, Hanim sneered.
I wrapped my arms around my middle and rocked.
At the root of all chaos is reason. It was a comfort Dawoud would share with me when I was especially afraid or angry. He was raised in Ahr il Uboor, a wilayah with a population of seven hundred and, according to him, more fanciful stories than sense.
But the error of my existence was a chaos my mind couldn’t reason. Four kingdoms living in harmony with Jasad for thousands of years had elected to invade and reduce us to rubble. We must have done something to deserve it. We must have earned the fate that befell us. Right?
I quaked in the corner and pressed my forehead to the wall.
For hundreds of years, Jasad has bled its glory from the lives it ruined.
Everyone talked about the fortress, Sylvia. It allowed Jasad to get away with doing whatever it wanted.
… it is time for the sun to rise over Jasad, Essiya.
Because if we did not deserve our fate, I could not bear the alternative much longer.
The next time the door opened, I stood in front of a row of gowns. My neck tingled as I adjusted the towel around my body.
“Which dress would the Supreme prefer for his Champion?” My voice sounded as empty as I felt. “I would not want to displease him.”
When the silence lengthened, I glanced over my shoulder. Arin had stalled a mere foot away, staring at my back. I clicked my mouth shut. I had forgotten to cover the evidence of Hanim’s favorite hobby. Until now, Rory and Raya were the only two with the misfortune of seeing my graveyard of scars.
“Who did this to you?”
I moved to face him. A glove to my shoulder kept me turned.
“That’s none of your concern.”
“These are old,” he murmured. “Layered.”
When his hand ghosted over my skin, I couldn’t stop a shiver. He traced the gnarled path of flesh along my back. Assessing the defective condition of his Champion. I dropped my forehead against the wardrobe, forcing my ragged breathing to stabilize. I was not in a sane enough state to handle the Heir.
“These are from a jalda whip,” he guessed. The pressure moved to my right side. “A switch.”
I eased the towel’s knot enough to reveal my lower back, morbidly curious. Could he put a name to every instrument Hanim had used against me? I couldn’t.
“Is this an arakin?” he gasped, sprawling his palm against the base of my spine. I jumped.
“A what?”
“These were banned decades ago. Your scars—they can’t be more than six or seven years old.” He sounded furious. “Those crops do real damage. You might have died.”
I tightened my towel and turned.
“Is an arakin the one with the poisoned metal spikes? Yes, those were quite inspired. Tipped with just enough venom to scream yourself hoarse for a week or so, but not enough to put an end to your misery.”
“What—” He stopped. Closed his eyes briefly, gathering the words. The most articulate man in the kingdoms rendered speechless by Hanim’s handiwork. “What happened to you, Sylvia?”
I laughed. It was alarmingly choked.
“You are not the first to use me for your own ends. I have a legacy of disappointing people, you see.”
I kept my attention fixed over Arin’s shoulder as he reached past me. He pressed a black gown with buttoned sleeves and a violet neckline into my arms.
“I am still waiting,” Arin said.
“Waiting?”
I had learned to defend myself against every version of Arin. Devised strategies to safeguard against his ever-twisting mind and sharp tongue. But no one taught me how to protect myself from the Nizahl Heir when he looked at me like this—gentle, human, with his steadfast gaze pinning my own. Grounding me.
“To be disappointed.”
Unlike the Ivory Palace, the Orban castle made for a modest sight. Painted an unappealing tan, it rose a mere three stories and stretched from the end of the Champion’s Pavilion to the border of Essam Woods. What it lacked in luster, the castle doubled in protection. Orbanian khawaga were a deadlier, less disciplined version of the Omalian patrol. They settled disputes by their own exacting standards, and the stories of their abuse in the lower villages had circulated far. Fifty of them surrounded the palace, their curved janbiya daggers hanging from their belted waists.
At the main entrance, a khawaga held a snapping, growling dog by its scruff. I stared at it while Wes walked up to the khawaga. Would Ayume’s dogs have sniffed around the lake’s edge, pawing for Timur’s corpse? Timur, who had loved his family enough to kill for them.