The fortress had been a dream for Jasad since shortly after the age of the Awaleen. Protection. Peace. The monsters in Essam stalked their borders. Visitors came to stand at the edge of Sirauk, gazing upon the misty bridge and leaving bizarre offerings littered in Janub Aya. Trade had become unreliable, and the skirmishes with Omal were escalating. A fortress tuned to the unique magical marker of each of Jasad’s citizens would allow us to move freely, but keep our kingdom secure from anyone—or anything—else.
The ground had quaked, knocking everyone but the Qayida to the ground. She had the magic of thousands flowing through her, and if she stopped, if she let it settle, it would incinerate her. With a roar heard all the way in the farthest corners of Lukub and Orban, the ground split. A wall the color of thick resin had surged from the earth, traveling past the hill, curving around Jasad’s borders. The Qayida’s scream was said to have filled the Malik and Malika’s ears with blood. Gold and silver orbs burst from her chest, streaking inside the wall. The colors moving within the fortress would be known as Zeenat Hend, named after the Qayida who burned from the inside out to erect Jasad’s impenetrable fortress.
I hadn’t thought of Qayida Hend in years. Her bravery had guaranteed that each subsequent Qayida would be trusted with annually renewing the enchantment keeping the fortress intact.
I washed my face in the basin by the door. The water rippled with my reflection. I tried not to linger, but the sight of my face still stung. The hollows beneath my eyes were darker than date pits. My hair hung in a lusterless braid down my back. The face of someone who had failed to fulfill a legacy of sacrifice.
I shoved the basin away. Qayida Hend burned for her bravery. One of Jasad’s foremost heroes. But if you asked me, Qayida Hend’s death was an amusement of fate. She burned to raise magic, and centuries later, Jasad would burn so they could tear it down.
We mourn what history mocks.
In the training center, the Nizahl Heir did not bother with a greeting. He pointed at my legs and turned around, devoting his focus to the weapons chest. I should have been thankful for his silence. A serpent’s tongue slithered only when it had poison to spread.
“Aren’t Heirs supposed to travel with their personal chefs?” I asked, jogging past the wall with my grandparents. As usual, I averted my gaze. Guilt tightened my throat every time I looked at them, so I did my best not to.
Arin diligently arranged the day’s tools on top of the chest. All I’d heard about the mysterious Heir prior to that fateful day in Essam had to do with his looks and his prowess in combat. It is significantly more enjoyable, I supposed, to wax poetic about the Heir’s heart-wrenching beauty or his lethal grace than it is to dwell on this intense perfectionism.
A javelin wobbled on the chest. Arin scowled, moving it to the second row. After a moment of reflection, he nudged everything else an inch to the right.
Perfectionism might be too generous a term.
“Yes, typically. Why?”
I finished my circuits, bracing myself on my knees. “The guards can’t cook,” I panted. “I want a royal’s chef.”
“You’re getting one.” He held out the rounded end of the spear. “I eat what you eat.”
“I am fully aware,” I groaned. Had Arin not been so gallingly Nizahlan, I might have believed he was Orbanian, so uninterested was he in luxury and comfort.
The back of my neck prickled as he moved closer. “Spread your feet.” He kicked my ankles apart in a succinct motion, momentarily catching me off guard.
I bounded forward, springing off my back leg to push my body’s momentum into the spear. It sailed true, cracking the wooden board in the center.
“Did you see that?” I exclaimed. If anything would impress the unimpressible Heir, it would be throwing a spear with enough force to cleave a man’s chest in two. “Half the Orbanian army cannot land a throw like that!”
He made me repeat it twenty-seven times before he was pleased. Our next task of the day required a trip to the surface. Arin refused to divulge details on what this particular training entailed or why we needed to complete it outside the tunnels.
Wes passed Arin a strip of fabric. “What do you know of the first trial?” Arin asked.
I shifted to the other foot, casting a nervous glance at the three waiting guards. “The first trial is held within a cursed forest in Orban. No one is permitted to enter the forest outside the Alcalah.”
“Why can they not enter?” Jeru prompted. A blush rose high on his tanned cheeks when Arin glanced over.