Page 59 of A Kingdom of Sand and Ice (Kingdom of Gods #2)

He was the fire that coursed through her veins and blazed within the sun.

He was the hearth flame that kept someone warm through the cold desert night.

He was the fire that danced alongside the people as they celebrated life.

He was the fire in their eyes, and the one kindled deep within their hearts.

He was everywhere.

‘Qa yaar nar valva suna,’ she whispered, releasing the final petal into the wind. The breeze rose to meet it, brushing against her skin like a farewell caress. So soft, so fleeting, it felt almost as though Ash himself had reached out to say goodbye.

May your fire return to the sun.

…

As the days slipped by, Alina sought to join the Dunayans during their training sessions. She approached with quiet determination, yet each time, her request was met with the same firm refusal. No matter how many times she tried, the answer did not change.

Hessa fought for her, again and again, arguing on her behalf with unwavering passion.

But eventually, Alina had asked her to stop.

She could not bear to be the cause of discord among Hessa’s people.

It wasn’t right. She didn’t want Hessa shouldering consequences meant for her.

If she was to earn her place, she would do it her own way.

And so, under the cloak of night, Hessa would return to her, teaching her in secret. They moved together in the shadows, practising footwork and strikes with whispered breath and hushed laughter. But it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. Not for what Alina knew she needed.

So she made a choice.

She began to appear at the training grounds each day, uninvited and unwelcome. No matter how many times she was told to leave, she returned the next morning. And the one after that.

She didn’t know what she hoped for, perhaps a challenge, perhaps a sliver of recognition.

But as the days wore on, and the Dunayans continued to dismiss her presence as though she were nothing but dust in the wind, doubt began to creep in.

Her hope, once burning bright, began to flicker.

Until one day, Alina decided she would wait no longer.

She would seize fate with her own two hands.

‘Leave.’

The voice, as always, belonged to Saren, the one who spoke for the others with cold authority.

She was a formidable figure, all lean muscle and sharp edges, a scar carving its way across her face like a lightning strike frozen in time.

It was a relic from a childhood fight she had lost at the age of ten.

Hessa had once recounted the tale with a wide grin, clearly amused.

Alina, however, had found no humour in it.

Who could bring themselves to carve up a child so brutally?

Apparently, another child.

Sahira, Hessa’s sister, had dealt the wound during a fierce dispute, and in some strange twist of fate, the two had become inseparable afterwards. Best friends. But when Sahira died, that bond turned to ash, and what remained of Saren was fury and bitterness, a girl made hard by grief.

‘No,’ Alina said firmly, planting her feet into the mountain stone.

The Dunayans had already reached the summit, and she refused to turn back now.

Not when she had climbed this far, both in distance and determination.

‘I carry a desert dagger. Earned it myself, killing a desert spider. I deserve some respect!’

Saren scoffed. ‘That proves nothing. Anyone could kill an Arahni Mhaarta.’

‘Have you?’ Alina shot back, defiance flaring. But the words had barely left her lips before she realised her mistake.

Saren’s eyes darkened, and with a swift, fluid motion, she drew both of her desert blades. The hiss of metal made the hairs rise on Alina’s neck. Instinct screamed at her to flee, and she obeyed, turning sharply, only to hear Hessa laugh behind her, light and unbothered.

The sound disoriented her, but she didn’t stop, bolting back down the path, until she skidded to a halt. Two Dunayans now stood at the edge of the stairs, their faces unreadable, their bodies blocking her only route to safety.

She spun around just as the first blade sliced through the air .

She ducked, heart slamming against her ribs, hearing the whistle of the blade cleaving through empty space, mere inches from her throat. Two seconds slower, and she wouldn’t have had time to regret it.

‘You want to learn?’ Saren said, stepping forward, her tone razor-sharp. ‘Then fight.’

Alina stumbled backwards, her eyes wide with disbelief. Behind the semicircle of assassins, Hessa stood watching, her expression hidden beneath her veil. But her eyes, those pale, unreadable eyes, glinted with unmistakable amusement.

Desert blades were curved like crescent moons, honed to such a deadly edge they were as capable of slicing through flesh as they were of dicing vegetables. Alina had no desire to end up as either.

She scrambled to her feet and bolted in the opposite direction, heart hammering against her ribs. She knew full well she had no hope of outrunning an assassin, let alone Saren, who ranked just below Hessa herself. There was a reason she had been named second-in-command.

Alina’s boots skidded in the sand as she nearly tumbled into one of the carefully tended vegetable plots, but she twisted at the last moment, veering to the side and diving into the shadow of a tent.

She crawled out the other end, breath ragged, only to find Saren already there, waiting like a spectre.

A blade struck the ground where Alina’s hand had been moments before, sand bursting upward from the force of the blow. Alina rolled away, frantic, reaching for her own weapon, but her hands trembled too fiercely to grip it.

Another slash, another near miss. The dagger sank into the earth once more, slicing so close that a strand of her hair fluttered to the ground like a severed thread. Alina swore under her breath, a mixture of fear and fury curling in her chest .

‘Are you mad?’ she shouted, scrambling back. ‘Are you actually trying to kill me?’

‘If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already,’ Saren said, lifting her blade and driving it once more into the ground, cleanly slicing another lock of Alina’s hair.

Her rasguita had slipped in the struggle, strands of gold tumbling free. Panic surged through her as she scrambled to cover her head, desperate to keep her horns hidden from the Dunayan gaze. But the gesture cost her.

Saren’s boot landed squarely in her stomach, and the world jolted. The air was knocked clean from her lungs as her head struck the unforgiving ground. Laughter erupted around her, sharp and cruel, echoing in her skull. Tears pricked at her eyes. Not from pain, but from shame.

They were mocking her.

Taunting her.

Well, no more.

A cry tore from Alina’s throat as she surged upright, yanking the rasguita from her head and casting it aside.

With shaking hands, she seized her desert blade, rose to her feet, and drove her shoulder into Saren with all the fury she had buried inside her.

The Dunayan toppled beneath her, and for a breathless moment, silence fell.

Alina straddled her opponent, blade poised at the edge of Saren’s eye, her chest heaving.

‘Laugh again,’ she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. ‘Ria, agari!’

Something shifted in Saren’s face. The hard lines of scorn softened, and the faintest smile touched her lips.

Then came the sound. A sharp chorus of whistles, ringing out across the mountaintop. Alina’s heart pounded, but she knew what it meant. Hessa had told her once: Dunayans used whistles not only to communicate, but to honour.

To show respect.

‘Well done, farahi,’ Saren said, voice low.

Alina blinked at the unfamiliar word, brows knitting.

‘It means foreigner,’ Saren clarified. Alina slowly lowered her blade, stepped back, and without hesitation, offered her hand.

Saren took it, her grin stretching wide as Alina pulled her to her feet. A heartbeat later, Hessa was at their side, laughter bubbling from behind her veil as she clapped Saren hard on the back.

‘Told you she could do it,’ Hessa said, a note of triumph lacing her voice.

Alina’s frown crept back, doubt tugging at the edges of her thoughts.

‘One must earn their place among the Dunayans, amira,’ Hessa continued, her smile so radiant it was nearly infectious. ‘It is not something given freely. It must be fought for, claimed with the same desperation as air in one’s lungs.’

‘I thought outsiders weren’t allowed to join,’ Alina said cautiously.

Saren made a face and spat into the dust. ‘They’re not.’

Alina’s grip tightened around the hilt of her dagger, dread curling in her belly. For a moment, she feared they might take it from her, cast her out, and declare her unworthy after all.

But Hessa only laughed, loud and delighted, as she pulled Alina into an embrace, arms winding around her until their bodies nearly melted into one.

‘You are one of us now, amira,’ she said.

‘But she just called me a farahi… a foreigner.’

‘A farahi,’ Hessa said gently, ‘is one born beyond the sands, but who has fallen in love with the desert, who has let it seep into their bones, their breath, their blood. You are a farahi, Alina. And now, we will teach you the Dunayan way. The desert way.’

Saren raised her blade high into the sunlit sky, its edge catching the golden light like fire made steel. One by one, the others followed, swords lifted in solemn honour. Hessa mirrored them, her free hand still tightly clasping Alina’s.

‘Alina Farahi-Sahraa Amira!’ they chanted as one, their voices echoing across the mountaintop, fierce and full of pride.

The foreign princess of the desert.

Welcomed home at last.