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CHAPTER FIVE

T he Isshiran Sands had tested every fiber of Akoro’s resolve for hours, each grain of desert seeming to conspire against their journey.

The dunes shifted beneath their mounts’ feet like living things, treacherous and unpredictable.

What should have been solid ground one moment became a sliding trap the next, forcing constant vigilance from every rider.

The Sands weren’t merely difficult—they were resistance itself. As if the desert understood what he was after and rose up to deny him. It gnawed at his control, clawed at the edges of his patience to see how much the so-called King of Tsashokra could endure.

A sandstorm struck without warning three hours into their travels, a howling wall of razor-sharp particles had torn through their formation like the wrath of the Voices.

Akoro’s nnirae bore deep cuts along its flanks where wind-carried stone had sliced through the protective sheet and hide, dark blood matting the beast’s coat.

His own armor endured fresh gouges, metal scored by debris that moved faster than arrows.

Some soldiers simply vanished without sound or sight.

Worse had been watching one of his soldiers disappear into the maelstrom despite being roped to his mount.

They’d found his body afterward, half-buried and savaged beyond recognition.

Oppo had nearly joined him, his nnirae stumbling into a suddenly-formed sinkhole that appeared from nowhere.

Only Akoro’s quick reflexes and the strength of his own mount had pulled his brother back from the shifting grave.

Yet through it all, the burning certainty in his chest never wavered. Naya was somewhere in this cursed wasteland, and he would find her. Every obstacle, every danger, only sharpened the need.

The sun began to sink toward the horizon, painting the endless dunes in shades of gold and crimson.

They reach the peak of a rise and relief coursed through Akoro at the familiar sight of a sand drift.

The circular depression stretched perhaps fifty yards across, its boundaries marked by short, squat stones.

Within that perimeter, the sand lay still—truly still—for the first time since they’d entered this golden, grainy hell.

“The Voices show mercy,” Oppo muttered, his voice hoarse from hours of shouted orders over howling wind. Blood crusted along a cut above his left eye, and exhaustion lined his features. “The beasts need rest.”

Akoro guided his wounded nnirae down the slope toward the drift’s edge, feeling the subtle shift as they crossed into it. The oppressive wrongness that had pressed against his shoulders like a physical weight lifted immediately. His mount’s labored breathing eased, the animal sensing safety.

The remaining soldiers—twenty-eight of the fifty they’d started with—followed in grateful silence.

Weapons were secured, water distributed, wounds tended.

But Akoro found no peace in their temporary refuge.

His eyes swept the horizon continuously, searching for any sign, any trace that might lead him to her.

“We should make camp here for the night,” Nrommo said, dismounting with visible relief. “The men are spent, and the beasts?—”

“Look.” The word fell from Akoro’s mouth, his gaze fixed on a distant figure moving across a dune perhaps half a mile away.

Every muscle in his body went rigid. The silhouette was small, slender—unmistakably feminine. Even at this distance, something about the way she moved, the particular rhythm of her gait, sent recognition blazing through his veins.

Naya.

“My king,” Nrommo’s voice carried warning as he moved to Akoro’s side. “It could be anyone. These Sands play tricks on the eyes.”

But Akoro was already moving, vaulting from his nnirae ’s back with fluid grace.

The moment recognition seared through his body, instinct took over.

The certainty burned in his chest, primal and absolute.

Every instinct he possessed as an Alpha roared that his Omega was there, alone and vulnerable in the wasteland.

“Akoro, wait?—”

“Stay here,” he threw over his shoulder at Oppo, not hearing the rest of his brother’s words.

His boots hit the sand, and he was running, powerful strides carrying him up the slope and out of the drift’s protective boundary.

The moment he crossed into the shifting sands, the wrongness crashed back over him like a tide, but he pushed through it.

Nothing would stop him from reaching her.

The figure grew clearer with each stride—copper hair tied back, the familiar lines of her body that his hands, his mouth, knew intimately.

But something was different with the sand around her.

While everywhere else the dunes writhed and shifted like serpents, the ground beneath her feet remained steady, the grains seeming to flow around her as if she were a stone in a stream.

When he was close enough to see her face clearly, relief exploded through him with such force it nearly drove him to his knees. His beautiful Naya. She was alive. She was whole. She was here.

She raised her hand as he approached, palm out in a gesture that might have been greeting or warning, but nothing could have slowed his momentum. The sight of her, his Omega, his mate, standing alone in this cursed wasteland, shattered the last of his restraint.

He crashed into her with the desperation of a drowning man reaching air, sweeping her off her feet and crushing her against his chest. His arms banded around her, one hand tangling in her hair while the other pressed flat against her back, dragging her into him with a desperation that made his bones ache.

But she was his, and she was safe. Nothing else mattered.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing deeply.

Her scent filled his lungs—familiar and perfect and alive—soothing the savage panic that had driven him through this hell to find her.

The emptiness that had gnawed at him since she’d vanished eased, replaced by the bone-deep satisfaction of having her in his arms where she belonged.

“Are you hurt?” The words came out rougher than he’d intended, edged with the remnants of fear and fury. His hands moved over her frantically, checking for injuries, for any sign that someone had dared harm what was his.

Then he saw it.

The scar ran the full length of her right cheek, raised and angry and far too fresh. The sight of it sent rage exploding through his veins like wildfire.

She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, still perfect in his eyes, but the scar shouldn’t be there. No one had the right to interfere with his nnol ttaehh .

“Who did this to you?” The question came out as a snarl. “Tell me who it was so I can fucking tear them apart.”

She stared up at him, and something in her gaze made his chest tighten with unease. There was no joy in her eyes, no relief at being found. Instead, she looked at him with a coolness that felt wrong.

“You did,” she said, her words quiet and measured.

The air between them thinned. “What?”

“You’re the one who gave me the nnol ttaehh mael, Akoro. You carved it into my face. And you left it there.” Her voice carried no emotion, just flat statement of fact. “This is your work.”

The accusation hit harder than a war hammer. Rage coiled inside him at whoever had told her what the wound meant. And yet, he couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t hide behind excuses.

And she knew that.

He became aware, slowly, that she hadn’t returned his embrace. Her arms hung at her sides, her body stiff in his hold. She didn’t seem pleased to see him, didn’t seem grateful to be rescued. The realization settled in his stomach, cold and heavy.

He lowered her and loosened his grip but didn’t release her, keeping her pressed against his body as he studied her face. “Where have you been? Who took you?”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said, her tone somber. “I was taken against my will but they’re not enemies. I’m learning a lot about your land.”

The words sent alarm horns blaring in his mind. There was something different about her, something guarded and distant that hadn’t been there before. “Who are they, Naya?” he growled. “They cannot just take you and expect not to pay for it.”

Instead of answering, she held his gaze with an intensity he’d never seen in her eyes before. When she spoke, her voice was low. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“About the Omegas your family kept as slaves.” Her voice sharpened, cutting through him. “About how they were used to make your family wealthy and powerful.”

A slow burn of disbelief spread through his chest, tightening around his ribs. She knew. Somehow, impossibly, she knew the one thing about his family’s history that he’d wanted to stay buried. A growl burned the back of his throat. “How the fuck do you know that?”

Naya pushed at his chest, yanking herself out of his hold and stepping back with deliberate distance. “Were you ever going to tell me?” she said, her voice harsh. “How much of what you told me was actually the truth?”

Fury blazed through him at the accusation. “I’ve never lied about the sins of my family.”

“Omitting information about the Omegas is lying about what happened!” Her voice rose, anger finally breaking through.

“When do they get recognition for the suffering they went through? Your dynasty was built on their pain and blood and enslavement. You do not have the right to erase it! Is this why your council was so evasive when I asked about magic leaving the Nnin-ka Sands? Is this why Prillu never wanted to give me information about your magical tools?”

Akoro scowled. “My council doesn’t discuss it because they don’t indulge in rumor.”

“Omega history is just as valid as yours,” she snapped. “It cannot be sidelined as gossip!”