Page 28 of The Jasad Crown (The Scorched Throne #2)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SYLVIA

A n hour ago, I would have gladly maimed everyone at the Aada for the chance to go to sleep. After Lateef dismissed us, my singular concern had been walking to my chambers without fainting in the hall.

That is, until I had started undressing for bed.

Blanket drawn to my chin, I stared at the ceiling, more awake than I’d been in years.

There was a new vein. Silver this time, traveling from the back of my knee to the top of my ankle.

I spotted it by accident, twisting to adjust the back of my sleep pants, and it had led to frantically stripping and searching my body for more hidden veins.

Just the two, fortunately—gold on my palm, silver on my leg.

If it hadn’t been for the late hour, I would have hunted down Namsa and asked her to explain why my body appeared to be cracking like a statue under a clumsy chisel.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I would show Namsa the veins.

I turned, pulling one of the pillows to my chest. Half the times I closed my eyes, I saw Soraya and the Mufsids attacking Usr Jasad, their victory cut short by the collapsing fortress.

The other half, I saw Supreme Rawain winking at me from across the table at the Blood Summit, seconds before the screaming began.

It was almost a relief to think about strategy instead.

The Urabi had collected a truly impressive fleet of Jasadis with specialized magic.

Twenty Jasadis with Hayagan magic, a specialty my grandparents had disdained unless someone needed to urgently throw a loud party.

Apparently, the Hayagan could use their powers to unsettle animals from miles away.

If we needed horses, the Hayagan were our best bet for stealing them from any patrols in Essam.

Their ability to release pulses of chaotic energy into the air had the dual effect of fueling an excited crowd as well as summoning animals, oddly enough.

Stranger still was the number of Sahirs in their midst. Sahirs were notoriously reclusive; many of them hated the hierarchical structure of Jasad’s wilayahs and left for other kingdoms long before the war.

The Urabi must have expended every resource at their disposal to find and recruit fifteen of them.

Sahirs could transfer their magic between elements: mold steel from dirt, fashion a blade from mere branches.

With them alongside the Hayagan, we would have however many weapons they could create before their magic ran dry.

They did, however, require three times the recovery period of other specialties.

Eventually, even war strategy lost its appeal.

I yanked a pillow over my face and drew my arms over it, stifling my groan.

The furnishings in my room were meager, but they were still double what the others here had.

They were treating me well, bestowing me with comfort they themselves lacked, and I didn’t even have the decency to enjoy it.

The pressure in my chest built. I pressed my hand to my heart like a child listening to a once-beloved story.

One, two. I’m alive.

Three, four. I’m safe.

Five, six. I won’t let him catch me.

When the roil of dread in my stomach only increased, I tried again.

One, two. I’m alive.

Three, four … Where was I?

My room vanished, its outlines blurring and liquefying before me. Panic instantly turned to cold comprehension. Not this. Not again. Not now .

When the walls solidified, they were nothing like mine. My bare feet landed on soft carpet.

An enormous and startlingly austere room surrounded me.

A candle flickered above a table strewn with empty vials and bloody cloths.

Sickly trickles of moonlight traveled through the rain-streaked window and caught on a magnificent four-poster bed at the head of the room.

I paused, a bit idiotically, to admire the lush covers.

Not even I could stay awake on a bed like that.

The shadows in the room shifted as the oil in the lantern popped, and I started at the sight of a bare back hunched on the edge of the bed. Its owner faced the wall, hands braced on either side of him, broad shoulders drawn.

I knew that spine better than I knew my own.

How many times had I marveled at the grace in his body, the fluidity in his movements?

Arin moved like an unfinished song, answering to a rhythm the rest of us couldn’t hear.

Even the blood matting the side of his head, darkening the silver strands to a dark maroon, couldn’t diminish him.

I wished I could look away, but in a room of beautiful things, Arin of Nizahl outshined them all.

He hadn’t seen or heard me yet, which meant I still had a chance to disappear.

Of all the times and all the people. What was my magic thinking, bringing me here?

In fact, why was my magic thinking at all?

Maybe it would please Efra to know I had been using my magic over the last few days.

Excluding, of course, how it had been used and how little I’d been involved in the process.

He still hadn’t sensed my presence. He hadn’t sensed it in the garden, either. Arin’s attunement to magic should have given me away as soon as I came near.

Were you truly here, I would have felt your magic the instant you entered the Citadel’s grounds.

I checked my palm. The gold vein hadn’t disappeared, but its glow had dimmed. I dug deep for my magic, scraping every corner and crevice, and came up empty-handed.

Was I here… without my magic?

On the table to our right, a dozen silver tools lay scattered haphazardly among the blood-soaked bandages. Expensive tools, tools a healer would have taken with them when they left.

Had he tried to fix himself?

A horrified laugh punched out of my throat. “You tombs-damned fool.”

Arin’s back snapped straight, each muscle pulling taut. He didn’t turn around.

Not a reassuring sign. Really, it was a sign shrieking Danger! Danger!

“Al Anqa’a could have killed you. Is that how you wanted to go? Sliced-up bird dinner?”

The bandages wrapped around his torso and side came into view, and I inhaled sharply. The damage from Al Anqa’a’s claws hadn’t appeared nearly so dire in the Visionists’ illusion.

Arin was hurt. Badly.

A line of blood had dried from his hairline to the bolt of his jaw, but the rest of his wound dressings were clean. Why hadn’t he wiped this bit of blood away?

My hands curled into fists in my tunic. If my magic was here, now would be the moment to whisk me away. Now, before the dust settled over my crumbling resistance or my reaching hand—

—touched the back of his bare shoulder.

It happened instantly. My skin had barely grazed his when an iron grip caught my wrist. The room flew as I was flipped backward and slammed against the wall, my traitorous hand pinned above my head.

Arin loomed over me, inches away, murder ripening on his lovely features.

“Hello to you, too.” I grinned. I wasn’t one to prod hungry lions, but damn if my asinine instincts hadn’t convinced themselves that this one wouldn’t bite me.

The hold on my wrist tightened. I huffed. “Yes, you’re very intimidating. Let me go.”

I yanked, trying to dislodge him, but even injured and bleeding, Arin was Arin. I’d have a better chance pushing past a wall. “You are being unreasonable.”

Nothing.

I took a deep breath. Before the kindling of my irritation could blaze into anger, I caught sight of his wardrobe, its carved wooden doors thrown open. The chaos distracted me from the Heir glowering a breath away from my face.

The mess on the table was a symptom of his injuries, but the wardrobe? The skewed drawers on his bureau? The three empty cups on his nightstand?

I met his eyes, brows pinching in concern as I studied him. Arin would sooner let rats gnaw on his fingers than show even a hint of weakness, but the condition of his room spoke louder than his implacable features.

In the wardrobe, Arin’s clothes were organized in neat, symmetrical rows.

Only one item stuck out, its shoddy craftsmanship a far cry from the tailored sleeves and intricate hems of its neighbors.

Surrounded by Arin’s immaculate clothing, a moth-eaten, threadbare old cloak had been carefully hung in the back.

My chest swelled to a point of pain.

Though I was the one pinned to the wall, I suddenly felt as though I had cheated. I had seen what was not meant for me, stolen an advantage in our game.

“Let me go,” I said hoarsely. “Let me go, and I’ll leave. I swear it.”

He flipped me around at dizzying speed, twisting my arm behind my back. Instead of pressing my face to the wall, Arin pushed us a step toward the door.

“Are you trying to arrest me?” Appalled, I couldn’t help a laugh. “Arin, we both know my body is miles away.”

Again, nothing. Arguing with Arin when he had closed himself off was a waste of time. He would respond to only one language.

My unrestrained arm shot backward, driving my elbow into Arin’s stomach.

Not quite as painful as hitting a wall, but close.

His grip loosened the barest fraction, but I capitalized on it, twisting my restrained wrist down and out.

My victory lasted mere seconds, sliced in half by the dagger glinting in Arin’s hand. I marveled at the frequency with which this man hid a blade on his person.

We moved in a sadistic mirror of the moments before the Victor’s Ball when we’d exploded into motion toward each other.

Except then, he’d drawn me close with his mouth over mine, and this time—this time, he swung a knife at my heart with deadly accuracy while I rammed my shoulder into his chest at full speed.

Were Arin less grievously injured, he would have used the force of my run to overturn me and sink the dagger into my chest. We’d practiced the strategy together a million times in the tunnels. But blood had starting weeping through his bandages, and we went down in a heap.