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T HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON , N OTUS ’ BELONGINGS are moved into the chambers adjacent to my room. In the hours since declaring our betrothal to King Halim, I did what I rarely do, and I tossed breadcrumbs to the court. The story unfolded like so: Darkwalker sighted in the library yesterday evening. None were harmed, though extra security measures have been put in place to protect the royal family. The South Wind’s presence is a necessary precaution.

I’d hoped that his proximity would grant us the opportunity to unravel the mystery of the labyrinth without interruption. Unfortunately, Notus seems to avoid my company at all costs. Some mornings as I lie in bed, I listen through the shared wall as he dresses for the day. By the time I gather the courage to approach his door, he has already departed, none the wiser to my increasingly vivid dreams, which feature his broad hands and swift fingers. Sometimes, I fall asleep with my hand between my legs, skin stinging with perspiration following a particularly sweet release.

A week after the darkwalker sighting, I inform my maidservants that I will be taking breakfast in my chambers rather than in the dining room. It is early—before dawn—but I want to catch Notus before he leaves. Too easily, he slips from my grasp. Today, I will not allow it.

Grabbing a robe from my wardrobe, I wrap it around my nightgown and belt it at the waist. Then I cross to the interconnecting door between our rooms. Ear pressed against the wood, I listen to the rustle of clothing as he dons his uniform. When I knock, the rustling stops.

Then, the South Wind’s slow footfalls, their undeniable approach. I catch my breath, neutralize my features as the lock flips and Notus pulls open the door.

He wears a pair of trousers and a tunic so thin that the curl of chest hair bleeds through the fabric. The disheveled state of his hair suggests he has run his fingers through it repeatedly—or someone else has. As soon as the thought forms, I discard it. I’ve heard no indication of Notus hosting guests. And I refuse to consider the possibility.

“Good morning.” I offer him a smile. “Would you care to join me for breakfast?”

He stares at me. “Breakfast.”

“Yes, breakfast. According to some, the most important meal of the day.” I gesture toward my sitting room, where two place settings await, in addition to assorted fruits, fresh bread, sliced vegetables with hummus, and steaming tea.

Notus looks to the spread, back to me, back to the spread, back to me.

“I don’t bite,” I reassure him.

“Much.”

My mouth parts in surprise, and bit of laughter slips out. Well, he’s not wrong. “Look.” Boldly, I rest a palm on his chest, over the hard kick of his heart. “If we’re going to convince Prince Balior that he’s lost the battle, we need to be a little more… convincing .”

His gaze drops to the hand on his chest. The drum beneath my palm quickens. “A love match.” He lifts his head, eyes darkening in both wariness and understanding.

My face warms, and I snatch my hand away in sudden retreat. “It was once.” It takes more strength than I care to admit, to voice that aloud. “Obviously, circumstances have changed, but I believe we can put on a decent front, don’t you?”

He scrubs a hand along his jaw. “I suppose…”

“Great.” I tug him across the threshold. “Then we’ll need to practice. Obviously.”

“Of course,” he replies smoothly.

He takes a seat. I take a seat. We sit near enough that, were I to angle slightly to the right, our knees would touch.

“Tea?” I inquire. At his nod, I pour him a cup. Notus returns the favor. He even adds a spoonful of sugar, just how I like it. I watch him beneath lowered lashes as he takes a sip. After a period of silence, he sets the cup on the table.

“So,” he says.

I straighten in my chair. “So.”

“How do you suggest we go about this?”

That is a question I have examined thoroughly, in varying shades of light, at every manageable angle. And I still haven’t the slightest clue.

“To be honest, I’m not sure.” At the very least, this discussion requires a full stomach. I dip a carrot into hummus and pop it into my mouth with a satisfying crunch. “We’ll need to spend time together.” My eyes dart to his face, then away. “Not that I care to humiliate Prince Balior further, but if we can rub salt into the wound, it should be enough to drive him from the city.”

The South Wind pauses with the rim of his cup at his mouth. He does not appear thrilled, but at least he doesn’t argue. “Very well. How should we spend time together, aside from sharing breakfast?”

“To begin,” I say, “it would be a little easier if you stopped avoiding me. How are we to put on a convincing front if you fail to attend meals with the king?” Despite his ailing health, Father remains keen. He will know something is amiss should Notus continue to stay away.

He looks away guiltily. Through the windows, Ishmah’s shining rooftops glint beneath a yellow sun. Mount Syr shimmers in the far distance, reduced to a smudged hill of barren rock. “I’ve my duties to attend to.”

Somehow, I knew Notus would say this. “Can’t someone cover for you?”

A muscle pulses in his jaw, but he nods, saying, “I’ll ask around. I… suppose it couldn’t hurt to question if the guards have seen anything suspicious regarding Prince Balior or the labyrinth.” When he next catches my gaze, a little zing of energy darts through me. I hurriedly shove a cucumber between my teeth. “It could help determine our next step.”

I nod, chewing as fast as I can. Mouth half full, I manage, “It might offer additional insight about the b—” Except instead of beast , a fat glob of saliva slips from the corner of my mouth.

A rush of heat consumes my face. By the gods. Snatching my napkin, I wipe the saliva from my chin while Notus looks on, holding back laughter. I glare at him, and he clears his throat, saying, “What will happen when the prince has returned to Um Salim?”

Right. Because once Prince Balior is out of the picture, there will be no need for this charade. “We’ll need to break the engagement.”

The South Wind shifts in his chair. The toe of his boot nudges my ankle. I try my damndest not to examine that touch too closely. “I imagine you’ve already formulated a story for the court?” He sounds… indifferent? Frustrated? Difficult to say.

“No.” Crumpling the napkin in my fist, I reply, “But don’t you worry. I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

“Sarai.”

I startle, my surroundings coming into focus. I’m sitting across from Ibramin in the music room. At his back, the wide bay window frames the palace orchards, pink blossoms clinging to bare tree branches.

“Apologies.” I offer him a wan smile. “I was momentarily distracted. What were you saying?”

He drums his fingers against the strings of his instrument. The bright, percussive sound suggests a rare impatience. Inwardly, I wince. My lesson began nearly an hour ago, yet instead of completing my counterpoint exercises—today’s topic is melodic shaping—I’ve spent the majority of that time trying not to think of Notus, with various levels of success.

“The Ishmah Symphony is performing tonight,” he says. “I have an extra ticket. Do you wish to accompany me?”

My initial shock gives way to something far more tender and bruised. I cannot remember when I last attended a concert, one where I was not performing myself. “Father expects my attendance for tonight’s ball, unfortunately. Perhaps another time?” Before Ibramin can respond, the bell tower tolls the hour of three, signaling the end of our lesson. I’m up and heading for the door. “I’ll see you next week, sir.”

“I will not be here.”

I pause with my fingers curled around the door handle. Slowly, I turn to face Ibramin. “Oh? Will you be visiting family?”

“No, Sarai.” He sighs, glances down at his instrument. “I am leaving Ishmah.”

The first tendrils of unease begin to slink through me. “But you’re coming back, right?”

He lifts his eyes to mine. “I do not know.”

My mouth opens, then snaps shut. I swallow, force my mouth open again. “When did you decide this?”

“Last month.”

“And you did not think to tell me?”

“To be honest, I did not think you would care.”

It stings, though I cannot blame him for the sentiment. Distance is my only shield. What might happen if I allowed it to fall? Betrayal, deception, disappointment, suffering. My grip tightens around the handle. I fight the urge to pry it free of the door. At the moment, it is all that holds me up. “It feels like you’re giving up on me,” I whisper.

“No, Sarai.” The sound emerges warped. “I haven’t given up on you. How could I? You are an exceptional violinist, one of the greatest the world has ever known. It has been an honor and a privilege to teach you.” The lines mapping his face deepen, sadness pressed into his expression as a seal is pressed into wax. “I stayed these past years because I hoped you would find your way back to music. But every year I grow older. There are others I might teach and shape into accomplished musicians such as yourself.”

I hear him plainly, but I fear how things will change. My legs itch to flee. I might haul open the door, dash down the hall until I reach my chamber, its shadowed interior. But I think of these past five years. Ibramin has met me for lessons every week despite me having failed to touch my violin. He deserves my patience, my understanding, my respect.

“Do you already have someone in mind?” I ask, releasing the handle and wandering back to my seat. I perch on the edge, hands fisted in my lap.

“There is a boy from Mirash whose teacher claims he has advanced beyond her capabilities. The boy’s family requests that I take him under my instruction. He is four years old.”

The age at which I myself began taking lessons.

It shouldn’t matter. Ibramin is not bound to teach me forever, and it is not fair to demand that he stay. But it feels like a betrayal that he is choosing this boy, who has all the potential in the world, over me: a failure.

But I am nothing if not polite. I straighten in my seat, saying, “The boy would be beyond lucky to have you as a teacher.”

The old man rubs the curved body of the violin: shoulders, waist, the swell of a woman’s hips. “If you decided to pick up your instrument again,” he says, “I would stay. I would do all that I could to help you return to your previous proficiency.”

Even the thought threatens tears. “It’s too painful,” I whisper.

“I know.” Wheeling his chair closer, he reaches out, rests his dry, papery hand atop my fist. Though he says nothing else, Ibramin understands. He loved my brother as a son.

Few knew of Fahim’s gift. Ibramin built my brother’s musical foundation as he had built mine, hours and days and weeks and months and years. At age fourteen, Fahim was invited to debut with the Ammaran Philharmonic. He told me it was the happiest day of his life.

A week later, Father bid that Fahim begin focusing seriously on his duties as heir. No more violin. The hours dedicated to practicing would now be spent learning about trade, policy, war. I remember the sound of Fahim’s weeping through the shared wall of our bedrooms, that heartbreak of unrealized dreams.

And after? A measured slide into a darkness none knew. I do believe something died in my brother that day. No matter the ease of his smiles, no matter the frequency of his laughter, there would forever be an absence, a hole in his spirit.

“Father should not have made Fahim choose the crown over music,” I whisper, suddenly overcome with anger on my brother’s behalf. Could there not have been space for both love and duty, freedom and obligation?

Ibramin’s eyes widen at the unexpected statement. But he says, “Music is grief, yet it is also healing and wonder and joy. Remember that. Remember the ways it has shaped you. Remember how it nurtures and heals.”

I stare at the curve of his fingers on mine, their ends toughened by calluses. With a pained swallow, I push to my feet. “I appreciate your concern, sir, but I must be going. I wish you safe travels. Best of luck with your endeavors.”

Melancholy veils his gaze as he responds, “May the Lord of the Mountain shine upon you, Sarai.”

Back in my chambers, I set my violin case on the ground and flip the locks. The instrument is a masterpiece of curved red wood and ebony fixings—a gift from Father. My pinky catches the thin, tightly wound E string, gently plucks. Its high, tinny ring draws the fingers of my left hand into a subtle curl, as though they seek their home atop the fingerboard.

The piano’s opening chords of Lisandro’s Sonata for Violin return to me now. Drawing the violin onto my lap, my fingers begin to move. I shift into third position, then sixth, picking through a complex run of sixteenth notes. Eventually, I falter, unable to remember what comes next.

I kneel in place for a time, staring at my violin, before returning it to the case and closing the lid. What is the point of returning to music if my life will end?

Which reminds me. I approach my desk, where my journal lies open. Twenty-eight days remain. The sight sobers me, and I hurriedly shove the blasphemous evidence into the desk drawer.

With the ball to commence in a few hours’ time, I begin to prepare. Father believes I will change my mind about Prince Balior, and so continues to uphold the image of celebration. I slide on my breezy, sky-colored gown as though it is armor. Silk slippers, threaded with the smallest opals. A pearled clip to secure my elaborate braid, and kohl to frame my eyes.

Reaching behind my vanity, I remove a small box, inside which rests a slender, arrow-shaped bracelet hammered from lead—the twin to the bracelet Notus wears. If we are betrothed, it is customary for the woman to wear a piece of jewelry gifted to her by her husband-to-be, as a symbol of their commitment to one another. It will also serve to reinforce my engagement to Notus in the eyes of Prince Balior.

Mouth pursed, I pluck the bracelet from the box and slide it onto my wrist as a knock sounds from the door. “Just a minute!”

I open the door to reveal a tall, slender man clothed in a robe so lavish, I am convinced the gods snipped the sunset sky into strips of pink, ginger, and violet and wove them into this exceptional garment. A full, well-groomed beard frames his jaw. It is dear to me, this face, yet I have not seen it in months.

“Amir.” I’m forced to grab the doorframe before my knees give out from shock. “I thought you weren’t arriving until next week!”

“Our mounts were fast.” His teeth flash in a grin I have sorely missed. “I thought we might surprise Father.”

“He will be pleased that you have returned early.”

As we regard one another, I fight the urge to retreat and slam my door shut.

“Are you well?” He searches my gaze, suddenly uncertain.

“Of course.” I am not aware of how tightly I’m gripping the doorframe until my nails dig into the soft wood. I force them to relax. “Why do you ask?”

“You do not appear enthused to see me, is all.”

I lift a hand, rub at the twinge in my chest. He looks healthy, bright-eyed, kissed by salt and sun, heat and wind. He looks, I think, free.

“Of course I’m glad to see you,” I whisper. Though paired with this truth is always a bitterness, that he may leave Ishmah and seek happiness beyond the palace grounds, while I am left behind, always behind, to wonder where another of my loved ones has gone, and why.

We embrace, my smaller frame tucked against him. Amir smells of mint and wood polish. His absence has stretched for three months, and much has changed in that time. “Tell me of your honeymoon,” I urge. “Was it as amazing as you hoped it would be?”

“It was all that and more—so much more. We weren’t ready to come home.”

Pushing his way into my room, he takes stock of his surroundings. A warm breeze puffs against the window drapes and stirs the ends of his headscarf, which has unraveled from his face, the strip of fabric draping his shoulder. An opal rune tattoos his left hand. Tuleen, his wife, is inked with an identical marking.

“And how is Tuleen?” I am nothing if not polite. She is, after all, my sister-in-law. The future queen of Ammara. I try to see her as such, as opposed to the woman who stole my brother from me.

“She is well. Currently resting—it was a long journey. You will see her this evening.” He turns to face me with an intensity I shy away from. “Are you sure you’re all right, Sarai?”

Guilt claims space alongside my heart. What might I say? That I have but a handful of weeks to live? That I have bound myself to the immortal who broke my heart in order to save Ammara from a man who seeks to destroy it? That I am always grieving, always furious, always searching, always falling short? This would be so much easier if Father hadn’t forbade me to mention the curse to anyone, including Amir, who remains uninformed of my early demise.

When I do not immediately respond, he moves toward the window, perhaps sensing my desire for space. “I ask because Father informed me of your betrothal,” he explains.

I straighten in sudden alarm. “When?” Amir doesn’t appear upset. I would have expected a barrage of spitting curses.

“Last month when he wrote me. Well, forthcoming betrothal, I should say. I am relieved to hear negotiations with Prince Balior have gone well. He is an excellent match for you.”

My trepidation grows thorns. “That’s all you heard?” I question. “Nothing else?”

He peers at me over his shoulder curiously. “What else should I have heard?”

I shake my head, waving the question away. If Amir doesn’t know of my engagement to the South Wind, then I am not going to mention it. His opinion of Notus is far from favorable. In fact, he might despise him more than I do. Amir has never forgiven the South Wind for how he hurt me.

As my brother claims one of the armchairs near the window, I sit across from him.

Quietly, he asks, “How is Father?”

I am a terrible princess and an even worse daughter. What do I really know of my father, my own flesh and blood, but his iron capacity to rule? His health declines, yet I do not visit him.

“Stable since you departed, though he has been bedridden more often of late.”

Amir grits his teeth. He and Tuleen returned early from their trip due to the king’s flagging health. There are things Father must teach Amir before his passing. We have known this for some time, but I am not ready to face the knowledge that he will soon be gone. As will I.

“I ask because he mentioned the growing unrest throughout the realm in his letters,” he says.

I hesitate. “There has been a significant increase in darkwalker sightings the past three months. He is right to be concerned.” According to a few attendants I overheard in the halls, two men from the upper ring were reported missing. This is unusual. The wealthy are located farthest from the city gates, but apparently this man and his son had taken a trip to a nearby town. They failed to return.

“He claims this match between you and Prince Balior could bring an end to the darkwalkers.”

I nod. “That is what he hopes for.” And the cover story given to Amir. “But I believe we might be able to combat this issue ourselves, without the need for outside help.”

“What are you implying? Prince Balior’s strength would be a boon to us in eradicating these beasts. If any managed to enter the city, or the palace—”

“One already has.”

He startles, eyes bulging, hands clamped around the arms of his chair. “What? When, and where?”

I wince, rub the sharp throb in my temples. “In the library a little over a week ago. I was completing some research after-hours when one appeared and chased me through the stacks.”

Amir gapes. If I were not so uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, I daresay I would find his expression humorous. “You weren’t hurt, were you?” He gives me a quick once-over. “How did you get away?” Every evident point, every curved bone in his face, fixes rigidly with disbelief. “I mean no offense, but you’re not exactly the most, shall we say, athletic person.”

“And you’re not the most, shall we say, tactful person, brother dear.” I offer him my sweetest smile. “I was lucky. It was dark, and they can’t change direction quickly.” And there was Notus, of course. I would be dead if not for him.

Amir demands, “Father knows about this?”

On the night of my attack, I had every intention of informing Father of the infiltration. But I was a woman with her back against the wall, her days dwindling. I feared Prince Balior’s retaliation if he knew the reason for my sudden change of heart. So I said nothing. Not that it mattered. King Halim learned from the men guarding the library what had occurred. Regardless, Notus returned to the library later that night to search for additional darkwalkers, after disposing of the body. He found nothing, though the head archivist nearly lost his mind when he saw the extent of the destruction.

“He is well aware, Amir.”

My brother nods. “Good. Though I will likely demand another search of the palace grounds. We can’t have those beasts threatening your intended, now can we?”

Now , I think. Now is the time to mention my suspicions, qualms.

“To tell you the truth,” I begin slowly, “I have concerns about the prince.”

Amir tugs on his beard, eyes narrowing in question. “Prince Balior is a good man. Honorable, accomplished, well-respected. Whatever gossip you have heard amongst the court, I suggest you distance yourself from it. That sort of talk will rot your brain.”

My brother means well, and I do love him. But Fahim was the only person with whom I felt safe enough to share my vulnerabilities. He knew how the palace stifled me, my longing for adventure. Yet I failed to recognize his struggles until it was too late.

But I do what I have always done. I draw my mouth into a curve. I crease my eyes with joy, mirth. Whatever strain I experience, I bury it. “You’re right,” I grant. “Gossip is not becoming of me.”