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M Y SHOULDER SLAMS INTO THE ground, pain rupturing at the joint. The squall steals my cry. It drives daggers into my eyes, wrenches the fabric of my dress with sharp hands of greed. Down, down it hammers, shoving me deeper into the sand, the dense cloud of particles razing my skin. In seconds, I am buried.

My thoughts white out. Staggering upright, I fight to maintain balance against the vicious gales. A step forward, and my knees fold. Sand piles atop my body with frightening speed as the earth demands flesh.

I shake my head, grip fistfuls of sand in an attempt to stabilize myself. Focus! I need to reach higher ground. Caught in the valleys between the dunes, the sand will accumulate, and I will be unable to climb free. A heave, an arduous push, and I am once again standing. I slog headlong in some nameless direction, unable to see, or hear, or speak, until eventually, the ground begins to ascend.

Eyes slitted against the debris, I search for a broad shape among the red-gray slew. Notus should be somewhere nearby. I couldn’t have fallen far. But there is nothing.

“Notus!” I scream. Yet the wind snatches that, too.

Again, I shout his name. The storm’s roar bleeds so thoroughly across the landscape it would take a miracle if he could hear me.

“Sarai?”

The bellow is faint, but it is the anchor I have desperately been searching for. “Notus!”

“Where… you?”

I spin around desperately. “I’m here!” Still no sign of him. I stumble in the direction of his voice, sinking knee-deep into sand. “I can’t see you.”

Hunched against the brutal winds, I continue to trudge through the sand that sucks at my shins and licks stinging tongues at my face and neck.

Sarai.

I halt, a hand lifted to shield my eyes. The air churns and churns. Now the voice is coming from behind me—I think. A glance over my shoulder. The cloud parts momentarily. There, a dark form manifests on the fringe of my vision: the South Wind.

You’re going the wrong way.

“Well it would help if you kept calling for me so I knew where you were!” I cry back.

This way, Sarai.

I lurch forward, arms swinging to maintain my balance. It feels as if I make no progress toward the blurred figure, which, curiously enough, seems to stand taller than the South Wind, but the air shifts so rapidly I can’t trust my vision. “I’m here!” A mirage? An illusion?

Hurry. You don’t have much time.

You’d think the South Wind would help me, instead of hovering just beyond reach. He, too, has power over winds. Yet he watches me struggle.

“Sarai!”

My head snaps around. “Notus?” This voice, different now. Rougher, its texture akin to a raw, unpolished stone. I waver in uncertainty, my legs trembling from overexertion. I need to rest, but to rest is to die.

Something slams into my back. I hit the ground face-first, legs crushed beneath a heavy object—a tree or block of wood. The sand heaps too quickly. My thighs, buried. My stomach, buried. It continues to pile higher: breasts, shoulders, neck. Though I scramble to dig myself free, I succeed only in submerging myself deeper.

“Notus!” I cough, spitting out a mouthful of sand. “Notus!”

No reply, just a roar, a quake of energy drilling deep into my ears. My eyes slip shut. Gods help me, I don’t want to die. Not like this. I doubt anyone would ever find my body.

When I open my eyes, however, I gasp. In the distance, the South Wind trudges toward me, shoulder braced against the storm, using his powers to divert the worst of the wind. When his gaze locks onto mine, my heart feels as if it might burst, so overwhelming is the relief. He is the South Wind, and he has returned.

Arms extended, Notus shoves back the flying debris. Eventually, he carves out a small pocket of air to combat the storm’s force. On the other side of the transparent barrier, the squall gnashes its fearsome teeth.

Notus punches his open palm toward me. A current lifts the heavy wooden slab from my body and flings it elsewhere, pain rolling down my legs as the weight vanishes. The second I’m free, he yanks me into his embrace.

“Are you hurt?” His mouth brushes my ear, the low, deep tones thrumming with power.

“No.” I fist a hand into his robe. His body heat seeps through the fabric, into my skin. “I was looking for you, but the storm—”

“I know.” His arms tighten, deliciously hard with muscle. “You’re safe now.”

Gradually, my trembling subsides, the chatter of my teeth tapering off. “Where’s the sailer?”

His fingers splay across the small of my back. “Gone. In pieces.”

My stomach plummets, dragging my heart along with it. That vessel was our only means of reaching Ishmah before nightfall. Before…

I hide my face against his shoulder, a dark pall blanketing my thoughts. This cannot be the end. There are things I must say to Father. So many months of illness when I did not sit with him, eat with him, speak with him, comfort him. What if he leaves this life before our relationship is fully mended?

“We can’t delay.” I am clinging to sanity by frayed threads. “If the sailer is destroyed, then we’ll need to travel by foot.”

“Sarai,” he says. “You know that’s impossible.”

Improbable, maybe. Not impossible. If Notus can maintain the protective dome, we should be able to cross the dunes with relative ease. Water is the greater concern. We’ll have to wait until nightfall and use the constellations as a guide. Even then, I fear too much time will have passed.

Heartbeat after heartbeat, we stand together, wrapped in one another’s arms. It’s the safest I have felt in years. “Look,” I say, “sometimes dire circumstances force difficult decisions. A red storm might pass quickly, or it might squat in place for days. Father doesn’t have days. We can travel through the storm using the dome as a protective measure.”

“It can’t be done,” Notus says.

My back molars grind together. He’s not even attempting to see this from my perspective. “I say that it can.”

“My powers are not infinite,” he explains. “Eventually, they will deplete, likely before we ever reach Ishmah. When that occurs, we will have no protection from the elements, or from any darkwalkers we encounter along the way. I would rather we seek shelter and conserve my power for when we really need it.”

“And I would rather we take the risk.” As for shelter, there is none, only the dunes, an eternal rise and fall of sun-bleached sands.

“Stop it,” he snaps. “You’re being ridiculous.”

I stiffen. “So my needs are ridiculous?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” A huff of air—pain, or frustration—punches from his chest. “If you go out into that storm, you will die.”

He is not wrong. “And if I were to tell you I will do as I please?”

“I forbid you.”

My eyes flare, and I retreat from the shelter of his arms. “I am Princess Sarai Al-Khatib. You bow to me .” If I so desired, I could request his head on a spike and no one would stand against me.

Notus swipes at his face with the sleeve of his robe. It is subtle, but our small, domed barrier begins to sink inward. “Think about what is at stake, Sarai. This is a red storm . It has flayed the flesh off men and beasts alike. Even my power struggles to repel it—”

“Father is dying!” I scream. “I must go to him!”

“I don’t care about your father!” he cries. “I care about you .” His fingers tear through the disheveled locks of his black hair. “Do you think I would let you walk into certain death? I could not live with myself knowing something happened to you that I could have prevented.”

“Stop.” But the word quavers. “You don’t mean—”

“Don’t put words into my mouth. Don’t tell me what I feel.”

I am pinned. Frozen by my own feelings of inadequacy, the lies I spin.

He is quiet when he asks, “Why is it so hard to believe that I care for you?”

To my horror, hot tears spill down my wind-abraded cheeks. Notus lifts a hand, thumb smoothing away a watery track.

“Because I’m afraid,” I say hoarsely.

“Of what?”

I cannot say it. And yet, it feels inevitable, each interaction having led here, to this moment of heartbreak and peril and dread. “What if I let you in again,” I whisper, “only to turn around and find you gone?”

Sadness tugs at the South Wind’s mouth. There would have been a time when he hid the emotion from me, but I like to think we have both evolved. “I know that I left,” he murmurs. “I know that it hurt you. And I’m sorry—deeply, profoundly sorry—for the pain I have caused you. That is something I regret to this day.” He steps closer. The pull is there—to fall into him, to forget. It takes all my courage not to retreat. “But I would protect you to the best of my abilities, and that means delaying our journey to Ishmah until the storm passes.”

He’s right. It would be a senseless decision, yet— “You don’t understand,” I choke out, swiping at my eyes. “I said horrible things to Father. I have to apologize. I have to tell him—” That I love him. That I have never understood why I felt unloved in turn. “I have to see him before it’s too late.”

“I hear you, Sarai, and I understand. We will travel to Ishmah as soon as it is safe. But don’t think of sneaking off on your own. If you leave this shelter,” he says, expression stony, “I will find you. Do not make the mistake of thinking no one cares for your life.”

My knees wobble. Slowly, I sink to the ground. I am made of cracks, and all that I have struggled so hard to dam begins to leak through the slivered openings. For now, I can only wait, and pray the storm will pass quickly.

Hold on, Father. Hold on.

Eve falls, and still the storm howls, squatting over our fragile shelter like a territorial beast. The absence of sun draws a chill from the earth, and I shiver. With the protective dome intact, Notus managed to salvage pieces of the sailer, planting them deep in the sand to form three unstable walls. Miraculously, he recovered my satchel, which still contains my waterskin and two bruised peaches. I’m not sure that it makes a difference. In all likelihood, I will succumb to this squall before ever reaching Father.

Seated beside me against the shattered hull, the South Wind scans the area. His shoulder braces mine, and I fight the impulse to ease against him and draw his strength into myself. This god, whose presence has caused so much turmoil in my life. Yet Notus would happily gift me comfort, if I asked.

Reaching into my satchel, I remove the waterskin and offer it to him. He hasn’t drunk in hours.

His glare rakes over my body with borderline affront. “I am immortal,” he growls. “Drink.”

“Prickly,” I mutter, yet I pour the tepid water down my throat. I’ve only a few mouthfuls left. I will need to ration them carefully.

Every so often, the hull rattles at our backs. I try to ignore it with varying levels of success. Over the hours, our domed barrier has dwindled. Though Notus’ power is vast, it is also finite. I question how much longer it will hold.

“I’m still mad at you,” I quip.

“I know.”

“You should have let me go.”

He shakes his head. “I already made that mistake once. I do not plan on repeating it.”

In the farthest reaches of my heart, I want to believe him. “If you say it’s a mistake, then why did you?”

Because I did not want you.

I stiffen, the words carving into me like sharpest teeth. My molars clench so hard it drives a painful twinge into my temple. “If that’s how you truly feel,” I snap, “then why are you here?”

Notus regards me in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“You just said—”

“I didn’t say anything.” He searches my face with a combination of puzzlement and concern. “Are you feeling all right?”

Do not believe this god. He will lead you astray.

Deep into the sand my fingers sink, into the coolness awaiting beneath the surface. That voice, it has visited me during my dreaming and waking hours. The figure cloaked in shadow from my vision. The Lord of the Mountain. How did I not realize how similar his voice was to the South Wind’s?

“Sarai.”

I startle. “What?”

“Where did you go?” Notus asks.

In my younger years, I would occasionally hear from the Lord of the Mountain, though I did not know it at the time. In recent months, however, his voice makes itself known far more often, sometimes multiple times a week. I am afraid of what it means.

“Nowhere.” Tugging free of his grip, I ease onto my side, my body contouring to the soft sand beneath. Round and round my thoughts spin. I have been so focused on the Festival of Rain, traveling to Mirash, uncovering potential leads about the labyrinth, that I completely forgot what day it is. Eight days hence, my nameday will arrive. The Lord of the Mountain does not want me to forget.

I doze for a time, albeit fitfully. The desert chill dives beneath my dress, stippling my flesh. Even Notus’ body heat fails to banish it.

It seems as though no time has passed before I’m shaken awake. My eyes peel open, slitted against the unexpected glare: dawn, breaking over the horizon.

“The storm has passed,” Notus says.

“And?” I bite back a groan as I sit up. The aches and pains of yesterday’s fall have settled into my joints. “The sailer is still broken.” As for my father, I do not know whether he survived the night.

The South Wind does not remove his touch as I expect him to. Rather, he cups my nape in one large hand, thumb pressed against the side of my clenched jaw. “Will you look at me?” he whispers.

He asks with a compassion I cannot deny. Shifting my position, I tilt my face toward his.

Dark tresses fall in unruly layers around his ears. In the youth of our relationship, I recalled how their silken threads slipped between my questing fingers. I recall, too, the quiet strength in his gaze, and I fear the power it holds over me. His eyes promise a lifetime of peace. I have yearned for such things.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “for my behavior yesterday. I tried my best to protect you in the only way I know how, but I fear my methods lacked the proper compassion. I was not open to your concerns.”

His apology is an unexpected balm. “Father is dying, Notus.” A thin, depleted plea. “I must go to him.”

“We will reach your father,” he says, squeezing my hand in the warmth of his wide palm. “I promise.”

He has made plenty of those. We both have. I’m too fatigued, too beaten down, to challenge him.

After helping me to my feet, Notus examines the remnants of our shelter. I scan the landscape, awash in the brightness of early sun. The dunes have shifted location. They lie flat, like dogs in the sweltering heat. Ammara, smoothed of imperfections.

Notus pries a wooden beam free of the hull with a sharp crack. I watch him with crossed arms. “What are you doing?”

Shrugging off his robe, he begins to tie the arms of his garment around the end of the board. “Making do with what we have.”

He proceeds to fashion a platform, mast, and sail from the remains of the sailer. A thin tunic hits mid-thigh beneath his robe, sweat-dampened fabric plastered to his skin. Despite my best intentions to avert my gaze, I fall prey to what I hunger for. The South Wind’s body is beautifully crafted, and I admire beautiful things.

“Sit here.” He gestures toward the makeshift platform, large enough for two people to squeeze onto. Once I’m settled, he slots into place behind me. “Tuck your knees against your chest. Now lean back.” A strong arm bands around my waist. Cradled between his bunched thighs, I sink against him. “Try not to make any sudden movements.”

Wind crams the makeshift sail, launching us forward. I hold tight to the arm around my waist as we soar across the dunes, toward Ishmah, toward home.