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A SLOW, PRICKLING CHILL ICES MY blood. It leadens my limbs, encases my heart and lungs in impenetrable crystal. I am both Sarai of past and Sarai of present. I am eighteen years old and twenty-four. I am inspired, cherished, adored, then deceived, broken, alone. My throat squeezes so tightly I fear I will faint.

But I do not faint. No, that will simply not do. Vulnerability is the enemy.

Notus—known to all as the South Wind—regards me with eyes like clear, deep pools. I have not seen his face in five years, yet he has aged not a day. I have touched that face, kissed that face, loved that face, despised that face. How appalling that I still consider it beautiful. Skin of deepest brown and black, impenetrable eyes. A broad, stocky torso swathed in emerald and cream. The South Wind, who sees much, speaks little.

“Sarai!”

Father’s voice is distant, a wavering sun beyond the thickened haze. I force my legs to move—down the steps, across the tiled floor, expression fixed into one of intense loathing. The leather binding on the hilt of Notus’ scimitar appears fresh, newly wrapped. It is the only change I perceive.

“Guards!” I shout, halting an arm span away from the South Wind. “Take this immortal to the dungeons to await my arrival.”

The flare of Notus’ dark eyes reminds me of volcanic rock, forged fresh by blistering heat. A breathless pang grips me. I promptly squash the emotion.

“You have no such authority, Sarai,” Father snaps, voice laced with displeasure. “Notus is here at my behest. As such, you will treat him with respect.”

“You must be mistaken, Father. If you recall, he deserted Ammara years ago. According to our laws, desertion is punishable by death.”

The chamber falls silent.

When the king speaks, it is with a chilling lack of warmth. “You dare to question my decision?”

“No, Father.” I respond without removing my attention from the South Wind. He will witness neither fault nor crack. “But we have laws for a reason. I suggest we make an example of him.”

The South Wind is, after all, immortal. As a god, he cannot be killed except by a god-touched weapon. The only sword in this room that could kill him is his own. Why, I could slide that scimitar of his through his chest if I chose. But a swift death? That is a grace he does not deserve.

“Return to your seat, Sarai.”

Father’s command cuts severely enough that I flinch. I must obey, yet some deep-seated part of me fears the South Wind will vanish should I turn away.

“There’s no need to treat me like a child,” I say. “I am only trying to help.”

“If you act like a child, then I will treat you like one. Notus’ presence does not concern you. Return to your seat. Now! ”

Many of the guards shift uncomfortably. Even Prince Balior gazes on with sympathy.

Somehow, despite my weighted legs, I return to the dais with a smooth, unfaltering stride and settle onto the immense throne. For the entirety of my life, I have despised this chair. Today of all days I am acutely aware of how it swallows me.

I turn toward the king. “Father—”

“Not another word.” Then, lowly: “You dishonor me.”

His strike lands precisely where it is intended. Heat climbs my chest and paints my face in shameful red. I did not mean to dishonor Father. I only wished to protect him from this banished god.

Notus continues to scrutinize me with an impassive expression. The strength required to maintain such a mask is too great—strength I do not possess. I drop my eyes. After this embarrassment, I doubt Prince Balior will be keen to bind his life to mine. Have I ruined the only chance of saving my life, the lives of my people, before it has even begun?

When the barest of breezes stirs the hem of my dress, my attention flits back to Notus. This, too, I remember: his emotions and the wind, forever intertwined. I glance at his hands, from whence those winds come. Broad palms and callused brown skin. Even now, my body remembers their weight.

King Halim dismisses the South Wind with the promise to discuss matters later. I do not watch Notus depart. The doors heave open, hammer shut.

It is an age before the king speaks again.

“Prince Balior, I want to apologize for that deplorable scene.” He regards the much younger man with meaningful remorse. “My daughter—”

“There is no need for an apology,” Prince Balior replies, hands lifted in a gesture of goodwill. His personal guard has since retreated, having returned to their stations. “Ruling a kingdom is quite messy, as I’m coming to learn. I do not fault your daughter in wanting to protect your best interests.”

A wave of unexpected gratitude warms me. It is a kindness I do not deserve.

“If we are to wed by the month’s end, I daresay I would be foolish not to put this incident behind us.” A small, secret smile plays about the prince’s mouth. “I look forward to spending time together, Princess Sarai.”

I nod, though my attention slips its knot, sliding over the throne room doors where Notus departed moments earlier. I force my eyes back to Prince Balior’s. “I look forward to that as well.”

King Halim lifts a hand, and an attendant steps forward. “Ilan will show you to your chambers. I imagine you are weary from the long journey. Tomorrow, we feast in celebration of your impending nuptials.”

The prince bows low. “I appreciate your hospitality, Your Majesty. I look forward to dining with you and Princess Sarai. Good night.” Then he takes his leave.

As soon as we are alone, I round on Father. “Why?”

He slumps back into his chair with a sigh. Time has faded the scarlet cushions to the color of rust. “Why what , Sarai? I need specifics. Why is not enough.”

King Halim is no fool. He will make me spell it out. Very well. “Why have you allowed Notus to return unpunished?”

“Because I have need of him. Our realm has need of him. As of this morning, he has accepted a position in the Royal Guard.”

“Guard?” I struggle to catch my breath. “Why have you placed Notus in a position of power?” Why welcome him back into our home with open arms? My hands tremble. I fist them in the folds of my dress.

“Must I explain something so obvious?” he snaps. “Fahim was never so slow to understand and did not waste his breath asking questions.”

It always takes me by surprise how swiftly the grief rises. Despite five years having passed, it still feels as if my brother’s death occurred yesterday. Bright, beloved Fahim, the eldest of Father’s sons.

“I did not realize my concern was a waste of breath,” I reply stiffly. “I will be sure to temper it the next time I believe our realm to be under threat.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, as though my hurt is an inconvenience. “You know what I meant.”

I don’t, actually. But I keep that bitter thought close. “I do not see what is obvious about allowing a deserter into the Royal Guard.”

“Deserter or not,” Father explains, “Notus is the strongest person in this realm. You know as well as I do that the drought has weakened Ishmah. Years of failed harvests, and we cannot even afford to feed our people, much less an army. Darkwalkers gain strength by the day. Many have fallen prey to their hunts.”

I know. Of course I know. Ishmah, strategically hewn from the valley’s clay walls, once utilized the annual floodwaters to supply its extensive irrigation system, including numerous wells, reservoirs, and canals. But rain has not fallen in Ammara for over two decades. The capital’s high walls, carved with runes to repel the darkwalkers, provide adequate protection from the beasts. Yet each passing year, they seem to multiply. Some claim darkwalkers have already infiltrated the city, but I have seen no such evidence.

As for the South Wind, Father is right. Notus is the only person to have ever entered the labyrinth and return alive. His power will help quell the darkwalkers—even if that means admitting him as a member of the Royal Guard.

“Times are changing, Sarai.” The king surveys me with eyes touched by fatigue. “Sometimes we must take drastic measures if we are to endure the worst of what’s to come.”

He appears defeated. Perhaps I should not have behaved so recklessly in Prince Balior’s presence. After all, Father risked everything to save my life as a sickly infant. I owe it to him to be dutiful. “I understand, but how can you trust that Notus will not desert us a second time?”

“I trust him, Sarai. That’s all that matters.”

“He turned his back on our kingdom!” On me.

His expression hardens. No matter my concern, no matter my hurt, my feelings will always be deemed as insignificant in the eyes of a king. “I have not forgotten,” he replies, “but I have forgiven. Perhaps it’s time you do the same.”