skin. Sensations flood me—warmth, movement, sweat. A spasm rips through my body. My limbs flail wildly. I reach, catch hold of something solid, and let out a gasping protest.
“Calm, you feisty kitten,” rumbles a low voice against my ear. “You’re supposed to still be asleep.”
That voice, that unsettling closeness—my head is against a warm chest. I’m being carried, held in strong arms. My fists clench around fabric—clothing. Everything is addled, murky and fogged.
“What is happening?” My words slur and trip over one another.
“I’m rescuing you, of course. To be my bride.”
Every hundred years. Panic cuts through the fog, and instinct takes over. I reach for a knife, only for my hand to close around emptiness. My panic flares brighter. I struggle, and only succeed in making his arms tighten around me. I’m blinded, and I don’t know if the world is just dark, if my eyes are closed, or if it’s some spell he has cast on me that renders everything blacker than night.
“Don’t act quite so repulsed, my dear. You’ll hurt my feelings.”
His feelings? In a burst of clarity and rage, I shift upward. And somehow, I find the strength to reach and drive my fist straight toward his throat. I hit hard, hard enough to cause damage to him—and my knuckles.
He stops moving.
I freeze, caught between surprise that my blow actually landed this time, and sudden terror that I have just poked a stick at a monster who will set talon and fang into me and devour me whole.
“That was . . . probably called for,” he says, not even a hint of choking or pain in his voice.
Then I go whooshing through the air, finding myself clinging frantically to my assailant as my head spins, and I land on something soft. A bed. My panic redoubles until I’m practically clawing with my fingernails at anything within reach.
“I’m not y-your—” I can’t finish the sentence because I can’t draw a deep breath.
“Easy, easy there.” His voice has grown softer, gentler. I jerk and shudder as a broad hand lands on the curve of my shoulder and a thumb presses into the hollow of my throat. “Breathe.”
Immediately, my airways open, my ribs loosen, and I drag in a deep breath. My hands fist in soft blankets as the warmth of his hand retracts. It’s so dark I cannot catch even the barest sight of that movement.
“Nadira,” he whispers.
I tense, ready to bolt.
“Though there are many things to fear in this House I’ve brought you to, I can assure you of this: you need not fear harm from my hand. I can also assure you that I do not bring you here because of my kingly whims, though I’d prefer that was the reason. You’re here because your people need you. Your people and . . . many—many others.”
Did his voice just break?
I don’t have time to wonder. His hand is over my face again, and my awareness slips into nothingness.
open, and I’m suddenly wide awake. I lurch upward, sweat streaming down my back, making my clothes cling to my skin. There’s a large canopy bed over me, mahogany brocade curtains falling like heavy tapestries all around me. I’m sitting in downy sheets, a goose feather cushion beneath my head and heavy quilts pinning my limbs to the soft mattress. It’s like lying in a cloud, but far heavier.
A pained cry wrenches from my throat, and I fly out of bed, my hand going instinctively under my head cushion to find my knife, but it’s gone. Oh no. Oh no. Where am I? What is—what am I wearing? I’m in a nightgown. Akhh, why am I in a nightgown? I never undress like this for bed. I never—
I rip the canopy aside, and sunlight hits my eyes hard. I wince, stumbling, and knock straight into a large wardrobe. My legs are like noodles, and I reach out to grab the bedpost to keep from falling. I cling to its solidity as the world around me tilts, and I fear I will fall through the air, right out the window. My chest heaves against cold wood.
Rug tassels catch between my bare toes, and it only makes my heart pound more. Where am I?
Not home. Not in my cell-room.
New, new, new. Everything from the curving dark wood of the four-poster bed, the gold leaf trimmed vanity, the carved legs of the curling table at the foot of the bed with an ornate porcelain pitcher and washbasin, is entirely new. It’s sumptuous, a chamber fit for a queen.
A queen.
I turn and catch a glimpse of myself in the copper mirror above the vanity, staring back with wide, hollow eyes that don’t seem to belong to me. I’m looking at a stranger, one whose mouth is open and panting, bronze skin glistening with sweat across her brow, black hair matted and twisted into a wild mess, the dotting of pale scars across her jaw.
The Neverseen King. He kidnapped me last night. Was it last night? Foggy memories of his arms holding me, those choking fingers of helplessness wrapping around my throat as I tried to fight him, as I failed over and over again, return to my mind like an avalanche. I feel his hand, large as my head, covering my face and telling me to sleep.
A spell.
Suddenly, a new fear enters my mind as I glance down at the unfamiliar nightgown. It is a lovely shade of turquoise, soft and breezy to accommodate the heat, and yet it reaches from my throat to my toes, covering me completely. I swallow. I must find out who changed me last night, and if it was my sultan, I will personally ensure Separator finds its prompt way into his heart. I do not care if murdering a king starts a war—he should have thought twice about kidnapping an assassin for his bride.
Fragments of a vague memory cross my mind. A voice, deep and dark. Your people need you. And, softer: You need not fear harm from my hand.
The door opens. I whirl.
“Rise and shine! Isn’t it just a lovely day, my lady? Couldn’t have asked for better weather for what’s ahead of you today. Sunny without a shred of cloud to be seen, but just the loveliest breeze!”
In a second, I’m across the room. I have no knives at my disposal, but that isn’t a true hindrance. Not to me. My hands close around a neck, and I use all my weight and leverage to fling the body against the wall, my fingers digging in perilously close to a pressure point.
“Where am I?” I demand.
Suddenly, my vision clears, and the gasping face before me is the soft face of a woman, the gentle lines around her eyes betraying the slightest bit of aging, her plain tunic and cream-colored sirwal revealing her status. My own eyes widen, and I loosen my hold.
The woman crumples to the ground, heaving breaths in and out, pressing a hand against her chest. A fallen tray is at her feet. At first I blanch, thinking the red liquid seeping into the rugs is blood, but then I realize it’s only tea, and the broken porcelain beside it is the tea pot and cup this . . . maid was bringing me.
I take a step back, and I’m not sure who is breathing harder, me or the woman.
“Sorry, sorry! I’m so sorry!” I gasp, croaking out of my too-tight throat. I swallow. “Where am I?”
I must know. Or else my heart will burst from the sheer panic flooding my veins. I don’t know this place. I don’t know its layout, or how to get out. I don’t know anything. It’s all new. And I have no plan. No plan. I must—
“The palace of the Neverseen King,” the woman manages, her fingers trailing along the marks I’ve left.
She’s not at fault. I know she’s not, but I can’t think straight, not while my mind is spinning. I cling tighter to the bedpost. “Why am I here?”
“The Neverseen King brought you here.”
I swallow again. At the sound of footsteps, my attention darts to the open door. My eyes fly wide, and then I’m ignoring my vertigo and run-stumbling my way around the bed to the other side, looking for some hiding place.
“Nadira al-Risya.” The voice is clipped, edged in polite snobbery. When I don’t answer, it repeats. “Nadira al-Risya.”
I think of five different ways to kill the man calling my name. I glance desperately at the window, wondering if guards will cut me down should I dare throw myself out of it.
Drawing a deep breath, I force myself to stop cowering like a beaten animal and stand, straightening my spine as everything inside me blanches.
It’s the first time I’ve stood before a stranger in years, without the shadows to hide me. My heart trembles inside my chest, my lungs heaving. But I won’t bow beneath the weight of my fear. I will stand straight. I will face what is before me.
No matter that I still wear nothing but this nightgown.
A man stands in my doorway. He is of average height, with cheeks that sag below his jaw slightly, bags under his eyes, and gray eyebrows set above sunken sockets. He’s standing even straighter than I, but it’s not fear fortifying his spine. It’s the confidence of a military captain with the rugged edges of one who has stood before danger and prevailed.
“I am the Emin, Steward of the Neverseen King, and overseer of this House,” he says.
He has stood before danger. If my fragmented memories of last night are to be believed.
“You are Nadira al-Risya, are you not? The Mourner?”
There’s no pride in the upward tilt of my chin. I hate that title. I never would have chosen it for myself. Wouldn’t have chosen any title, for that matter.
“Very well,” says the steward briskly. He waves the terrified maid out of the room, and she scrambles to obey. “Leave the tray,” he says, hardly glancing at the shards mingling with staining tea and a few date cakes. His eyes return to mine, heavy and unflinching, but also mildly assessing. They rove over me from head to toe, as though analyzing my every strength and weakness. “You’ve successfully almost butchered one of my servants, so I suppose you should do quite nicely. Come, take your breakfast.” He waves his hand at the mess on the floor.
I don’t move.
“At the height of the hour, we will convene in the Golden Hall to discuss the rules.”
“Rules?” I ask.
“For the competition.”
My stomach bottoms out. I barely have the strength to croak, “What competition?”
“The competition for the Neverseen King’s bride, of course.”
