Page 39 of Wild Flame

Malik grunted. “He had his moments.”

I had heard conflicting things about the late king’s relationship with his eldest son. As I studied Malik’s profile, I tried to reconcile the man before me with what I knew of the father who raised him. King Nazeem, according to my father and the stories I had heard over the years, was a ruthless warrior and a cunning leader, but also brutal and unforgiving. And if rumors were to be believed, he had been the aggressor behind the twenty-five-year war between Zehvi and Baldor that had only come to an end about three years ago.

I thought back to what Zara had said about her feelings towards her father and Malik’s own complicated relationship with him.They often butted heads. Malik is strong willed, and Father pushed him.It could not have been easy to live up to the expectations of a father like that. Then again, Malik apparently had. Many, my father included, believed him to be his father’s son in every way. Just as ruthless and cunning, if a little less serious and more charming of demeanor. But from what I was coming to know of him, I wondered at the comparison.

I took in the white sash at his waist. “Are you sad that he is gone?” I asked.

His dark eyes shot to me as we stepped around a vendor’s cart.

I quickly backtracked. “I know it is your tradition to celebrate his life—”

Malik held up a hand. “It’s fine, siren. I take no offense.” We kept walking, and it was silent for several more beats before he sighed. “That question has a complicated answer.”

I stared at him. “Why should it be complicated?”

Malik eyed me. “Would you be upset if your own father or mother were to pass?”

I squirmed slightly and looked away. “Point taken.”

His brow furrowed. “My father was a callous and effective king, occasionally a decent father, but not a good man. He taught me many things, how to protect myself and my people, how to lead men and armies, but in watching him, I also learned what I didn’t want to be. So I suppose my answer is I will miss pieces of him, or rather, the father he could have been and sometimes was.”

“I think I know what you mean,” I murmured. “There are times when I get glimpses of who my father might have been . . . who he might have been without the responsibility and what he has let it make him. I think I could have loved that man.” I knew I had to be careful here, since I was technically talking to the king of another nation, but talking with Malik now it didn’t feel like that. It felt . . .refreshingto speak to someone who could truly understand. I realized belatedly that he was probably one of the few people in all the kingdoms who could.

“And your mother?” he asked.

I straightened, and the tender skin on my back pulled. I fought not to wince as I thought of the woman who had birthed me. I considered lying, but then decided there was no point. And this conversation had been surprisingly honest so far. So why stop now? My voice was quiet when I finally said, “No. When my mother is gone, I will not miss her.”

Malik said nothing in response, though I felt his eyes on me. I didn’t have the courage to look at his face and see his expression. Thankfully, a little girl who couldn’t be much older than five or six rushed over and stopped in front of me.

She smiled shyly and held up a small white flower.

“For me?” I asked, bending down so we were at eye level. The girl nodded, and I took it, bringing it to my nose. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

The child said nothing, simply waved to Malik and me before darting back to an older woman, whom I had to assume was her grandmother, standing beside a cart filled with flowers.

Malik stepped closer to them as I straightened, offering them a few coins, but the older woman held up her hand. “It is a gift for the princess,” she said, stroking the girl’s dark hair as she clung to her leg. “For her first Unari.”

I nodded my thanks and then placed the small flower behind my ear, waving to the little girl as we continued on.

“What are they doing?” I gestured over to the side of the busy street, where an older woman sat before a table and a small cauldron filled with colored flames. Another woman sat before her, leaning forward and listening eagerly to what she was saying.

Malik followed my gaze and then glanced back down at me. “They are fortune tellers.”

“Fortune tellers?”

Seeing the confusion on my face, Malik smiled. “I take it you have never had your flames read before?”

I shook my head. “I have heard of those who read palms or cards, but not flames.”

Malik grinned. “That settles it then.”

“What?” I asked. But he didn’t answer and instead grasped my hand in his much larger one and pulled me over to the woman whose customer had now gone, her cauldron now empty of flames.

“The lady would like her flames read,” Malik decreed, completely ignoring my protests.

The woman bowed her head. “Of course, my prince.”

“No, thank you. Malik, really, I—"

---