Page 205 of The Jasad Crown

The Sultana leaned her head against him. “Will you come to the Citadel with me for his next birthday?”

“I will,” Lateef said. He paused. “What kind of gift does one purchase for Arin of Nizahl?”

The kitmers sailed parallel to the steps of Usr Jasad, the cheers of a thousand spectators chasing them through the air. The first of Essiya’s festivals, and the first time Sefa’s smile did not carry the ghost of grief behind it.

EPILOGUE

ARIN

TEN YEARS LATER

Arin had never given much thought to what he might face if love ever found him.

It was a word he vaguely understood, upon which people seemed to place great importance, and the combination had been a recurring point of frustration in his otherwise organized understanding of human nature.

He knew the general shapes of it—the back of his mother’s hand on his brow when he fell ill; rainy childhood days spent in his father’s chambers, working on his maps while Rawain read, their breathing the only sound for hours; Isra’s worry and Rawain’s pride when Arin excelled above his peers. He had thought if love found him, it would be more of the same. Just another bruise—something fleeting, painful if pressed, easy to hide.

Nobody warned him.

Why hadn’t they told him that love was not a soft and gentle wind, but a storm determined to rip you apart and build its home in the wreckage? That it brought with it uninvited guests, new fears and worries and paranoias beyond the reach of any reason.

How in those early days, before he knew what was happening,he would lose his breath at the thought of a future without her. A future where the guests would be gone, but so would his new home. The home she had carved inside him, where the air smelled like her hair and the bells sounded like her laugh. A place where he could rest until he was old and weary, where he could only sleep with his hand settled over her heart, because even so many years later, that steady pulse was the only pillar Arin would ever lean on.

Death, he learned, did not change anything. It didn’t destroy their home; it simply barred Arin from entering. It meant years waiting on the steps. Days where Arin’s wrath would flare out of his control, and he would ride into Essam until he became safe for others to be around again. Nights where, if he managed to go to sleep, he would just as often wake up gasping.

Maybe nobody warned him because they hoped they would never have to. Maybe they knew Arin’s love, like everything else about him, was made to frighten. Maybe they understood that if it found him and he lost it, what would be left of Arin would not be worth salvaging.

You don’t warn an injured horse before you swing the axe. Maybe that was why nobody warned Arin what he might face if love ever found him.

As usual, Ehal came to a stop a few paces away from the front of Sirauk Bridge. Wheeling above them, Niseeba crowed in victory. Arin usually took his excursions to Sirauk by flight, and he suspected the kitmer was jealous he had chosen Ehal for this journey.

Arin slid from his mount, patting the horse’s neck. “Ignore her. You took me much farther than any other horse would.”

Arin didn’t mind the added travel time of coming on horseback. It gave him the opportunity to stop by the market in Har Adiween and buy out the stock from the vendor selling sesame seed candies.She liked to joke that Arin’s one visit to Sirauk every year kept her in business.

She’d been surprised to see him this time. Understandable, since he had already made his trip to Sirauk four months ago, on Sylvia’s birthday. Essiya’s birthday had passed more recently, and he’d spent it with Sefa.

Arin’s gratitude at having the bridge to himself came striped in resentment. As soon as magic had begun to trickle back into the kingdoms, they had forgotten about the anniversary of a day they claimed changed history. They turned the page on Nuzret Kamel and never looked back.

Arin laughed softly. Perhaps he was simply jealous. Time had continued to turn after Nuzret Kamel, and everyone turned with it.

Everyone except Arin.

The life Arin led had not been touched by anything as merciful as time. As Supreme, he had propelled his kingdom toward a future their founder would be proud of—a future better than the one his father had intended. As Commander, he had helped navigate the nebulous future after Nuzret Kamel, forging bonds with Jasad and the newly appointed rulers in Lukub, Omal, and Orban. He had done his best to keep his promise to Fareed.

But in every other sense, Arin had not taken a single step beyond this spot in ten years.

The mist swirled against his boots. Ten years ago, the fortress had stood where Arin was. Where it had fallen, the grass grew in brilliant blades of gold and silver.

No one had ever emerged from the mist.

It had been repeated to him more times than Arin cared to count. As though he were some delusional child or pining fool. As though he didn’tunderstand.

He understood perfectly. Nobody ever emerged from the mist. Sirauk Bridge did not entertain survivors. This was reality.

Arin had deliberately decided it would not be his.

He didn’t know if the mist would fall today. Malik Lateef had barred any travel toward Sirauk for the entire week, concerned people would forget that the mist might only fall for a total of two minutes during Nuzret Kamel, leaving them stuck on the bridge if they flocked onto it in great numbers.

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