Page 61 of Legacy of the Heirs
“If I was one of your Courtesans, perhaps then you would pay me some attention, Arjun!” A slap sounded through the door, and someone whimpered behind her. Nyzaia spun, not having noticed the small boy sitting on his bed. He hugged himself, not with just his arms, but his flaming wings, too.
“At least my Courtesans know how to treat me with respect,” spat the man. Nyzaia’s eyes widened at the realisation of who stood behind the now-opened door. The small boy lifted his head, his bright blue eyes stark against his skin and hair. His eyes widened as he met his father’s gaze. Arjun Qadir stepped through the door, the former ruler of the Red Stones, and the man Nyzaia killed for her title.
The memory changed then. Nyzaia blinked. She no longer stood in the darkness of Farid’s childhood bedroom but in the darkness of a cave opening, similar to the one Nyzaia and Farid sat in now as she waded through his memories. Stars scattered the black night as Nyzaia glanced upward; she was in the Abis Forge but lower down, with the flow of lava much further away. A thud sounded against the rock, and the tops of a ladder appeared. A different light approached, rising upward to show a slightly older Farid thrown over the ledge and into the cavern.
“No!” he cried, crawling back to the ledge. “Please, Papa! Please do not leave me in here.” His wings were larger than the previous memory, though Nyzaia placed him at only twelve years old. Arjun appeared briefly with his greying goatee and slicked back hair.
“You are only here because of your mother,” he sneered. “Otherwise, you would be dead at my hand.”
“Please!” Farid begged, falling to his knees. Nyzaia bit her lip to keep from crying. The young boy was so frailand emotional compared to the man he had become.
“You stay here until you can hide them,” Arjun snapped before descending the ladder. Nyzaia watched as Arjun pulled the ladder away, leaving Farid to sob on his own. The sun rose and set four times. On the first day, Farid cried and rocked himself back and forth, not moving from the spot against the wall as the lava drowned out his pleas. The next day, she felt Farid’s fury as he tossed rocks into the burning lava each time he failed to retract his wings. His anger and determination faded over the next two days as he tossed and turned, unable to sleep with his wings pushing into his back. Slowly, Farid lost his strength and will to continue as he starved, still trying to withdraw his wings. His lips were cracked, and his clothes were drenched as he gave up on even wiping the sweat dripping down his face. Eventually, weakness took over, and the wings faded into his back. At no point did Arjun check to see if his son had succeeded. Only on the sixth day did Arjun come to drag away his son, who was barely breathing.
The view of the cavern changed to a large, marbled home, far bigger than the one from Farid’s childhood. Nyzaia stood face to face with Arjun, dripping in wealth—unfathomable wealth that had attracted the attention of the Red Stones before Nyzaia took his life. He wore silk sherwanis from the same tailor as the King’s, jewel-studded shoes and chains, and gold rings on every finger.
“You do not stand between me and my wife, boy!” he spat. Nyzaia stepped aside. Farid was older, taller, and much broader. Nyzaia placed him at roughly eighteen as he stood in front of a frail woman with hair as dark as his own. A bruise marked her cheek.
“You will not hit her again!” Nyzaia had only heard Farid raise his voice like that once before after stripping Tajana of her pin.
“What are you going to do?” Arjun laughed. “You spend all day welding and hammering swords because I deem it so, yet you do not know how to wield one.”
“I do not need a sword to protect her from you,” Farid said in the cold tone she recognised. He had not yet mastered controlof his wings yet as they spanned out too suddenly and hit his mother, who cowered behind him. Farid spun when she screamed, his wings pushing her aside, and setting her saree alight.
“Saraa,” Arjun muttered, stumbling forward with wide eyes.
Farid searched the room for water—anything to extinguish the flames engulfing his mother, but there was nothing in the marbled room except lavish ornaments and velvet furniture.
“Saraa!” Arjun screamed, reaching for his wife’s hand. Farid reached forward, pushing his hands through the flames. He screamed, flinching as the fire licked his bare hands, not yet recognising him as their owner.
“Mama, no!” Farid screamed as the woman stopped moving. No more tortured cries erupted from her mouth as the flames devoured her whole. Farid still held Saraa as the flames died, as they licked one last time at his palms before retreating. Her body was already unrecognisable; her clothing had burnt away; her skin and muscles had melted, leaving only bone behind, singed black. Nyzaia’s stomach churned. Normally, she did not react to such gruesome sights, but something about knowing what this accident did to Farid, and the pain it left him, made her feel nauseous. Arjun slumped against the wall opposite, staring at his wife’s charred corpse.
“You killed her,” he said. “You KILLED HER!” He lunged for Farid, and the memory stopped.
Farid dropped Nyzaia’s hands, and the cold breeze of the Keres night washed through the cavern. When Nyzaia opened her eyes, the tears she could not wipe during the memories falling down her cheeks, matched Farid’s. She felt his pain as it intertwined with what she felt for him. Whether he would accept it or not, she lunged for him and wrapped her arms around his neck quietly. She waited for him to push her away. Slowly, Farid raised his arms, encircling them around her waist. He sobbed into her shoulder.
“I could not save her,” he mumbled, and only then did Nyzaia realise why he deemed it so important to save his queen.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Elisara
“Kazaar!” Elisara screamed, pounding her fists against the wall. “Kazaar!” She shouted again, her heart racing.
“Stand back,” Vlad told her calmly. Elisara spun her head, not wanting to distance herself from reaching Kazaar, but quickly stepped aside as Vlad unsheathed his sword and swung it repeatedly at the ice. No sound came from the other side.
“Kazaar,”Elisara whispered in her mind, yet was met by silence. She began pacing, and her steps adopted the same rhythm as Vlad’s sword as he continued chipping away at the wall that had appeared.
“Elisara…”It was the faintest whisper, but it was him. It was enough.
“I will find you,”she said, hoping he heard. Elisara was not thinking rationally as she spun for the opposite pathway, intent on finding Kazaar.
“Eli, wait!” Vlad shouted. Elisara barely felt his hand graze her arm as she stepped into the pathway, and the Light was sucked from her surroundings as another wall of ice grew behind her to block out everything. Gasping, Elisara spun and reached to touch the newly formed wall; this one was vacant of any patterns, and it felt colder than normal—a cold that pierced her skin like it might brand her. She looked upward at the sky, yet the mighty walls only provided slithers of light.Find Kazaar. Find Kazaar, and then the talisman.He had taken the path to the right. Elisara should eventually reach him if she alternated between right and straight ahead. She hoped he had a similar train of thought.
Every part of Elisara yearned to hurry through the maze to findhim, yet something inside her slowed. With every turn she took through the towering walls, she felt the presence of intruding eyes watching and assessing her actions. A weight settled on her chest, and her breathing grew more rapid with every path that did not lead her to Kazaar. Elisara withdrew a dagger from her side and attempted to carve a distinct line into each corner she turned into, marking her path should she end up circling back.
Eventually, the chill of the narrow pathways settled in her bones. If she had not been born in Vala, she might as well have given up and waited for rescue or died slowly on her own. Elisara paused and leaned back against the wall, analysing the three pathways ahead.
Why is every damn path the same?She dropped her head back against the wall, her thick braid offering some reprieve from the piercing cold. Her breath fogged, clouding her vision as she rubbed her hands together and wished she still wore her gloves.
