The Starlight Heir

The door of my gilded prison is locked, with a half dozen armed guards standing beyond it. I don’t even have the luxury of my handmaidens. Javed has decided that I need time to reflect before the wedding, which is his thinly veiled way of saying I have to decide whether Amma will live or die. If I resist, she’ll be tortured. If I retaliate, she’ll be tortured and then killed. The idea of my sweet, innocent aunt being subject to Javed’s sick brand of cruelty leaves me cold.

My father was not off the mark when he’d said that Kaldari was full of monsters and deception. The thought of him makes my stomach clench with worry. I hope beyond hope that he’s still alive, but Laleh had said that he and a few others, including Cyrill, had fled into the desert. I’ve lived in Coban my whole life and know that chances of survival there are slim.

Sitting in my empty bedchamber, I study my palms—the five-pointed stars with the M shapes so easily distinguishable now. They glow faintly, humming beneath my skin. My captive, detestable magic . . . caged by threats and blackmail and bound by a divination as old as the stars.

I ball my fists and stare at the four walls of my chamber. Like Javed’s bedchamber, this room is grandiose, covered in colorful tapestries and plush carpets, but it makes my skin crawl. This entire palace is a mirage.