Chapter Eight
The twelve tribes of the desert are utterly fascinating.
I’ve only had the chance to visit a handful, but each holds its own unique customs, laws, and rhythms of life, each one a world unto itself.
I must confess, I have always believed that the most remarkable of all the kingdoms is the Desert Kingdom.
There is simply nothing else like it.
Tabitha Wysteria
Alina had followed the two Dunayans through the city’s winding heart, trailing behind as they were escorted towards the palace by a contingent of guards.
She kept to the shadows, weaving between alleyways and scaling rooftops with the ease of a spectre.
A smile tugged at her lips the entire way.
She knew Isla and Arena had seen her, had sensed her, but that didn’t spoil the game.
She relished the chase, the thrill of darting unseen across tiled roofs, the hush of her footsteps against sun-warmed stone.
By the time she reached the courtyard, dropping from the outer wall with a quiet thud that startled several guards into fumbling for their weapons, she had already conjured a dozen tales in her mind about why these two Dunayans had arrived on phoenixian soil.
Perhaps they had come to finish what had been started. To kill her.
But something in her heart whispered otherwise.
Isla stood tall and wiry, her limbs long and angular like drawn bows, her white eyes sharp as arrowheads.
There was nothing soft in her face. Her features were all edges and quick glances, not classically beautiful by any stretch, and yet compelling.
There was always mischief glittering in her gaze, a spark of something dangerous and delightfully unpredictable.
Arena, in contrast, was the gentler of the two in appearance. Shorter, with a fuller figure and a softness to her face. Rounded cheeks, a small upturned nose, and lips that were plush and expressive. Where Isla crackled like flint, Arena glowed like embers, quietly captivating.
Alina watched them with narrowed eyes and a guarded hope coiled tightly beneath her ribs.
‘Farahi-sahraa,’ Isla said the moment Alina stepped into the centre of the courtyard.
The courtyard was a square-shaped haven, open to the sky and enclosed by a lush tapestry of thick bushes and climbing greenery.
A soft symphony of birdsong drifted from the branches overhead, where birds of every hue and size flitted through the leaves like living jewels.
At its heart stood a stone fountain, its gentle trickle echoing across the yellow-stoned floor, casting ripples of calm into the warm air.
The trees arched protectively overhead, making the space feel like a hidden oasis, a secluded pocket of serenity, sheltered from the weight of the world beyond.
The palace guards, tense only a breath before, eased ever so slightly at the sight of her, though none dared lower their weapons. Their stance was one of wary respect, as if uncertain whether Alina was more guest or threat.
‘Yaa da aqi, ni na?’ Alina replied cautiously, keeping her distance, her stance coiled with silent readiness. Why are you here?
Isla blinked, caught off guard by the directness of the question, though only for a heartbeat. She quickly masked it, shoulders squaring, expression hardening. She took a step forward, forcing Alina to instinctively step back.
Alina noticed it then, the way Isla's eyes flicked downward, tracking her retreat, as though mapping her movements, calculating her hesitation.
‘Dunayans spaak yaa hataasan Hessa. Craar thaar sa,’ Isla said softly. The Dunayans say you killed Hessa. I don't believe them.
There was a brightness in Isla’s stare, fragile and unguarded that struck Alina like a blade between the ribs. Hope.
Alina wanted to crush it.
There was no space for hope now. Only fire. Only vengeance.
Her heart thudded like a drum in a war camp. Every part of her yearned to believe Isla, to run to them, to wrap her arms around the two girls who had once been fragments of her world, the world that had shattered with Hessa's final breath.
But if this was a trap, if she allowed them in and they struck where she had left herself unguarded…
No.
Never again.
‘Saren hataasan Hessa,’ Alina said, her voice sharp and sure, letting the truth ring out like steel drawn in the silence. Saren killed Hessa.
Before either Dunayan could speak, the great doors to the courtyard swung open with a solemn groan, and Mareena emerged, flanked by a procession of silent, silk-clad servants.
As always, she looked ethereal, untouchable in her beauty.
The white gown clung to her in all the right places, flowing like liquid pearl as it shifted with each step.
Her raven-black hair, sleek and straightened by phoenixian metal plates, shimmered under the hanging lights, and her red eyes were rimmed in dark kohl, giving her the look of something divine and dangerous.
The sharp rhythm of her sandals against the sun-warmed tiles was the only sound to pierce the stillness.
She moved without hesitation to the centre of the courtyard, where the two Dunayans stood on one side, and Alina on the other, a tableau of tension drawn in perfect symmetry.
Mareena said nothing. She didn’t need to. She had the gift of silence, of watching with such stillness that it compelled others to fill the quiet with their own confessions. She could strip a person bare with nothing more than a glance.
But this time, her attention settled on Alina.
And in that unspoken moment, Alina saw the question clearly in her eyes: Shall I arrest them?
Alina stepped forward just one step, but it was enough. The breath that both Isla and Arena had been holding escaped them in quiet relief.
‘Perhaps we should go inside,’ Mareena said smoothly, her gaze never leaving Alina’s. ‘Allow our… guests to rest.’ The look she gave Alina was laden with meaning.
Alina inclined her head. She would get her answers but now was not the time to force them.
Still, she couldn’t resist.
‘Yaa da aqi, ni na?’ she asked again, her voice soft but unyielding. Why are you here?
Isla and Arena exchanged a glance, wary, uncertain. Then Isla sighed and answered.
‘Saren pasaaran Dunayans. Waa vanaran ayada yaa.’ Saren has taken the Dunayans. We have come to help you.
Alina’s brow furrowed. ‘Ayada mi na?’ Help me?
Isla nodded. ‘Ha.’ Yes.
‘Can vat na?’ With what?
In answer, Isla reached up and pulled down her karash, revealing the rest of her face. There was dust still clinging to her sun-kissed skin, a familiar grit that spoke of long travel, of lives shaped by sand and fire.
She looked like the desert itself, fierce and enduring.
And for the briefest of moments, Alina was no longer standing in a courtyard. She was back beneath the stars, holding the hand of another made from dust and flame.
Isla smiled, and it was a smile full of quiet power and promise.
‘Haata shar,’ she said.
To kill her.
…
Alina had tried and failed to secure an audience with the phoenixian king.
When she had first arrived at the palace months ago, the royal family had been away travelling.
She had wanted to stand before the monarch and plead for an army, warriors to march back to her kingdom and drive the witches into the grave. But now?
Now the thought no longer stirred her.
Now, she found comfort in the idea of becoming a shadow, unseen, unspoken, a ghost gliding through the cracks of the world. She liked the idea of slipping unnoticed into Hagan’s chambers, one silent night, and opening his throat with the edge of a blade.
A phantom of retribution.
No army.
No banners.
No mercy.
No. Alina didn’t want an army.
All she needed was herself.
But first, she would master the ways of the Phanax. She had been trained in the Dunayan way, swift and unforgiving, but if she could learn the phoenixian elite's deadly precision, she could become a storm unto herself, a force even her god might not be able to withstand.
Mareena had invited her to dinner last night. Alina declined most nights, preferring solitude and silence. But today…today she wanted to see the two Dunayans. She had trained without pause while Isla and Arena were led away to rest and recover.
At some point during her relentless drills, Mareena had appeared. She seated herself in one of the low, phoenixian chairs, elegant and built as much for lounging as for watching. She said nothing, simply sat and observed.
Alina did not acknowledge her, continuing until sweat clung to her skin and her breath came hard and fast. Only then did she stop.
Still, Mareena said nothing. She didn’t need to.
She saw the pain in Alina’s eyes. It was impossible not to. But she never pressed, never prodded.
And for that, Alina was quietly, deeply grateful.
Now, Alina sank into one of the great floor cushions, freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes gifted to her by the palace.
Her desert garments, few in number and caked with dust and blood, lay discarded, their fibres too worn to carry her forward.
The servants had, with the usual fanfare, laid out an array of phoenixian dresses across her bed, silks and embroidery in every shade of gold and white, and she had rejected each one without hesitation.
She had asked for something she could fight in.
The Phanax-style attire was a welcome compromise. Soft, breathable silk wrapped elegantly but practically around her limbs, allowing both movement and ease. It had taken her time, back in the desert, to abandon dresses in favour of trousers. But now?
Now, the very idea of wearing a gown felt like donning someone else’s skin.
‘Can you trust them?’ Mareena asked quietly, stepping into the room with the subtle grace that always seemed to accompany her. She seated herself beside Alina, leaving two vacant spaces across the low table.
Alina didn’t answer at once. She reached for a piece of fruit, something sharp and sweet, and bit down as she considered the question.