The Prince
Heavy clouds concealed the rising sun. The air felt ominous, warning of a storm.
I threw the remainder of my chai over the fire, and the flames sizzled to dying embers.
The army was waking, breaking their morning fasts and folding bedrolls.
I glanced up from my crouched position at the sound of approaching boot steps.
Zeki neared, the end of his turban fastened across his face in preparation to ride.
He extended a handful of dates. I shook my head as I rose to my full height.
“There is a storm approaching.”
He nodded, tucking the dates away. “Will we seek shelter?”
I glanced overhead again, calculating the nearness. “We have a few hours before it will reach us. We can make it to the Marz.”
Zeki raised a doubtful brow. “And the army?”
“We will split away from them with a small group. Shahzadeh Bahir is in a rush to get home.”
Zeki cracked a grin, following my gaze to my brother. Bahir was on his fourth cup of chai, draining the potent black tea as if it were water. His attendants stood on either side of the travel rug he was sprawled across.
“Put together twenty of the fastest riders,” I told Zeki.
My bodyguard bowed his head. He’d taken three steps when he paused and glanced back at me. “And the shahdokht?”
I hesitated. “I will handle her.”
As Zeki went off to ready the men, I strode toward the place I had seen the princess sleep. Only, she was no longer sleeping. Ten of our soldiers surrounded her. Her fear-filled eyes darted to each of the men, tracking their movements as they continued circling her.
“You are lucky you are the shahzadeh’s bride,” one said. “Or else we would never allow a Southerner to travel with us unscathed.”
“We would kill you just like your waste of a sultan.”
“Even if you marry Shahzadeh Bahir, you will never be more than a wretched Southerner in our eyes.”
One of them made a move toward her, and she backed against a tree. Bursts of laughter erupted. Anger thrummed to life within me. Even if she was our enemy, I could not justify such bullying. From trained soldiers no less.
I strode forward. The men stilled at once when they spotted me, their gazes lowering and their faces paling.
The girl hadn’t noticed me. At the others’ retreat, she suddenly shot forward, unsheathing a dagger from the closest soldier’s belt.
Panicked gasps and shouts rang around the group as they backed away.
She lunged forward, swinging the blade, but I grabbed her arm, twisting her toward me.
She let out a fearsome screech and swung the dagger at me instead. I caught the blade in my palm.
A hush gripped the onlookers. The princess exhaled, her gaze on the dagger held within my fist—at the blood leaking free and trailing over my skin—before she slowly looked up to meet my eyes. Pallor tinged her skin as recognition sank in. And yet neither of us moved.
I examined the princess of the South. She was small but made up for it with her fiery actions.
Her features were average. I had seen hundreds of Southerners with the same look.
The molten bronze skin and brown irises.
Full lips settled beneath a slightly hooked nose.
Her chin jutted out, proud and defiant. She was pretty, in a ruthless way.
I tore my gaze from her, scanning the soldiers. None of them met my gaze.
“When we return to the capital, you will be sent to the rehabilitation grounds. If you do not know the warring laws, then you must relearn them.” I glared, daring them to look up so I could skewer them with the death-inducing stare I was infamous for.
“Prisoners will not be harmed without direct orders. And any who lay a hand on Shahzadeh Bahir’s woman will face the wrath of his sword. ”
The soldiers bowed, muttering apologies before racing off as quickly as they could. Only when they were gone did I sense the pain slinking through my hand. I held in a wince as I tore the blade from the princess’s grasp and tossed it into the sand. She watched me, her eyes spitting rage.
“Shahzadeh Bahir’s woman?” she repeated. “Is that all I am now? A man’s property?”
“Belonging to someone is better than being dead.”
She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. I pulled a handkerchief from my belt and tucked it around my wound, using my teeth to hold one end as I tied it closed. The princess’s brows drifted together as she watched me.
“That was made with a lot of care.”
I stiffened, then followed her gaze to the handkerchief and the letter embroidered on the cobalt fabric.
“Delara made it for me. Warriors’ loved ones often sew handkerchiefs for their men to remember them by.”
Her eyebrow shot up. “I see. It’s hard to believe someone cares enough for you to do that.
Then again, all you Northerners are the same heartless killers.
Hundreds of women probably fall over themselves to gift you handkerchief trophies every time you return from war and boast about the lives you’ve stolen. ”
A snort nearly erupted from my nose, but I contained it in time. “Thousands, actually.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said hundreds of women.”
She shook her head before turning to march away. I snared her wrist in time.
“You ride with me.”
She gave me a look filled with such loathing it brightened my insides a bit. If that proved how dark a person I was, I couldn’t refute it. She wrenched her wrist from my grasp.
“Do not touch me.”
Her ropes were gone. She must have done away with them sometime in the night.
She marched past me, heading toward my horse.
Humor creased the corner of my mouth. Despite her persistence in fighting me, she had already accepted defeat.
She placed her foot into the stirrup, and my mount reared up, his mane whipping through the air.
The princess stumbled backward onto the ground.
Muffled laughter sounded around us, and sand rained from my stallion’s hooves lifted high.
I strode toward him, grabbed his bridle, and ran my hand over his coat.
He calmed at once, his muzzle brushing over my hair, catching my scent.
“Arom bosh, bachem,” I said in his ear. Be still, son.
He huffed, blowing air through his nose and pawing the ground.
“Arom, Azarkhosh,” I repeated.
I turned, extending a hand to the princess, who was staring with bewilderment. She refused my hand, just as I thought she would, pulling to her feet and brushing sand from her dress.
“You named him Lightning?”
I nodded, not bothering to give her the details. Azarkhosh was the fastest horse in the North. Quicker than a bolt of lightning were the rumors. He was there one second and gone the next.
“He does not like others to touch him.”
She crept closer, more hesitant this time. “Strange. I thought only the altizar horses acted that way.”
“He is a half-breed. The closest we can get to an altizar.”
Understanding settled onto her features.
She knew how much we coveted the altizar horses, but without the golden roots, we had no means of making them survive.
They couldn’t grow without them. The horses were the one advantage the South had over us—the reason they had lasted so long against our army.
“He let you ride him before because I allowed it. He needs to trust you.”
My hand drifted along the stallion’s coat, earning a nicker of approval.
The princess stood beside me, eyeing the horse warily.
I motioned to her with my chin, and she reached out.
Her fingers trembled the slightest bit as she touched him.
Azarkhosh reared up again, kicking more sand.
The shahdokht jerked back, but I caught her hand while using my other to calm the horse.
I brought her hand to his coat, guiding hers beneath mine across it.
The tiniest smile tugged at her lips, and my breath caught.
Our hands stilled, and I marveled at the difference between them.
Mine, tan and hardened with callouses, enveloped her smaller one.
She wore a silver band around her thumb.
Curiosity drew me nearer as I glimpsed words etched across it.
She stiffened, her smile fading when she focused on our connected hands, then yanked hers away. I remained unfazed, patting Azarkhosh.
“He’s settled down.”
She nodded, not meeting my gaze. This time when I moved to assist her, she didn’t fight me, likely not wanting to risk the stallion’s wrath.
I waved at Zeki, and he shouted an order to the soldiers mounted up around us.
They lowered their eyes to the ground as I lifted the princess by the waist, setting her onto the saddle.
I mounted behind her, and she shifted forward, as she had before.
I gave her as much space as I could. She lifted her scarf, concealing her features as Bahir rode into view.
He stopped in front of Azarkhosh to grin at the princess.
“You are taking good care of my bride, aren’t you, Shahzadeh?”
I kept my face expressionless, not bothering to reply. “We ride to the Marz.” I wheeled Azarkhosh to address the men behind me. “And then straight to the capital.”
“Good play,” Bahir told me. “We shall get there far faster with a smaller group.”
I nodded and clicked my tongue. Azarkhosh sprung forward, showering the others in sand.
We rode without stopping. I had expected the princess to give in and lean against me, but she was far more stubborn than I gave her credit for.
It wasn’t until hours later that she surrendered to her exhaustion and settled against my chest. The faintest whiff of roses reached my senses.
I sniffed, wrinkling my nose to dispel it, but the entrancing scent wouldn’t dissipate.
It tickled my nostrils like a curse, tempting and distracting.
I’d smelled it when she’d ridden with me the day before and blamed it on her perfume, but the scent wouldn’t have lasted this long unless it was a natural one.
I found myself glaring into the distance, entirely ill at ease that I had the burden of the shahdokht.
My glare descended onto my brother riding to my left.
She was his bride, his responsibility. I didn’t see why I had to be the one saddled with her.
“Shahzadem! Look ahead,” Zeki shouted from behind me.
My eyes shot forward, spying a line of mounted men approaching us—and fast. I cursed. If I hadn’t been so distracted by the scent of roses, I would have noticed them far earlier.
“Who are they?” the shahdokht asked.
“Mardie wahshi,” I muttered. Wild men.