The Prince
The long cushioned toshaks formed a rectangle.
Men leaned forward as they announced their votes—most in favor of my father’s proposal.
Shah Jihangir’s grin spread across his face, spelling satisfaction.
The council was full of fools fed with gold in return for loyalty.
I had once been offered a seat there. But what would be one vote against the many?
I’d refused to be a part of a decision that ended lives.
The man I had ultimately become was so much worse.
I stood beside the throne, one hand wrapped around my shamshir hilt in preparation to slay whoever my father deemed fit.
Bahir sat on Shah Jihangir’s right, his face swollen from late nights and imbibements, though he maintained his bejeweled robes and turban, rings on every finger.
He hadn’t looked my way the entire meeting, demonstrating the deep grudge he’d held since I threatened him at the breakfast. He may have slinked behind the walls of his private chamber, but he was far from admitting defeat.
I had to be prepared for anything. He would exact some sort of revenge for the sullying of his reputation.
Wazir Elmas was speaking, his slithery tone grating on my nerves.
Heads nodded, agreeing with him. It was all rubbish.
Every word. The faces blended together in a portrait I had seen so many times.
It didn’t interest me any more than it had on the first day.
They were all the same, seeking the approval of my father, doing everything in their power to gain his favor.
Supporting him in every choice he made, even when it went against human decency.
“We have about fifty remaining prisoners. We can send the South a few of their heads as a warning,” a man suggested.
Shah Jihangir nodded. “And they will give us the flag of surrender. They have no choice if they do not wish for more bloodshed. Their sultan is dead. His malikeh cannot keep that little piece of land.”
“But she outright declared continued war on us by killing the party we sent to retrieve the sultan’s emblem,” Bahir protested. “I say we march there—no more wasted time—and kill them all.”
The sultan’s emblem, a symbol of his sovereignty. Every leader had one: Shah Jihangir his ring, Sultan Kasim his intricate shamshir passed down by his forefathers. Of course my father had to claim it.
Wazir Elmas tapped his chai glass. “It may have been a burst of emotion. The malikeh is a woman, after all. A newly widowed woman who is on the verge of losing her power. She will cling to it no matter what.”
Shah Jihangir stood. “Then a few heads will wake her up to the fact that she must accept our rule. She will give the emblem.”
Everyone nodded, and then at Shah Jihangir’s command, ten bloody and hobbling Southern prisoners were brought in from the dungeons.
Their chains clanked, dragging across the floor.
Guards blocked their path on either side.
They were shoved to their knees, with shamshirs held on the backs of their necks.
I had personally been sent to watch their torture.
I’d memorized all their features, despite how much I’d tried to erase their screams.
“The South may believe we’ve lowered our aggression because of Shahzadeh Dayyan’s show in the arena when he set those men free.”
I stiffened, remembering the battle with Farani. For a moment, I forgot where I was, recalling her flashing eyes and unyielding stance.
“The shahzadeh made a mistake by allowing them their freedom.” My father glanced at me. “We need to rectify that mistake.”
I’d known I shouldn’t do it, but seeing myself in Farani’s eyes—as a brutal heartless monster—had torn me to pieces.
I’d freed them knowing the consequences may be high.
I had revealed my weakness for her before everyone.
And though I’d tried to remedy my error the night before by giving my father the impression that I had lain with the imprisoned Southern girl I’d secretly released, it seemed it hadn’t been enough to convince him.
“Shahzadeh Dayyan, do what you must.”
Do what you must. The words echoed in my mind as my feet moved of their own accord.
I felt Shah Jihangir’s eyes on me. He delighted in every tortuous moment he made me live.
I remembered a time, so long ago, when he would have me accompany him everywhere.
Pat my face, tousle my hair, praise me. I had been the pride of the North, the light in my father’s eyes.
Then it all stopped. At first, I hadn’t known what caused the change.
I blamed myself, wondering what I had done.
I saw the way he turned his attention to Bahir, casting me aside.
My chest ached at the memory. At how unworthy I’d felt. Then I began hearing the rumors.
Shahzadeh Dayyan is a child born from sin.
The boy will tear the North apart with his dirty blood.
When he ignored my mother and took a new jawahar, it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. The entire palace believed my mother had betrayed him in the worst way, but none dared to speak it plainly. And so I lived in the shadows. The shah had scorned me, toughened me, made me his weapon.
I unsheathed my dagger. The threats always remained on my shoulders like a cape of burden.
My father had first threatened my sister, warning me he would ship her off to marry a commander in the South.
Such a life would destroy her, and I couldn’t protect her there.
Then he used my little siblings against me, and finally my mother.
Any leverage he had, he used. I couldn’t refuse his orders without harm befalling them.
I slashed the dagger through the prisoners’ throats, steeling my resolve and keeping my mind blank.
Blood pooled around me and dripped off my dagger.
I finally blinked, my chest heaving as the bodies came into focus.
Then I saw him. A young boy. His neck severed, his eyes wide with horror, his mouth open in a silenced scream.
I wondered if his family was still alive.
If he had a mother awaiting him in the South.
If she was praying every night for her boy’s return.
If he had a little sister like Delara, who glowed at his every smile. I had taken him from them.
Guilt sprung forth from the internal prison I always kept it locked in, making me feel sick, but I managed to maintain my composure and return to my father’s side.
He clapped me on the shoulder, praising my kills, while guards collected the prisoners’ heads and placed them into sacks in preparation to send them to the South.
As soon as the council ended, I escaped.
I stumbled through the halls, which felt more like the walls of my cage.
I couldn’t breathe. Eyes followed me wherever I went.
Whispers. Gossip. Fear. I threw open a door.
The corners of my chamber sank into view, and so did the figure sitting at the vanity.
Farani watched me through the mirror, hands stilled around a brush halted halfway through her silky hair.
I strode toward her. Fright lit her eyes, and she stood, swiveling around and holding the brush out as if it were a weapon.
“Dayyan?”
Somewhere through the haze, I heard the tremor in her voice, saw the shaking of her hands, but at that moment, they couldn’t stop me.
I drew her into my arms, burying my face into her hair.
I was aware of her frozen form, of the fact that she detested me and that her arms remained stiff at her sides.
But I needed her. I needed her at that moment. No one else could witness my suffering.
I cupped the back of her head, slipped my fingers through her hair. My breathing was loud, my heart racing. She overcame her shock and pushed against me, but I kept my arms around her. Hold me, I wordlessly begged. Please hold on to me.
Then I felt it—a burning pain unlike any other. Warm blood dribbled down my arm and chest. I retreated a pace, glancing down to see the bejeweled dagger plunged in my shoulder.