POV: Soraya
By the end of the week, Ashra’s halls learn how to hold two storms at once.
One wears black and silver and walks like a king learning he’s been handed another war. The other wears crimson and gold and smiles like she’s deciding which enemy to cut first.
I exist somewhere in the space between.
Rumors about the bounty spread through the fortress faster than the sand winds. No one says it near me, but I see it in their eyes when they pass—calculation, curiosity, a hint of fear. Zehrael. Wanted. Worth gold and trouble in equal measure.
Vienne walks at my side more often now, usually pretending she just happened to be going the same direction.
“Relax,” she says as we cross the training yard. “No one’s going to bag you and drag you out of Ashra while Raevan’s awake.”
“What about when he’s asleep?” I ask.
“Then Kaide’s awake,” she says. “And he’s meaner.”
We stop to watch a group of young warriors practicing forms in the sand circle. Their movements are sharp, disciplined. A few sneak glances my way, then look quickly back, cheeks flushing.
“I hate this,” I murmur. “Being the story everyone tells at night.”
“You’re not just the story,” Vienne says. “You’re also the headache.”
“How comforting.”
We turn toward the inner archway that leads to the library hall. I’ve been given permission to use it “under supervision.” Apparently, even reading is dangerous if you’re Zehrael.
Halfway down the corridor, footsteps click behind us.
“Vienne,” a lilting voice calls. “You’ve taken to playing bodyguard now? I didn’t realize we promoted handmaids.”
We both stop.
Azhara approaches with two attendants in pale veils following like shadows. She’s in deep green today, gold threads catching the light. Her gaze flicks over me with the same disdain one reserves for sand tracked into clean rooms.
“I go where I please,” Vienne says, expression neutral. “Today I please to walk this corridor.”
“How rebellious,” Azhara murmurs. Her attention settles fully on me. “Soraya. Have you enjoyed your tour of our fortress? It’s generous of Raevan to show you the parts you’ll never truly belong to.”
I keep my face blank. “The stone looks the same in every direction,” I say. “Easy to get lost.”
“In more ways than one,” she replies sweetly. “Some people forget this is a kingdom, not a shelter for every stray who catches his eye.”
Vienne shifts, but I touch her wrist lightly. I can fight with words. For now.
“I don’t recall asking for shelter,” I say. “Kharad threw me into a dungeon. Raevan pulled me out. You should take your complaints to the one holding the keys, not the girl who was chained.”
Azhara’s eyes flash. “Don’t think I haven’t,” she says. “He hears my complaints. He just refuses to act on them where you’re concerned.”
She steps closer, attendants hanging back at an invisible line. Her perfume is sharp—desert flowers and something metallic underneath.
“I want you to understand something,” she says quietly. “Whatever little bond you think you’ve formed with him—through storms, through heroics, through whatever else happened in that dungeon… it doesn’t matter. He is promised to Ashra. To me. To this alliance. You are a guest because he is stubborn, not because you are special.”
I swallow.
“I don’t think I’m special,” I say. “I think I’m unlucky.”
She laughs—a sound with no real amusement. “On that, we agree.”
Her gaze hardens. “You’re manipulating him,” she says. “Playing the wounded stray, the trembling Zehrael with nowhere else to go. Letting him feel responsible, letting him feel guilty. He’s always had a weakness for broken things; you’re just the latest piece of dune trash he’s decided to polish.”
The words hit harder than I want them to. My fingers curl at my sides.
“I didn’t ask him to feel anything,” I say.
“Didn’t you?” she purrs. “You cling to him in the halls with those big, haunted eyes. You let him speak for you, shield you, stand against his own council for you. He’s a king, not your guard dog.”
My throat tightens.
“I didn’t ask him to do any of that,” I repeat, slower. “I don’t want his throne. I don’t want your place. I just don’t want to die in someone else’s sand again.”
“Then stop standing so close to him,” she snaps. “Stop taking up space that doesn’t belong to you. Every moment he spends worrying about you, he spends less on the empire he’s sworn to.”
Vienne’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “Careful,” she says. “You’re getting loud.”
Azhara’s head swivels toward her. “You’re out of line.”
“I’m off duty,” Vienne replies. “And I’m tired of watching you chew on someone who hasn’t done anything but survive.”
“She’s put all our throats on a bounty list,” Azhara hisses. “Her very presence invites hunters. And he—” she jerks her chin toward the upper levels “—acts like she’s some holy puzzle to solve. You call that ‘nothing’?”
I flinch.
Vienne steps subtly more between us. “You want to be angry at someone?” she says. “Be angry at Darron. At Kharad. At every council elder who put Raevan in this position. Not at the girl who got dragged into it half-dead.”
“She’s not innocent,” Azhara whispers. “Zehrael never are.”
Her eyes burn into mine, and in them I see more than jealousy. I see old wounds, old stories, old hatred etched into bone.
“Moon curse,” she says, the words soft and vicious. “Dune trash. You’ve brought nothing but trouble under this roof.”
For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe.
My mother’s face swims up in my mind. Her blood. Darron’s blade. The bounty. The whispers.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am nothing but trouble. My vision blurs.
Vienne’s hand lands on my arm, grounding. Her voice comes calm, dangerous.
“Azhara,” she says, “if Raevan hears you called the girl under his protection ‘dune trash’ and ‘moon curse,’ he won’t just be upset. He’ll be furious.”
Azhara scoffs. “He wouldn’t punish me over a stray.”
“Wouldn’t he?” Vienne asks. “You’ve seen what he’s like when his people get hurt. Imagine what happens when he realizes the vultures are inside his own walls.”
Azhara’s jaw tightens.
“Careful,” Vienne adds, voice dropping. “Jealousy is one thing. Undermining his oaths is another. Council might tolerate your temper. They won’t tolerate offending their king’s pride in his own word.”
Silence crackles. Azhara’s attendants shift uneasily.
For a long second, I think she’ll push past the threat and tear into me anyway.
Then she straightens, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress. Her smile returns, brittle and bright.
“Very well,” she says. “If Raevan likes his broken things, far be it from me to kick them in public.”
Her eyes slice to me one last time. “Stay out of my way, Soraya. Stay out of his path. And pray the bounty hunters reach you before the politics do.”
She turns and glides down the corridor, attendants hurrying after her.
The air feels easier to breathe once she’s gone.
Vienne exhales slowly. “Well,” she says. “That was fun.”
My knees feel weak. I lean back against the wall, pressing my palms to my face. “Maybe she’s right,” I whisper. “Maybe I’m just… wreckage dragged from one ruin to another.”
Vienne snorts. “You’re a lot of things,” she says. “Wreckage isn’t the first word I’d pick.”
“What would you pick?” I ask, raw.
She considers. “Stubborn,” she says. “Too honest. Rough. Dangerous if you ever decide to stop apologizing for breathing.”
A humorless laugh escapes me. “You think I’m dangerous?”
“I think everyone else hopes you never realize you could be,” she replies. “That’s why they’re trying so hard to make you small.”
She squeezes my shoulder once. “Come on. Let’s find you a place to hit something. It’s either that or you’ll start believing every vile thing people like Azhara say—and I don’t have the patience to rebuild you from dust.”
I push off the wall, legs still shaking but moving.
As we walk, Azhara’s words cling like sand in a wound.
Dune trash.
Moon curse.
Stray.
But Vienne’s stick too. Dangerous—if I stop apologizing.