POV: Soraya
By the time the moons sink toward the horizon, my mother’s body is gone.
They took her away while I lay shaking in the sand, staring at the blood-stained hem of my dress. No one told me where they put her. No one offered a cloth for my hands. No one dared come near the girl with Zehrael eyes.
The rest of the night is a blur of orders barked over my head. Warriors moving. Guests dispersing in tight, shocked clusters. Zarek Kharad and his men lingering at the edge of it all like shadows waiting for the right wind.
I remember my father finally turning his back on the dune where he killed his wife.
“We’re done here,” he says. “Bring her.”
Rough hands grip my arms. I stumble to my feet, head pounding, vision still too sharp, too bright. My wolf curls into herself, whimpering in a place I can’t reach.
“Where are you taking me?” I manage.
No one answers.
They drag me through the chill of the pre-dawn, past the silent salt-pines and the courtyard where my mother used to hum while tending her little patch of herbs. Past the well where I’d draw water as a girl, dreaming of… something. Anything but this.
We don’t stop at my father’s house and walk past it.
“Father?” I twist in the warriors’ grip. “My chambers— I need to change, I—”
Darron doesn’t slow. “You won’t be staying in Saren.”
Cold air punches through my ribs. “What?”
He turns just enough that I can see the flatness in his eyes. There is no grief left there. Only calculation and contempt.
“You think I can present myself to the Council with a Zehrael-marked daughter?” he asks. “With whispers through every campfire that my bloodline is corrupted?” His lip curls. “You’re a liability, Soraya. One I should have seen sooner.”
“I am your daughter,” I say, the words raw. “You raised me. I ate at your table, trained with your soldiers, prayed at your—”
“I raised what I thought was mine.” His voice sharpens. “Tonight proved otherwise. Whatever you are, whoever your true blood comes from, it is not Saren.”
Lysara’s face flashes behind my eyes. Her hand smoothing my hair after nightmares. Her soft laugh when I tripped over my own feet in the training yard. The way she used to call me my star, like I was something precious.
“Mother loved you,” I whisper. “She chose this House. She chose you.”
“Then she chose wrong.” He looks away, signaling the warriors to keep going. “And she paid for it.”
The words leave me dizzy. I think if my hands weren’t bound, I would claw at my own skin to get out of it.
We leave Saren’s chalk-white walls behind and reach the small caravan waiting at the edge of the dunes—horses bridled, a covered sand-sledge harnessed, a handful of guards. Enough to travel, not enough to declare a show of force.
My stomach drops when I see the banners tied to the rear of the lead mare. Black and red—the colors of House Kharad.
“Why…” My throat is dry. “Why are we going to Kharad?”
My father swings himself into a saddle. “You shame me, but you may still be of value.”
Value. Not life. Not family. Value.
He doesn’t look at me when he adds, almost grudgingly, “I will not keep your corruption in Saren. The Dominion wants our salt routes and our loyalty. Perhaps they will accept you as… collateral. A gesture.”
A gesture. I think I might be sick.
“You’re giving me to Zarek,” I say. “After he rejected me—in front of everyone?”
“Not as his Luna,” Darron snaps. “You ruined that. But perhaps he will take you as a tool. A servant. A bargaining piece. That is better than exile with nothing.”
“What if he doesn’t want me at all?”
Darron’s gaze finally meets mine, hard as dried salt.
“Then I will cast you into the dunes myself,” he says. “And let the sand drink what’s left of your Zehrael blood.”
***
The journey to the Kharad stronghold feels both endless and too fast. My wrists are bound in front of me with rough rope; every bump jostles my aching body. Dawn smears across the sky in streaks of violet and gold, revealing the vastness of the desert—dunes like waves, rocky outcrops like bones, the faint line of cliffs in the distance.
The Obsidian Bastion.
I’ve heard stories of it. A fortress carved into the canyon walls, gates that never fall, stones stained dark by the blood of invaders. A place of war and law and unflinching judgment.
Not a place for misplaced daughters and cursed brides.
By the time we reach the canyon entrance, the sun is high. Heat presses down, baking sweat into my skin. The closer we get, the more the landscape changes—smooth dunes giving way to jagged black rock, sheer cliffs rising like teeth on either side.
We ride under a stone arch scarred with ancient runes and then through heavy iron gates banded with spikes. Inside, the air is cooler but carries the scent of iron and smoke.
Kharad warriors watch from the ramparts as we enter the wide inner courtyard. Training dummies line the far wall; racks of weapons glint in the sun. Everything is sharp edges and functional unforgiving angles.
Zarek Kharad stands at the center, surrounded by his captains.
He looks just as he did on the dunes—composed, dark-clad, a man carved for command. He watches us dismount with the bored interest of someone evaluating new stock.
Darron steps forward and bows, not as low as he did last night, but enough to acknowledge Kharad’s greater power.
“Lord Zarek,” he says. “Thank you for receiving me.”
Zarek’s gaze flicks past him, to where I stand between two Saren guards, wrists bound, dress stained and torn.
“I have brought you something that may compensate,” father says. “Proof of my continued loyalty to Kharad, despite the… unfortunate events.”
Zarek stops a few paces in front of me. Up close, his eyes are a cool, hard brown, almost black in the shadow of the high walls. He studies my face, lingering on my eyes and the white streak that still refuses to be anything but what it is.
“Go on,” he invites.
Darron gestures toward me like he’s presenting a trade good. “My daughter. Soraya. She is of my House in upbringing, if not blood. I offer her to your Dominion as you see fit.”
Heat burns the back of my throat. He doesn’t even flinch when he says it.
I stare at him, waiting for any flicker of regret. Any sign that the man who lifted me as a child, who corrected my sword grip, who taught me to read terrain, still exists underneath the Warlord.
There’s nothing. Zarek tilts his head. “You offer me the girl you claim is shame itself?”
“I offer you a tool,” Darron says. “One that may still be useful, if properly handled.”
Zarek’s gaze sharpens. “Because she is Zehrael-marked.”
The word hangs heavy in the air. Some of the Kharad warriors shift, trading glances.
“Because she is… unique,” Darron answers carefully. “And uniquely bound to Saren by reputation. If she serves you, it will be known. People will speak of it. They will not dare say Saren has broken with Kharad, no matter what lies my enemies spread about last night.”
He is trading me not just for favor, but for the illusion of unity. Wrapping his disgrace in my chains.
Zarek regards us both in silence for a moment. Then he says, almost lightly, “And what would you have me do with her?”
“Whatever you see fit,” Darron says. “That is the gesture I offer.”
My nails dig into my own palms. “I’m standing right here,” I say hoarsely. “You could at least pretend I’m a person, not a sack of grain.”
Darron doesn’t even look at me. “You lost the right to be a Saren the moment your eyes changed.”
I feel that like another sword blow.
Zarek’s lips curve slightly. Not in kindness. Amusement. “You heard him, girl. You are no longer Saren. You are… unclaimed.”
“I never asked to be claimed,” I whisper.
“Yet here we are.” He signals to one of his captains. “Take her.”
The Kharad guards close in before I can move. They grab my arms, wrench them behind my back, and twist the rope tighter until I gasp. One of them shoves me forward.
“Wait,” Darron says.
For a heartbeat, hope flares stupidly in my chest. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe—
“Before you take her,” he continues, “hear this: Soraya is no longer welcome in Saren. If she tries to return, she is to be turned away at the borders. Or left to the dunes. The desert can take what it wants from her. I’m done.”
His voice doesn’t break. Mine does.
“Father,” I say, the word torn from some small, desperate place in me. “Please. Don’t do this! I— I can help, I can—”
He finally looks at me then. Not with love. With finality.
“You are an embarrassment I cannot afford,” he says. “Send her away. Let the dunes eat her if Kharad finds no use for her.”
The last thread snaps. Somewhere deep inside, my wolf goes very, very quiet.
Zarek gives a single nod. “As you wish.”
He doesn’t protest the cruelty. Doesn’t comment on the coldness. He just accepts me into his sphere the way one acquires an odd weapon—interesting, but not necessarily valuable.
Darron turns on his heel and mounts his horse without another glance. In moments, the Saren party is riding out of the courtyard, banners snapping, hooves striking stone, leaving me behind as if I were dust he shook off his boots.
I watch until they’re gone. Until the gates close behind them with a heavy finality that sounds like a verdict.
Then a hand fisting in my hair yanks my head back.
“Up,” a guard snarls. “Lord Kharad has plans for you.”
I stumble after him, dragged through the inner gates and deeper into the fortress. Voices echo around us as we pass training yards and storage halls. More people stare—at the ropes, the bruises, the mark of white against my dark hair.
“Kharad’s new scrap,” someone murmurs.
“She’s the Zehrael girl, isn’t she?”
“I heard she killed her own mother with a curse.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised. Look at those eyes.”
I grit my teeth. I’d scream if I had any voice left.
We emerge into a massive circular space open to the sky—the arena. Rows of stone benches rise around a central pit filled with black sand. Iron gates line the rim, each leading to some unseen holding cell.
The air tastes like metal and sweat and old violence.
They shove me forward until I stand at the edge of the pit. My ankles are bound now too, forcing my steps into an awkward stagger.
A few warriors are already gathered, some sitting, some standing along the lower rows, curious. The crowd isn’t full, not like for a public execution, but enough for a show.
Zarek steps to the opposite side of the arena and raises his hand. The murmurs quiet.
“Today,” he announces, voice carrying easily, “House Kharad receives an… unexpected gift.”
Laughter, low and rough.
He gestures toward me. “Soraya of nowhere. Zehrael-marked. Cast out by her own House. Useless as a bride. Perhaps useful in other ways.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I want the ground to open and swallow me.
“She is a burden,” Zarek continues, “and I have no need for wasted burdens in my fortress. So I will give her one chance to earn her place.”
He turns, nods to a guard near one of the iron gates. “Bring them out.”
The gate grinds open with a screech of rust and two men step into the arena.
One is a broad-shouldered warrior with scars down his arms and a cocky grin, rolling his neck as if this is a game he’s already won. The other— The other is in chains.
He’s tall. Bare-chested. Muscles roped with bruises and old marks. A heavy iron collar circles his throat, attached to chains anchored to his wrists. His face is half-hidden behind a dark metal mask that covers his mouth and nose, painted with stylized fangs. His hair is long and tangled, hanging over his forehead.
He moves with a coiled, contained violence that makes the hairs on my arms rise.
“Two fighters,” Zarek says. “One prize.”
A rough laugh ripples through the stands.
“Whoever wins,” Zarek finishes, “owns her.”
The scarred warrior looks up at me and grins, slow and vile. “Looks like I’ll have a pet soon.”
The masked man lifts his head too. Even from across the pit, even with steel obscuring half his face, I feel his eyes lock onto mine.
There is nothing empty in that gaze. No madness. No animal vacancy. Just something sharp and dark and frighteningly aware.
The guard beside me chuckles. “Enjoy the show, little Zehrael,” he murmurs. “You’re what they’re bleeding for.”
Down in the pit, the two men take their positions. Sand shifts under their feet. A bell rings. And the fight for my ownership begins.