Passing from shadow to shadow, Razhar crossed the stone courtyards and gilded chambers of the palace in a delicate dance of stealth. Steps he knew, well accustomed to sneaking about, but not in a palace brimming with Jarkin invaders. Drawing a sharp breath, he pressed himself against the wall as the shapes of two hulking warriors crossed the courtyard. Armed to the teeth with short battle-axes and quivers of black-fletched arrows, they prowled like lions laying claim to their territory. Men of the far east mountains who survived by the edge of the sword.

Conquer or be conquered. The way of survival in the harsh desert. And Razhar was no stranger to survival.

The warriors passed. Razhar sagged, releasing the air in his lungs. Tilting his head back, his gaze swept the pillars of polished marble stretching up to the ornamental mosaics that shimmered like gemstones.

The world that adopted him. The home that he’d borrowed. And he didn’t intend to lose it. Not for anything.

Slipping behind a row of potted palms, he rounded the edges of the courtyard, never venturing into the afternoon light. A purple tassel from his tunic caught on a draping branch, and he unsnagged it.

Hardly an outfit for a harrowing operation, but he had no clothes for the shadows, only bright turbans, silk scarves, and tunics embroidered in every shade of the spectrum. A clever disguise for an orphan from the Kushite canyonlands.

“A poor defense if ever there was one,” he muttered. But defenses were in short supply these days. Memories of last night assailed his mind like Jarkin arrows. Of the city square, bathed in harsh firelight and burning buildings to illuminate the battle.

No, not a battle. They hadn’t the battlements or the armies. Instanolde had one man—a cursed man.

Elerek had looked nothing like the prince Razhar had grown up alongside, the skilled strategist, and, not to mention, the most impossible, insensitive man Razhar had ever known.

And this man—this king—had become something else, transformed by the curse that lurked in his skin and doomed its victims to die, drowning with a single touch. He’d faced Gaudab Batu-Khasar, the Jarkin warlord, without a weapon; the water dripping from his outstretched hands was treacherous enough.

A bold move—one that Razhar couldn’t risk Elerek making. Not with so many lives at stake, cursed lives already fading like starlight.

Reaching the end of the courtyard, Razhar wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow and swept into the palace corridors. Patterned light fell across his vision from row after row of lattice windows. Familiar routes, places where laughter and tears were shared.

Places they lived.

The hearths lay cold in the kitchens and the jars of oil and flour were sealed now. Everywhere Razhar looked, he saw only ghosts. Azraa over a month back. Fin two days ago. Myra just yesterday. Those whom he could not save.

Azraa had died at the temple, but Fin and Myra had both perished before him. Only Myra had known how he’d kept them alive despite being doomed to drown with their king. It had helped, sharing his burden with the maid who’d freely chosen to take the curse…

Now she was gone—not from the curse, the Jarkins took care of that, but dead all the same.

Swallowing his grief, Razhar grabbed a round of flatbread, a small wheel of cheese, and two oranges—the last oranges. The rest had been used for a birthday cake to celebrate another year won for a cursed soul.

Razhar stilled, moving his thumb across the oranges’ waxy surface, feeling every pore and wrinkle. A year that he’d bought them, and they had no idea.

A cold, cynical thought. One that didn’t belong in his world of golden palaces, spiced coffee, laughter, and swirling dancers. Much like a Kushite orphan with a disgraced history and shameful secrets didn’t belong in the palace at all. In that, he and the Jarkins had something in common. He stuffed the oranges into his pants pockets and left the kitchens.

This isn’t your fault. A tiny voice spoke in some deep, empty part of his heart.

Oh, but it felt like it was. And the fact that he walked freely, without guards, without chains about his arms, couldn’t be overlooked.

Razhar paused in another corridor, waiting for a contingent of Jarkins—and the guilt pounding in his heart—to pass.

I didn ’t know it was going to happen like this.

They’d known the Jarkins were coming. The mountain men struck with deadly accuracy when they took the Darcress Kasbah, the fortress guarding the edge of the Sancen Desert, and killed King Cormek. One summer to live, they’d claimed, and the players took to their places much like the golden figurines of barjee, the strategy game he loved so much. Surely there had been hope, pure and as bright as the dancing constellations themselves.

Even so, Instanolde had been conquered.

Not with the strength of armies, but with blood, cursed water, and . . . sand.

The remainder of the night replayed in Razhar’s mind—the night that he might regret forever. Myra falling with the knife in her side. Norbah, Instanolde’s general, dragged away.

Lystra.

Grace and elegance and ferocity. The queen who survived the Sancen Desert and became Elerek’s wife out of devotion to her people. The one meant to save them all. Something like steel had overcome her features as she watched Elerek face his enemies alone. Razhar couldn’t stop her, couldn’t protect her as Elerek had charged him.

She’d run to him. Touched him. Took the curse.

Elerek’s best-laid plans shattered as pain twisted Lystra’s lovely and noble face. The roar from the king’s throat had pierced Razhar’s heart with the accuracy of a Kushite archer. He’d spent his life attempting to uphold all that Elerek—all that he—held dear.

Enough.

Dashing out of the shadows, Razhar had planted himself between the Jarkin warlord and Instanolde’s cursed king. The water pummeled his body, but no curse tainted him. He’d lifted his hands and sand, fine as the Sancen dunes, poured from his palms, breaking the current of Elerek’s waters. The secret he’d spent his life protecting.

“If you kill him now, you’ll die with him.”

They would all die.

“There’s only one way to break this curse.”

One way. One horrible way.

“And I can help with that.”

Razhar clenched his fists. A clever lie. One that both the Jarkin warriors and the royals of Instanolde believed. One that burned like a bitter betrayal in the eyes of the king. Was that all Razhar would ever amount to? A clever liar? A man hoarding secrets? But he’d kept Elerek and Lystra alive. Not indefinitely. If there was one constant in their world, their struggle for survival on the edge of the desert, Razhar knew that nobody could be completely saved.

No one tried harder than him.

The relentless summer sunlight fell over Razhar’s shoulders as he hurried across the stone-cast yard. Before him loomed the keep belonging to the palace guard, along with the entrance to the underground prison.

One way in, guarded by five immense Jarkins. Razhar hesitated, eyeing the jagged blades of their knives and the heavy heads of the axes strapped to their backs. Weapons made for cleaving bodies.

But he had to get inside—to find Elerek.

Once he hears the truth, he’ll understand. He must. Doubt nagged at his scalp, like sand caught between the folds of his clothing. Another clever lie to tell himself. Razhar carried no weapon, knew no stance. The only defense he’d ever needed was a dash of wit, a flair of flirt, and a winning smile. He doubted any of those tactics would work on the invaders, still it was all he had.

Razhar walked right up to the warriors with his head high and a bit of swagger in his step. He cleared his throat. “Afternoon.”

The Jarkins’ shoulders, capped with the skulls of wild jackals, tensed. One brought his hand to the knife at his belt.

Razhar withdrew the round of flatbread, his eyes darting to the prison’s dark shaft, visible between the towering Jarkins. “I’ve brought dinner for the . . .” King. Perhaps not the best choice of words. “Prisoner.”

The warriors glared at him. “Move along, Kushite.” One muttered a string of words that sounded far from friendly.

He squared his shoulders. “Let me pass.”

The closest Jarkin drew a short sword, the blade screeching from its sheath. “I said”—he stepped toward Razhar—“move along.”

Razhar raised his arm in a feeble attempt to defend himself. And sand. Fine, amber grains cascaded from his skin, drifting down in a soft curtain from his forearm, piling on the stonework at his feet. He didn’t control it. It just happened. After all, what was more sand in the desert?

Shock subdued their leathered faces. The same terror that the sight of Elerek’s powers provoked—now turned upon Razhar.

His face flushed. His abilities were meant to preserve, to keep people alive. Surely this was no fearsome thing. Razhar didn’t know how to react when eyes looked upon him in spectacle.

Elerek knew. If only he could talk to him.

“Don’t make me ask again.” Razhar forced a snarl into his voice.

This time, the Jarkins backed away, clearing the path. They remembered the horrors they’d seen last night.

Darkness engulfed Razhar as he hurried down the rough-cut steps. A long tunnel stretched before him. Weak torches flickered from their crudely constructed sconces, and despite getting past the guards, Razhar felt as feeble as the flames themselves.

No sound stirred. No shuffle of boots, clank of shackles, or moan of prisoners. The silence unnerved Razhar, making him long for the sounds of music and laughter.

After the first row of empty cells, he found a guard. Another Jarkin.

This one was cursed. Instead of skin, the man’s arm was encased in a shimmery sheen of water. Beneath, pale bones, taut muscle, and spidery veins were visible. This man had been touched, whether directly by Elerek or the unnatural water that flowed from his fingertips.

“What are you doing here?” The Jarkin took a step closer, his stance threatening.

Razhar lifted the bread again. “Take me to the prisoner.”

The Jarkin grunted. “No one gets in.”

Why did that have to mean him? Fighting the urge to scoff, Razhar mustered his bravado and let his head roll back on his shoulders, the bones in his neck crunching. “As I informed your superiors, it is imperative to keep the prisoner alive and that includes feeding him a decent supper.”

The guard stomped forward, his height and girth by far out-measuring Razhar. A growl rumbled in his throat.

Razhar took a step back. Shifting the bread to one hand, he extended the other, sand coating his palm again. He wished that he could wield it as deftly as Elerek did his waters, create a dune to shift this guard off his feet.

Scoffing, the guard grabbed Razhar by the scarf, throwing him off-balance. “You think you can intimidate me? Even with your mongrel king’s curse, you dirty river rats are nothing to us.”

Before Razhar could react, the guard knocked him to the ground, ripping the bread from Razhar’s hand. “I’ll save him a few crumbs.” Tearing the flat loaf, he stuffed one half in his mouth. “Get out.” He spoke with his mouth full. “Or I’ll do worse.”

Razhar dragged himself to his feet, feeling as defeated as that disk of bread as he scampered back the way he’d come. I just . . . I need you to understand. The air between him and Elerek hazed, a swirl of sand charging across the desert, blocking the skies and drenching all in confusion.

Turning a corner, he leaned against the wall, rubbing his fingertips together as grains of dust caught in the ridges of his skin. Even if he knew how to control his sands, blasting this guard in the deep of the prison didn’t seem the safest option.

It wouldn’t be the first unusual death among these cells. Hardly a week had passed since Elerek had come to interrogate the Jarkin assassin—and drowned him.

Razhar shook his head, the shell-shocked terror in Elerek’s eyes haunting him even now. What does one say when your best friend commits a murder? When water dripped from the king’s hands and gathered beneath his wheelchair? When the curse suddenly changed the rules?

Turning Elerek to water and Razhar to sand.

Could he do it? Snuff out a man’s life? No, El wouldn’t want me to.

He shuffled back up the corridor. Maybe he ought to be in one of these cells, his failure enough to secure the bars.

“Fahwal.”

Razhar stopped, his boots anchored to the stone.

A whisper. A name. A ghost that haunted the deepest recesses of his soul.

“Come closer.”

No. He ought to turn and run the other way, back up the corridor, and into the sunlight. Still, he couldn’t help but peer through the shadows, to the nearest cell, where long, wrinkled fingers encased in jewels gripped the bars. A pair of eyes flashed in the torchlight, watching him.

“You and I know each other. Do you remember?”

Razhar gulped. He wondered if this was what Elerek’s victims felt just before they drowned.

“Fahwal sent you here? Curious.” Dalmah of House Arghan cocked her head to one side, her long black hair draping like a mourner’s veil. “You look so much like him.”

Dressed in elegant silks and lips as red as blood, she still looked like the queen she’d been before Lorkin’s conquests deposed her and placed the throne into House Karim’s control. But Razhar only saw the villain responsible for the curse’s binding, for the fate of the king doomed to drown—and the host of secrets he’d been forced to carry.

Secrets that belonged to an archer who lived at the bottom of the Kushite canyons. The first to fly off to battle, mounted upon a great condor, when summoned by scrolls tied with orange silk ribbons. Because the king of Instanolde said so.

Razhar remembered curling up on his bed, a barely stuffed pallet in their carved-out hovel. A child left alone in the dark while his baba fought away in wars for a far-off kingdom.

“Someday,” Fahwal had said, “there will be no more wars and kings that send lowly men to their deaths and make them pay for what they weren’t meant to pay.”

Lofty words. But Fahwal had made a bargain. One that came with a signed contract and a dagger etched with starlight. One that demanded a cost. Razhar pinched his eyes shut. “I’ll pay it.” Even after all these years, he still heard the courage in his baba’s voice. The resolute stance of a soldier.

But you didn ’t pay the cost, Baba. I did.

The cost of casting a curse.

“Surely it’s been at least fifteen years . . .” Dalmah spoke the words slowly, letting them fill the darkness. “Since they killed him.”

Executed. Razhar tried not to think of it. Whatever joys he could find to amuse himself in the present typically outweighed the sorrow of the past. He’d surrounded himself with life, with thrill, with comrades, with hope.

Until this last summer, this last summer to live.

“Tell me, is it true?” Dalmah watched him like the glassy, predatory eyes of the Kushite condors. “About you?”

Clenching his hands, Razhar hoped the shadows might hide him. An impossibility, considering his colorful choices in clothing. Anything to distract, to deter, to keep anyone from looking too closely and seeing the secrets written deep in his eyes.

“Baba had theories . . .”

“And that’s why you’re here? In the palace of Instanolde? The only son of a lowly Kushite soldier who committed a terrible crime?”

What ’s a lowly Kushite to the king of Instanolde?

Razhar ground his teeth. “This is my home.” He belonged nowhere else in the wide, wild world. But it wasn’t just the palace, the markets, and the lively streets. His family was here.

“Ah.” Dalmah lowered her hands, leaning against the bars as if they were a marble pillar and she an ornate piece of decor. “Tell me, do they know? About you?”

His insides churned. It was only a matter of time—after what happened last night. And look what it had accomplished. Everyone he loved thought him a dirty traitor.

“All these years, and you’ve kept such secrets?” The countess clicked her tongue. “Secrets concerning a curse . . . and a doomed prince.”

“King, actually.” And I’m doomed to share his fate? How is that fair? Razhar lurched toward her cell. “Tell me how to break it—curse binder.”

Dalmah chortled, oblivious to the title, to the truth that her knowledge of the fell art had designed the curse and its atrocities. Razhar’s baba had only carried out the casting—earning him the cost to be paid while Dalmah suffered no injury.

“Surely you must know. Per your baba’s wishes, I sealed the writ of sale in the archives myself.”

With a huff, Razhar adjusted the collar of his vest, his hand sliding across the creases of parchment stowed within an interior pocket. He’d taken such a risk showing the writ to Lystra. Even now, with the Jarkins occupying their kingdom and the curse more powerful than ever, a simple piece of parchment held the power to damn both himself and Elerek.

“What happens to the cost of the curse when the curse is broken?”

The countess narrowed her eyes. “So unusual. Look at you, a walking consequence—a punishment.”

Razhar bowed his head.

“Consequences are to be paid, aren’t they? If the firstborn of bloody Lorkin is to die, shouldn’t you as well?”

Heat flared up his neck, burning at the stars tattooed on his chest. “Not all who suffer are guilty.”

Dalmah stepped toward the bars again, the torchlight striping her face. Darkness and light glimmering in her deep eyes. “Perhaps, but you may well be guilty by the time this is over.”

The woman seemed intent on hearing her own voice echoing in this dank cell. “Tell me what you know.”

She heaved a resigned sigh. “Nothing for certain. Your circumstances are beyond unusual. But if you intend to see this curse broken, your best chance is to be the one holding the dagger.”

She’s lying. Razhar knew his face betrayed him as a sinister smile curled across the countess’s blood-red lips, reveling in the horror of her words. El is going to die anyways, isn’t he? Stars above, it might as well be you.

Ending the curse that had haunted him all his life, freeing himself from wrongs that he’d never committed, and proving once and for all that he wasn’t just a lowly Kushite.

All at the expense of Elerek’s life.

Dalmah laughed. “Imagine, the last thing your pathetic, cursed king will ever see is the face of his opposite, the cost of his curse, driving a curse binder’s dagger into his chest.”

“Insult him again,” Razhar growled, his posture rigid, “and I’ll make sure the Jarkins know who you are. They’re not too keen on curses at the moment.”

“Jarkins. Even they won’t keep someone like me locked up forever. They have weaknesses, pressure points, like anyone else.” She eyed him warily. “I’ve found yours.”

His blood began to boil.

“And I suspect my granddaughter shares your sentiments.” The slightest of clouds, the kind that burned off easily in the desert heat, eclipsed Dalmah’s gaze. “Is she all right?”

A strange question, considering that Dalmah had bartered her own granddaughter off in marriage to a cursed man. Lystra herself had imprisoned Dalmah, having gleaned enough suspicion from the woman’s clever cobwebs. Razhar admired her audacity. “They won’t harm her.” He didn’t doubt for a moment that Elerek’s demands wouldn’t be met. A king who had the power to drown his enemies could be quite persuasive.

Dalmah didn’t reply, her gaze turned back to the darkness.

“I’ll check on her, if I can.” If he couldn’t talk to Elerek, Lystra was his next best option.

“Hmm.” The countess let her bejeweled hands slip from the bars. “Send my regards.”

Razhar turned and stomped back down the hall. He had to get out of the darkness, the shadows where his secrets seemed to dwell. If only they’d stop following him altogether.