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480 pages, Hardcover
First published December 2, 2025
I am an emperor's daughter. I am worthy. I am his claws. Except I do not scream the words aloud, I swaddle them close to my chest, for the emperor prefers it when I keep my protest silent; when I keep myself cold and sharp.
Shall I turn the other cheek? I cannot. I may be a follower of the Prophet Nuh and the lost scriptures, but to find forgiveness in me, well, that can only happen after my enemies are dead.
"Even if we convince them, they do not trust you as an Azadnian."
That is a good point. "I will make them trust me," I insist.
"But you rarely speak kindly," Sohrab remarks and my mouth gapes open.
"You are inept at social interactions," Arezu adds.
"All five annals? That's ...thousands of parchments." Would my broken mind even let me accomplish such a task?
(...)
"You must submit to a greater will, be obedient to your superiors, consume knowledge without question instead of fighting your masters at every turn. So yes, all five annals. Or get lost."
"The Eskaria teaches that victory is achieved not solely through knowing yourself, but through understanding the enemy." I turn to Fayez. "Today I learnt you are shit. As was your strategy - shit. As was your leadership, also shit. All that makes you reeks, my Captain."
"Our faith loves death, for it's the highest honour to die in martyrdom. Then you are truly Qabl. If not, you become prone to jinn influence, even possession."
I land in third stance and channel a fourteen-breath meditation, my bonds expanding into Second-Stratum. The flow of time wanes in my vision before I summon a stroke of nur, holding it like a paintbrush.
khamillaㆍ“ you should have done it, coward, my words tremble quietly, for my anger is greater. you will regret that you did not end me. ”
cemilㆍ“ if you ache for a monster, i will show you a monster. ”
the pazktab childrenㆍ“ remember, we are your home. ”
the sepahbad jezakielㆍ“ i collide blindly with a warm body; hands grasp my waist, fingers brush my ribs. i mistakenly grab the neck to steady myself against the slippery tiles. ”
“ no, you are a fool for taking his fist. you are not my shield. i am yours, little bird. ”
⤿ if i loved you less, i might be able to talk about you more
“ i am forever the emperor's blade. a blade does not leave its holder's side. wherever he walks, he will know i always follow. ”
“ i always have you marked, cemil hisses into my ear, his blade digging into my spine. ”
⤿ THE TENSION AHSHHDGGDG i love this scene so much there's so much to dissect between khamilla and cemil's relationship. what is he to her? what is she to him???
“ you cannot erase human brutality. not when it exists inside of us, as innate to the body as air. ”
“ you wish to read something from our game ”
⤿ AHHSHSH INTERNALLY SCREAMING
“ she cannot see me; she cannot hear me. she thinks she is alone. this child is dying. and she is utterly alone. ”
⤿
“ i know not victory, but i do know pain. i am war. and its anger will shrivel the sharpest fighters at my feet. ”
“ my tongue tastes copper, whose blood, i do not know. i smile, realizing i am only capable of grinning in the thoroughfare of destruction. ”
“ war does that to people, it turns bodies into numbers. ”
“ his lips tease up with a knowing smirk, why would i kill you when you've executed my plan so flawlessly ”
⤿ WHAT DO YOU MEAN. WHAT DO YOU MEAN SARAH ?????
“Dragon scales,’ I order through the khanjar. My finger bonds burst wiry tendrils of nūr into the wall, merging them together with my leg and back bonds to form a net formation of amber whipping upwards, right into his face. [...]
The tip of the khanjar in my mouth kisses his neck. Fayez’s eyes rise slowly – patiently – as time slows.
‘Maximum iron-fist.’ The words are uttered calmly.”
“He’d been listening. Usur Khan was a stern yet young man, strong-boned and graceful like a snow leopard, with thick flushed skin that wobbled as he spoke and braided hair pulled into a rough knot.”
“The khan’s words returned at once. Tears finally pattered down my cheeks.”
“Gooseflesh rises up my arm, for in my reflection my lips do not move.”
“An anger loosens my lips. ‘Strange, this bond between us. You care for me, yet you are my poisoner.’”
“His hazel eyes, as beautiful as the gold sky, narrow.”
“The young warrior is there at the entrance of the monastery. He stares at us a beat longer, with a studied interest, despite the rest of the Sajamistani delegation remaining inside.”
“He turns fully, hazel eyes falling upon me. He is tall; my head comes to the height of his chin. His angular features are symmetrical and cold, eyes framed by lashes so thick, one would mistake them for sormeh. His skin is light, the apples of his cheeks faintly flushed, not unlike the local tribes exposed to the cold altitude.”
“The Sepāhbad, flanked by an old man, glances at them. His head turns over his shoulder and our gazes meet. He still speaks pleasantly, but his eyes are cold, ‘Shepherd girl.”
““It was near the winter solstice in the year 495, she dreamt of light emanating from my infant body, bathing her in a cool glow. She knew the Divine had shown the power I would come to inherit: nūr, cold Heavenly light, the same spiritual power that flows through the firebird.
“Before the Great Flood, before humans, before even Prophet Father Adam, there were the angels and the jinn.”
“Thus, the Veil between Seen and Unseen was drawn, hiding the jinn from human eyes, except when they shapeshifted into animals. Yet, they linger, tempting the hearts of humans with worldly desires away from Prophet Father Adam’s and Nuh’s teachings.”
He could be the sole product of the Divine architect, whereby when He divided mercy into one hundred parts, and bestowed a slice to this world – leaving seventy-seven – a portion had been sculpted upon this monk, leaving the infinitesimal leftovers to the rest of humanity.
“He lifts his hand and a small pictogram engraved in black-threading rests at the centre of his left palm. The dye is an indent of a black and red line. A singular Alif of the Adamic language.”
“The caravan passes the city centre. Many people pull their shawls over their heads as they walk past a round, wooden structure, necks bowed, as if fearful.
‘That cannot be the ark,’ I stammer out.
Nuh’s ark, in its humble half-eroded wood, outmatches any riches around it.”
‘Peace,’ she repeats. ‘Upon. You.’
“The burial of Adam’s son was guided by the raven who scratched the dirt. The healing after the flood carried by the crane. The wisdom of humanity preserved by the simorgh. Our tribe stands between the Heavenly Birds but that is our downfall.
As Qabil said, Woe to me, for a raven showed me how to bury my brother; this creature is wiser than the haste of man.”