The first time I met a Claimed, I was twelve years old.

His gold-painted skin blended so well with the gold steps behind him that I took a moment to notice him. But when I did, I could not look away. 

He knelt at the bottom of the stairs to the tribal chief's palace, eyes fixed on the ground a few feet ahead of him. His head was a shiny golden globe without eyebrows or eyelashes, and a thin gold collar circled his neck. Pressed up between his bent legs, even his flaccid penis glittered with gold.

The back of my neck prickled as I remembered my father's words. The Rakim tribe still practices some heinous traditions. It is best not to get too close or ask too many questions. I ripped my gaze away from the man to focus on the bright gold and marble turrets and pillars of the palace, battling my curiosity.

The curiosity won. 

Stepping forward, I said, "Why are you naked? And what happened to your hair?"

He stared at the ground in silence.

I crouched down in front of him and waved a hand in front of his face. "Hello?"

"He's not allowed to speak to you." The bored voice carried the accent of the Rakim region with its smooth delivery and the drawn out s.

I jumped and whipped toward the speaker, a boy a couple of years older than myself and maybe six inches taller. He was thin—broomstick thin—but the confidence in his posture made the long lines and sharp angles elegant and poised rather than gawky. His billowy white tunic hung unlaced at the top, exposing flawless ebony skin. With hair in shiny black ringlets, high cheekbones, an angular jaw, and an upward tilt of his broad nose, he radiated arrogance.

I combed my fingers through my unkempt dirty-blonde hair and attempted to mimic his smooth tenor, but my voice cracked. "Why not?"

"Because Gold is a Claimed."

"A Claimed?" 

"Gold belongs to my brother, Makash."

"Like a slave?"

"No. Anyone can own a slave. Only the Rakim family and our top advisors can Claim."

"How is Claiming different from enslaving?"

He propped an elbow against his hip and examined his fingernails. "Slaves keep their spirits and identities, but when a person is Claimed, their former self is completely erased. And when the Master tires of them or dies, the Claimed is killed."

His calm words tightened my throat and weakened my stomach. "Why? Why would anyone do that to another person?"

His eyes dropped to the man kneeling behind me, but his gaze remained disinterested. "Revenge. Power. Entertainment. And of course, unlimited sex." He glanced in my direction as he said the last word, an eyebrow raised as if daring me to react.

Despite my best efforts, my cheeks heated. "So your brother prefers men?"

He tilted his head back, long black lashes half-closed over his dark eyes. "I wouldn't say that. He has Claimed more women than men. I'm not even sure he is actually attracted to the men sexually—I think he just enjoys breaking them."

A cold stone swelled in my gut, but morbid curiosity pushed me to find out more. "How many Claimed does your family have?"

"My brother just claimed his sixth. My father has five Claimed, and my mother has almost twenty. Voracious appetites seem to run in the family."

I furrowed my brow. "Your parents have each other. Why would they need a Claimed?"

For a moment, he only stared at me, face unreadable. Then he said coolly, "You have the eyes of a whore."

I blinked at the topic change and the sting of his words. "I have my mother's eyes."

"Is that not what I just said?"

My hands tightened into fists. "Before you say anything else about my family, you should know my father is King Karoo."

I waited for him to apologize, take a step back, and bow his head. Instead, he snorted a laugh.

"I know who you are, Prince Toom of Fooja. I just don't care."

More heat flooded my cheeks, now equal parts embarrassment and anger. "Well, you should care. If I tell my father that Chief Makari's son—"

"Niako."

I clamped my mouth shut and raised my eyebrows.

"My name is Niako, not 'Chief Makari's son,'" said the boy. "Now do continue the threat. It is most amusing."

Pulling my dry tongue from the roof of my mouth, I said, "It's not amusing. Your father may rule Rakim now, but he still obeys mine."

"Your father came because mine asked him to, so who really obeys whom?"

My fingernails dug into my palms. "My father came to meet with the Blessed Pair."

"Oh, really? Who will he meet first—the Blessed Pair, or my father?"

My mouth opened. Snapped shut. Reopened. "My father is the most powerful man in Najila. He obeys only Goddess Rashika."

He yawned and stretched his arms out to his sides. "Your father is only king because of an outdated tradition of heredity and the protection of Najila's Royal Guard. He has no power over the tribes. I give him five years until someone takes his head and his throne."

My heart thumped against my chest, and hot, ugly steam unfurled inside me. "My father should have you killed for saying that."

He shrugged. "He probably should, but he won't. Your father is afraid of mine—just like you are afraid of me."

I swung a glance behind me, where a narrow gravel path interrupted the dense green forest. My guard still chatted with a Rakim guard nearby, close enough to hear a yell.

But I didn't want to yell.

"I'm not afraid of you," I told the boy.

And I swung a fist at his head.

He ducked back, and my fist swept through empty air. I yelled and swung both fists wildly. He caught my wrists, his grip surprisingly tight, and shoved me backward. I stumbled back two steps and dropped down on my rear end.

Realizing I had landed near the kneeling man, I scooted aside. The man remained motionless. Before I could get up, Niako grabbed my wrists again and pressed a knee into my stomach, pinning me.

I bucked and thrashed. "Get off me."

He pushed my wrists above my head, onto the smooth surface of the bottom stair.

"Say please."

"No," I rasped.

He shoved me to the side and twisted one of my arms behind my back. "Say please."

I emitted a garbled sound of discomfort and frustration as I fought to free myself. He twisted my arm further, and fire seared from my fingertips to my shoulder. I chomped on my tongue and blinked back the tears welling up in my eyes.

"Just say please, and I'll stop." His voice was tense.

"No," I bit back. "Go ahead and break my arm—I still won't say it."

He jerked back, releasing me.

I groaned and rolled over to glare up at him, rubbing my shoulder. "I hate you."

His eyebrows drew together, and his hands twitched at his sides. "You're stubborn. I almost hurt you." His eyes darted to my arm, a question playing on his lips. Then he clamped his mouth shut and averted his gaze.

"Don't worry—I won't tell anyone."

He shook his head. "I don't care if you—"

"But I will find a way to get even."

The unease left his eyes, and he smirked. "You can try." 

He gave my shoulder a rough pat and sauntered up the staircase.

When he disappeared beyond the gold-plated double-door entry, movement blurred in my peripheral. My guard, Stro, jogged toward me. A rust-colored beard and mustache covered his face except for a patch of forehead, two bright tawny eyes, and an aquiline nose.

"Your Highness! I lost you for a moment. Shall we return to the Royal Tent?"

Ten minutes later, we reached the Royal Tent. Amidst the Rakim tribe's central plaza with gold pillars and clean white marble, the King's copper posts and velvet burgundy drapes appeared drab and lackluster. I nodded at the two guards outside the entrance and swept the drapes aside.

My father sat in a chair at the table in the back corner of the tent, head bent over a letter. His personal guard, Yuri, stood beside him, palms planted on the table and sleek black hair falling in a sheet across his cheeks.

I marched up to my father with hands fisted at my sides. "Father, why did you bring me to this horrible land?"

He dropped his quill into an ink bottle and ran a hand over his smooth-shaven jaw. "You will be king of Najila someday, Toom, and this 'horrible land' is one of Najila's six tribes. You are old enough to learn the ways of the world and begin taking on responsibility. Are you ready for that?"

Weight pressed down my chest. I cast a wistful glance at the tent flap leading to my bed before forcing my gaze back to my father's face. "What is so important for me to learn about Rakim?"

My father dismissed his guard with a flick of his hand and patted his right knee. "Come sit, Toom."

I considered telling him I was too old to sit on his knee, but with my mother still in Fooja, I missed the comfort of a loving touch. With an exasperated exhale, I obeyed.

He wrapped his right arm around my middle and grabbed my left hand in his, holding it palm-up. "Najila is the hand of Goddess Rashika."

"I know this already, Father."

He chuckled. "Alright, then show me where we are."

I pointed to the crease of skin where my thumb met my palm. "Here. Rakim Lands."

"Right. And Rakim was the first of our six tribes to stake out their land. Do you know why?"

Studying the lines of my palm, I shook my head.

He touched my thumb with one calloused fingertip. "Here is the Fooja Peninsula where our kingdom resides. Why can you not swim in the ocean at this time of the year?"

I recited words I had been told many times. "It's dangerous because the tide is too high."

"Yes, and the storms are unpredictable and powerful. But our peninsula protects Rakim Lands from all the worst storms and breaks the biggest waves. Their fishermen and transport ships can work year-round. And that's not all. Do you remember what we saw on the ride here?"

"A mine."

"Yes, there is a very prosperous gold mine right about here." He pointed to just below where my skin creased.

"But Fooja has mines, too."

"Fooja has copper mines. One gold is worth one hundred copper."

I folded my arms over my chest. "If Rakim is so great, why isn't the Kingdom here?"

"The Kingdom was here, Toom... before your great-grandfather killed the Rakim king."

Despite the warm arm around my waist, a chill washed over me. I swallowed. "Father, does Niako's family wish to reclaim the throne?"

Silence.

My father cleared his throat.

And spoke with stilted cheer.

"Enough history lesson for today. Up you go. My leg has fallen asleep."

* * *

Four days later, Stro took me to see Rakim's famous lagoon.

An expanse of pearly white sand led to crystal-clear waters. Lush green trees and foliage spattered gently rising bluffs, framing the lagoon on either side. On the far end, a stream bubbled through a narrow gap between two bluffs, revealing a slice of the vibrant teal Paksha Sea. 

Stro dropped back to lean against a tree, and I darted toward the water, soft sand cushioning my feet with every step. The sun warmed my skin, and the briny breeze carried the distant squabble of seagulls and crash of waves.

Several boys and girls near my age splashed around waist-deep in the water, yelling to each other in the smooth lisp of Rakim. When I trudged into the water, the splashing stopped, and silence fell over the group.

"Your Highness," one girl said, ducking her head. Then the words rippled out across the other children in indistinct mumbles.

I took a couple steps back and swept out an awkward hand. "You can keep playing."

They averted their gazes and whispered to each other. With a sigh, I ambled off toward the right of the group. The water cooled my sun-warmed chest and shoulders. As I prepared to dive in, a deep voice rumbled from the shore.

"The prince asked you to keep playing."

I whipped around to see a giant of a man. Brief swim trunks revealed his broad chest, bulging biceps, and corded thighs. Harsh lines sculpted his face like stone, with a broad nose, square jaw, and heavy brow. A bald patch stretched across the top of his head, sunlight glinting on the shiny dark skin.

Behind me, weak splashing resumed, although the voices did not. The hulking man waded into the water and stalked toward me. Water rippled around him as his hips submerged. When he stopped five feet from me, water lapped in and out of his belly button. His lips carved upward, although his eyes remained steely.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness." His bass voice vibrated through the water. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Makash—heir to the Rakim Land."

I gaped at him. "You are Makash?" Except for the smooth ebony skin and dark eyes, I saw no resemblance between this chiseled giant and Niako.

He barked a laugh. "Not what you expected?"

"You are very different from your brother."

He splashed water onto his chest and hairy armpits, and the muscles of his chest and arms rippled and gleamed. "So you've met that worthless runt."

I frowned. "He is surprisingly fast and strong."

His eyes narrowed and jaw hardened. "That insufferable hellion. What did he do to you?"

I traced the surface of the water in a slow circle. "I attacked him first."

"And he responded with aggression? I apologize, Your Highness. Niako clearly never learned how to treat a Prince and esteemed guest. Rest assured I will teach him a lesson he will never forget."

I thought of the dead eyes of the Claimed man on the steps, and I wondered what a lesson from Makash would entail. A chill wriggled down my spine.

"That's—that's not—" I sucked in a breath and evened my tone. "I would rather teach him the lesson myself."

He tilted his head, then nodded. "I can appreciate that desire, Your Highness. Perhaps I could offer you a suggestion?"

"Of course," I said, even as I braced myself to hear something appalling.

"He is afraid of the water, yet he sits up on that ledge after lunch every day." Makash pointed to a spot where the bluff jutted out, shadowing the lagoon. "If you can push him into the lagoon, he'll shriek like a little girl, and then he will be too embarrassed to bother you again."

I wrinkled my nose. "Why is he afraid of water?"

Makash rolled his shoulders up to his ears. "Behind all that conceit, he's nothing but a coward."

My unease faded. Makash's suggestion sounded like an easy, harmless way to punch a hole in Niako's aloof superiority. "Thank you. I think I will try it."

He grinned, and this time, his eyes glimmered, too. "No need to thank me, Your Highness. I just want you to enjoy your stay here."

* * *

At first, everything went exactly according to plan.

After lunch, I slipped away from Stro and returned to the lagoon. At the ledge Makash had indicated, Niako slouched in the grass, one arm propping himself up and the other holding a book. His white tunic tugged in the breeze, and one of his legs crossed over the other at the ankle. 

I stopped ten feet back and stared at the thick black curls on the back of his head, holding my breath. If I could get him to his feet, I could push him over the ledge.

I drew in a quick breath and yelled, "Niako!"

He dropped the book, scrambled to his feet, and spun to face me. His lips formed my name. Before he could speak, I barreled into him.

My shoulder shoved his chest, propelling him toward the end of the ledge. His arms swung, fighting to maintain his balance. Rock crumbled beneath his feet, and his eyes widened to perfect circles. 

He dropped out of sight.

A flame of victory sputtered out with a wave of guilt. He had not screamed, but the panic in his eyes had been real. Why was he so afraid of water?

I darted to the edge. Water sprayed as he plunged underwater. The surface smoothed, then rippled, and his dark curls cut through the reflection of the sun. He thrashed, slapping the water. The black curls disappeared and reappeared three times in quick succession.

"Niako," I called down over the ledge, heart thumping fast. "Are you alright?"

I waited for him to laugh, to tell me he had tricked me. Look who ended up getting scared. 

His head submerged with a gurgle.

"Come back up, come back up!" I tugged at the roots of my hair. "Oh Goddess, please let him come back up."

Bubbles rose to the surface.

Seconds passed.

The bubbles stopped.