They came for him at his darkest hour.

It was that time of the evening when the sun was already set, but the moon still dozed beneath its earthly blanket. In the Orabi Desert, people called it the hour of the Crow, after the god of death. The myths claimed that Onshra walked the very sands of the desert in that short period of time, his power vast and absolute in the uncertain span of darkness between golden and silver light. They said he was out for unfortunate souls, snatching them away to his own realm while the night blinded the eyes of the living and stuffed their ears with eerie silence.

The scenery was quite fitting, Arran thought whilst he was being dragged through long corridors. Adira walked to his left, one arm looped around his waist to support him. As his body withered, his soul was laid bare for the taking, and Death's greedy fingers were closing around it. Despite the lingering warmth inside the palace's walls, he had never been colder. The Amulet further cooled down his skin with its icy metal, the god inside stoic and quiet as ever while he waited for the right moment to claim his doomed master.

Agony tortured his muscles with every pace, like needles stabbing and knives cutting through bone and flesh alike. He trusted Adira not to let him fall. Whatever she had done, he still believed that she loved him enough not to let him crawl his way to Rabyatt. Nevertheless, no matter how much he desired to yield to the pain and lean on her, revulsion coursed through him at her touch. Sometimes, he had to gasp for breath because of the urge to pull away so that Zohra's blood on her skin would not stain him too. Every time he gazed upon her face, it was Zohra's he saw, her brown eyes drinking him in as the life trickled out of her in his arms.

He closed his eyes. Part of him wished he had just died from his first fever in Zohra's living room, so that he wouldn't have had to endure this.

When they had reached the throne room, he was propped up against a mountain of pillows on the ground. To his right, the Shah perched on his throne, a mere shadow of the man Arran had seen the first time he had visited the palace. Jewels still cluttered his form in extravagant quantities, but his white thawb hung loosely around his frail form and his turban sat askew on top of his head, exposing black hair streaked with silver. His dark eyes were unfocused; the Shah hadn't even so much as blinked to acknowledge Arran's presence by his side.

Rabyatt strode into the room through the enormous double doors shortly after. His handsome face was tense, though he smoothed out the crinkles as soon as his gaze fell upon Arran. "Have you changed your mind yet, Arran?"

Arran stared back at him, his lips pressed tight into an uncompromising line.

Rabyatt shrugged. "All right."

And with that, the waiting began.

Four soldiers in neat, simple black uniforms were stationed across the room at each of the stone arches that made up the right wall. They gazed straight ahead, one hand resting on the hilt of their swords. Beyond them, the green hues of another garden had faded to somber gray, although the dulcet tones of occasional birdsong still rode on a faint breeze. The sweet fragrance of exotic flowers mingled with fresh, nightly coolness, the smell of renewal. Nature's peace was so at odds with the iron glint of the swords that pangs of discomfort penetrated the daze of Arran's illness and made him squirm amid the pillows.

He could point out the exact moment when she came in, for the heavy air changed with her presence. Every nerve in his body prickled with anticipation. He wasn't the only who had sensed it; Rabyatt's back was straight and stiff, the thin fabric of his coat stretched around the muscles. Adira's hand paused in a flourish in mid-air, her face turned away. Though fever shook his body, a surge of relief galvanized Arran's heart and drove the clouds from his mind so that he could focus.

Slowly, as though he wanted to build up the tension for himself, Rabyatt dug his heels into the thick carpet that ran across the marble floor and spun around. His eyes glimmered like real rubies in the flickering torchlight. "Even when you attempt subtlety, your presence is simply too grand to go unnoticed, princess."

Inna stepped out into the light. A sigh settled in Arran's chest at the sight of her. As always, she stood tall and proud, her chin jutted up just a little too high to be accidental, her commoner's clothes doing nothing to hide the sheer magnificence of her. More than one soldier turned his head to stare at her, though they snapped at attention at a single look from Rabyatt. The Shah stirred in his throne as her hand brushed one of the armrests.

"Again with the compliments, Your Highness? I thought we were long past that." Her golden eyes squinted like a cat's. They flicked to Arran, absorbed his sagging shoulders, his drooping eyelids, and her mouth twitched in disapproval.

Slick scales grazed his forearm. He stroked a feeble hand along Zazi's writhing form, yet he did not, could not, tear his gaze away from Inna's, afraid that she would disappear if he let her go. He memorized every detail of her face, from her heart-shaped hairline to the full tilt of her lips. With death just a few breaths away, he wanted the last image he saw to be of her.

Call him a lovesick idiot, if you want. He was not bold enough to claim this princess's heart for his own, yet he was content to say that for a while, he had been hers.

And now she had come to save him yet again.

Inna drew herself up. "I believe it's time to come clean, Rabyatt. I'm done playing into your hands."

One corner of Rabyatt's mouth tugged upward. "So you've found the clues I left for you?"

"What do you want from me, Rabyatt?" So far for courtesies. "I know you planned everything, including this meeting," she spat. "You gave me the Sphere of Truths, the real one, not knowing what I'd do with it, but trusting that I'd figure it out. Why?"

He stalked closer, his hands clasped behind his back. An easy politician's smile played on his mouth. "You are a marvel of nature, Serafina. A child of the gods!" He spread his arms as if he was about to embrace her. "The Cult of Idran has informants everywhere, princess. When the High Mage learned about your powers, he took an interest in you. He wants to recruit you to his cause."

"And what cause is that?"

It was the exact same question Arran had asked a few hours earlier, and again the prince refrained from providing a clear answer. Instead, he offered his hand to Inna. "Join us, and I will tell you everything."

Inna barked out a low, hollow laugh. "That's not how it works."

"Then how does it work?"

She pointed a slender finger at her father. As the room's attention shifted to the throne, the Shah gave no indication whatsoever of a mental presence. Arran had seen addicts under the influence of opium with a greater sense of reality.

"I want to know what you did to our Shah," she growled. "Look at him. This ghost of a person hardly represents the father I know."

"Ah, yes, that's a pitiful side effect of the magic I used on him," Rabyatt replied, dropping his hand. A flash of regret crossed his face. "His mind cannot bear the constant external pressure."

"Then restore it. Now."

He sighed. "I'm afraid it's not that simple, princess." He beckoned to his soldiers. Two of them came forward, carrying a heavy trunk between them. Though the fog of his fever was seeping back in through the cracks in his mind, he swore he recognized the cumbersome thing. When the soldiers opened the lid and handed Rabyatt a glass sphere, he knew where he had last seen it.

Inna's nostrils flared. "What is that thing?"

"One of my creations," Rabyatt said. His gaze was fond when he looked down at the sphere, like one would with a newborn baby. "You see, my magic allows me to manipulate spiritual energy of any kind. That includes souls, like Ezahar's soul in your pocket, but also auras and the magic intertwined with them. The magic inside this sphere"—his finger tapped the glass to call attention to the colorful tendrils of mist on the other side of it—"belonged to a mind warper who used his gift to bend and destroy the minds of his enemies. He had already been sentenced to death when I found him. Both an iron collar and chains were needed to suppress his magic." An amused smirk broke through the composed expression on his face.

Frowning, Inna crossed her arms.

"Since the man no longer had any need for his magic," Rabyatt continued, undisturbed, "I stole it from him and put it in this sphere. The sphere channels it to other people at my command. The moment your father first looked at it, the magic lashed out and shattered his mental defenses so that it could take hold. It became easy to make him do my bidding after that."

Inna's flustered face contorted with rage and she bunched her hands into fists. She started toward the edge of the dais. Before she could fling herself at him, however, Arran cried out to her. She froze midway, her upper body twisted to look at him. He was almost sorry for interrupting her, what with Rabyatt more than deserving a good punch to his perfect nose.

He pushed himself up, or attempted to, at least. Adira, who had been silent thus far, grabbed his elbow when he faltered.

"Don't exert yourself," she implored him, but he waved her off.

"I can't help wondering," he slurred, annoyed at the difficulty with which his tongue formed the words, "why you haven't used your magic on the Amulet yet." Rabyatt raised a questioning brow, and Arran rolled his eyes. "You transferred Ezahar to a new vessel after three centuries, so why shouldn't you be able to do the same with Onshra's soul?"

"The haala bond prevents me from doing so." Rabyatt paused, scrunching his brow. "That's not entirely true. In fact, I can overrule the haala, but it would rip you apart. Your magic and the Amulet's are connected, almost like they're one of the same, hence so long as you wear it, I'd have to carve into your aura to draw it out."

Arran swallowed. "What would happen to me if you did?"

"You'd end up like him," Rabyatt said. He gestured at the Shah. "Although it certainly would have been easier that way, I promised Adira that I wouldn't harm you. I always keep my promises. Besides, your particular talents are useful, as you so well demonstrated at Onshra's temple."

Arran's eyelids dropped of their own accord, weary, and he had to pry them open with his fingers to stay awake. How humiliating. Inna shifted into his line of vision, her face remarkably clear in a blurred environment.

With an indulgent smile plastered onto his features, Rabyatt offered the glass sphere to the Shah, who snatched it into his arms and curled his body around it like a child protecting his favorite toy. Inna watched him like she would a stranger, her expression devastated.

Unbothered by the spectacle, Rabyatt crossed the distance between himself and the stack of pillows where Arran was seated. He squatted down and rested his elbows on his thighs. "Give me the Amulet, Arran. With full control over Onshra's powers, I can force him to cure you."

Arran shook his head. "So you want to control the gods. Is that what the Cult is after?"

The prince pursed his lips, the first sign of his impatience. "I know you think you can free Onshra and ask him to cure you, but I'll tell you a secret: the gods don't give a single damn about any of us. He won't do it."

"You're wrong." But he heard the doubt in his own voice.

"Oh, really?" Rabyatt scoffed. "The djinn's wishes have a price, don't they? What did he ask of you, Arran? No coin, I'm sure."

Arran lowered his gaze. A memory. A day of his life, which had caused the curse to claim him even faster. Those had been the prices for Onshra's unwillingly given power.

Rabyatt leaned in until his nose nearly touched Arran's. "You're dying. I can feel it in your aura. You have mere minutes left. I can save you, Arran."

Arran's fingers trembled. If it hadn't been for his newfound talent to withstand extreme temperatures, the Amulet would have burned a hole through his chest. His mind reeled, his heart caught in a terrible dilemma. It was so tempting to give in to Rabyatt, to hand him the Amulet. He didn't trust the prince's word to heal him, but he did believe that Adira would see to his recovery, even if she had to seize control over Rabyatt's mind to do so. The curse would be taken away, and Arran would be able to turn his back to the Cult forever to return to his former life of thievery and relative simplicity.

That was what the old Arran would have done.

He ducked his chin to stare at the Amulet's triangular form under his shirt. Who was he kidding? His former life was a lie. Whatever happened after tonight, things would never go back to the way they had been before. His gaze fixed on Inna, her hair a dark cloud of midnight waves around her face. There was one woman who had not betrayed him one way or another, a friend who had helped him survive this long. Just like a sly fortune teller he had once known. He could not fail her too, not in the way he had failed Zohra.

He brought his lips to the shell of Rabyatt's ear. To his surprise, goosebumps appeared on the other man's neck. A sneer stole over Arran's face. "Just admit you're still hoping for that threesome, Your Highness." He darted a pointed glance at Inna. "But I'm afraid you won't get it. Ever."

Rabyatt cracked a wry smile. All warmth had drained from his eyes, leaving only the calculating sorcerer in its wake. "It pleases me to notice that your sense of humor perseveres, even balancing on the edge of death." With a theatrical sweep of his coat, he stood up and retreated to the center of the room.

Arran's energy flagged, spent on his smart mouth. Head lolling, he slumped against the pillows, but cool fingers gripped the back of his neck. Inna crouched down before him, her lips curled into a wan smile. Arran traced it with his fingers.

"How are you?" she asked softly.

He snorted. "Not good."

She winced almost imperceptibly. Then, a pleasant warmth flooded his veins, accompanied by a foreign power that felt familiar all the same. He'd recognize this entity everywhere and everytime, even with one foot already over the edge of the steep cliff that would take him to his death. Ira ha suntsuk. A sob tore through him, and she rested her forehead against his.

"I'll keep you alive, Arran, even if it requires every last drop of my power," she whispered. "I won't leave you." She tugged at the silver necklace and the Amulet popped free from beneath the collar of his shirt. "Release him."

"But what if I do, Inna? He's the god of death. He might murder everyone in this room to avenge his long captivity." He bit his lip. "Rabyatt was right about one thing. This creature doesn't owe me his loyalty."

"Then you should have handed over the Amulet, you fool," Adira muttered.

Inna's eyes hardened as she met Adira's gaze. "I think you've done enough damage for one day," she snarled, her voice a sharpened dagger whose stabs struck true with each word. "And in Arran's case, for a lifetime."

Adira flinched, a pink blossom coloring her cheeks.

Inna's lips grazed his own, not so much a kiss than the promise of a future with plenty of them in it. Her hand disappeared into his dark curls to cradle his head. "Free. Him," she said. As the moon cast its first silver beam through the arches in the right wall, her skin gained an ethereal glow. "To hell with the consequences."

Dusting off her pants, she straightened up. Arran clutched the Amulet in his hand, though hesitant. For Inna's sake, he sported a brief smile, and her features softened in return while she backed away to join Rabyatt. Her steps were slow and measured, as if she was waiting for something to happen before she reached him.

The seconds ticked away in time with Arran's heartbeat. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

Outside, the moon finally shed its cloak of darkness and silver light burst free onto the earth. The hour of the Crow had passed, and still he lived.

A muffled thump resonated outside the throne room, followed by several quiet plops like droplets of rain hitting a puddle. The soldiers groped at their sword hilts, heads angling toward the source of the sound. Rabyatt turned to Inna and lifted a brow. Ignoring him, she stared at the huge doors, the tendons in her neck pulled taut. The Shah emitted a soft whimper, but otherwise remained still.

Then the air ripped in two.

Arran's mouth dropped open. It looked as though someone had grabbed a massive pair of scissors and cut into the fabric of reality, parting it like a curtain to reveal another world beyond this one. About thirty people, many of them women in bright-colored dresses, waited on the other side of the crack. One by one, they passed through into the throne room. Some curtsied at Inna when they noticed her, and the princess inclined her head to greet them. The last one to step through was a tall, elegant woman with black hair that almost reached as far down as her knees. With a casual flick of her wrist, she closed the portal.

Even Rabyatt no longer managed to school his features.

Next to Arran, Adira craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the black-haired sorceress. "The Shah's harem is full of surprises indeed," she breathed.

These were the Shah's wives and children? The Amulet had slipped from Arran's grasp, his fingers too weak to hold onto it. He knew the royal family valued sorcery in its lineage—everyone knew that—but he'd had no idea that the consorts had actually been selected based on their magical talents. Yet, the auras in this room spanned the entire spectrum of possible colors, each of them bright and pulsating. Nearly all of them possessed magic in one form or another.

It dazzled him. A headache pulsed behind his half-closed eyelids.

Inna bared her teeth into a wolfish grin. "Well, Rabyatt, since only the Shah and his family members are allowed into the harem, I don't think you've been properly introduced to my family yet." His lips parted with an answer, but she silenced him with a flourish of her hand. "We all agree that you've long overstayed your welcome in this city. Now, I'm going to give you a choice," she stated. "You and your vile cult can either leave Primsharah tonight, in which case I'll have my people on the streets retreat and clear a path for you to the nearest city gate. Or your army and mine fight this out now."

While she spoke, the doors opened and more people spilled inside. A few still wore white aprons over their uniforms and held large, sharp-looking knives or rolling pins; anything that could even remotely serve as a weapon, really. Other staff members rolled up their sleeves, their auras sizzling with magic. The palace guard had joined forces with them; they dragged several cultists in black cloaks between them, their hoods pushed back to expose their faces.

The captain of the guard bowed to Inna. "My apologies for the delay, Your Highness," he said. "There was a struggle on the way here."

The hair on the back of Arran's neck prickled. He remembered how this same man had tried to stop the princess and him from fleeing the palace after their arrest. Woven between his polite words, there was another, more deeply hidden apology.

Inna acknowledged him with a nod. "You have done a good job so far, Captain." She turned her head to address Rabyatt once more. "Well?" she asked. "What will it be?"

Not a muscle twitched in the prince's face, but his gaze flitted to Adira. Ignoring the painful stinging in his head, Arran glanced aside at his sister. Her eyes were closed, a slight crease between her brow. Too late, he realized what that meant.

"No!" Throwing all pretense of grace overboard, he slumped against her to knock her down, breaking her concentration. Zazi charged forward and bared her fangs at a startled, wide-eyed Adira, but it was no use.

Outside, the blaring notes of a horn cut through the night. A dot of light illuminated the sky, then another, until the lit patches pushed out the darkness altogether and set the heavens ablaze. Everyone in the throne room froze.

Then Inna's fist shot out and grabbed the collar of Rabyatt's coat to shove him against one of the pillars, lifting him several inches off the floor. Her hands shook, but her grip didn't falter. "What have you done?" she hissed.

There was no triumph on his face, no visible sign of gloating. In fact, he seemed almost displeased. "I didn't want it to come to this, Serafina. I really hoped it would have been different this time."

She released him so fast he fell to his hands and knees. She swayed on her feet, her steps stumbling as she backed away. "My people ..." she whispered. "You set my city on fire."

On his throne, the Shah began to weep.