It was only one week ago that Omar izr Fadzeik had sworn that he would be the one to kill the Salar of Rasharwi. He'd had no hard feelings, no problem with Salar Muradi for all the years he'd spent living in the city, perhaps even liked him as a ruler at some point. But Omar had also been an orphan left in a dark alley in the pleasure district, and the man who had saved him, raised him, and made him who he was had just been named a traitor and could be executed by the salar before the month was over.

He checked his bow and arrow again, up on the roof where he had been waiting, taking care not to touch the Zyren on the arrowhead. There were six arrows in his quiver, only three had been dipped in the poison. Zyren was expensive and any first-class assassin of Deo di Amarra was expected to hit the target, moving or not, with less than three. Omar had earned his gold ring at twenty-three, had become the head of Deo di Amarra's assassin six years later. It meant that if he shot at something, that something would die.

But you couldn't shoot to kill with one shot when the target was on a horse with the front of his torso automatically protected. Not in motion and not at that range unless you were good enough to get his throat or his head—a possibility, yes, but in the line of their business and for the reputation of Deo di Amarra's house of assassins, a mere possibility wasn't something they acted upon. The goal, that day, was to shoot to penetrate the skin and in doing so allow Zyren to work its magic. That much would have already been a challenge, given how many men would be surrounding the salar when he rode. One missed shot and they would be able to locate him on the roof and the opportunity would be gone. Salar Muradi, one had to remember, was also trained and advised by Deo di Amarra himself. The men he surrounded himself with were expected to— and could—kill with less than three arrows.

Omar had prayed that morning before he left his room, that the other three assassins would miss, and that he wouldn't. He would show his master what he could do, that he was still the best apprentice, the most reliable, not the Silver Sparrow.

The boy had been a pebble in his shoe the moment he'd arrived at di Amarra's residence. For almost three decades, Omar had been Deo di Amarra's closest apprentice. It had, however, taken him a decade to get from brass to silver to the golden ring he had now, years to be included in the master's inner circle and important meetings, and years to be relocated to Deo's personal quarter. The boy had moved into a room next to the master on the first day he arrived, had received his golden ring in just two years, and had become the only one Deo di Amarra had taken with him to the Tower. He was, Omar thought with a bitterness akin to the taste of poison they were made to drink daily, also the only one who had been allowed to call their master as Dee.

And now, that same boy was the one who'd gotten his master into prison and made him a traitor. That fact, most of all, made Omar swear, many times, that he would also be the one to kill the Silver Sparrow of Azalea one day.

For now, he had to kill the salar. Omar tightened the grip on his bow, looking back toward the Tower for a signal from the other assassins who would alert each other the moment they saw him ride out.

***

Every year in Rasharwi, on the longest day of the year, a large-scale sacrifice would be performed in front of Sangi temple to honor the sun god. Depending on the year's economy, three to five hundred animals would be slaughtered at the temple square, each offered by the citizens of Rasharwi and taken one by one to the altar to have its throat cut. The blood would be directed by a small man-made ravine to a large pool adjacent to the temple where citizens could come to drink and paint their faces, believing it would bring good fortune and grant protection against evil spirits. The meat from the sacrifice was then portioned and distributed to all the temples to be cooked and shared during a feast on the following night. Drisuli, the week-long religious event, also known as the Celebration of Blood by those who shunned the centuries-old practice, was just two weeks away from now.

Zahara wondered then, watching the crowd cheer and roar as they gathered to watch her being tied to the same beam where they slaughtered the animals, whether they were going to cut her throat and drink her blood or burn her that day, or both. She was, in earnest, hoping for the first if Ravi would be merciful. It would give her a quick death, if nothing more.

The black-marbled floor at her feet, however, had been equally stained with blood and burn marks. She remembered then that they also burned people here when someone committed a grave crime against Rashar. She'd witnessed both during her time in Rasharwi though not often, truly. Muradi, even with his decision to not ban these practices at the time, had always expressed an aversion to these things and made a point at not attending them unless it was necessary. He hated excess of any kind. It was why he utilized the balcony when he wanted someone dead. 'It's quick, efficient, certain, leaves no mess to clean up and requires no labor to deliver the body down the Tower,' he had explained to his sons once after throwing a corrupted official off to demonstrate his point. She found herself agreeing with him sometimes, especially when she also wanted to demonstrate her point with him as the subject. She wished, though, having had that thought just now, that the citizens of Rasharwi would possess some efficiency of their salar.

They didn't, unfortunately. The people had opted to burn her. The burning, however, hadn't been prepared on that day, which was why she had time to develop these thoughts while they were busy gathering firewoods and hay for the pyre to burn her with.

Somewhere in the middle of it, the priests of Sangi came out to the sound of the commotion. Some of them tired to stop the crowd, fearing the wrath of the salar. Others kept their mouths shut in the escalating hostility of the mob. Soon, all of them retreated back into the temple. She hadn't seen Yakim the High Priest once that day. She wondered where he was.

Up there on the altar, a strange sense of calm settled upon her. She didn't understand why it did, or how she was still able to think and see everything that happened so clearly. She did pray, however, to Ravi and the Marakai the Sky Father, that her people would be looked after, that the White Desert would win the war, that Lasura would not betray his own land. It didn't matter if she were to die here. Her death, in truth, had been long overdue for eighteen years, to be precise. She had been ready then, had wished every day that it would be granted, and she was ready now.

The pyre was nearly finished. It was done in a hurry, but with enough hands to create something large enough to burn for a long time. Long enough for there to be nothing left of her in the end. She wished then, that her ash would somehow find its way back to the desert, to the valley of Vilarhiti, bringing her home.

***

'Promise me one thing. Swear on your life and the oath you've given me when I spared it,' the salar had said, holding Ghaul by the collar, pulling him close enough so no one could hear. 'If something happens to me, you save her and take her out of the city. You keep her safe. You protect her with your life. Do you understand?'

And Ghaul had sworn, despite everything, despite knowing what it would do to him if it ever came to that. By then he'd hated the woman with a passion that could make him do the unforgivable, the unthinkable. But this was the will of a man whose life he had laid at his feet so long ago, and she was, no matter how much the salar wanted to deny it, the only woman he had ever loved.

He had known it from the first day in that tent, from the way he'd looked at her, from all the time thereafter when his eyes lit up the moment they saw her in the crowd. Ghaul also knew, from his time spent in the dungeons of Sabha with the prince, that once he'd set his mind to do something, you couldn't stop him if the whole world came crashing down on his path. That day, his only two options were to give him those promises or be on the other side of the line that separated his friends from foes, and Ghaul would die before he saw himself among the latter.

You could see it even then, as he rode out of the Tower that morning at killing speed, how he never looked back or around for where the assassins might have been, not once. Salar Muradi looked forward, here, at any battle, in the Vilarhiti even as arrows after deadly arrows from Shakshi archers rained down on him. The men who had survived that battle would swear to this day, in the tales told over drinks at bars or amongst friends, that the prince hadn't blinked once when an arrow made it through the surrounding guards and took him in the arm. That he had kept on riding into the swarm of White Warriors in the thousands, an arrow shaft still sticking out of his limb, to cut down everyone who came within ten paces of his path to victory.

'They are men, not beasts,' the prince had shouted before the battle, standing over a runaway soldier of their own he'd just split the head in two with an axe, 'and if they happen to be beasts you will die cutting them down or you will deal with me. Take your pick, why don't you,' he'd added, hefting the axe from the dead man's scalp, slamming it down again to hack the head off the corpse, 'my axe or their swords?'

There had been no more runaways after that, and the men, seeing, following him in that battle, had all discovered something they never knew they had. The guards surrounding him now had mostly been survivors of the massacre with just a few younger ones thrown in. Imran had handpicked them himself as the salar's personal bodyguards. Soldiers who had fought at Vilarhiti alongside him usually stayed loyal for life, or they feared him enough to fight and die by any sword as long as it wasn't the salar's.

And he had trusted them then, just as he was trusting them now with his life, riding and looking only forward in the direction of Sangi. The salar, even as a prince, had always been a soldier first and foremost. He knew trust was important in combat even when he didn't trust anyone at court. It instilled a sense of pride and purpose in the men, made them want to follow you to their deaths. He could do that, had been born with such qualities, had gained himself a following even as a prisoner of Sabha when he was just a boy. These men would die for him, Ghaul knew, watching their faces that day. Every one of them would take an arrow for the salar. That gave him some peace he needed.

The first arrow came before they crossed the Madira, shot down from the roof of a two-story house. It hit one of the younger guards, took him off his horse in an instant. Imran yelled a command and another man moved up to take his place. Before he could reach the gap, another arrow, shot right after the first, took out the guard behind the fallen, creating an opening on the left flank large enough to take aim at the salar. Ghaul whipped his head around to find the source of the attack, spotted the assassin running alongside the procession on the roof already nocking another arrow. He calculated the distance, reached for the axe on his back, and before he threw it, an arrow took the man in the chest and killed him.

The archer behind Imran who'd made the shot gave him a nod before falling back into rank. Imran congratulated the man, kept on riding behind the salar who didn't stop, hadn't slowed down even once during the attack.

One down, Ghaul thought, releasing the grip on the axe, and kept his eyes on the roof. He didn't know how many there would be, but knowing Deo di Amarra, there should be at least three or four if he had to guess.

Imran appeared to know that too, judging from how rigid he was as he snapped more commands.

The second assassin appeared just before they crossed the bridge. This time targeting the right flank. Two arrows, fired simultaneously from the front, flew in precision to hit two guards in the chests, creating an opening long enough to also bring down another one in swift successions. Ghaul who had been on the right side of the salar kicked his horse into position to fill the gap, shielding him as they continued to ride. The second assassin, much faster than the one before, sped up ahead of them, hopping from one roof to the next, keeping out of range of Imran's archers.  Upon reaching the higher roof, the assassin turned and locked his bow on the salar.

The arrow would clear the guards from that height.

He broke into a gallop to get ahead, hand already on the handle of his axe, didn't make it there in time to stop the arrow from being fired. It went over him, heading directly to the salar, who, facing the shaft head-on, reached over his shoulder, cleared the blade in a blur to strike at the arrow in midair, cutting it in half before it reached him. The assassin went down at the same moment by an arrow to the throat, released by another of Imran's men.

Ghaul exhaled in relief and found himself praying in gratitude. He'd forgotten sometimes, that with or without the guards, Salar Muradi of Rasharwi was still one of the toughest men to kill. He had, after all, survived worse and too many times to count.

"I want four men with shields in front of the salar," yelled Imran, coming up from behind to ride alongside Ghaul. "We're about to cross the Madira," he said, privately, "stay close to him. The roofs are high. The streets narrower."

Ghaul nodded. He had been anticipating that, of course. The other side of the Madira was the poorer districts, the buildings had been built in several stories to save space and in blocks of many inter-connected structures, making the roof both higher, easier to make a run ahead. The narrower streets also allowed them to shoot from a higher angle, creating a path that would clear the heads of the guards surrounding the salar.

The third assassin was on the other side of the canal, waiting for them shortly after they'd crossed the bridge. Imran saw this one coming from afar, grabbed a bow from another guard before he broke off to gallop ahead and shoot the man down before he could even nock an arrow.

Three down, Ghaul thought. How many more? They were close now, to the square where the bharavi was supposed to be. Once they had her, the salar could take cover at Sangi and be fully protected. A few more blocks, and his worst nightmare should be over.

The problem, Ghaul realized at the same time he heard Imran swear profusely behind him, was how to get past this crowd.

They'd run into the back of the mob. The streets were packed to the last inch with civilians trying to push their way into the square. The thousand men they had could clear them, but it would take time—time the salar would no longer be a moving target for the remaining assassins to shoot at. With the mob alone, a hundred things could already go wrong. But now this...

"Is there a different way to the temple?" He turned to ask Imran whose face showed worse concern than he would have liked to see.

"They're all blocked," he said, shaking his head. "This is the shortest way."

He looked at the salar then, and knew as soon as he saw that face, that something had to be done quickly before he took things into his own hands.

"Go on, clear the way," he told Imran. "Leave me a hundred men. I'll stay with him."

Imran was getting his men into position when someone in the crowd yelled something to the others, pointing at a spot between the buildings.

Up ahead, reaching high into the sky, a band of smoke was rising.

***