Perhaps, if he kept telling himself that, it would start to feel true.

They entered what had to be a marketplace, judging from the various stalls and shops lining the roads. But unlike the rest of the streets, there were people here, much to Malik’s surprise. Both relieved and disappointed that they weren’t alone, he approached one, only to pull back with a scream.

What he had assumed to be people were really corpses. Each one was performing an action any living person might do—inspecting petrified fruit, mucking out frozen stalls, holding up smaller corpse children. Their clothes were little more than tatters, the frayed bits of gold thread and faded embroidery the only clue as what the outfits might have looked like eons ago.

In his haste to get away, Malik tripped over his own feet and crashed face-first into the ground. Only then did Karina finally stop, turning back to offer him her hand.

“What is this place?” cried Malik, bile rising in his throat.

“The Kennouans believed that anything they were buried with when they died came to the afterlife with them,” said Karina. “There was no way they could allow their pharaoh, a god among mortals, to go to the afterlife alone. So they sacrificed his slaves so they could join him.” The look in Karina’s eyes betrayed the calmness of her voice; it was a wrath so potent that Malik was grateful he was not its target.

As he reached for her hand, Malik gazed past Karina to an intricate mural lining what looked to be a temple. The mural was several stories tall, and told the history of the Odjubai Desert, from the pre-Kennouan nomadic tribes to the recurring image of the fifty-year comet. However, in the section dedicated to the founding of Ziran, there was something Malik had never seen before.

The Faceless King had always been removed from the images of Ziran’s history, and none of the stories had ever provided details on who the man who had earned and lost Bahia Alahari’s trust had been.

But here in the eerie light of this city-sized tomb, the ancient king’s image was complete with a face that haunted Malik every time he closed his eyes.

Idir.

Malik flinched on instinct, almost summoning the spirit blade in his fear. In every portion of the mural where Bahia Alahari was, Idir stood beside her in his white-haired human form. There was Idir depicted at Bahia’s side in battle. Farther down the mural, two children with silver hair the same color as Karina’s stood between their proud figures. In the next picture, only one child remained.

Several pieces clicked into place in Malik’s mind. The familiarity with which Idir had spoken of the ancient queen during Solstasia Eve. The spirit’s burning wrath and sorrow regarding Ziran as a whole.

It didn’t make any sense, and yet Malik could not deny the reality before him.

Idir was the Faceless King.

Which meant Karina and every Alahari after Bahia was descended from the obosom. The royal family of Ziran were part of the grim folk.

His eyes flew to Karina, who stared openmouthed at the temple.

“That’s it!”

However, she was pointing not at Idir but at the temple’s roof, where rows of bloodred flowers spilled over the side. Karina charged toward the building, either not realizing or not caring about the impact the mural had on her life.

Malik’s head spun. Karina wasn’t human, or she was only part human, or—he didn’t actually know what this made her. But he did know that if he were Karina, he’d want someone to tell him the truth about his ancestry. However, if he did that, he’d have to explain how he knew Idir, and there was no way telling her that story would end well for him.

Besides, if Idir was truly Karina’s ancestor, why did he want her dead?

“Your Highness, wait!” Malik yelled.

“I need to get one of those flowers!”

“But the mural! The Faceless King!”

“Who cares about him? He’s dead, and he has been for a long time!”

They passed a group of petrified children posed to look as if they were playing with a ball. In each of their frozen faces, Malik saw Nadia, and he had to fight back the tears burning his eyes.

“What about all these people?” The Mark was back in his palm now, ready at any moment to become a weapon once more. “Do you not care about them because they’ve been dead for a long time too? Do you not care about the hundreds of people who die crossing the desert each day or those lost to the unrest in Eshra?”

“You don’t understand anything,” Karina hissed, increasing her speed. The glare of the gold off her silver hair gave her an ethereal, almost otherworldly look.

The crushing inferiority Malik had felt when Mwale Omar had nearly struck Boadi filled him once more. He picked up his pace until he was running side by side with the princess. Sea-green scales littered the ground, but he could only focus on her.

“How am I supposed to understand when you won’t explain what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong!”

“Then why are you running away?”

“Because this could have been me!”

Karina stopped short and whirled around to face Malik. Unshed tears brimmed in her eyes. “Everyone remembers Bahia Alahari for founding Ziran. But before that, she lived as a slave in the pharaoh’s household, and avoiding this fate was the original reason she rebelled. I’m probably related to every person down here, and had I been alive at the time, that would be me trapped in the market. Do you know what it’s like to be surrounded by the reminders of those who detest your very existence?”

Malik slowed to a halt across from her, a few feet and a thousand miles between them.

“I do, Your Highness,” he said softly. “I do.”

How might Karina react if he explained how he broke apart every time he had to pretend that the hatred against his people did not bother him? Would she understand? What would he do if she did?

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she lowered her defensive stance. “This is . . . I don’t even know what to say. But you have every right to be scared by it.”

Karina gave a laugh devoid of mirth. “Queens don’t get scared.”

“Everyone gets scared,” he said gently. “I’m scared of a lot of things. Small spaces. Big dogs. Dying . . . dying alone. I know it doesn’t mean a lot coming from me, but I don’t think you’re weak for being scared. I don’t think you could be as strong as you are if you weren’t.”

Karina’s eyes searched Malik’s face, and he was struck by how soft they were. The Mark swirled around his clenched fist, but he couldn’t—no, he didn’t want to summon the spirit blade. The hum inside him grew stronger, the call to magic weaving through his blood.

“Come on,” she said finally. “I can’t leave here without that flower.”

That seemed like a strange thing to want at a time like this, but it didn’t stop Malik from following Karina to the temple. A golden obelisk stared down at them from the building’s roof as they fiddled with the lock to no avail. When it became clear there would be no way in through the front door, Malik and Karina circled the temple only to stand before the mural again.

The mural was formed of thousands of Kennouan glyphs, each one with its own meaning to decipher. On their own, the individual glyphs meant little, yet together they told a story. His mind whirring as it always did when faced with a riddle, Malik took in the picture directly before him. This one was of thirteen masked figures kneeling before a figure holding the sun and moon in his outstretched hands

Malik gently touched the wall. It was cool and comforting to the touch.

Dagger. Cup. Stave. Wand. Tome. Eye.

“We of the Ulraji Tel-Ra swear our allegiance to the god among kings, and to no one else besides,” muttered Malik, knowing in his gut his translation was right. His eyes fell to the glyph that repeated more than any other within the image.

It was his Mark. Every member of the Ulraji Tel-Ra sported the same tattoo as Malik’s, each one dark as midnight.

Suddenly, Malik couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t know who or what the Ulraji Tel-Ra were, but they were clearly related to Kennoua in some way. The Kennouan Empire had been a scourge upon Sonande—the necropolis they were standing in was a testament to that—and it had taken the people centuries to recover from their reign of terror. If he had the same powers the Kennouans did, or his powers came from the same source as theirs, then that would mean . . .

That wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be connected to the pharaoh, because he was an Eshran, and every other person in his family was too . . . weren’t they?

Malik yanked himself away from the wall, and the strange connection he’d felt broke at once. An ill feeling washed over him as he looked over at Karina, praying she hadn’t noticed his panic.

“Adil,” she said suddenly, and Malik’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest. “What were you referring to earlier when you mentioned unrest in Eshra?”