But first, the wedding.

* * *

The sun began its descent as the crowds grew in the jumu’a. The circular, soft gray stone was heated from beneath and surrounded by the market. Rhythmic patterns leaped from its center, reaching tendrils toward the border, telling a story no one could decipher. Jumu’a stones were scattered across the five caliphates, laid by the Sisters themselves.

Baba said water used to sit beneath this stone once, cooling the ground. That was before the sand became snow. A time now foreign to every Demenhune alive, and to nearly all Arawiyans—unless they were immortal safin, with elongated ears and pride to rival a peacock’s. Or more than ninety years old.

Zafira sat cross-legged on a cushion on the ground while the bride lounged regally on a decorated dais. She nudged Yasmine every so often to point out another person they hadn’t seen in months.

Most of the western villagers were here in a colorful array of dazzling gowns and dark-hued thobes, hair tucked beneath wool shawls or tasseled turbans, thin bodies bulked by coats, beads and jangling jewelry. Children darted between adults, laughing and shouting. The surrounding shops had closed for the celebration, grimy windows dark, and though ornate carpets and cushions were spread generously across the expanse, most of the people hovered near the low tables laden with food.

It wasn’t every day the western villages could boast a wedding, so when the occasion arose, everyone partook—lending decor, delicacies, and furnishings. Especially when it was a beauty like Yasmine, beloved by the children she tutored, admired by the women she inspirited, envied by the men who knew of her closeness to the Hunter.

Warmth from the stone crept to Zafira’s cheeks, and she was torn between wanting to blend in with the crowds and wanting to savor every last moment before Yasmine was bound to another.

Her heart stuttered every time the reminder struck.

Steam curled from the roasted venison in the center of each low table, and the smell of rosemary, cinnamon, bay leaves, and garlic reached Zafira’s nose even from her distance. Her mouth watered, despite her dislike for garlic. Surrounding the large platters were smaller ones: oily dolma stuffed with onions and roasted eggplants, rounds of baked kibbeh garnished with mint, the flattest of manakish laden with tangy zataar and olive oil.

It had taken many dinars, helping hands, and days of hunting to gather it all, but the look on Yasmine’s face when she knew it would feed so many starving stomachs had been worth the tiring effort.

“Lana is alone,” Yasmine said, ever watchful from her seat. There was an empty space beside Yasmine for her husband. Husband. That was going to take some getting used to.

A little ways away, Lana sat like a queen in a gown of midnight bedazzled with tiny mirrors, her shawl clutched in nervous fingers. A plate of aish el-saraya, half eaten, was balanced on her lap. Zafira had hoped the wedding would be a distraction for her sister, but it seemed more of a reminder of Lana’s loneliness as a group of girls her age whispered among themselves right in front of her.

As Zafira watched, someone settled beside Lana in a close-fitting thobe, so finely spun it shimmered in the waning light, offsetting his bronze curls. Deen. Only he was as watchful as Yasmine. Only he could coax a smile so true on Lana’s face.

“Not anymore,” Zafira said to Yasmine, trying to make sense of the sudden barge of emotion climbing up her throat. Leave it to Deen to love someone else’s sister as much as his own.

A young man sauntered up to the dais, his embroidered thobe as vain as the smirk on his face. He dragged his gaze down Yasmine’s curves, and Zafira wanted to pluck his eyeballs out.

“Settling for second best because the Hunter kicked you out of his bed?” he asked the bride.

Yasmine only smiled, a picture of elegance with her hands folded in her lap. “Come close. Let me tell you a secret.”

He lifted an eyebrow before latching onto his chance to near the beauty.

“I kicked him out of mine, actually,” Yasmine said, ever pleasant. “He got a little boring, you know? And I’ll happily kick you out of my wedding, if it’s so hard for you to be polite.”

He opened his mouth, but Yasmine wasn’t finished.

“Or, the next time little Bishr comes for classes, I could tell him all about his older brother’s exciting endeavors. Wait until that makes its way to your parents, hmm?”

He jerked back as if she had slapped him and awkwardly hurried away.

Yasmine lifted an eyebrow at Zafira. “And that is how you take care of them. Without getting your hands dirty—I could see you readying to rip his head off.”

“My solutions don’t involve me being insulted, but by all means, please continue,” Zafira drawled.

The Hunter’s secrecy had given the Ra’ad siblings a sort of prominence, for there was no better way to learn about him than through the two people who knew him—her.

There should never have been enough to feed the roughly three hundred people of the western villages, but there always was. Some said it was the Arz that created abundance in the small morsels, that the animals held a little bit of otherness, making their meat seem more. Zafira decided it was Deen’s expert distribution skills, ensuring everyone was fed at least once every few days.

Of course, Demenhur had livestock, but the sheep and cattle were rarely enough. And for the ones better off, nothing was more special than game from the dangerous Arz. Some traveled from around the caliphate for a piece of the Hunter’s prize. They were the ones who disgusted her the most.