A pair of guards in the gray-and-blue livery of Demenhur gently parted the crowds. Heavy cloaks shrouded outfits made for the ease of running, warmth, and quick mounting. Their belts bore the seal of Demenhur—a sharp-edged snowflake in antique silver—and two sheaths. One for a jambiya, and another for a scimitar.

Pointed snowflakes aside, an ensemble like that would make for one happy Hunter. If only Zafira were as handy with a needle as she was with a bow.

The village za’eem stepped to the stone mimbar, and everyone stood. Zafira gritted her teeth at the sight of his beady eyes. Warm hands closed around hers, and she eased her clenched fists. Deen murmured her name as he pulled her to his side, and only then did she notice that everyone else had stepped back in the silence. Lana crept to Zafira’s other side and grasped her hand.

“We have gathered here today for the promise of unity,” began the za’eem. “Unity brought Arawiya to fruition, and unity will carry us beyond these dark days. Without it, we would still be nomads, roaming the endless sands and evading the sweltering sun, when every waking day tasted of danger.”

“Akhh, the za’eem should write a book,” Deen said, crossing his arms, and Zafira almost smiled at the rare appearance of his irritation.

“The Six Sisters of Old rose from chaos and disruption. They wielded magic from the unimaginable power housed in their hearts. With it, they brought us together, forging caliphates and ruling justly through the council seated in the place we now call Sultan’s Keep. They gifted us their good hearts, imbuing the royal minarets with their magic, amplifying their powers so that magic extended to human-and safinkind. Giving us a greater purpose, in which our natural affinities were allowed to define our lives. A healer could heal, a fireheart could call flame.”

The ache Zafira felt at the mention of magic slipped into her heart, and the letter winked in her thoughts. Her mind flashed to the Arz, and she rubbed at her chest with the back of her knuckles—would she have wielded fire or water? The ability to heal with a touch or see shards of the future?

“During that golden age, which lasted centuries, the Sisters gave each caliphate a strength the others needed to survive, furthering our unity. Demenhur provided Arawiya with herbs and remedies found nowhere else, along with the appreciation of the arts. Sarasin shared coal and minerals. Pelusia fed us every fruit imaginable and provided us with unmatched engineering, advancing us beyond imagination. Our neighbors in Zaram sailed the seas, trained our fighters, and brought back delectables from the depths of saltwater. The esteemed safin of Alderamin recorded our pasts, studying our faults to help us better ourselves, infusing Arawiya with the spirit of creativity to expand our hearts. They forbade the uncontrollable dum sihr, placing limits on magic to protect us further. Arawiya, our great kingdom, flourished.”

The za’eem’s voice rumbled to a stop and Zafira rocked back on her heels. Skies. Calm down.

Murmurs made the rounds, making it clear Zafira wasn’t the only one who yearned for what they had lost and felt pride for what they had accomplished. They had lost more than magic that day. Their lands had become untamable beasts. Walls rose between the caliphates, and now a dark forest was creeping closer with each passing day.

“It was unity that gave us everything. Solidarity and love. So much has been taken from us, dear friends, for when the Sisters disappeared, they took magic with them—the very magic through which they had rooted within every caliphate a reliance so strong. We were left adrift with its disappearance. Our minarets stand in darkness. Arawiya suffers.” The za’eem’s lips twitched into a sad smile.

That was the one part of history Zafira refused to believe. The Six Sisters wouldn’t—couldn’t—rule steady and just for years upon years and then simply disappear, leaving their people and the land to ruin. None of that made sense.

“Despite this, we persevere,” the za’eem continued. “Today’s ceremony will unite not only two hearts, but, in their own small way, two caliphates, as well. Mabrook, young souls. May your hearts remain entwined beyond death.”

Others echoed his congratulations, and with one last nod, the za’eem stepped away with his guards.

“Not bad, for a biased cow,” Zafira said, and Deen murmured his agreement.

But instead of being inspired by the za’eem’s speech, the people settled into the same small talk, as if the man had interrupted to say they would serve mint tea at the end.

They had accepted their fate of endless cold and creeping darkness. They didn’t desire anything more than what they had. What life would remain to maintain if the Arz swallowed them all?

A village elder stepped forward to perform the marriage ceremony, and a hush fell over the guests when the man raised his arms. A baby cooed, and a mother quieted the little one’s happiness.

Yasmine passed the moonstone to Misk, whose eyes never left hers. Deen’s fingers brushed Zafira’s, and she stiffened, but he merely looped his smallest finger with hers, settling the tide rapidly rising in her chest.

The elder continued, droning with slow, stretched words. Yasmine caught Zafira’s gaze across the distance and rolled her eyes. Zafira cut her a glare and smothered a laugh.

“Will marriage change that, you think?” Deen asked.

She canted her head. “What?”

“Her. Her silliness. Her knack for mischief. That unbreakable stubbornness.”