She slid from Sukkar’s back with a heavy exhale.

Deen followed close behind on his own horse, Lemun. It had seemed like a peace offering at first, inviting him to spend the rest of the night in her house instead of at his friend’s. But now, with him here, all she could do was worry. She had started more than one conversation on the short ride home, but each exchange had dwindled to an uneasy silence with no more than a few words from him.

Meager light illuminated the sloshy alley between her house and that of the Ra’ads, which led to their rickety stable. Zafira trailed her gloved fingers across the crack in her kitchen window, where a trio of potted herbs sat wilted and browned, despite Lana’s fervent efforts. Like Demenhur, the caliphate that once grew Arawiya’s cures.

It could grow them again. She released a breath and disappeared into the stable. Inside, Deen lit two lanterns and settled Lemun beside Sukkar. Zafira brushed a hand down her horse’s neck, and Sukkar nudged her with a small, concerned snort.

A warning she didn’t heed.

She thought she saw a flicker of movement to her left, and she instinctively checked to make sure her hood shrouded her face. Discomfort thickened her blood, slowed her mind.

A flash of silver stirred dread into her stomach.

“Peace unto you, Huntress.”

Deen drew a sharp breath in the sudden stillness. She knew that voice and the lilt of that word. Huntress. She turned.

The stable doors hadn’t opened to let anyone in, but why use doors when one could materialize as one wished? Something dark hummed against Zafira’s skin, and Deen grabbed her hand. Sukkar and Lemun scrambled back against the wall, snorting in panic.

The woman’s cloak shimmered like liquid metal, and only now, free from the fluttering curtain of snow, did Zafira realize her youth.

Skies. She wasn’t an illusion. She really had stood before the Arz and murmured those cryptic words. She really had placed the letter in Zafira’s satchel.

Why is she here? Zafira lifted her chin. She was not going to cower.

Sukkar and Lemun continued to struggle in fear. Deen tried to soothe them with a distracted hand, but his apprehension only made their protests increase. The woman flicked her wrist, and the very air wavered before the horses quieted.

No.

They stopped breathing altogether.

Deen’s eyes were wide. Zafira barely restrained herself from stepping back.

Magic. Magic that shouldn’t exist. There was no other explanation for how the woman had frozen the horses solid. For how she had appeared—and disappeared—out of thin air.

The rotting walls of the stable suddenly felt like a steel cage.

The woman laughed without mirth, piercing Zafira with startling dark eyes. Ancient eyes, she realized with a start. Her youthful face was a ploy. What devilry was this woman capable of?

“Oh, they will live. But for the sake of my hearing, they will remain this way until I take my leave.” Her eyes snared on the black mold staining the wood, nose wrinkling at the stench of decay. “Which will be soon, I hope. You wanted to see me, didn’t you?”

Zafira wasn’t going to react to the fact that the woman had somehow heard her unvoiced question. She wasn’t going to wonder why, out of all moments, she had chosen the moment when Deen was with her to visit. If she did, she would go mad.

“Who are you?”

The woman’s crimson lips twisted into a one-sided smile. “The Silver Witch. Fitting, laa?”

More like unimaginative. What happens when you change your cloak? Zafira thought, surprising herself. It seemed a part of her still hadn’t registered the seriousness of her situation.

“And are you friend or foe?” Zafira asked, and Deen murmured something.

The woman’s smile widened. “Someone like you.”

Zafira looked at Sukkar. The silk of a shadow whispered against her skin, reminding her of the Arz, teasing fear into her heart. The lanterns flickered.

“I am nothing like you,” she said darkly. Malevolence spilled from the woman like morning mist.

The witch hummed but didn’t object. “It won’t be long before the Arz descends upon your people.”

This, Zafira knew. She woke with the knowledge, she slept with the knowledge. She breathed in dread with every waking day. But she didn’t like the way the woman said “your people.”

“They are not slaves; they do not belong to me.”

The woman—witch, skies—looked smug. “Oh, but you slave over them. You hunt for them, feed them, worry for them. When you unfolded my letter, your very first thought was of them. Your kingdom may have a king, Huntress, but you are very much its concerned queen.”

“The letter,” Zafira said through clenched teeth, and Deen had to pull her back. “Tell me about the letter.”

The Silver Witch stepped closer with a curious look. “You do not fear me.”

You terrify me. Zafira released a quivering breath, hearing Baba’s voice. Fear breeds death. Confidence breeds freedom.

“The way I see it,” she said, “you wouldn’t have invited me if you didn’t need me. So I have nothing to fear, do I?”

The Silver Witch laughed. “You think yourself irreplaceable? There’s many a hunter in Arawiya, girl. I invited you only because you topped my list. Indeed, you have a good deal to fear.”

There’s no other hunter who can do as I can. But Zafira wasn’t about to test that theory. “Why not go to Sharr and retrieve it yourself?”