face and arms, remnants of the attack.
Dara swallowed against the worry rising in his chest. He’d made it clear to his men that he would not aid them in capturing the Geziris. He considered it a rare opportunity for them to test their training. But fighting zulfiqaris wasn’t the same as fighting regular soldiers.
And yet … they needed to learn. They would face zulfiqaris one day, Creator willing. They’d fight Daevabad’s fiercest, in a battle that would need to be decisively won.
The thought sent more smoldering heat into Dara’s hands. He fought it back with a tremble, this new, raw power he’d yet to entirely master. It simmered beneath his skin, the fire aching to escape. He struggled with it more when he was emotional … and the prospect of the young Daevas he’d mentored for years being cut down by the blade of a sand fly certainly made him so.
You’ve spent a lifetime training warriors. You know they need this. Dara pushed aside his misgivings.
He let out a low hoot, the approximation of an owl. One of the djinn glanced up but only briefly. His men fanned out, their dark eyes darting back to him as they moved. Dara watched as his archers nocked their arrows.
He clicked his tongue, his final signal.
The archers’ pitch-soaked arrows burst into conjured flames. The djinn had less than a second to spot them before they shot past, striking the tarp. In the blink of an eye, the entire thing was blazing. The larger Geziri—an older man with a thick salt-and-pepper beard—whirled around to grab the zulfiqars.
Mardoniye was already there. He kicked away the blades and then threw himself on the Geziri. They rolled into the snow, scrabbling at each other.
“Abu Sayf!” The younger scout lunged for his companion—an unwise move that left his back exposed when the rest of Dara’s men emerged. They threw a weighted net over his head, dragging him back and ensnaring his arms. In seconds, his khanjar had been ripped away and iron cuffs—meant to dampen his magic—clasped around his wrists.
Mardoniye was still struggling. The Geziri man—Abu Sayf—struck him hard across the face and then lunged to grab a zulfiqar. It burst into flames. He whirled back on Mardoniye.
Dara’s bow was off his shoulder, an arrow nocked before he even realized what he was doing. Let him fight! the Afshin in him demanded. He could all but hear his father’s voice, his uncles’ voices, his own. There was no room for mercy in the heat of the battle.
But by the Creator, he did not have it in him to watch another Daeva die. Dara drew back his bow, his index finger on the twitching feather fletch, the string a whispered brush against his cheek.
Mardoniye threw himself at the Geziri’s knees with a howl, knocking him into the snow. Another of Dara’s archers ran forward, swinging his bow like a club at the Geziri man’s hand. Abu Sayf dropped the zulfiqar, and the flames were gone before it hit the ground. The archer struck the djinn hard across the face, and he collapsed.
It was over.
The scouts were secured by the time Dara stomped out their campfire. He quickly checked the unconscious one for a pulse. “He’s alive,” he confirmed, silently relieved. He nodded at the small camp. “Check their supplies. Burn any documents you find.”
The conscious djinn was indignant, straining against his binds. “I don’t know what you fire worshippers think you’re doing, but we’re Royal Guard. This is treason! When my garrison commander learns you interfered with our mission, he’ll have you executed!”
Mardoniye kicked at a large sack, and it let out a jingle. “All the coins they’ve been stealing from our people, I suspect.”
“Taxes,” the Geziri cut in savagely. “I know you’re all half feral out here, but surely you have some basic concept of governance.”
Mardoniye scoffed. “Our people were ruling empires while yours were scavenging through human trash, sand fly.”
“That’s enough.” Dara glanced at Mardoniye. “Leave the coins. Leave everything but their weapons and retreat. Take them at least twenty paces away.”
The Geziri soldier struggled, trying to twist free as they hauled him to his feet. Dara began unwrapping his headcloth, not wanting it to burn when he shifted. It briefly caught on the slave ring he was still too nervous to remove.
“You’re going to hang for this!” the djinn repeated. “You filthy, sister-fucking, fire-worshipping—”
Dara’s hand shot out as Mardoniye’s eyes flashed again. He knew all too well how quickly tensions built between their peoples. He grabbed the djinn by the throat. “It is a long walk back to our camp,” he said flatly. “If you can’t be polite, I am going to remove your ability to speak.”
The djinn’s eyes traveled over Dara’s now uncovered face, landing on his left cheekbone. That was all it took for the color to leach from his skin.
“No,” he whispered. “You’re dead. You’re dead!”
“I was,” Dara agreed coldly. “Now I’m not.” He could not keep the edge of bitterness out of his voice. Annoyed, he shoved the Geziri back at his men. “Your camp is about to be attacked by a rukh. Best step away.”
The djinn let out a gasp, looking up at the sky. “We’re about to be what?”
Dara had already turned his back. He waited until the sounds of his men faded away. The distance wasn’t only for their protection.
Dara didn’t like anyone to see him when he shifted.
He pulled off his coat, setting it aside. Heat rose in hazy waves from his tattooed arms, the snow melting in the air around him before the flakes came close to brushing his skin. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he steeled himself. He hated this part.
Fire burst from his skin, flushed light sweeping down his limbs, washing away the normal brown. His entire body shook violently, and he fell to his knees, his limbs seizing. It had taken him two years to learn how to shift between his original form—that of a typical man of his tribe, albeit an emerald-eyed one—and that of a true daeva, as Manizheh insisted on calling him, the form their people had taken before Suleiman changed them. The form the ifrit still held.
Dara’s vision sharpened, the taste of blood filling his mouth as his teeth lengthened into fangs. He always forgot to prepare for that part.
His clawed hands clenched at the icy ground as his raw jittery power settled completely. It only ever happened in this form, a peace he obtained by becoming something he hated. He exhaled, burning embers leaving his mouth, and then he straightened back up.
He raised his hands, smoke swirling up from around them. With a quick snap of his claws across his wrist, a shimmer of golden blood dripped down to merge with the smoke, growing and twisting in the air as he shaped it. Wings and talons, a beak and glittering eyes. He fought for breath, the magic draining him.
“Ajanadivak,” he whispered, the command still foreign on his tongue. The original language of the daevas, a language only a handful of ifrit still remembered. They were Manizheh’s “allies,” pressed into teaching a reluctant Afshin the ancient daeva magic that Suleiman had stripped away.
Fire burst from the
