She shook her head and the tears spilled onto her cheeks. He leaned down and kissed her as the crowd cheered and screamed. The impostor called for the magistrate’s guards to unlock Sajda’s cuffs and remove her from the arena. The warden shouted a protest that was nearly drowned out by the wild applause of the aristocrats as one of the guards removed a cuff key from his pocket. And still Javan kissed her, his lips lingering on hers like he needed to memorize the way she felt in his arms.
She wanted to memorize it too. Capture the roughness of his lips and the heat of his skin and the beat of the heart he’d given so completely to her. She wanted to fight the guards and stay with Javan. Tear the impostor to pieces and the warden too and give Javan the life he deserved.
How could she accept his sacrifice when she’d made none of her own?
The guards pulled her away from him, and he raised an arm toward her, his expression carved out of unspeakable loss as she was taken to the center of the arena where the audience could fully appreciate the boon that had been granted.
“Think of me when you watch the stars, Sajda,” he said as the guard slid the key into her cuffs. Her magic buzzed, a swarm of hornets trapped in her veins.
She couldn’t accept this sacrifice without making one of her own.
Without showing Javan the words she’d been unable to say.
A hard, brilliant light sparked to life in her chest as her cuffs clattered to the arena floor.
“You don’t know what you’re doing!” the warden yelled, her voice furious.
Furious and fearful.
Slowly Sajda turned to look up at the warden’s platform. At the woman who’d bought her, abused her, and trapped the magic that was now blazing through her with wild abandon. The warden’s eyes met hers, and the woman took a small step back.
Sajda flexed her hands, marveling at the way her magic gathered in her palms without pain. Without scarring the flesh of her wrists.
“Sajda, no. Don’t reveal anything,” Javan said, as Sajda turned from the warden to pierce the false prince with her gaze. His eyes widened, and she smiled, fierce and vicious.
She was a star.
She was a galaxy.
She was the power of the universe barely contained, and this impostor had destroyed the boy she loved.
Letting every bit of strength she possessed coil around her limbs, she plowed her fists into the guards who surrounded her, sending them flying across the arena floor and crashing into the wall.
The crowd gasped and murmured uneasily, but she wasn’t listening.
Let them see her for who she really was. Let them tremble. And let them come for her. They wouldn’t reach her in time to save the one who’d hurt Javan.
“Sajda!” Javan reached for her, but she only had eyes for the traitor prince.
Power was an intoxicating light that scoured her from the inside—an impossible stream of energy that begged for release.
She was done holding back.
Sprinting across the arena floor, she crouched and then leaped for the royal box.
The jump was at least the length of six men lying end to end. She cleared the height easily. The false prince stumbled back, his hands up as if he could ward her off. As if he could stop what was coming.
No one could stop her.
She was a creature of strength and magic and nightmares, and he was her prey.
The guards who still remained on the platform lunged for her. She batted them away like they were nothing and snatched the false prince’s tunic.
“Please,” he said, his voice high and shaky. “I’ll give you anything you want. Coin. Land. The deaths of your enemies.”
“You’ll give me the truth,” she said, and smiled as he trembled.
Hauling him to the edge of the platform, she eyed the jump back into the arena. Javan stood below her, his fists clenched, his eyes wild as the crowd screamed that she was cursed. A dark elf. A nightmare.
Additional guards stationed at the magistrate’s office were pouring in through the door that led out of Maqbara.
Let them come. She would destroy them all.
“Please,” the impostor beside her begged, and she jumped, dragging him with her.
The ground rushed toward her feet, and she landed in a crouch. The boy landed hard beside her, his tunic still clutched in her hand, and something in his leg snapped.
He screamed. The crowd pushed and shoved toward the stairs, but every stairway, every opening was blocked with the incoming guards.
Above Sajda, the warden shifted into her dragon form and roared.
“Sajda, run. Run!” Javan said as the dragon left the platform, beating the air with her wings, smoke pouring from her nostrils.
“Watch him,” she said to Javan, gesturing toward the false prince, who was sprawled beside her moaning about his broken leg, and then she was moving.
Away from the impostor. Away from Javan, who would be safe from the dragon if he stayed beside the boy the warden had helped put on the throne. Toward the center of the arena where the midafternoon sunlight blazed through the skylights like golden fire.
The dragon circled, every beat of her wings sending a gust of wind to batter Sajda’s body as she stood in the haze of sunlight and raised her arms.
Her magic hummed, tangling with the rays of light and swallowing them whole.
It was blinding power churning through her veins to pool in her chest.
It was unbearable heat scouring her from within.
It was fire.
And she was its vessel.
The dragon dove for her, mouth gaping wide as flames gathered in the back of her throat.
“You wanted a monster?” Sajda yelled, her skin blazing with the need to release the sun-filled magic that churned within her. “Let me show you how monstrous I can be.”
Sajda took three running steps and jumped.
She collided with the dragon in midair, slammed her hands into the scales, and sent every drop of sunlight into the warden.
Fire exploded from her fingertips, wrapped around the dragon’s body in brilliant bands of red-gold light, and then sank beneath the scales and into the warden herself.
The dragon roared, a terrible cry of agony that echoed through the arena, and smoke began rising from her scales. Sajda let go, twisting as she fell so that she landed once more in a crouch on the arena floor.
The crowd shrieked in panic as the dragon spiraled, smoke pouring out of her, scales drifting into ash as she dropped toward the first level of seats. She struck a platform full of aristocrats in fancy clothing, and flames erupted from her body, dancing over her muscle and bone like rays of pure sunlight. The people pushed and shoved to get away from her as the fire brightened, a white-gold light impossible to look at, and then the dragon’s body collapsed into ash and drifted slowly off the platform to rain down onto the arena floor.
The magistrate’s guards hesitated at the gate that led into the arena, swords drawn. Sajda turned to face them as Javan said in his polished, aristocratic voice, “Stand down.”
The guards flicked him a quick glance, confusion and scorn on their faces, and he repeated, “I am Prince Javan Samad Najafai of the house of Kadar, esteemed prince of the Kingdom of the Sun and heir to Akram’s crown of fire, and I order you to stand down. No one who tries to harm this girl will live to see tomorrow.”
“I am the prince,” the impostor called, his voice full of pain and fury.