Nasir could scarcely believe it to be true. That the monster who had controlled his father, held his leash, belittled him without end, was gone. The Silver Witch spoke first, breaking the trance that had fallen across the courtyard.
“The heart. We must make for Sarasin at once.”
In Zafira’s fist, the heart that once belonged to one of the Sisters of Old pulsed direly, a shade of crimson so dark it was nearly black. Nasir met her gaze and saw doubt, for the Jawarat had called it impossible.
Nasir had never cared for magic the way Zafira had. He hadn’t spent decades working for its restoration the way Altair had. It did not signify vengeance for him the way it did for Kifah. Laa, for him, magic had signified destruction and pain. It had ruined his family and burned darkness into his life.
And still, he wanted its return—for them, for this new family he had built himself.
He led five horses to the palace gates.