Page 77 of The Wishless Ones
She had to stay strong.
“I will, Baba,” she said softly, holding him tight as his blood darkened her crimson gown. Gripping him against her as the last of his life left his body.
She carefully set Baba on the stained cushions and rose to her feet, turning to face Aman and the real threat: Jafar.
And that is the cost of hurtingme,he seemed to say. Was he…blaming Baba because they couldn’t be together? He was a fool, a monster.
And Yara would end this now.
She ran toward him, her vision burning the same red as the eyes on his staff, the same red as the plume in his headdress, as his blood begging to be spilled.
He curled a hand, and an invisible wall rose between them. He hadn’t even flinched from the effort.
“Tsk, tsk, princess,” his parrot snarked.It talked.“You’ve been a bad girl.”
Chaos had erupted throughout the banquet hall, but here, by the throne, it was just the four of them.
“You killed my father,” Yara breathed. She’d kissed him, held him, bared her soul to him.
“He said he’d kill us,” Jafar said, cavalier and uncaring. “I didn’t want to be second best.”
Yara’s heart shook. “I will end you, Jafar. I will destroy this kingdom, and then you.”
“Do as you wish,” Jafar drawled. “I’m getting tired of playing here. When I’m done, you can even have the prince. He’s not the real Aman, anyway. He’s my brother.”
Yara froze, staring at the boy on the throne. That was why the Sultana had said nothing. Why the betrothal feast had been delayed so many times. The real prince truly had died, and she’d hired an imposter to take his place. Yara looked at the mayhem around her, officials and diplomats from throughout the kingdom and beyond. She wanted to tell them the truth, but what could she say that the Sultana hadn’t thought of saying herself?
“Do you need help, moon girl?” Jafar asked, and Yara was surprised by the way the words stung. He rapped his staff on the dais. He looked handsome, powerful,horrible. “It seems the results were as catastrophic as we feared.”
“Guards!” the fake Prince Aman called. “Put her in a cell, too. This one just threatened to kill me.”
“Don’t worry,” Jafar said quietly. “I won’t keep you here long. I know how politics work, and you’ll soon be on your merry way back to Hulum, where you can plot my demise.”
He tightened his fingers, retracting the wall between them seconds before the guards grabbed her.
She seethed. “This is not over, Jafar.”
Jafar did not have to wait long for Yara to return. His moon girl, his catastrophe, carrying a sword with an army behind her. She was dressed like a warrior queen, vengeance as bright in her eyes as the rubies set in his staff.
He’d always known she was magnificent.
The rubies only worked within range of their victim, and Jafar controlled Rohan and the kingdom of Maghriz until her arrival and through the war. As he ruled the kingdom from the shadows, she had searched for him with the zeal and determination she really should have put toward finding a way to be with him, but it was too late for that now. Jafar wanted nothing to do with her anymore. He’d found a new love: power.
The war lasted four months, but Jafar had never touched a sword in his life. He was versed in trade routes and treaties, not battle strategies, and he could only command Rohan-turned-Aman so much before the Maghrizi generals were overcome without proper direction, but by the time Yara and her platoon breached the palace, Jafar was long gone. He had paused only to rap his staff one last time in the halls of Maghriz, to watch the red fade from Rohan’s eyes, to watch his brother regain his senses and search the room, frantic and alone.
Calling his name.
That was many nights ago. Now, Jafar closed his eyes against that echo of an ache and tipped his head to the skies. In a tea shop on the side of the road between kingdoms, he sat on a cushion with his legs crossed and a parrot on his shoulder, his ears open to the discussions of the other patrons around them. The sun was lazy, dappling through the cluster of date palms where a man served tea with a kind smile that came from honest work in a small village.
“The Hulumi-Maghrizi war is finally over,” an older man said to one of his companions.
“Don’t get me started,” another man said, taking a long sip of his tea and drumming his fingers on the low table. “We’re not Maghrizi. Why do we care?”
A third man straightened, excited to dive in. “They found the Sultana and her vizier in the dungeons and beheaded them both. Brutal, yes, but it serves them right for lying about the prince.”
“I don’t know. One would hope they’d exercise some leniency,” said a fourth.
“After the Sultana killed the Hulumi king in cold blood? Not even her guards wanted anything to do with her. They’re the ones thatputher in the cell. I hear the Hulumi queen took the prince as prisoner, though.”
