In the end, there was nothing more sacred than blood.

“Never return,” Ghazan ordered. “From this day forth, our blood has split. You are our son no longer.”

They had let him go. Wakdar knew, deep down, they couldn’t raise a sword against their own son, just as he couldn’t raise a sword against them. Despite the hatred between them, they were blood. Neither could expunge one another from their veins.

Or at least, he had thought.

Until halfway through the journey across the mountains, when men cloaked in black had attacked him. They were the trained assassins of court. Wakdar recognized their fight.

He slaughtered them and left, leaving his heart in pieces along the path as he did. He worried for his wife, for his child, but he repeated to himself over and over that they wouldn’t actually go through with killing his beloved wife, that they wouldn’t have the heart to orphan their beloved grandchild, his daughter, the future Badshah of Marghazar now that he was leaving. Wakdar managed to convince himself enough to leave.

But his mother was a woman of her word.

Thus, his wife was killed that night, as he ran.

He heard later that he had died as well, both poisoned apparently. His heart had ached for his daughter, then, but he couldn’t send for her, yet.

His parents knew him too well and had hidden her away, someplace impenetrable, someplace unknown. He had a guess, but he did not have the resources to go to her, so he had sent her a teddy bear, hoping for then, it would be enough.

Slowly, he built his life up again from the ashes. He gained asylum in Jardum and reconnected with an old friend—General Afridi. He made connections with the Wali of Jardum, who knew the advantages of having the supposed dead Miangul heir as an ally, a man who knew all of Marghazar’s workings and secrets.

As the years passed, Wakdar considered many times returning home: exacting his revenge, being united with his daughter. Despite everything—Yaqut’s slaughter, the attempt on his own life, his wife’s murder—Wakdar could not raise sword against his parents.

Perhaps it was cowardice or selfishness, but his blood would not be erased.

So his life continued on.

Slowly, his anger faded, like a snake shedding its old skin, replaced by the new. Wakdar slowly built his connections, built his life. He had another daughter, a jewel among jewels. She became his jaan, his very soul. She was loved by him above all humanity.

In the end, it was her blood that erased his parents’.

His daughter, the most precious of precious things, with a heart spun of gold—slaughtered.