Should she send him to the lady? So that he may live his days with another, leaving the Shehzadi to her envy and her grief? Or should he be sent to the lion? Who would surely tear him to shreds before she had a moment to regret her decision?

Either way, they could never be together.

Then, his quick glance asked the question: “Which?”

There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; it had to be answered in another.

It was time to seal both his fate and hers.

Chapter One

Durkhanai Miangul heard the bell echoing throughout the mountains.

Her hand lay atop her grandmother’s, the Wali of S’vat, whose hand lay atop her grandfather’s, the Badshah of Marghazar. Together, they three had rung the bell to alert the tribespeople of foreign entrance into their land.

For the first time in centuries, the capital city of Safed-Mahal was opening its doors to foreigners, those from their neighboring districts.

Coming to harm her family.

The sound resonated through the mountains, in cacophony with crows crying. It was said that crows brought visitors with them, and as a child, Durkhanai was always excited to see who would visit her castle in the clouds.

But today, she knew the visitors would bring turmoil. While entrance throughout Marghazar was permissible, sparingly, for trade, entrance into the capital Safed-Mahal had been forbidden for centuries.

Until now.

“It is done,” Agha-Jaan said, his old face flushed florid from the wind.

“Yes, janaan,” Dhadi said somberly. “Now we prepare.”

Durkhanai was clad in a pistachio-green lengha choli, her ears and neck dripping emeralds and pearls encased in pure gold. The ensemble made her eyes more green than blue and her skin a soft brown. Beside her, her grandparents were dressed in bottle green: her grandfather in a sherwani, her grandmother in a silk sari.

Maroon red mehndi covered Durkhanai’s hands in flowery details of blooming roses. Her curly hair was swept up in an updo with ringlets framing her face in front of her dupatta, which sat atop her head and fell down one shoulder.

She was the essence of a princess, but she would need to be more to protect her people.

Wind slapped her cold on both cheeks, turning her nose numb: up in the bell tower, there was no spring. It was the beginning of April, when the world cracked open its shell to let greens and pinks begin to spool out. The weather was softer, warmer.

From here, she saw the great expanse of lands she was heir to, the jewels of the earth. The palace was on the side of the mountain, with views of both the empty valleys and the populated ones.