The summit had been organized by the Wali of Teerza, who had invited the walis and advisors of the other four zillas—or districts—of the mountains to discuss a treaty of unification: to join the tribespeople of all five zillas into one united nation.

The Badshah was adamantly against the idea. Independence was integral to their culture. The other zillas believed in this as well, but with increasing pressure from the Lugham Empire in the east and south, the Wali of Teerza had managed to get four of the five zillas to agree to at least begin negotiation of unification.

That is, until the explosion.

And seeing as Marghazar was the only zilla absent, all fingers were pointed to her home.

“I witnessed the explosion, heard the screams,” Asfandyar continued. “I saw the blood and the bones: those leaders were not merely your so-called enemies, but my colleagues. Moreover, they were mothers and fathers, wives and husbands. They were close confidantes and friends. They were people. And if Marghazar truly was responsible for such carnage—well, then the butchery will be repaid in kind.”

“Was that a threat? Don’t forget your place, ambassador.”

He smiled that easy smile again.

“I assure you, Shehzadi,” he said, turning her title of princess into the insult. “I know my place quite well.”

“Then you know this is my palace and my land and I can have you killed in a variety of ways without having even a single strand of hair coming undone.”

Unfazed, he tsked. “That’s thrice you’ve threatened me. Where is your hospitality?”

She pressed her teeth together and said nothing. He drew closer.

“Anyhow, your threats are empty,” he said, close enough to touch. “For if you kill me, you will have the war you so delicately prevented. I assure you my life is very dear to the Wali of Jardum.”

It was true: the only reason the ambassadors from the other zillas were even invited to Marghazar was to buy the Badshah time to prove his innocence so that war could be avoided. It was a gesture of good faith.

Her threats were empty. But something turned in Durkhanai’s mind as she recalled. The Wali of Jardum was Shirin of Afridi, a young Wali who had inherited the zilla when her mother was killed at the summit attack.

She looked at Asfandyar, then, how handsome and young he himself was, not yet twenty. Her smile was sugar honey sweet but laced with poison.

“I didn’t realize they were sending the Wali’s whores as ambassadors now,” she said matter of factly, more than a little bit proud of herself.

Asfandyar offered her a smile just as sweet.

“Of course that’s why they sent me,” he responded coolly. “We had heard whores were the only company you kept.”

Durkhanai couldn’t help her mouth from falling open.