Beside him, her grandmother the Wali sat on her own throne. Already feeling tense, Durkhanai turned to her grandfather. He met her gaze with a warm smile.

“Don’t worry, meri jaan,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. With his other, he reached for his wife’s hand. “The Wali and the Shehzadi by my side—together, there is nothing we cannot conquer.”

She knew she was his beloved beyond anything in the world. She was her grandfather’s jaan, his very soul. She was loved by him above all humanity. And he was loved by her.

Durkhanai would never let anyone hurt him. Never let harm come to anyone she loved.

The door swung open with a solid thud as the ambassadors passed from the receiving room into the throne room. There were four ambassadors, each accompanied by one servant. There had been requests to bring their own security; those had been denied. There had been requests to bring along spouses; those had been denied. Eight foreigners were already eight too many.

The ambassadors from the four zillas—B’rung, Teerza, Jardum, and Kurra—came close, spreading out until they stood before the Badshah. Three ladies and one man. Durkhanai’s eyes immediately went to Asfandyar.

He wore a more formal black sherwani atop his black shalwar kameez. It looked simple, but when she looked closer, it had fine black embroidery woven into the material.

Subtle, but fine.

He looked sharp. When he caught her staring, he smirked. Pressing her teeth together, she turned her gaze to the others.

She would not lose her composure as she had in the hall. She knew her orders: she was to be the sweet and beloved princess, to treat her guests with kindness and respect. She would prove her grandfather’s innocence.

The ambassadors all bowed before the royal family. When they rose, the Badshah’s eyes narrowed when they fell upon Asfandyar.

“Come, now, this won’t do,” the Badshah tsked. “The Jardum send their servants to represent them?”

Durkhanai bristled at the cruelty in her king’s voice; his barbarism was bleeding through. It was evident Asfandyar wasn’t a servant—did her grandfather mean to humiliate him?

Asfandyar was unfazed.

“No, Your Excellency, Badshah of Marghazar,” he responded coolly. “My name is Asfandyar of the Afridi tribe, ambassador from Jardum, here to represent Wali Shirin.”

The Badshah was unimpressed.

“A Jardumi?” he asked. “One so Black?”

“My mother was from Dunas,” Asfandyar responded. He hadn’t lost an ounce of composure, but she noted his jaw clenched as the Badshah laughed.

His eyes flicked to the Wali for an instant, almost unintentionally, then his focus was back on the Badshah. It seemed like he recognized the Wali somehow.

“Very well, son of a Black woman, we accept you in this court,” he said. “As charity was beloved of the Prophet.”

Asfandyar bristled but kept his smile, showing no reaction to the king’s cruelty.