Chapter One: Samira ONE SAMIRA
Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

I clutched the tray of food tightly in my hands as I wove through the labyrinth of the palace, keeping my eyes trained on the ground. With each step I took, with each rattle of the gold-trimmed plates and silver chalice, my heart gave a fearful kick in my chest.

My princess had asked me personally to fetch her midnight snack. To be addressed by her, to be offered such an important responsibility, was an honor I never thought I’d receive. I held the golden tray in my sweaty hands and stared at every groove in the limestone floor with paranoia.

My back was still tender from the last time I’d failed my princess—showing up to her rooms with a stain on the thin linen dress that was my uniform—and I’d be damned to the Underworld’s Trench before I let her down again.

Two guards came around the corner, and I quickly ducked into one of the many divots in the wall created for the exact purpose of making sure slaves could get out of the way.

I moved too fast. My heart stopped beating as the chalice of water tipped. If it spilled, I’d get so much more than a whipping. There was such little water in Ashorah, the gods would surely strike me down if I allowed a cupful to splash across the ground.

But then the chalice settled, only a trickle of water falling over the lip. I swiped it away with my finger, pushed a wayward grape back in place, and was able to breathe again.

As the guards came closer, I bowed my head and sank farther into the shadows of the divot, pressing my back into the warm stone wall and biting my lip as my cheap linen shift scratched the barely healed lash wounds.

They hardly spared me a passing glance, and I let out a sigh of relief before I scurried down the hall, grateful that the several hanging lanterns hadn’t yet been doused.

Shadows flickered against the alabaster walls, illuminating the various hieroglyphs etched into them. Flashes of blue and sunshine yellow. The history of Ashorah etched with an expert artist’s hand. I passed scenes of war, the blood spatter made beautiful by inlaid rubies. Various Gods-Chosens—half-human, half-god heroes—stood tall and proud throughout the centuries, and in the dim light, King Zaid’s usually serene smile looked cruel. The emeralds used for his bright green eyes sparkled dangerously.

I shook my head, cursing myself for even remotely thinking such a thing. My king was not cruel. My king had sacrificed everything for us. I lowered my head and quickened my steps.

My sandaled feet padded noiselessly along the floor until I reached the golden doors that led to my princess’s suite. One of the two stationed guards opened them for me.

Tabia, a slave who had been at the palace nearly twice as long as I had, greeted me. Her brown eyes drooped at the corners from the late hour, and the edges of her lips were pinched. My heart rate hitched. Something must have happened while I was gone. Maybe I’d taken too long. Maybe I’d angered my princess.

Maids weren’t permitted to speak unless spoken to, but the fact that she was standing at the door instead of fanning our princess spoke volumes. I tried to ask her with my eyes what was wrong. Tabia just shook her head and stepped aside, ushering me in.

My princess’s rooms were meant to awe. Vibrant colors filled the space, curtains and pillows and lanterns of bright pinks and greens created a kaleidoscope of beauty. The walls were painted with real gold, stretching high above my head where they met a ceiling with an image of an oasis painted on it.

My princess was sitting on her desk, feet crossed at the ankles and swinging idly back and forth, still fully dressed despite the late hour.

Princess Amunet Khada was beautiful in the way that all the royals were. Bright green eyes shone out of smooth tan skin, a slender nose above full lips. Though all the royals shaved their heads, Princess Amunet always wore intricate wigs, deep black and twisted in elaborate braids. Pearls dusted both her wig and her silken red gown. It was a new dress, gifted to her by one of the four jinn-descended princes of the nearby regions hoping to win her hand.

A useless gesture. It didn’t matter if the princes had a jinni ancestor centuries ago. My princess would not marry. She didn’t need to. Not when she was Gods-Chosen.

Usually, I was eager to drink in the sight of my princess. As her maid, I was one of the few who had the honor of being able to look upon an actual child of a god, and I tried to take advantage of every second. But tonight, my eyes slipped off Princess Amunet to land on the drenched young girl standing before her.

Her name was Nailah. A scullery maid I’d glimpsed a few times in the kitchen, almost fourteen years old. Her ear-length hair hung around her in a soaked mop, and her sopping linen dress clung to her trembling, bony frame.

Princess Amunet looked up at me, and a wide smile broke across her face, lighting up the entire room. I felt my own lips twitch to match the expression even as my eyes darted to the girl in front of her. “Excellent!” my princess said, and hopped down to her feet. “Set it here.”

Nailah dared to glance up at me, her large brown eyes pleading. I quickly looked away and set the tray on the desk. If Nailah had done something to upset my princess, there was nothing I could do. There was nothing any of us could do. We all learned that within our first year at the palace. If the lesson had somehow missed her, she was going to learn it now.

As soon as the tray was out of my hands, I retreated to my spot in line with the other maids standing against the wall and assumed the default posture—hands clasped in front of me and head down. But I peeked up to see Tabia across the room. She fanned our princess with a long palm leaf, fighting against the oppressive heat that even this late at night hadn’t let up. She did her best to keep her expression blank, but years of reading her face told me the glint in her eyes was one of worry.

Princess Amunet rounded her desk and sat in the plush chair. She lifted the elaborate chalice of water from the tray and set it on the edge of the desk, directly in front of Nailah. She stared at the scullery maid expectantly. “Go on, then.”

Nailah’s clasped hands flexed as terror shone in her eyes. “I—I don’t understand, my princess.”

“You’re thirsty. Here is water.”

The scullery maid’s gaze moved from the cup to the royal, the drip, drip, drip of her clothes going off like drums in the nearly silent room. “I’m not thirsty,” she answered, voice small. “It gets so hot in the kitchens, my princess. I just wanted to cool down. I didn’t drink from the river, only swam in it, I swear.”

Princess Amunet nodded as she tore off a piece of bread and chewed contemplatively, not taking her eyes off Nailah.

The heat in the kitchens did grow to nearly unbearable conditions. Just the short amount of time I’d spent there gathering my princess’s snack had been enough to make sweat coat my entire body, and the natural Ashoran heat didn’t help matters.

My princess pointed at the chalice of water. “The Lotus River sustains every single person in Ashorah. It is blessed by my father, Shaya.” My whole body reacted to the mention of the Underworld god. I stiffened my spine against it as my princess went on. “It is not your bathing tub. It is sacred. And you thought you would just… swim in it.”

In a tiny voice, Nailah said, “It was only five minutes.”

Stupid, stupid girl. My stomach twisted in knots as I mentally braced myself.

Everyone knew the strict rules about using and rationing water. Just sneaking a single extra glass of it from the kitchens led to my princess carving an X over my heart in punishment, a mirror of the injury I’d inflicted on the gods with my insolence. I’d been forbidden from bandaging the wound, and it had gotten infected. Now it was a permanent scar on my chest, a constant reminder of my guilt and shame.

I deserved it.

And Nailah was about to get what she deserved, too.

Princess Amunet sighed. “You spit in the face of the gods and your own people.”

The girl’s eyes drifted closed in defeat.

Princess Amunet set the bread back on the tray and stood. Nailah’s whole frame shook as the Gods-Chosen passed her and came to a stop beside her large brass bathing tub. Flower petals bobbed on the water’s surface. My princess pointed to the floor beside her and ordered, “Kneel.”

Nailah trembled harder as she obeyed, lowering herself so that her chest was parallel to the lip of the tub. I curled my fingers into my palms, resisting the instinct to speak or step forward. This might feel wrong, I reminded myself, but it was for the best. Nailah deserved her punishment as much as I had. It was the only way we’d learn.

Still, nausea built in the back of my throat.

“Five minutes, you said?” Princess Amunet confirmed.

Nailah nodded haltingly.

“That seems fair.” Princess Amunet seized the back of her head and shoved her face into the water.

I steeled myself against my flinch.

Nailah didn’t fight at first, accepting the Gods-Chosen’s punishment. But that only lasted a few moments. Her instincts kicked in, and she splashed up water as she struggled violently, seeking air. Princess Amunet held her down, face blank, regal. She never looked malicious or unkind when carrying out punishments. She was a righteous goddess meting out justice.

Nailah’s movements slowed. Princess Amunet yanked her out of the water. The girl drew in a deep gasp, sputtering, her hair sticking to her face.

“How long was that?” my princess asked.

Tabia replied, “Forty-five seconds, my princess.”

Nailah tried, “Please—”

Princess Amunet dunked her back in the water. Even as it made my stomach turn over and my heart seize, I didn’t look away. None of us did. We weren’t allowed to.

I watched my princess bring the girl to the point of death over and over and then reel her back before she could fall over the edge. As horrible as it was, this was the exact reason all of Ashorah looked to the Gods-Chosen as our salvation.

I’d learned the story my first day in Khada Palace: In times of great strife, the gods smiled upon their people and sent a child of theirs to save us. And Ashorah—as well as the rest of the continent—was indeed desperate after centuries of drought. So desperate, in fact, that King Zaid had decided to brave the Wastelands in search of a legend.

No one ever survived the Wastelands, the terrain of dunes and mountains and blazing climate practically engineered to kill humans. But forty years ago, King Zaid had marched through it in pursuit of a forgotten city, buried beneath miles and miles of sand.

The Buried City was said to be a paradise on earth, where water flowed endlessly, where there was no famine or disease. A thing of myth.

King Zaid’s advisors warned him that these myths were likely fabrications, either conjured by the northern enemy nation known as Kaldfold or spread by the freshly conquered jinn-descended princes.

Though the jinn-descended might have been powerful once, the current four princes didn’t possess even a fraction of the strength their ancestors had, making their defeat an easy one, which they’d resented. And the cannibalistic, shape-shifting Kaldfolk were constantly encroaching on Ashoran territory, forcing us into war often. Neither were to be trusted.

Stories of the Buried City were meant to send the king on a journey, not to a divine water source but to an early grave.

But the Lotus River, the continent’s last remaining water source, had almost entirely dried up. Everyone, from the farthest Ashoran village to Kaldfold in the north, relied on that river. Without it, petty squabbles among principalities and territory disputes with the Kaldfolk would be moot. All would perish.

So King Zaid had to try.

He’d gotten lost in the Wastelands, was near death, when he was approached by a pack of jinn—minions of Shaya, God of the Underworld, beings of sand and fire. They offered an end to Ashorah’s drought and to the war with the cannibal Kaldfolk, and promised to return King Zaid safely home to a prosperous land.

In exchange, the king’s firstborn would be Shaya’s.

The king—delirious with dehydration and heatstroke—accepted without question.

When he returned home and told Queen Neema of the deal, she was appalled. Over the centuries, the other six gods had all borne half-human children, but Shaya was different. King of Death, Sire of Monsters. Queen Neema could not bear his spawn. A child of the Underworld would be too dangerous. Power over death wasn’t a power any mortal creature should have.

Queen Neema ensured she would not have a child. Details on just how are vague, but it is said she almost did not survive the process. Mutilation might have been involved.

It was decided that the crown would pass to the king’s cousin, Hamadi, and the succession would be settled without a direct heir.

The Lotus River rushed with gallons and gallons of water, just as the jinn had promised. The king promptly dammed it up and claimed complete control over it.

Together, the King and Queen of Ashorah had outsmarted the God of the Underworld.

But a deal with a jinni cannot be broken.

Nearly two decades later, the middle-aged queen fell pregnant. Though she had been so very careful, so very smart, Shaya was smarter. He wore the king’s skin when he came to her. Neither she nor the king were any the wiser until she missed her monthly bleeding.

The queen died during the birth, but my princess survived. King Zaid’s deal with the jinn was upheld. And in one month’s time, my princess would turn twenty, go through the Igniting, and receive the full might of the Underworld.

She was one of us. Had lived nearly twenty years as a mortal. She’d take care of us. She’d make hundreds of rivers flow and stop death from snatching so many of us.

She was going to be our salvation.

“It’s been five minutes, my princess,” Tabia murmured.

Princess Amunet jerked Nailah’s head out of the water for the last time. The scullery maid gasped and choked, water exploding out of her mouth and nose, strands of hair flung across her face like blindfolds. Her limbs trembled from exertion, and her eyes rolled in her head.

My princess gazed down at the scullery maid without emotion. “You are forgiven.”

Still heaving, the girl replied, “Th-thank you, my pr-princess.”

“You may go.” Princess Amunet turned away from the girl and returned to her desk, where she picked up the water chalice and took a big gulp.

Nailah staggered to her feet, her face red and chest rising and falling erratically. I wanted to step forward and offer my arm for her to lean against, help her back to her room. But I didn’t. I just stood with the other maids and watched her stumble out the door.

It was an honor to work in Khada Palace. We were luckier than most Ashorans. The rest of the kingdom—the world, really—battled drought daily, but here, I got a glass of water every two days. Plus, we would be the first to witness the Gods-Chosen’s transformation. We would be by her side when she saved us all.

Some days it was more difficult to remember that than others.

“I want to sleep,” my princess declared.

“Yes, my princess,” we all murmured, and jumped to action, laying out her nightdress while slipping her out of her current gown and wig.

Tabia looked pointedly at me and then the tray of barely touched food, wordlessly ordering me to take it away. I mentally chastised myself for needing to be told and hurried to collect the tray.

For all my princess’s claims of hunger, she’d hardly touched the pita bread and chicken.

It used to be torturous to watch her eat, even harder to see what she didn’t. Leftovers went to the livestock. And at the end of the week, anything the livestock didn’t touch came to us. It was a message. A reminder of our place in the palace.

My first week as a maid, my stomach had growled in response to all her food.

I’d received ten lashes.

I’d learned to control my stomach after that.

Though Princess Amunet didn’t look at me, I curtsied before I left, taking the wide stone steps down to the servants’ quarters two at a time. All maids were required around my princess’s bed for Nightly Prayer. I wouldn’t be late.

But when I turned the last corner to the kitchen, the smell hit my nose and stopped me dead in my tracks.

The kitchens always smelled good. Like garlic and paprika, mostly. But tonight, after the princess’s midnight order, it smelled like bread. Gods, freshly baked bread.

I peeked around the corner. The kitchen was empty. Chef Nena must’ve gone to bed after handing me the tray. But the stone counters were still lightly dusted with leftover flour, and the large, curved oven’s mouth lay open like a sob. I could just glimpse the dying embers inside, a tongue of slumbering fire. A warm breeze blew in through an open window and carried the smell from the oven all the way to me at the threshold.

I glanced down at the tray in my hands. The thin disk of bread was mostly untouched. Despite how hard I clenched my stomach, it let out a stubborn rumble. Thank the gods no one was around to hear it.

I hovered my hand over the bread but didn’t dare touch it. Faint warmth rippled up to meet my palm. I imagined how soft it would feel, how delicious it would taste. I hadn’t had fresh bread since Mama’s birthday, before I was snatched off the street and brought to the palace. Sixteen years ago.

My eyes darted around the hallway. No servants. And the next round of guards wouldn’t be due for at least five minutes. It would be nothing to slip the thin disk under my neckline. As long as I kept my head down in the hall, no one would look twice at me, and once I was in my room, I could have the whole disk to myself. I’d eat it under the covers. In the morning, rats would rid the bed of any crumbs. No one would know, and I was so hungry—

No! I screamed the word in my mind, the scar over my heart pulsing in warning. The gods would know. My princess would know. Do not disobey.

Tears burned my eyes as I set the tray on the counter with shaky hands, sending up prayer after prayer of contrition to my gods, the Seven Monarchs, for even thinking of stealing.

I stared at the food a moment more, swallowing back the saliva gathering in my mouth. Salivating like an animal. Shame shot through me. With a shuddering breath, I turned on my heel and went back to my princess’s rooms.

I did not miss Nightly Prayer.