The Queen had been screaming for two nights.
The sun had not risen since.
The rain had not ceased since.
The wind howled like a thousand screams, clawing at the windows of Daratag, the royal palace of Mehirea, in its capital Kanana.
Rain lashed against the stone, each drop exploding like a tiny fist. Ħamy Samasar paced the length of his chambers, his armour clanking against the flagstones. In all his sunrounds, he had never seen such a storm.
He drew a small twig of miswak, the desert's toothbrush, from his belt and scraped it across his teeth, the clean, sharp taste of the wood grounding him. To a soldier surrounded by politics and whispers, such rituals mattered more.
The first night had been bad enough. The sky had turned an unnatural shade of deep purple, the moon swallowed by inky cloud. The wind had risen, shrieking, and the rain had come down in sheets, turning the streets into raging rivers. But this night was worse. Again there was no moon or stars, not even the faintest hint of dawn.
The world was plunged into an unnatural darkness, broken only by flashes of lightning that split the rain-slicked streets for a heartbeat before vanishing.
The usual sounds of the city — the barking of dogs, the cries of vendors, the chatter of children — had vanished. Even the street rats and alley cats were silent. That was the most terrifying thing. Even the beasts of the wild had gone silent.
The only sound was the relentless drumming of the rain and the unusual crack of thunder that shook the very foundations of the grand palace.
Ħamy shivered, not only from the cold, but from a deeper, more primal fear. He had seen countless battles, faced many foes, none had matched him. But this… this was different entirely. As if the world itself was holding its breath for what was happening inside those walls.
He moved to the window, peering out into the storm. The rain was so thick that he could barely see the courtyard below. He could hear the guards shouting to each other, their voices barely audible above the roar of the wind. He wondered if they were as worried as he was.
✦
Scene 2: A curse?
Ħamy set his jaw, forcing his feet to move. The hall stretched before him, lined with torches hissing as rain leaked through cracks in the vaulted ceiling. Shadows danced along the stone walls, their flickering shapes twisted and strange. Servants scurried past with lowered heads, faces pale and drawn. None dared meet his eyes.
The new queen of eight and ten sunrounds had not been pregnant three nights ago. Her wedding was less than a moon past. Whispers had swept through the court like wildfire when her cries first echoed through the palace.
She went to sleep two nights ago with a maiden's flat belly. She woke at what should have been the first dawn, the sun nowhere to be found, with a swelling that could have held three babes.
It was a sign of impending birth, yet she laboured still, writhing in agony beyond reason. For two days and nights, neither sun nor moon had shown. Why?
"Demon magic," some had murmured. "The gods are angry," others whispered.
Thunder growled again. A low rumble vibrated through the stones underfoot. Ħamy climbed the wide staircase, boots leaving muddy prints on polished marble. The weight of duty pressed heavy on his shoulders, familiar and unyielding.
He was the Emir of Selaħdar, the Tag's own guard, and commander of the Gundartag, the elite warriors who were Daratag's iron shield. Two titles, one man. He had served the Tag, and his father before him. Even when the Tag was mad.
[[ continues — paste the rest of Chapter One here from your 31-chapter split file for a clean copy/paste ]]
