The night sky above the desert was bruised in deep shades of blue, the sand glittering like crushed gold beneath the full moon. A caravan cut through the dunes, its torches burning low against the wind. In the back of one of the covered wagons, Amira sat chained at the wrists, the cold iron biting into her skin. Her silk dress clung to her damp skin, torn at the hem from the journey.

She could still hear the sound of drums in the distance. Not from the caravan. From the palace.

It was the ...