The torches had all been put out by the time she reached the stable. They'd stopped lighting fires at night for years now to lessen the chance of giving away their location. Raids had become more frequent and successful since Salar Muradi had taken over the Salasar, and his intention to conquer the White Desert had neither been a secret nor subtle. It had also been under his command when her mother's caravan was attacked. The Vilarhiti had been lost, for the first time in the history of the White Desert, under his campaign. The best of their horses had been taken and now only a handful of Vilarians remained for them to breed. It hadn't been like this, her mother had said, not since that man had taken the throne.

Stepping halfheartedly toward the stable, she paused at the entrance for her eyes to adjust to the dark. A poor excuse, Djari admitted as she continued to linger unnecessarily by the door. For years, she'd been coming out to check on her horses during the night, sometimes to sleep in one of the stalls with them, and light had never been needed for her to navigate around the stable. Horses were great listeners, in the way that no girls or boys at camp who always seemed to tiptoe around her had ever come close. She spent more time with them than with people. Animals could be trusted when treated with respect, people, not always.

Something moved at the far end of the stable. Someone must have forgotten to secure one of the doors again. The last time that happened they spent the whole day looking for the missing colt. Djari sighed and picked up the rock that had been keeping the main gate ajar, hoping to close it before the horse could escape. The shadow moved again, this time, revealing a shape she knew was too small to be a horse.

Has Father sent someone to put her down already?

He might do that to punish her. Her father could be creative in delivering punishments when he needed to be.

Djari drew a breath and made her way slowly into the stable, dread coiling in her stomach at the thought that she might have been too late. Halfway down the aisle, she could see the silhouette of the person more clearly, and this time a different kind of panic seized her.

The man—she figured from the width and built of the figure—was wearing black. Black was the color of the Rashais. The color they didn't wear in the White Desert.

She reached for the bow on her back and paused halfway through. In that silence, she wouldn't be able to draw an arrow out of the quiver without being heard. She could call for help, but at that range, she wasn't sure she could outrun the man should he try to grab her. Backing out of the stable without being noticed was possible, but there were six of their most precious horses in these stalls, one priceless Vilarian belonging to Nazir among them. By the time help came, the man could be riding one with too far a head start for them to catch up.

Father is going to kill me for this, the thought crossed her mind as she drew out the dagger. It didn't, however, compel her to seek alternatives.

Holding her breath, she closed in on him, gripping tight on the dagger that suddenly felt too large and heavy in her fist. Short-range weapons were something she had not been given enough lessons on, and she struggled to recall everything she had been taught as she took ten steps toward the stranger. He appeared to be unarmed, at least from what she could see.

The intruder, to her surprise, had Lady cradled in his arms, and appeared unaware of her presence. Her mare looked unexpectedly calm in his embrace, but people of the desert would kill a human before a horse, if it ever came down to choosing one. Animals were useful. People, not always.

She drew one more breath and delivered her warning, keeping herself at a considerable distance. "Step away from the horse. Now."

He stiffened at the sound of her voice and she congratulated herself for it. "Turn around and state your business."

The stranger raised both hands in the air at the threat, his movements careful and calculated, too much so for her comfort. He turned toward her with the slowness of someone who had the situation in his grip, threatening her own control of it without a holding a single weapon.

From behind the long, disorderly web of hair, a pair of intense, bluish-gray eyes peeked out from the dark, looking down at her from a considerable height. He took a small step forward, allowing himself to be seen in the low light that came in through the window. The sliver of moonlight caught the left side of his face, lit up the bridge of his nose and the top of his cheekbone, revealing a face that held her hostage for a moment.

The stranger couldn't be much older than she was, judging from the mass she could now make out at a closer range. He had a face she would describe as too pretty for a boy and too harsh for a girl. The kind of face that provoked and didn't allow people to forget.

A beauty, she thought, too hard to be put into words, too severe to be looking at for too long lest one forgot to breathe. And yet there was an air of deadliness, a layer of something venomous about him that sent a shiver down her spine as she continued to stare.

"I'm only looking for shelter," said a voice smooth enough to coax a snake. His expression changed swiftly from careful to pleasantly surprised when he saw her for the first time, obviously from having just realized her size and age.

It pissed her off to no ends when people did that.

Djari stepped forward and pressed the dagger under his chin. The intruder was no Rashai nor mercenary, now that she could see him more clearly. Those raiders from the east had black hair, dark, deep-set eyes, and pale skin. The boy's hair had been golden brown, and those ghostly gray eyes might very well be lighter than hers. If that wasn't enough, his hard, prominent cheekbones and dark honey skin matching her own made his origin more than obvious.

The stranger was textbook Shakshi to the tips of his fingers, the kind they called a pureblood even. What a Shakshi boy with superior bloodline was doing in a Rashai robe and creeping about her stable at night was a question that needed to be answered immediately.

"You're one of us," she said.

"I am," he responded with a slight raise of his chin, exposing his neck defiantly to the weapon in her hand.

Shakshi to the tips of his fingers, Djari thought, complete with that irrepressible pride and arrogance.

But then again, so was she. "Then you should know that we give shelter and food to our own travelers." She dug deeper with the tip of her blade, drawing blood. "Only thieves and murderers creep around unannounced. I will ask again. What is your business here?"

The intruder, betraying no emotions whatsoever to the fact that she'd already cut him, gave no indication to explain himself. He stood in silence, jaw tight, and feet planted firmly on the ground, staring back at her.

Intimidation is half the fight, she remembered her sword master's teaching and decided to take a step forward. He remained precisely where he was, rock-solid and back straight as an arrow, as if she hadn't placed herself at a highly convenient distance to slit his throat.

"We don't have to do this. I will be gone in the morning." The words had been soft, spoken easily as if from an adult to a small child, if with some caution. He had expected her to turn a blind eye to avoid a fight. A fight that she was sure to lose.

A grave mistake, and one she would make sure he never made again.

"You are addressing the Bharavi of Visarya and daughter of the Kha'a." Djari drew herself up as tall as she could, never mind the fact that he was a head taller than she was and therefore the effort was useless. "You have broken our law and will be brought to trial in the morning." She sucked in a breath and yelled at the top of her lungs, "Guards!"

The stranger sighed and shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they turned almost white. She gripped harder on the hilt of her blade and moved into an offensive stance. He might be larger and taller than she was, but she was the one holding a weapon, which should give her an advantage. Shouldn't it?

It should, had she been trained—or at least taught—well enough to notice and anticipate the slight shift of his weight and the way he angled back his shoulder. Before she realized what was happening, the dagger jumped out of her hand and flew across the room to land somewhere she couldn't see. He dropped quickly as she turned to look, and knocked her to the ground with an elbow to the left side of her ribs.

Still doubling over from the pain, Djari saw him open the door on the opposite stall and climbed onto a horse.

No. Not Springer.

She scrambled to her feet and ran to block the exit. This was her brother's stallion, a pureblood Vilarian horse bearing the symbol of the Khumar. To have him stolen, on her watch no less, was an unspeakable disgrace to the Kha'gan. She would die before she let that happen.

She could have died, had she been any slower around horses. But years of being around them allowed her to drop just in time to the ground when Springer leaped out of the stall and missed her head by a hair.

Rolling off the floor, Djari cursed herself repeatedly over that decision. How many suicidal things could she possibly have done on a single night? She should have run to the door and close the main gate, but by the time she'd thought of this and managed to get back on her feet, the stranger and her brother's horse had already made it out of the stable.

Through the windows, she could hear the sound of the guards heading toward the stable. It was too late. She knew this with accuracy. She knew all the horses better than any stable boy at camp. Springer was the fastest of them all, and by far. They would never make it in time to even catch a glimpse of the intruder galloping at full speed on their second best horse, especially with that much of a head start.

Djari paused for a few breaths, ignoring the panic that was nipping at her heels and made a decision. Winter stood alert and ready to her right, if a little agitated from the commotion. The young stallion they'd acquired a few months ago liked to race Springer and hated the sight of the older horse in front of him. He was the best chance she had, and would have to do.

Securing the bow and quiver snugly on her shoulder, she leaped onto Winter and kicked him into a full gallop. By the time she was out the door, the boy had gained at least a hundred and fifty paces ahead. Djari followed at full speed, calculating the paces between them as she tried to close in. Ahead of them was the entrance to the Djamahari mountain range, a maze of narrow passages impossible to navigate at night. On the other side of that was the Kamara Kha'gan's territory whose boundaries they couldn't cross without starting a war. She would lose them one way or another at the speed he was riding, unless she did something about it.

A hundred and ten paces... no, twenty, Djari corrected herself. It was still too far. But at that point, she could already hear Winter's breaths growing heavy. She had been riding him at killing speed, and knew he wouldn't last much longer at such a pace.

One hundred and ten.

It would have to do.

Letting go of the mane she had been holding, Djari shifted her weight to steer Winter with her knees. She unslung the bow from her shoulder and reached for an arrow, nocked it on her bow and waited.

One hundred paces.

She took a breath, held it, and listened for the sound of Winter's hooves striking the ground once more before they all lifted in the air.

Now. The arrow flew toward the target, cutting through air with a piercing sound that told her the release had been clean. This would be her first kill, Djari thought, if it struck him where she wanted and not her brother's horse. She would never forgive herself if it hit the horse.

Despite her lack of training in close combat, she had been trained in archery since she was four. No one at camp could land an arrow as precisely as she could, no one had ever come close for the past three years.

Even then, shooting a target from hundred paces and above wasn't something she could always accomplish on horseback, especially without a saddle, at night, and on a moving target. But experience had granted her the ability to tell if her arrow would fly true from the moment she loosed it, and that night she knew for certain that she hadn't missed.