Page 50 of Sinadim

15

The Summer Palace was a miniature version of the Silver City herself.

A tribute to the architecture renowned across the continent, and to the alliance that had stood between Karahmet and Zaganos for centuries—before Veli had inherited his father’s seat.

Grand, sweeping arches framed the gardens, walkways, and covered porches. While above, reaching into the great desert sky, towers topped with pointed domes perched as if in defiance of the Nine themselves. Polished to a glaring shine, as if the building itself was cast in bronze.

“If it weren’t located on the coast,” Sinadim mused, squinting at the majestic profile sprawling before him, “I might have been tempted to make this palace my own.” He sighed. “It’ll be a shame to see it demolished…”

“Better to use it as a place to store that skulking, rat-faced uncle of yours,” Balkazar returned, swiping at the sweat pouring off his brow. “Ahmelek deserves to endure the coast and all this wretched humidity.”

Sinadim grinned. “Cunning assessment as always, war chief.” And then, in a low, cutting tone, he added, “Such a devious mind deserves compensation of the sort not afforded to common peasants. But perhaps you’ve not yet recovered from your last reward. Perhaps the bounty of royalty is too rich for your commoner blood, after all…”

Heat kissed Balkazar’s cheeks before it traveled south—a challenge issued between brothers he couldn’t ignore. “After we’ve spread Varjim’s innards across the sands, I’ll let our Omega whore tell you just how thin my commoner blood runs, after I’ve stuffed her full of this uncommon cock.”

Glancing back, Sinadim checked the dunes where he’d hidden his treasure. Far from the coming fight, ensconced with enough provisions to last her three days, she was tucked away. Concealed by the dry heat of the desert sands he craved. Tasked to build a prodigious nest to welcome her conquering heroes back from war.

“A challenge I shall relish when the time comes,” the prince said at length, turning once more to grin at the war chief crouching amongst the manicured bushes where they lay in wait.

It was to be an ambush.

A trap built of Varjim’s own fortress.

While servants lived in the Summer Palace year-round, Varjim’s colors had not yet graced the minarets. There was no sign of a caravan on the road, and no hint of Hathorian cargo drifting on the breeze.

Either they had yet to arrive, or they hadn’t come to the Summer Palace at all.

Only time would tell if Balkazar’s information was true.

Time they could afford spare…

… until the pregnancy began to show in earnest. Traveling with a brooding Hathorian would become all but impossible.

It was cruel to take a creature meant for the dark, for nesting in tight spaces, and drag her into the light. Even to march for justice claimed in her name.

No, Sinadim would ensure his newest treasure could burrow to her heart’s content. At peace, separated from the brutality that was Anhur politics.

And then, when he’d reclaimed his place as Firstborn son in the Silver City—reclaimed his Anhur bride—he would give his brave girl a sisterhood. Culture. A place of honor in his royal harem where she would spend her life breeding strong warriors who would one day stand at his side and ferry him to eternal glory in the arms of the Nine.

“Here we go,” Balkazar murmured, jerking his chin toward movement in the distance. “Right on time.”

Sinadim squinted and saw dust rising in the distance.

An approaching caravan. Covered. Pulled by a team of four Walleri. It was traveling slow, lumbering along the road despite the light build of a vehicle meant for speed.

“Looks weighted down,” Balkazar murmured, peering through a looking glass. “Back end is heavy. Like they’re carrying too much for those four beasts to manage.”

Sinadim picked at the underside of his claws, inspecting them for flaws. “Probably barrels of Kesh. Enough to hunker down with a small harem for the rest of the season. Until they’re bred and heavy with a spark of rebellion against the sultanate.” He shrugged. “Ends today, either way.”

A bloodthirsty grin lit Balkazar’s face before he vanished, slipping into the brush to speak in low tones with the Razie.

The coming battle would be short-lived. A thing of little consequence that couldn’t stand against the experience and training of the prince’s elite few. There was only the price of victory—and the toll of planning to minimize casualties.

A low warbling trill sounded from the bush to his left.

Balkazar’s signal.

Claws dimpling his palms, Sinadim prepared himself. Crushing a vicious grin between his molars, he let his muscles coil tight where he was crouched in the shadows.