The Hour of the Crow

Chapter 37: A Clash of Crowns

They came for him at his darkest hour.

It was that time of the evening when the sun was already set, but the moon still dozed beneath its earthly blanket. In the Orabi Desert, people called it the hour of the Crow, after the god of death. The myths claimed that Onshra walked the very sands of the desert in that short period of time, his power vast and absolute in the uncertain span of darkness between golden and silver light. They said he was out for unfortunate souls, snatching them away to his own realm while the night blinded the eyes of the living and stuffed their ears with eerie silence.

The scenery was quite fitting, Arran thought whilst he was being dragged through long corridors. Adira walked to his left, one arm looped around his waist to support him. As his body withered, his soul was laid bare for the taking, and Death's greedy fingers were closing around it. Despite the lingering warmth inside the palace's walls, he had never been colder. The Amulet further cooled down his skin with its icy metal, the god inside stoic and quiet as ever while he waited for the right moment to claim his doomed master.

Agony tortured his muscles with every pace, like needles stabbing and knives cutting through bone and flesh alike. He trusted Adira not to let him fall. Whatever she had done, he still believed that she loved him enough not to let him crawl his way to Rabyatt. Nevertheless, no matter how much he desired to yield to the pain and lean on her, revulsion coursed through him at her touch. Sometimes, he had to gasp for breath because of the urge to pull away so that Zohra's blood on her skin would not stain him too. Every time he gazed upon her face, it was Zohra's he saw, her brown eyes drinking him in as the life trickled out of her in his arms.

He closed his eyes. Part of him wished he had just died from his first fever in Zohra's living room, so that he wouldn't have had to endure this.

When they had reached the throne room, he was propped up against a mountain of pillows on the ground. To his right, the Shah perched on his throne, a mere shadow of the man Arran had seen the first time he had visited the palace. Jewels still cluttered his form in extravagant quantities, but his white thawb hung loosely around his frail form and his turban sat askew on top of his head, exposing black hair streaked with silver. His dark eyes were unfocused; the Shah hadn't even so much as blinked to acknowledge Arran's presence by his side.

Rabyatt strode into the room through the enormous double doors shortly after. His handsome face was tense, though he smoothed out the crinkles as soon as his gaze fell upon Arran. "Have you changed your mind yet, Arran?"

Arran stared back at him, his lips pressed tight into an uncompromising line.

Rabyatt shrugged. "All right."

And with that, the waiting began.

Four soldiers in neat, simple black uniforms were stationed across the room at each of the stone arches that made up the right wall. They gazed straight ahead, one hand resting on the hilt of their swords. Beyond them, the green hues of another garden had faded to somber gray, although the dulcet tones of occasional birdsong still rode on a faint breeze. The sweet fragrance of exotic flowers mingled with fresh, nightly coolness, the smell of renewal. Nature's peace was so at odds with the iron glint of the swords that pangs of discomfort penetrated the daze of Arran's illness and made him squirm amid the pillows.

He could point out the exact moment when she came in, for the heavy air changed with her presence. Every nerve in his body prickled with anticipation. He wasn't the only who had sensed it; Rabyatt's back was straight and stiff, the thin fabric of his coat stretched around the muscles. Adira's hand paused in a flourish in mid-air, her face turned away. Though fever shook his body, a surge of relief galvanized Arran's heart and drove the clouds from his mind so that he could focus.