Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Eleven: Of White and Black

There were twin creatures inside of her, one black, one white, both venomous, both vile and abundant in teeth and claws. They had been there for some time, lying dormant and quiet, kept apart by a wall Zahara had built to separate them long ago. But they were fighting now, wrestling for dominance in her chest, hissing and bearing indescribably sharp teeth glistening with venom. Their bodies intertwined, wrapped tight around each other, squeezing and snarling as she stood over Muradi's crumpled form, looking down at the man who had torn down that wall to rubble tonight.

They did beat him to the last inch of his life, or for the very least tried. No, not they. Qasim alone did the beating while the others held him down or stood aside to watch. The mercenary leader, to his credit, knew enough about leadership to make sure he alone was allowed to put Muradi in his place. These things were not foreign to Zahara, as a daughter to a kha'a and having lived in the Tower for the past two decades. Power, especially when not marked clearly by rank or symbol, needed to be constantly asserted, nurtured, and put on display to hold. The arrangement not only set Qasim above the rest of these men, it elevated Muradi to the position of his second in command he alone could punish. Some dignity must be kept intact for the former salar if they were to use him to get what they wanted.

But there was no dignity left to be had in what they did, not if one knew who he had been and had witness the man––the Salar of Rasharwi––before he was reduced to this. She had watched it all from start to finish, had witnessed her lifelong enemy, the monster who had so victoriously destroyed her home, crawl and curl like an injured animal while a lesser man crushed him underfoot, rendering him into nothing more than this helpless wreckage of a human being.

And it hurt. It hurt to see her mortal enemy being made small and her conviction along with it. It hurt to see her wall crumbled because he had done this for her, because of her. It hurt, to know there was no going back from this night to who and what she was––what they were when the wall had been intact. Her twin creatures were fighting now, and they would continue to fight until one claimed its victory and the other dead.

She couldn't allow such victory, not for the black creature that looked like him, that moved like him, that wanted to agree with everything he did. She couldn't allow it any more than she could allow Muradi to get back on the throne.

She could kill him now with the small knife Qasim had allowed her to keep for medical purposes, or strangle him with the wrapping she had been given to dress his injuries. She could do that, easily, given the weakened state he was in. He wouldn't be able to fight her, might not even see it coming if she was careful.

She picked up the knife and squeezed tight on the handle. The white creature's body tightened around the black as she lowered herself down toward him. Muradi was lying on the ground with his eyes closed, breathing painful, shallow breaths that told her the extent of his injury. She picked the spot, angled the knife––

––and froze when his eyes flew open.

She gripped harder on the blade, holding her breath as she waited for a response, willing her heart to slow. It wasn't the first time he had caught her trying to kill him in his sleep. In those days he had punished her for it, either personally or by taking something or someone from her. But he had no such power here and now, Zahara reminded herself. He could still make a sound, however, and then Qasim would be here to punish her in his place.

He did no such thing, not tonight. Tonight, he simply looked at the knife in her hand, then at her. A moment of silence passed between them, and suddenly the only sounds she could hear was the beating of her heart and his slow, shallow breaths that mingled with her own. And then she saw it, the comprehension that settled on his face, the disappointment that followed, and the calmness that washed over all those emotions––a calmness of a dying man's acceptance of his unalterable fate. It gripped her by the throat, made it near impossible for her to breathe.