“My father will destroy you,” the prince seethed. Leena wished the words to be true. But in her heart, she knew it was over. The brief moment of hope faded away.
As though he could sense her helplessness, the king began to laugh. Each chuckle made Leena’s fists ball tighter. She retreated into herself, ignoring the sounds around her, watching as the guards, Tam included, disarmed the foreign prince. He was kicked to the floor, held down by her father’s men while they tied his limbs with rope. Yet still, he used every muscle to squirm, to struggle for freedom.
Brave, she decided in that instant. Surrounded, disarmed, bound, and still fighting—this prince did not know how to give up.
Then her father pronounced his fate.
“You will die, Prince Whylrhen,” King Razzaq proclaimed. Leena felt no surprise at the words, but she was shocked by the sadness gathering in her heart over this man she had never met before. A foreigner. A prince. But more than anything, a fighter—something Leena wanted desperately to be.
Maybe that was why she stayed hidden behind the column as a guard slammed his skull with the hilt of a sword.
Why she watched the men take him away, dragging his motionless body from the throne room.
Why she found herself following them, promising to help set this man, Whylrhen, free.
The foreign prince had done the one thing she promised to do, the one thing she had never found the courage to do—he tried to kill her father. And witnessing that, Leena decided she was ready to fight.
She had failed to save Mikza.
But maybe, just maybe, she could save another brave man. Another man who deserved to be set free.
TWO
Leena gripped the knife tighter. Was she capable of stabbing someone? Would it even make a difference? One princess against her father’s entire guard?
She shook her head, biting her lip to keep back a frustrated scream. After following the soldiers and the fallen prince to a side courtyard, Leena had watched them dump his still body beside a giant pool and then nothing. They waited, standing around, Leena assumed, for instructions. Whatever the prince had whispered to her father in those final moments had thrown him, made the king question his plan—that alone made her want to kiss the Whylkin boy, to hug him in gratitude.
But saving his life was another story.
After realizing she had a small sliver of time, Leena had raced back to her room, adorning the only armor she’d ever known—a golden veil to hide her tear-stained cheeks and a gilded knife meant for nothing more than decoration. And then she’d come here, to a small room no larger than a closet, a hidden spot she and Mikza had discovered. Before it had been a place for stolen kisses and secret laughter—now it was where she tried to gather courage, futile as the effort was.
Leena slashed the knife through empty air.
A grin widened her lips.
She slashed again, already feeling more empowered. Her muscles were strong, her conviction even stronger. Maybe she would run up to the men and distract them just long enough for the prince to escape. Maybe her knife, small as it was, could still cut his binds. Then she pictured facing her father later, strong and defiant, grinning at the stupefied look on his face as he realized his own daughter had betrayed him. Maybe then he would see he was not as all-powerful as he believed.
Leena moved to the door, opening it slightly, peeking through to make sure the hallway was clear.
A line of unmarked slaves filled the corridor, carrying heavy boxes, straining with the effort. She grimaced. None of these poor souls deserved to be entangled in the drama she was about to create, especially when her father would not hesitate to punish anyone who had even laid sight on her. So Leena waited, eying the long line of men, hoping the procession would end soon.
And then she gasped.
Mikza?
Shaking her head, Leena stared at the man walking innocently down the hall, throat burning.
He was Mikza.
And yet, he wasn’t.
The Whylkin prince was utterly forgotten in that moment. Leena hardly remembered to breathe as she stared at the features she had never hoped to see again—proud jaw, deep brown eyes, perfectly sculpted cheekbones. But the man was too short, the proportions were just slightly wrong, and his expression was confused, as though he had never walked these halls before, hadn’t spent his entire adult life guarding them.
To an unknown observer, he was just another slave in a long line. To Leena, the woman who loved Mikza with all of her heart, he was an imposter.
As the man drifted closer, Leena couldn’t help herself. Muscles acting on their own accord, her hand snaked through the opening of the door and grabbed the imposter’s arm, yanking him inside the room. Slamming the door behind her, Leena charged the man, using all of her newfound courage to hold the knife to his throat.
“Who are you?” she accused, voice low and demanding. “What did you do to Mikza? Who are you? Did you know him? Why are you here?”
The questions came fast, hardly spaced out so they sounded more like one long word. But Leena’s mind was moving a mile a minute, Mikza’s bloody end jumping into the forefront of her thoughts.
The man looked scared at first, but then a complete sense of calm washed over his body, and he looked at Leena differently, with awe and respect, with curiosity.
The reaction just made Leena’s words come quicker, made them harsher. She pushed the knife deeper into the man’s throat, her own confusion making her anger spike, making her hurt turn more painful.
Then the man spoke.
“I do not understand.”
And the words came out in the language of Whylkin.
Leena’s eyes narrowed and she shoved herself closer, suspicion mounting. “You are not Ourthuri?” she asked, using the foreign tongue, something all Ourthuri royals were forced to learn.
“No.”
The response just confirmed the truth—even though he might look it, this man was not Mikza. Her Mikza was dead, body left in the throne room for the unmarked to clean, blood still seeping from his wounds. And whatever sorcery this man had used to steal Mikza’s face, Leena saw it as nothing but the deepest disrespect for her lost love.
“How do you wear that face?” She spat, pressing the knife even closer, indenting the man’s olive skin, surprised that she had not yet drawn blood.
The air before her rippled.
That was the only way Leena could describe it. As though the air were a still pond disrupted by a rock—it pulsed. The space blurred. And then Mikza’s face disappeared, replaced in the blink of an eye by that of a woman. Brown skinned, more red than that of an Ourthuri. Open, hopeful, honey eyes. Black hair cut coarsely short, like that of a boy. But her features were still graceful, supple in a feminine way.
Leena stepped back, dropping the knife in her surprise, dropping her jaw too.
Magic.
“I traveled with Prince Whylrhen,” the girl spoke in a rush, fighting to explain herself, “who came to the palace today to return four Ourthuri men that we found on a ship. One man, Mikzahooq, was very kind to me, and I borrowed the image of his body to sneak here to save the prince, who I believe your king is going to kill. I can sense the spirits around you. I can sense that you have magic too, and that it does not frighten you. I promise I did not come here with intention to hurt anyone, only to save the prince who has become a dear friend to me.”
As the words continued, Leena’s anger turned immediately to affection, surprising her with the swift change. This mysterious woman could be her mirror image. She was fighting to free her love, fighting King Razzaq, concealing a power that no one else could ever understand. At a basic level, they were exactly the same. And it was the first time in Leena’s life she had felt so close to another woman, so understood, so empathetic.
The realization of their connection constricted Leena’s heart, pulled it tight with a surge of warmth, and she processed the rest of the words. This woman had met Mikza, had spoken with him, had potentially comforte
d him in Leena’s absence. Tears began to silently slip down her cheeks, of gratitude, of longing, of grief. Leena brought her palms to her mouth, catching the whimpers tickling her throat.
And then she nodded.
Insufficient to convey the full spectrum of emotions she was feeling, but it was all Leena could offer. A simple sign of understanding, of shared awareness.
And then she found words, pushed them through her closed throat, heard them waver weakly in the air, and then stay there—strengthened by love. “He was kind? Mikza?”
The girl’s face softened and a slight smile pressed against her lips. “Yes, he told me about these islands, so foreign from my own home, and comforted me.”
Leena smiled. It sounded so like Mikza, like the gentle soul he showed only to her. Kindness was not accepted among the soldiers of Ourthuro, but for Mikza, there had been no other way. He could act the ruthless soldier, but in his heart, in the place Leena was so blessed to see, Mikza was soft, too soft for their harsh homeland.
The foreign woman kept speaking softly. “We were trying to help him, to bring him back to his family, but…”
“But what?” Leena asked, taking an unsteady breath. She had a feeling she knew what came next, and instantly her mind flashed to that night in the dungeons, the scars oozing on his back, the burns surrounding his wrists. All that physical pain, but in his eyes, Leena had only read love and the brutal burden of goodbye.
The girl shrugged, hesitant. Leena waited, not looking away, until the girl relented. “I do not believe he was very excited to return. I sensed that there was something here he missed, something that had been ripped from his side, leaving a gaping wound in his heart. But there was something he feared as well—or someone, maybe.”
Leena felt herself freeze, harden. Molten gold cooling to an unbending weapon, like the knife by her feet—sharp, determined. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, standing straighter as the memory of her final promise to Mikza burned in her chest—to bring the unchallenged King Razzaq to his knees, to destroy him with love.
“I know who he feared,” she whispered, tone like iron. “It is the same man we all fear, but cannot escape.”
“Who?” the girl asked.
Leena looked up, meeting those confused honey eyes, insides as jagged as ice. “King Razzaq…my father.” And then she picked her knife up off the ground, mind whirling as a plan seeped into her thoughts.
To run away.
Without Mikza, Leena assumed that she was trapped in this golden palace forever, doomed to suffer under her father’s reign for the rest of her life. Without Mikza to protect her, to keep her safe, how far could she really run? Where would she go all by herself, no skills, no knowledge of the world outside these walls, just a princess who had been pampered all her life?
But now a way out beckoned. And she was going to take it. No matter the cost. No matter how hard the road might be. After today, Leena couldn’t even think of her father without picturing Mikza’s vacant face, pressed against the floor, dead. And she could not set eyes on her king again without knowing that soon the nightmare would be over, soon she would be gone, and soon it would be her turn to hurt him.
Maybe they were more alike than she cared to realize. But Leena wanted to think that she at least had justice on her side, even if a small thrill filled her heart at the thought of her father destroyed.
“I will help you save your prince,” Leena said, pausing for a split second before pushing herself onward, finding the strength deep within herself to fight. “But only if you can promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Protection,” Leena said, releasing the word like a sigh, heavy and full of hope. Slowly, she lifted her hands, taking off her crown, removing her armor as the chain-link veil slipped below her face, baring her features and emotions to the world. She wanted this girl to understand the truth, wanted her to read the depth of the hatred in her soul. “I cannot stay here with that man anymore. No matter what it takes, I am finding a way out, and when I do, I will need protection and a safe place to live where he cannot touch me. If your prince can help hide me, then I will help save his life.”
Even if the girl could not make such promises for the prince, Leena would help save him, just as she had planned. He was brave. He reminded her of Mikza. And he deserved to be set free.
Still though, a weight lifted free of her shoulders when the girl grinned full across her face. “My prince has a special liking for saving people,” she assured, tone laced with strength. “He will help you. I swear it.”
Leena couldn’t smother her own grin. “Then use your magic to change your clothes to match mine, and follow me.”
Securing the golden crown and its metal veil back over her features, Leena jumped into the hallway, wrapping the persona of the wounded princess securely around her—all the while relishing in the strength bubbling in her gut.
Together, they raced down empty corridors, moving between endless rows of towering columns, filtering between gold reflections and ebony shadows, the two different faces of her city.
Da’astiku, Leena thought, picturing the city below her and all of the people who filled it. Olive-skinned like her. Branded like her. Trapped like her. Somehow betraying the king didn’t feel the same as betraying her people—it almost felt like saving them.
As they rounded the final corner, a turquoise pool and the unmoving prince beside it slipped into view. Leena breathed a sigh of relief—they had made it in time. Yes, the prince was still unconscious and bound, but that was better than dead.
Quickly, she grabbed the foreign girl around the waist, holding her back from charging in without a plan. Placing a finger before her lips to signal silence, Leena eased the girl around the wide column until her prince came into view.
“They are going to drown him,” Leena whispered, repeating words she had overheard while following the guards, “to make it look like an accident, as though he died in a shipwreck.”
“How can we save him?” the girl asked, voice strained, concerned.
Leena just smirked. Finally, after so many empty promises and so many hours of biting her tongue, Leena was going to act. A princess of Ourthuro was going to fight back, was going to defy her king. “I create a scene, something my king will love, and while I do, you grab the body. Can you only change your image or can you mask other things as well?”
The girl paused, and then a wicked smirk spread her lips. “I can mask other things as well.”
“Then do it, and meet me back here.”
And before Leena could lose her courage, she stepped into the light. Forcing her feet to carry her confidently forward, Leena made her way toward the circle of guards talking quietly to each other, watching the unconscious man from afar.
The closer she stepped, the more her buried rage pushed itself to the surface. Before she knew it, Leena was running, crashing into one of the guards, pounding her fists against his solid metal chest, and cursing his name.
“You killed him,” she shouted and it felt good to lose control, to stop playing the princess and to let every single smothered emotion make itself known with the beat of her hands. “Mikza was one of you and you killed him. All of you. By doing nothing but just standing there, by throwing the very spear that pierced his chest. You killed him!”
Her voice rose, growing more accusing, more pained.
The men circled her, unsure of how to respond. It was against the law to touch a princess, to mishandle her, but Leena was a wild animal uncaged for the first time. Taking turns, spinning on her heels, she let her emotions out on every one of those guards—every one except the final one, who she realized at the last moment was Tam.
Leena paused, breathing heavily, wanting to maintain the distraction, to keep screaming and shouting, to just let it all go. But she wouldn’t do that to Tam. Not when she knew he was hurting just as much as she.
“Princess,” he said softly, warmly, too friendly in the presence of other people.
But just as she opened her mouth to keep the charade going, the echo of boots filtered down the hall.
Leena spun.
More guards were marching forward, and Leena knew that could only mean one thing, her father was on his way, ready to enact his cruel and twisted justice. The prince had run out of time. She had run out of time.
As if sensing her distress, Tam stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Does the princess require an escort back to her rooms?”
Leena smiled, grateful, but also sorry. Because she was going to accept his offer, only Tam didn’t realize what he was truly inviting himself into. But Leena knew she and the foreign girl would need all the help they could get, and Tam was the only hope of aid they had.
“Thank you,” she whispered, torn even knowing it was necessary, and accepted his hand.
As they left the group, Leena’s gaze drifted to the side, heart sinking. The Whylkin prince was still an immobile heap on the ground, still bound, still unconscious. Where was the girl? Had she succeeded? Was it just an illusion? Or had Leena failed, again?
All those questions formed a knot in her stomach, but as they neared the edge of the room, everything changed.
Leena stepped through an invisible threshold. The prince disappeared, simply blinked out of existence. Beside her, Tam gasped, but Leena quickly jumped to cover his mouth, pushing his shocked body behind a column and silencing him.
Waiting for them was the girl, breathing heavily, sweat dripping off her brow. But the prince was at her feet, saved.
“Tam, please, you must be silent.”
Below her palm, he nodded. Leena closed her eyes tight, nerves pinching, but she chose to trust in her friend. Slowly, she pulled her hand from his lips. Tam remained silent, but the confusion in his eyes spoke volumes.
“I know this doesn’t make any sense, but I have to do it, Tam. My father can’t get away with everything, and I feel in my gut that this prince is important, that letting him free could change the world. And I’m hoping you will help me.”
Leena's Story - The Complete Novellas (A Dance of Dragons Book 4) Page 6