Chapter 33 · No King Under the Sand

The ninth lamp didn't wait for permission.

It roared to life, flame the color of old blood, and every grain of sand in the chamber screamed Arlen's name. Not Alto. Arlen. The voices weren't asking anymore. They were demanding.

"Come take your kingdom back."

Arlen stood three feet from the lamp, Lira's knife still warm in his hand. She was behind him, breathing too fast, her father's name half-formed on her lips. Kael was on his knees by the seventh lamp, blood running from his ears. Shana had backed into the doorway, her eyes locked on Arlen like he'd just grown a second head.

The sand was moving. Not wind. The grains themselves, crawling across the stone floor toward the ninth lamp in thin silver rivers.

"Alto." Lira's voice cracked. "What is that?"

He didn't answer. The voices in the sand were layering over each other, a hundred dead Ashmar all saying his name, his rank, his old unit numbers. They knew him. Not the boy. The commander.

Kael coughed, spat red. "Sir, if that thing blows—"

"It won't." Arlen didn't know that. He said it anyway.

Shana laughed, sharp and bitter. "You don't get it, do you?