The wind felt cold and unforgiving; its cruel tendrils enveloped Nazmi's pale skin, ushering a wave of shivers down her body. Desert nights were equally as inhospitable as desert days, the low temperatures mirroring the hot ones. Although they had teleported back to the Red Moon, the walk to the palace still felt long and agonizing.
A woman in mourning was hardly a woman at all.
Samir, although typically out of his depth when it came to emotions, understood the feeling of loss very well. He had never felt particularly attached to his blood family, but he had held the sorrow of losing his sworn brother for decades – and the weight of his friend's absence never lifted from his chest. Seeing Nazmi swallowed by that all-too-familiar agony was enough to boil the Third Prince's blood.
