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“Even Nabila briefly seemed at a loss for words. When next she spoke, her voice had softened with confusion. "Even when you were trapped, our king did not return for you. He left you behind - and still you trust him?" Rijah nodded without hesitation. "Is that not what loyalty is? To believe in someone even when they have made a grave mistake? Our king trusted us the same way we trusted him.”

“I know what it's like to keep living after losing everything," she said softly. "It's like sinking in the Sandsea. You don't know when the end will come for if it will. And either way, it doesn't matter, because there is no reprieve. You just sink and sink..." Her breathing hitched. "Until someone pulls you out and gives you new purpose. But even then, the hole remains. You can build a new life around it, but it never fills. You continue living, but you never stop sinking.”

“Loulie frowned. "Is something wrong, ya sayyid?" The hunter flushed. "Forgive me, merchant. You are younger than I expected." Loulie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She knew it was not just a matter of youth. Men were praised for being successful at a young age, but a successful woman was a perplexing puzzle. Most men did not know how to respond to her confidence. She raised a brow. "No, forgive me. I should not have spoke so sharply to a child.”

“Family. That was the word that came to mind as Loulie took in the domestic scene. It gripped her heart like a vise, made it difficult to breathe. She had become accustomed to - preferred - living a solitary life, but it was easier to forget what she had lost in the cities, where the families were scattered and hidden. Sitting around this campfire, she could see the interconnectedness of the lives around her - and she could see herself sitting in the heart of the web, adrift.”

“Perhaps someday, she would find the confidence to reject Ahmed bin Walid outright and stop hoping for something that tore her heart in two. But - the thought of losing her connection with him was just as terrifying as putting name to it in the first place. She'd always told herself it was easier to walk away from someone when she buried her feelings for them; she couldn't lose anyone she didn't commit herself to.”

“Once, when Mazen had been a child, he'd asked his mother if the stories she told were truth or fiction. Many years later, he still remembered her answer. "Every story is a memory," she had once said. "A tale that happened neither here nor there, but in another time and place. Our job as storytellers is to describe that reality as we understand it. It is the listen who must determine what is and is not." He remembered the way her voice had fallen to a whisper as she spoke, as if she were sharing some precious secret with him. "Remember, Mazen, there is no such thing as a single truth. There are just the stories we tell others, and the ones we tell ourselves.”

“I think the war between humans and jinn never ended. Humans blame the jinn for the barrenness of the land, and the jinn blame humans for their sunken cities. I think both of our worlds are dying, in different ways, because they are divided. In the absence of the truth, people make up their own stories. That is why there is so much hatred. That is why, even now, jinn blood paints the human desert and ifrit like Nabila pray for war. You know as well as I that there are people who do not believe in those stories - people who are caught in the middle that only wish for peace. But when we think about war, we forget about those people. We forget that there might be an alternative to violence.”