IMARA'S POV
The pacing was starting to wear on me.
Nisha had circled the room so many times that I was surprised her slippers hadn't left scorch marks in the stone. She kept muttering to herself, fragmented fears and half-baked strategies, none of them useful. I sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed, trying not to let her anxiety infect me, but it was a losing battle.
"Imara," she said, voice taut, "we need something, anything. If we go into the next trial blind again—"
A knock interrupted her. Finally.
I stood and moved toward the door, lifting a hand to still her frantic motion. "That must be him."
I cracked it open just enough to see the figure in the hallway. A young man stood there in a plain brown tunic, leather bag slung across his shoulder. He was tall, lean, and carried himself like someone trained to be invisible.
Before I could speak, a voice stopped me.
"Tariq?"
The name was soft, disbelieving, and filled with something I didn't expect; grief.
