New Cover + First Chapter!

We have a new cover! I’m in love with the gold detailing and hope you all love it, too!!

Another bit of news: the publication date has been pushed back a few weeks to July 20, 2021. I know you guys have been waiting so patiently for my book’s release (which I appreciate immensely!), but the pushback is due to reasons outside of my control. But, it does give you more time to preorder my book and hopefully leads to a bigger debut!

Preorders are really important for authors because it shows our publishers that people are interested in our books. This also helps authors get future book deals (like for a sequel!).

So please preorder!!

A bunch of people have also been asking me where the best site to preorder from is and the answer is directly from my publisher’s website! They do deliver internationally, as well, but if you’re having trouble ordering, feel free to email me, reach out via my website contact form, or DM me on Twitter. And if you preorder, fill out this form for some pretty artwork!

Now for the fun part: the first chapter of THE LADY OR THE LION! If you haven’t read the prologue, “The Trial”, yet, head over to Chasing Faerytales, then come back and read below.

CHAPTER 1

Durkhanai Miangul heard the bell echoing throughout the mountains.

Her hand lay atop her grandmother’s, the Wali of S’vat, whose hand lay atop her grandfather’s, the Badshah of Marghazar. Together, they three had rung the bell to alert the tribespeople of foreign entrance into their land.

For the first time in centuries, the capital city of Safed-Mahal was opening its doors to foreigners, those from their neighboring districts.  

Coming to harm her family. 

The sound resonated through the mountains, in cacophony with crows crying. It was said that crows brought visitors with them, and as a child, Durkhanai was always excited to see who would visit her castle in the clouds. 

But today, she knew the visitors would bring turmoil. While entrance throughout Marghazar was permissible, sparingly, for trade, entrance into the capital Safed-Mahal had been forbidden for centuries.

Until now. 

“It is done,” Agha-Jaan said, his old face flushed florid from the wind. 

“Yes, jaanan,” Dhadi said somberly. “Now we prepare.”

Durkhanai was clad in a pistachio-green lehenga choli, her ears and neck dripping emeralds and pearls encased in pure gold. The ensemble made her eyes more green than blue and her skin a soft brown. Beside her, her grandparents were dressed in bottle green; her grandfather in a sherwani, her grandmother in a silk sari. 

Maroon-red mehndi covered Durkhanai’s hands in flowery details of blooming roses. Her curly hair was swept up in an updo with ringlets framing her face in front of her dupatta, which sat atop her head and fell down one shoulder.

She was the essence of a princess, but she would need to be more to protect her people. 

It was the beginning of April, when the world cracked open its shell to let greens and pinks begin to spool out. The weather was softer, warmer. 

Up in the bell tower, there was no spring; wind slapped her cold on both cheeks, turning her nose numb.

From here, she saw the great expanse of lands she was heir to; the jewels of the earth. The palace was on the side of the mountain, with views of both the empty valleys and the populated ones. 

On one populated mountain, she saw two waterfalls, and while ordinarily the glittering water brought her peace, today the two holes punctured in the mountain flowed water like eyes flowing with tears. In the distance of the unpopulated lands, she could almost see the blue-green S’vat river which protected them in the north from the Kebzu Kingdom. 

Now, for the first time, they would need protection from those within their lands.

Ya Khuda, protect us, she prayed.

They waited for the bell to quiet, the valley to turn silent. Then, hand in hand, her grandparents made their way to the door to head back down to the palace below. 

“Come,” Agha-Jaan motioned for her to come.

“Just a moment longer,” she responded. “I want to make dua.”

Her grandfather nodded, allowing her solace, and she was alone. 

“Ya Allah,” she prayed. “You are the Protector of all people, so please, protect my people. Bless us, forgive us, let no harm come to us. Ameen.” 

She blew onto all her lands, the homes that dotted the mountains, praying her people and her country would stay safe from those who were coming.

“I will protect you,” she promised her people. It was her sacred duty. With a final glance, she went back down to her palace, to prepare.

A banquet had been arranged for the ambassadors, and Durkhanai had to change to get ready for it. The defenses were up, but their greatest defense was their behavior; they had to act absolutely unbothered by any of this and entirely innocent—which they were. 

They were to be kind—but with an undercurrent of cruelty. 

As Durkhanai walked to her rooms, she noticed a man walking alone in her hall, his fingers dancing along the windowsill. She paused, blinking. 

Who was he? More importantly, what was he doing here?

Durkhanai approached until she stood beside him. Noting her presence, he turned and smiled at her, his black eyes molten and warm, hiding a thousand emotions and layers. 

“And you are?” she prompted.

He smiled an easy smile. 

“Ambassador Asfandyar of the Afridi tribe of Jardum,” he said. His deep voice was stone: ragged and solid. “Pleased to meet you.”

He lowered his head with respect, but a smirk tugged at his lips. Durkhanai frowned. 

From what she knew, the Jardum people were courageous and rebellious. They were good fighters who were pragmatic in picking their battles and making alliances. 

She didn’t even know him, but she knew he would be trouble.

Sudden anger flashed through her; she had known the foreigners were coming, but now that they were here, in her home, the irritation was thrice folded. And in her halls! 

This would not do.

“How pleasing indeed for you, Ambassador,” she said, voice clipped, “that such an egregious occasion has arisen to force Marghazar’s hand into welcoming your sorry hides into our pure lands.”

He met her glare with an easy half-smile, nearly laughing.

“Forced your hand?” he drawled. “And here we were under the assumption the mighty Marghazari couldn’t be forced to anything.”

Her breath caught. She had slipped. 

She had let her temper get the better of her when she knew she was supposed to be fawning over the ambassadors with sweetness to prove her grandfather’s innocence. Her cheeks burned.

Worse still, he had twisted her words and was looking at her like she was as non-threatening as a child. It tore at the insecurity deep within her that told her she would only be a pretty little fool: beloved, yet useless.

Decorum be damned. In that moment, she felt less the sweet rose petals and more the deadly thorns. 

“Haven’t you any manners?” she asked, a bite to the words. She had never been anything but loved and adored, and the way he looked at her made her heart freeze over. “You will speak to your princess with respect, Ambassador, lest I have to cut off your tongue.”

“Princess?” 

He raised a brow, mock surprised. He cocked his head to the side, looking at her intently. She wanted to point out that she was, in fact, dressed as one, and how daft he must truly be to not realize, but she refrained from doing so. Instead, she lifted her chin.

She felt small, somehow, even though she was far from it; with her tall stature, she was used to commanding the space around her. But somehow, this man was looking at her as if she was as clear and thin as water.

One look at her was proof enough that she was born of the mountains and the rivers: eyes blue-green, her hair as wild as the rustling trees. Soft brown skin like golden earth, she was solid like a tree, but she had the silken stream of the river and the contours of the valleys. 

She knew she was beautiful; she twisted her lips.

“Be careful where those eyes travel, Ambassador,” she said, saying ambassador like an insult. “People have been blinded for less.”

“You may blind me, but the truth we shall still see,” he said. Whatever humor he had granted her before was gone. Now his voice was somber. 

Durkhanai furrowed her brows. This was usually the part where people lowered their heads, excusing themselves. No one liked to be on the receiving end of the Shehzadi’s temper. 

Yet Asfandyar took a step closer, meeting her gaze head on with a blazing one of his own. 

“What, precisely, is that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

“I was at the summit,” he said, face hard. 

So it was a threat.

Durkhanai did not even bother to check for a nearby guard; she knew no one would have the audacity to hurt her in her own palace.

The summit had been organized by the Wali of Teerza, who had invited the walis and advisors of the other four zillas—or districts—of the mountains to discuss a treaty of unification: To join the tribespeople of all five zillas into one united nation. 

The Badshah was adamantly against the idea. Independence was integral to their culture. The other zillas believed in this as well, but with increasing pressure from the Lugham Empire in the east and south, the Wali of Teerza had managed to get four of the five zillas to agree to at least begin negotiation of unification. 

That is, until the explosion.

And seeing as Marghazar was the only zilla absent, all fingers were pointed to her home.

“I witnessed the explosion, heard the screams,” Asfandyar continued. “I saw the blood and the bones; those leaders were not merely your so-called enemies but my colleagues. Moreover, they were mothers and fathers, wives and husbands. They were close confidantes and friends. They were people. And if Marghazar truly was responsible for such carnage—well, then the butchery will be repaid in kind.”

“Was that a threat? Don’t forget your place, Ambassador.”

He smiled that easy smile again. 

“I assure you, Shehzadi,” he said, turning her title of princess into the insult. “I know my place quite well.”

“Then you know this is my palace and my land, and I can have you killed in a variety of ways without having even a single strand of hair coming undone.”

Unfazed, he tsked. “That’s thrice you’ve threatened me. Where is your hospitality?”

She pressed her teeth together and said nothing. He drew closer.

“Anyhow, your threats are empty,” he said, close enough to touch. “For if you kill me, you will have the war you so delicately prevented. I assure you my life is very dear to the Wali of Jardum.”

It was true; the only reason the ambassadors from the other zillas were even invited to Marghazar was to buy the Badshah time to prove his innocence so that war could be avoided. It was a gesture of good faith.

Her threats were empty. But something turned in Durkhanai’s mind as she recalled. The Wali of Jardum was Shirin of Khwaja, a young Wali who had inherited the zilla when her mother was killed at the summit attack.

She looked at Asfandyar then, how handsome and young he himself was, not yet twenty. Her smile was sugar honey sweet but laced with poison.

“I didn’t realize they were sending the Wali’s whores as ambassadors now,” she said matter-of-factly, more than a little bit proud of herself.

Asfandyar offered her a smile just as sweet.

“Of course that’s why they sent me,” he responded coolly. “We had heard whores were the only company you kept.”

Durkhanai couldn’t help her mouth from falling open.

Her entire face scrunched with anger, but before she could react further, he tapped her forehead lightly, where her eyebrows were pinched together.

“I wouldn’t hold that face for long,” he laughed. “It might get stuck that way—and what a shame it would be to ruin such lovely features, Shehzadi.”

Her fingers curled into little fists, her long nails piercing skin. She didn’t know what to say, but before she could, a boyish grin split his face, setting dimples deep into his cheeks. 

How could he turn from grief-stricken and furious to nonchalant and amused so quickly? Surely, there was something curious about such control over one’s emotions.

“Excuse me, but I have important matters to attend to,” he said, bowing his head with respect and walking away, shoulders relaxed, chin high. 

She watched him go, wanting to throw a dagger into his broad back. He must have sensed her watching, for he looked over his shoulder and winked. 

Unbelievable!

It was only when her servants surfaced in the hallway that Durkhanai was swept back to reality.

“Shehzadi,” one of her maids called. “Your bath has been prepared.”

Releasing a measured breath, Durkhanai entered her bathing room, where the tub was filled with warm honeyed milk. Her maids undressed her, then scrubbed her skin with milk cream until she was soft and smooth. Then she transferred to a second tub filled with rose water. All the while, Asfandyar’s face lingered in her mind, his words playing over and over: They were people.

Surely, such a loss was tragic, but it was not her grandfather’s fault. Her family was innocent, and she would prove as much.  

After she was clean, she went to her dressing room to see an elaborate, draping suit.

The folds of the brocade lehenga were thick with embroidery, crystal stones, emeralds, and cutwork. The peplum top held the same heavy work, as did the dupatta. It was more ostentatious than anything she had ever worn. Spread beside it were what must be half her weight in jewels and gold: twenty-four chudiyan for each arm, rings for almost each finger, dripping earrings, a wide necklace, thick anklets. 

It was florid and ornate, and while she and her grandfather usually adored the extravagant, this was excessive to make a point; it showed the wealth of the capital Safed-Mahal, the zilla S’vat, to foreigners. The power of the Ranizais tribe and the Miangul family.

The might of the Badshah of Marghazar and his crown princess.

Durkhanai straightened her back and raised her chin. She was the daughter of the mountains and river S’vat. She was a princess to this valley and the purest tribe. 

She would not let a lowly ambassador faze her.