Soraya knelt before a small altar to Mithra, the skirt of her dress tucked beneath her and her lips moving in forming the prayers. The small alcove that housed this particular altar was not one of the more popular ones in the temple. It was a minor sanctum, located in a quiet corner of the temple complex. The Azar-Atash temple complex was the largest of its kind in all of Parthia, and its magnificence equaled its size. Each of the four great temples towered like mountains over hundreds of smaller shrines and innumerable tiny altars such as this one. Soraya preferred the smaller altars, the ones so unassuming and decrepit that they had fallen into disuse. Inside the sanctum, it seemed peaceful no matter how horrifying the world outside was.

The squat, stone structure couldn’t have fit more than three worshippers lined up in a row, and the heat inside was somehow even worse than standing directly under the burning sun’s gaze. Soraya ignored the sweat running down the back of her neck and continued to recite the old words.

She had never been devout, nor had she ever truly believed in the gods. If there was one thing that Soraya had learned growing up in the palace, it was that the gods were beings who existed for the sole purpose of being useful to the Parthian emperor. The al-Hassan family was descended from Fereydun, chosen warrior of Mithra and conqueror of the daevas. In the nearly eight-hundred-year history of her family’s rule, the magis and the priests had never betrayed or abandoned the emperor.

Until now, at least.

Technically, she supposed, they were still loyal to the al-Hassan dynasty; only, they wished for her to be empress in Roshani’s place. Still, it was unprecedented, the priests turning against Nishapur and rebuking the woman who was, for all intents and purposes, empress of Parthia.

Soraya picked up the small bronze bowl set on the ground beside her. She reached inside it and her hand closed around a handful of Jasmine. The sweet, heady scent of the flower filled the small space as Soraya flung the small white petals over Mithra’s statue.

It was a beautiful sculpture, intricately carved from shining bronze and copper. The god stood in a pose of confidence, his feet firmly planted and his chin jutting outwards. In his left hand, he raised a burning torch, his invincible weapon against all darkness. According to the legends, he’d been born holding that same torch held aloft. Soraya had always been appalled by that story when she’d been younger, thinking of the young god’s poor mother. That was before she’d understood that gods weren’t born, not in the same way that mortals were.

Soraya took two more handfuls of jasmine and let the petals fall to the ground around the statue.

Her mother would have liked it here; the wide open spaces, the art and beauty everywhere you looked. Soraya desperately tried to push the thoughts away, but they came anyway. Her heart ached, physically ached, inside her chest. She had abandoned her mother in that place, in that palace which she’d once called home but was now a prison. The last moments of that night kept replaying in her head over and over. The night the shah had been killed and everything had been turned upside-down.

“The magis will protect you,” her mother had said, pushing Soraya into the arms of two anxious-looking priests. The priests pressed against a brick and the wall had opened up, revealing a hidden passage.

“Come with me,” Soraya had begged. She remembered the screams from outside the chamber slowly growing louder, and footsteps, violent footsteps, pounding against the floor.

Her mother had shaken her head. She held Kasra, Soraya’s new brother, in her arms, rocking him slowly even as she spoke.

“I have to stay with Kasra,” she‘d said. “He’ll give us away if he wakes up, and I can’t-“ Her mother paused, took a long, deep breath. “I won’t leave him.” Soraya had felt an inexplicable burst of hurt at those words, however little sense it made. An ugly urge inside her had wished for them to abandon Kasra and escape together, to safety.

In the end, she’d let the priests drag her away. She didn’t know what she was more ashamed of- that she’d let her mother stay, or that she’d wished she’d gone, even if it meant abandoning her brother.

Soraya heard footsteps and was already looking towards the entrance when Shapur appeared in the doorway. The magi looked disheveled, as he always did, with a lazily wrapped turban covering his curly hair and no shoes upon his feet. Soraya wondered how he didn’t burn his feet on the hot stone ground when heated up under the sun. She supposed one grew calluses eventually, but still.

“Your grace,” He said, bowing at the waist. “Farnaz has ordered the mobedin to assemble immediately. There are many matters to discuss.”

Soraya pursed her lips, her brow furrowing. Farnaz was taking a good amount of authority when it came to important matters- perhaps too much. Soraya was grateful for the woman’s support, yet a dark feeling rose in her chest at the thought of her taking too much power. Even if she was a magi, Soraya was the one who would take the throne. The mobedin should have respected that…

“I will be there in ten minutes,” Soraya replied. “I’m not finished with my prayers to Mithra.” Let Farnaz wait- the woman needed to understand the limits to her power.

She turned back toward the statue of Mithra, closing her eyes to concentrate. Shapur hesitated for a moment, but she then heard his footsteps as he left her to herself. Soraya inhaled deeply, trying hard to calm her mind. She closed clasped her hands together and focused only on breathing. Not on the war she was fighting and losing, not on the priests and magis arguing around her, not on all of the people depending on her. Only her breath mattered now. In and out, slowly and deeply, again and again until she felt a modicum of calm return to her. Slowly, she loosened her shoulders, letting out a shaky breath.

“Are you alright?”

Soraya whipped her head around at the sound of the voice. A young acolyte stood toward the back of the shrine, dressed in dull red robes and clutching a broom made of reeds. The upkeep and maintenance of the temple grounds was usually pushed on to the young priest-in-training, and the sight of them sweeping dust away from old, unused altars was common in Azar-Atash.

Soraya blinked at the acolyte, recognition suddenly dawning on her. It was the indignant Turani thief, the one who had delivered her ominous message of monsters and destruction- Dahsna, that was her name. Dashna, her short dark hair and wideset eyes, took another few steps forward to stand before Soraya.

“I am fine,” Soraya replied. She must have appeared troubled during her prayer. She arched a brow at the former thief, curious. Though Soraya had spared her life, they had not exactly parted on good terms in that catacomb of treasures. “And you- how have the priests been treating you?”

Dashna’s expression soured. “The same way they treat all acolytes- like servants always available to do their chores and obligations.” She paused, seeming to catch her harsh tone. Suddenly she dropped down to her knees, pressing her forehead to the floor. “I realize I did not thank you for sparing me from execution. I owe you my life.” She rose to a sitting position, and met Soraya’s gaze with an urgent expression. “But your majesty, sending messengers to Turan is not enough. They may not make it out alive, and by the time they do return it will be too late. You must send help to the desert now.”

Soraya hesitated to answer, choosing her words carefully. “I appreciate your gratitude,” she replied. “But I have done all I can for your cause. I have bigger worries. I have a war to fight, and to win.”

That answer did not please Dashna at all. Her pleading eyes quickly darkened, her expression growing stern.

“And why is this war so important?” she retorted. “The throne? What makes you more qualified than your siblings? You are only the youngest and weakest of the royal children, with hardly any experience in ruling. So why you?”

Soraya tensed. She could have higher ranked subjects than Dashna killed instantly for such brazen comments. Her voice was full of pure contempt and disrespect, her eyes bright with a challenge. But Soraya couldn’t find it in her to exact punishment. Hadn’t the very same question had been haunting her ever since she arrived at this temple? Didn’t she doubt herself much more than Dashna did?

Soraya took a deep breath and closed her eyes, before opening them again. “This war is important because it will determine the fate of the empire,” she said slowly, purposefully. “Since the beginning, the Parthian empire’s history has been written in blood and violence. It’s been ruled by battle-hungry generals like my brother, by vicious manipulators like my sister.” She paused, squaring her shoulders. “And it has been ruled by cruel despots like my father. It is time for a change. I must become empress, Dashna. I have to do it for the sake of the empire and its people. Do you understand that?”

Dashna’s anger softened somewhat, her tense posture relaxing. However, the grim and defiant glint in her eyes remained. She met Soraya’s gaze head on.

“You say you do it for the sake of the people,” she said. “The Turani people are Parthians too, in spite of the way your family’s dynasty has mistreated us. If what you say is true, then prove it. Help us.”

“Your grace.”

Dashna and Soraya both turned to the shrine’s entrance. Shapur bowed his head, then met Soraya’s gaze urgently. “The mobedin is growing impatient, your grace. They’ve sent me to bring you to the meeting.”

Soraya’s lips twitched into a small scowl. More appropriate to say that Farnaz was growing impatient- none of the other priests would have dared to tell her she was making them wait.

“Very well.” Soraya stood to her feet. She spared one more glance for Dashna. She was grateful for the interruption because she knew that Dashna was right in many ways. She knew that the Parthian empire had mistreated Dashna’s people for all these centuries, had looked down upon them for their lineage. But she was still helpless to do anything to help them, not until she sat upon the throne.

“I appreciate your advice, Dashna, and I will keep it in mind,” Soraya told her. “But the war is my priority.”

She turned away before Dashna could glare at her, following Shapur out of the shrine.