AYASHA'S POV
"Breathe," Elder Prince Mingan said, his voice cutting through the fog in my head. "Just breathe, Ayasha."
I tried. The air felt like water in my lungs, thick and wrong. My hands were still shaking, and I couldn't stop staring at the boy who wore my dead brother's face.
"Sit down," Mingan said again, firmer this time.
I couldn't move. The room was spinning too fast, and every time I blinked, I saw Tariq standing there instead of this stranger. The same eyes. The same jawline. Even the way he tilted his head when he was confused.
"Who is he?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mingan moved closer, his expression shifting from concern to something more calculating. "What do you mean, child?"
The question hit me wrong. Too careful. Too measured. Like he was testing me.
I had been polite long enough. I had been patient long enough. I was tired of dancing around truths while my people were dying and my acquaintances were disappearing.
