But Ali didn’t think his brother a coward. In fact, after finding Muntadhir in the dungeon, Ali was pretty sure his brother was one of the bravest people he knew.
Ali had gone to the dungeon as soon as he knew Nahri was okay, surrounded by a ring of friends and Subha on her way. He hadn’t gone alone—Jamshid had insisted on accompanying him, and as the two descended into the grim bowels of the palace dungeon, coming upon cells packed with Manizheh’s rotting enemies, Ali had never been so grateful not to be alone. It was an awful scene—a testament to Manizheh’s brutality as much as the pulverized neighborhoods above and the mass grave of half-burned Geziri remains they’d uncovered in the arena were.
There had been familiar faces among the prisoners, scholars and ministers and nobles Ali had known growing up, names for the rising list of the dead. And as he and Jamshid ventured deeper, Ali had started to lose what remained of his composure, begging God that he wasn’t going to find the bodies of his murdered brother and sister.
He hadn’t, a mercy Ali would be grateful for every day of his life. They’d discovered Zaynab first, locked away but unharmed—part of Manizheh apparently still pragmatic enough that she’d kept her most valuable hostage alive.
Zaynab had thrown herself into Ali’s arms, clutching him so tight it hurt. “I knew you’d come back,” she’d whispered. “I knew it.”
Muntadhir had been a different story.
When they’d finally found his brother’s cell and broken open the door, Ali had been convinced Muntadhir was dead. The smell of decay and bodily filth was so thick on the air, Ali could barely breathe. And when he’d spotted the emaciated man chained and slumped against the gray stone wall, it seemed impossible that it was his charming, seemingly untouchable older brother. Bruises, scars, and open weeping wounds had covered Muntadhir’s grimy skin, a stained cloth barely clinging to his hips. His brother had collapsed as much as his shackles would allow him, his arms held over his head at a painful angle. His hair was overgrown, matted black curls plastered across his face.
At Ali’s side, Jamshid had let out a low cry, and so Ali had ventured in first, trying to spare him as much pain as possible. Muntadhir hadn’t reacted when Ali touched his neck, but Ali had been relieved to find a pulse. And when he had gently called his brother’s name, Muntadhir had stirred, his chains rattling as he’d blinked open his lone eye.
And then he’d shrieked. He’d wailed that Ali was dead and had been replaced by a demon, jerking back from Jamshid’s touch as well when his lover rushed across the cell. Muntadhir had started slamming his head into the wall, weeping and sobbing that the two men before him were a “Nahid trick.”
Ali had been beside himself. He’d challenged Tiamat and traveled the currents of the world, but watching his big brother fall apart, he’d suddenly felt so small. So useless.
So Jamshid had stepped in.
The Baga Nahid had carefully taken Muntadhir’s hands, healing him as he brushed his fingers along Muntadhir’s dirt-caked skin and eased him out of the shackles. “It’s me, Emir-joon,” he’d assured him softly. “Just me, no tricks.” He’d kissed the tips of Muntadhir’s fingers. “You woke me like this after I’d been shot, do you remember? You said you were so afraid of hurting me that you knew not where else to touch.”
At that Muntadhir had stopped fighting. Instead, he’d pressed his face into Jamshid’s shoulder, crying even harder. “I thought you were dead,” he’d sobbed. “I thought you were all dead.”
And fancy eye patch and jesting smile aside, Ali still saw that man when he looked at Muntadhir now, his brother clearly trying to convince his younger siblings he was fine. Ali had learned the hard way how talented Muntadhir was at hiding his true self, even from those he loved.
Ali reached out now, gripping his brother’s hand. “It’s not cowardly, Dhiru. Not at all.”
“I have money set aside,” Zaynab said softly. “Enough to buy you a house in the Geziri Quarter.”
“I’m not moving to the Geziri Quarter,” Muntadhir replied. “Jamshid … he said I could stay with him for a bit. He has the space, and we’ve always been close …” His brother seemed to stumble over the words, the story he must have practiced.
Oh, ahki … Ali bit his lip, aching to speak freely. But he didn’t know if Jamshid had told Muntadhir that his little brother knew about their relationship, and Ali felt like he’d lost the right to pry. Instead, he’d work to earn Muntadhir’s trust and let his brother choose when and how to share his confidences.
For now, Ali just squeezed his hand again. “That sounds like a great idea. I think it would be good for both of you.”
Muntadhir gave him a slightly guarded look, but there was a glimmer of hope there. “Thanks, Zaydi.” He leaned back on his elbows, the sunlight playing on his still pale face, and winked, a hint of mischief stealing into his expression. “Though you’re being very rude in failing to congratulate me on my latest personal accomplishment.”
“Which is?”
“Divorce.” Muntadhir sighed, sounding dreamy. “Ah, the sweet feeling of freedom and the world’s most ill-matched partnership going up in literal flames.”
“Yes,” Zaynab said sarcastically. “Because your marriage so clearly restrained you.”
“You and Nahri are divorced?” Ali asked. “It is … official?”
Muntadhir grinned and glanced at Zaynab. “I’m telling you—at least three times.”
Zaynab shook her head. “Just once. He’s definitely rash enough to have done it, but there’s no way he didn’t immediately fall apart into a
