He did not want his grandfather to die, did not want to marry a stranger, did not want to

father a child, did not want to lead an empire. This was the secret he seldom shared
even with himself—that he did not want this life. It was hard
enough when his father had died, but Kamran couldn't even begin to imagine a world
without his grandfather. He did not think he was good enough to lead an empire alone,
and he did not know who he might rely upon instead. Sometimes he wasn't even sure
he could trust Hazan.
Instead, Kamran had distracted himself with his anger, had allowed his mind to focus on
the irritations of the Fesht boy, the false face of a servant girl. The truth was that he'd
been forced to return home against his will and was now running from himself, from the
counterintuitive burden of privilege, from the responsibilities laid upon his shoulders. In
moments like these he'd always consoled himself with the reassurance that he was at
least a capable soldier, a competent leader⠀”but today had disproven even that. For
what good was a leader who could not even trust his own instincts?
Kamran had been bested by this servant girl.
Not only had she proven him wrong on all counts, she'd proven him worse. When she'd
finally appeared in the alley behind Baz House, he'd recognized her at once⠀”but had
the privilege now of inspecting her more closely. Right away he noticed the angry cut at
her throat, and from there he followed the elegant lines of her neck, the delicate slope of
her shoulders. For the second time that day he noticed the way she carried herself; how
different she seemed from other servants. There was a gracefulness even in the way
she held her head, the way she drew her shoulders back, the way she'd tilted her face
up at the sun.
Kamran did not understand.
If not a spy or society girl, she might perhaps be the fallen
daughter of a gentleman, or even the bastard child of one; such circumstances might
explain her elegant carriage and knowledge of Feshtoon. But for a well-educated child
of a noble to have fallen this low? He thought it unlikely. The scandals in high society
were most everyone's business, and such a person in his aunt's employ would
doubtless have been known to him.
Then again, it was hard to be certain of anything.
In vain he'd fought for a better look at her face and was given instead only a mouth to
study. He'd stared at her lips for longer than he cared to admit, for reasons that were not
lost on him. Kamran had arrived at the frightening realization that this girl might be
beautiful—a thought so unexpected it nearly distracted him from his purpose. When
she suddenly bit her lip, he drew a breath, startling himself.
She seemed worried.
He watched as she searched the alley, all the while clutching a small parcel to her
chest. Kamran remembered what Omid had said about her hands, peered closer, and
was dealt at once a powerful blow to his pride, to his fragile conscience. The girl's hands
were so damaged he could see the injuries even from his distant vantage point. Her
skin was painful to look at. Red. Blistered. Raw.
Without a doubt the hands of a servant.