Obsidian: Awakening

For my husband and children
who taught me love.



This book is a work of fiction. OBSIDIAN
Names, characters, places, and inci- AWAKENING
dents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to ac-
tual persons, living or dead, events,
or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Sienna Frost
Edited by Kyle Robertson

All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be reproduced or used in
any manner without written per-
mission of the copyright owner ex-
cept for the use of quotations in a
book review.

ISBN: 978-616-588-112-8



Some things are
deadly when broken...

The heart of Obsidian lies in this sen-
tence. Obsidian breaks sharper than any other
materials and must first be broken to form a
deadly weapon.

This series is, therefore, a story of broken
people who have been forged by life into dan-
gerous weapons to survive. It is also a story
based on many forms of love and how far we,
as humans, will go for love, be it the love of
freedom, of an ideal, of pride, of our home-
land, of a child, a husband, a wife, a parent,
or those closest to our hearts.

The brutality of this story has been writ-
ten for the sole purpose of proving that violence,
discrimination, racism, and slavery have no
place in this world, that no one ever truly wins
in wars, and no true heroes are ever made in
an act of killing. The objective of this book is
not to offer hope, it is to show that we all have
the strength to prevail in the absence of hope,
that even if the world does not improve, we
have the power to change it, little by little, if
we choose to let go of our hatred and prejudice,
little by little.

3



‘Fate is a condescending, angry, sadistic
bitch with few things to do and too much
free time. But when Fate decides to strike,
you can choose to die broken, or you can

break like obsidian.’

–– Deo di Amarra



The white sands and vales of black glass
Will be split by seas of blood and dunes of bone!

And the tales of the broken, so boldly told,
Will echo thru time with every blade of stone.
Hark now, my Shakshi sons, my Rashai girls;

For the seer has seen great tragedies befall
From a spear of light, in the eye of Marakai,

When a Bharavi steps into the red hall.
But the fateful pact, made under a starlit sky,
Will shudder the desert and cast a great war;
And the one with the power of kings, heir to Eli,

Will scour the old, to scribe a new lore.
When flaming tides—born out of revenge—
Scourge the lands to ashes, homes to pyres,
Men will be buried in fields, ‘til the sacred city,
By the hands of Fate and Her surmounting fires.

Then the dreams of red, and seeds of hope
Will fly west, on the wings of a silver sparrow,
And love will shine, in the cruel folds of life,
When souls are merged by a mere bone arrow.
That night, vows will be sworn forever and then
At the forge of Fate, where weapons are made

From shattered hearts, like obsidian,
To end the war by the edge of a blade.

—Sergio Dos Santos, Jr., for Obsidian

...You can cage an an-
imal until it feels content
and call it an offering of
peace and protection, but
that is not who we will
ever allow ourselves to be...

With or
Without

CYlooutrhOens

9 With Or Without Your Clothes On 9

One moonless night, under the star-
stained, crushing sky of the desert, where
the snow-capped peaks of the Vilarhiti
drew an unconvincing line between the
realms of gods and men, Fate brought to-
gether one man and one woman from opposite
sides of the war, and bestowed upon them the
first chance to bring peace to the peninsula. It
was also on this night, in a tent of stum-
bling shadows and raining stars, when
peace was offered, declined, and set on fire by
the woman and the man, and the secret wager that
began the greatest war between the Black and White
Deserts was made.

3

She was nineteen years old when he found her, bound to a post in
a military tent, half-naked, and about to be raped by one of his
generals. The prince, son and heir to the Salar of Rasharwi, High
Commander of the royal army that had successfully wiped out her Kha’gan
and three more in the Vilarhiti, was said to be in the middle of a damage
assessment report and therefore in a mood to cause more damage when the
news about a woman being missing from the prisoner camp had arrived.

The general, who had yet to learn––or had been too ignorant to no-

9 13 9

9 Awakening 9

I will never be able to take the White Desert? Because all of them would
rather die than live without your so-called freedom?” He pushed the knife
closer to her hand, daring her to take it. “Show me, Bharavi, how strongly
you believe that to be true.”

How, she thought, looking down at the knife that was gleaming tempt-
ingly in his hand, did one measure a life—or eight thousand of them—
against an ideal? None of them would ever return to their homeland now,
not after being branded as prisoners of the Salasar. Their lives in the White
Desert would be forfeited for them and their children, and for generations
to come. In ten or twenty years they would be considered residents of
Rasharwi, their knowledge of culture and tradition lost behind the enemy’s
walls. Their spirit, honor, and love of freedom would be gone like the ashes
of their homes that were still scattering in the wind.

In the eyes of Citara and its Devis, they would be considered lost
and better off dead. No one would blame her if she killed herself now,
for her pride, her honor, for the love of her people and what she believed
they represented. It would send a strong message: that they could not be
conquered, that Citara would never fall. What were eight thousand lives,
against twenty times more, against a thousand years of tradition and gen-
erations that would be lost if she failed to uphold their way of life today?

But what if she was wrong? What if all they wanted was peace and
prosperity, or a chance to live free from the fear of being raided, of not
enough food and water, for their children to grow up safe and sound be-
hind walls? Who was she to decide that they were no longer her people to
protect if they became Rashais, that eight thousand lives were worthless the
moment they stopped representing her ideals? They were her people now,
and they would still be her people tomorrow and the day after. She, too,
would never return to the White Desert, not after this. Would that make
her less than what she had been the day before? She had no right to decide
such things. Not without becoming the same monster she wanted to see
dead.

There was no choice left for her, or none that she could see. There
would never be again, for the rest of her life. Not after this.

Letting out the breath she had been holding, she closed her eyes and

9 30 9

9 With Or Without Your Clothes On 9

forced herself to look straight at him: to remember the moment, the hour,
and the face of the man who had done this to her. She swore, inwardly, that
she would live for as long as it took, even if she had to crawl and beg for
her life, to see him die.

“I thought so.” The prince took the knife away and placed it on the
table. “You think I’m a monster, but are we so different, you and I? I’ll kill
for what I believe in, and so will you.”

He rose to his feet, his shadow looming over her bruised and beat-
en frame. “You think you’re better than me, and your people better than
mine,” he continued, his thick, penetrating voice burning deep into her
memory. “I’ll show you just how corruptible they can be, how easy it will
be for me to crush them just like all the others. I have conquered the White
Desert, even if only a small part of it, here, today, and I will have more. The
Vilarhiti is mine; so are its eight thousand survivors who are now citizens
of Rashawi, and so are you. You have been defeated, and from this day
onward you will live and die by my command. On your knees, Bharavi!”

And that night, on the plain below the majestic snow-capped peaks
of the Vilarhiti that had stood strong and unconquered for centuries, she
could see it all come tumbling down as she—the last free soul of the valley,
the first Bharavi to have ever been captured alive and forced to bend the
knee—knelt, in all her shattered pride and honor, to the man who would
become the supreme ruler of the Salasar.

“Good,” said the prince. “I hope you are now sufficiently motivated to
give me your name.”

9 31 9

Animals could be
trusted when they were
treated with respect;
people, not always.

A PoorExcuse

The

torches had all been put
out by the time she reached the
stable. They’d stopped lighting fires at
night years ago to lessen the chance of giv-
ing away their location. Raids had become more
frequent and successful since Salar Muradi had taken over
the Salasar, and his intention to conquer the White Desert had
neither been a secret nor subtle. It had also been by his command that
her mother’s caravan was attacked. The Vilarhiti had been lost, for the first
time in the history of the White Desert, during his campaign. The best of
their horses had been taken, and now only a handful of Vilarians remained
for them to breed. Life hadn’t been this hard, her mother had said, not
since that man had taken the throne.

She paused at the entrance for her eyes to adjust to the dark: a poor
excuse, Djari admitted, as she continued to linger by the door. For years,
she’d been coming out to check on her horses during the night, sometimes
to sleep in one of the stalls with them, and light had never been needed for
her to navigate the place. Horses were great listeners, in the way that none
of the girls or boys who always seemed to tiptoe around her had ever come
close. She spent more time with them than with people. Animals could be
trusted when they were treated with respect; people, not always.

Something moved at the far end of the stable. Someone must have for-

9 A Rock With Ten Men On It 9

A Rock With

Ten MenA Rock With Ten Men OOnnItIt

Hasheem barely had time to look over his shoulder before the arrow
struck. The girl, who had seemed so harmlessly small and thin in the
stable, was no longer what he thought she was. She was riding at his heels
the way no girl should be able to ride, on an unsaddled horse three times
her size. The moment she drew back her bowstring and straightened her
spine atop the stallion was when he realized he would never make it to the
Djamahari.

And he didn’t. The arrow, despite the ridiculous distance between
them, struck him from behind on the deadliest spot, as if she’d driven it in
by hand at close range. Had it gone through the way it should, it would
have pierced his heart right in the middle and come out cleanly on the
other side. By sheer luck, or fate, or whatever it was that had been keeping
him alive this long, it didn’t, and he fell off the horse with an arrow halfway
in his back, still breathing and alive. For the time being.

The next thing he saw was her standing over him with another arrow
already nocked to her bow. She looked at him and the embedded shaft,
then frowned as if she’d missed her target. From her expression, she seemed
to be contemplating whether to shoot him the second time or wait for the
dozen or so guards now riding toward them to finish the job. When the
stallion he’d stolen trotted back to her, she snapped back to her senses and
decided the horse was more important.

He could have said something then that might have given her the urge
to finish him where he was, knowing the consequences of being captured

9 53 9

9 Awakening 9

and brought to trial. For some reason, he didn’t, and would always wonder
from time to time afterward if that had been the right decision or the big-
gest mistake of his life.

They took him back to camp instead of killing him on the spot. She
rode in the middle of the procession, surrounded by five White Warriors
who guarded her like they were escorting a chest of gold through a lair full
of bandits, never mind the fact that there seemed to be no other living thing
in sight. It made sense in a way. Bharavis were becoming rarer and rarer
even out here, deep in the heart of the White Desert. These silver-haired,
yellow-eyed, so-called direct descendants of the moon goddess Ravi were
the only ones who could give birth to oracles, and having an oracle could
mean winning a war.

And he’d struck her, Hasheem realized, on top of everything else. The
punishment for that, if he had to guess, would probably be close to being
skinned alive and left to die on a spike.

They threw him into a tent, bound him hand and foot, and tied him
to a post, all with the arrow still sticking out of his back. At least it was
warmer inside, and they’d been thoughtful enough to give him a blanket.
Then again, they wouldn’t want him to die before the trial in the morning.
Desert people, Black or White, treasured their codes and honor like wa-
ter. He was beginning to wish the arrow would kill him before they had a
chance to finish him off or move on to other means. But they would have
thought of that too, wouldn’t they?

They had thought of it, apparently, because some time later the girl
who’d shot him—the young Bharavi of Visarya—returned to make sure
that didn’t happen. She had changed into the form-fitting white gown of
a healer. Her near-white hair had been tightly braided and gathered away
from her face. He could see now, more clearly in the light made by the
small fire in the tent, those otherworldly yellow eyes shared by all Bharavis.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen one. Having lived in the Black Tower
for years, he had seen the Salar’s Bharavi wife a few times from a distance,
but this was the first time he’d seen one up close. She was prettier than aver-
age, like most Shakshi girls and boys tended to be, but there was a hardness
to her that made one appreciate her beauty the same way one might admire

9 54 9

A Leap

of Faith

... no echvoeircecsame

for free.

9 A Leap of Faith 9

A Leap of Faith

“Would you still try, given a choice?” The speaker, a young man,
tall, lean, and elegant almost to the point of looking delicate,
must have been standing there for some time listening to their conversa-
tion. An undeniable air of authority filled the tent the moment he allowed
himself to be noticed, giving Hasheem a sudden need to relocate himself.

He had come to know this man by experience, and had been expect-
ing him to appear at some point. There had been one like him everywhere
in his life. In the dungeon, the brothel, the slave quarter, or one of Dee’s
hidden chambers. Every time, just when he had settled for death, Fate al-
ways sent someone to offer him a choice to live, but no choices ever came
for free.

“And you are the man who would give me that choice, I presume?”
Hasheem asked in his most sardonic tone. It was about to begin again: the
games, the punishment, the reward. The chains around his wrists and an-
kles. He’d known this dance for a long time. A price would be named soon.

The man crossed over in three smooth, flawless strides and stopped in
front of him, looking down from his considerable height. He was wearing
a zikh, the signature white robe given to the most elite class of Shakshi
warriors, and had kept the hood on so that only a part of his face could
be seen. The way Djari had fallen into complete silence told him that this
man, whoever he was, outranked her in more ways than one.

There were only a handful of people who outranked a Bharavi in the
White Desert, as far as he knew.

“That depends,” the man said mildly, “on how willing you are to con-

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9 Awakening 9

A Dream

ofRed

Hasheem’s nightmare came almost every night for the past three weeks
since he’d been accepted into the Kha’gan. She could hear it from the
proximity of their tents—the muffled groans and whimpers of someone
running from or seeing something too terrifying to imagine. Most of those
nights she had stayed awake, tossing and turning on her own bed as she lis-
tened. It would take someone without a heart to sleep through such things,
Djari thought, especially for someone like her who had been through the
same ordeal at night, no matter how long ago it had been.

It had been awful, those dreams of her mother being tortured, hurt,
left to die in the desert like a worthless carcass waiting to be picked by
vultures and eaten by foxes. Her mother, the sweetest, kindest soul whose
hand had been gentle when she’d braided her daughter’s hair or dressed
her husband for battle. Those careful, thoughtful words she’d used around
people to move and bend them to her cause, to calm and comfort even her
father during his most impossible fits of rage. A delicate being, a beautiful
face, a Bharavi, won and loved by Za’in izr Husari, by her children and peo-
ple, dragged behind a rock by Rashai soldiers, made to weep and scream.

Soldiers, the survivors had said. No one would tell her the details of
what they’d done to the Kha’ari of Visarya. She had been given no oppor-
tunity to see her mother’s face before they’d buried her. But she had seen
her father’s when he brought his Kha’ari home that day.

It had been enough.
So had what Za’in izr Husari decided to do afterward to villagers, to

9 138 9

Life wasn’t fair.
It didn’t last long
if one expected

it to be.

“She’s nervous.” Djari grimaced
as she ran her hand along Twi-
light’s neck, feeling the mare’s pulse.

The horse was fidgeting a little, not
to the point that would have alarmed
him, but Hasheem didn’t question
Djari about her horses, not when she
spent half her days in the stable and
slept in it several nights a month.

“I can take Bruiser.”
She shook her head. “Bruiser won’t
be able to keep up with Nazir, and he
gets jumpy in a big crowd.” She hesitat-
ed a little before arriving at a decision.
“Take Summer.”

Chasing

9 Chasing Gazelles 9

Summer was Djari’s colt, her personal mount and their second-best
horse next to Springer. If he took Summer... “Who will you ride?”

“No one,” she said. “I’m not coming.”
The answer surprised him, and not in a good way. He had expected to
accompany her on the ride. This was a ceremonial hunt, done on the af-
ternoon of the same day before each Raviyani to bring back desert gazelles
as holy offerings to Ravi. From what he’d been told, there would be over a
hundred riders participating in the event. She would have been with a big
crowd, and safety shouldn’t have been a concern. “You can’t or you won’t?”
“I have...things to do,” Djari said, keeping her eyes on Twilight, her
lips stretched into a thin line and pressed tight together.
Hasheem knew that look. She did that whenever her sense of duty
forced her to make a decision she didn’t want to make. “Then I don’t need
to go,” he told her. All things considered, it made no sense for him to be
there without Djari.

“You have to,” she said. “If
Nazir wants you there, then he
has a reason. Besides, it’s your

Gazelles

9 165 9

In theIntheFHaatendsof

Some time ago, Hasheem
had discovered a craving for
blood—the unique, oddly sweet
scent of it, the sharp metallic taste
that lingered on his tongue, and
even the way it dripped down his
fingers made the killing easier, if
not also pleasurable. He didn’t al-
ways enjoy fighting, but a part of
him enjoyed killing, sometimes
even longed for it, other times
needing it to keep the monster in-
side him fed and contained.

He had been craving blood for
the past five days. Now, more than
ever, standing in the crimson-hued
Hall of Marakai, looking at the
two men who had come with their
tidings. Tidings that carried with
them a promise of blood.

“I brought him from the west,
di Amarra,” Sarasef explained,
making a gesture at Djari, who was

9 In the Hands of Faith 9

HaFnadsteof

standing on the opposite side of the throne, “as the sworn sword
and blood of Djari iza Zuri, the Bharavi of Visarya.” He gave a
small pause to check their expressions. “The only daughter of
Za’in izr Husari. More precisely, the man your Salar wants to see
dead.”

Standing below the dais, Djari stiffened a little at those
words. Still, she remembered, as she always had, to straighten
her spine when addressed by her title. A part of him wanted to
believe nothing had changed, that she was still the same girl he

had come to love and care for, but one would
have to be blind to not see it, or be completely
ignorant to not notice that change.

There was a severity to her presence now;
a stinging sharpness, a dangerous gleam that

glinted off her like a newly broken piece of obsidian. It
wrapped around her like armor fitted with spikes and con-
cealed blades to make those around her think twice before ap-
proaching. It had been five days since he last saw her—Sarasef
hadn’t let them meet since they were brought there—and Djari
seemed to have aged ten years during that time. She had, he no-
ticed, been avoiding eye contact with him ever since they’d stepped
into the hall. He knew something about that, knew the feeling like

9 277 9

9 Awakening 9

I willankIdiwfliiglllhwtsIfwthsrhohiemkeweveraeenrttvhssheattherfewlsiwnahntoetrmsldtywosseseilfse.theoesdnmeefaitdorefig,ht.

9 284 9

9 Against All Odds 9

Against

OddsAllAgainst All Odds

Lasura had envisioned his mother just like
this in his nightmares; with her silver
hair shimmering like a newly-honed blade,
her eyes burning an incinerating amber as
she told his father he would never have the
White Desert in this life or the next. An old
story he’d been told by both his parents. A
story filled with rage from one and intrigue
from the other.

He wondered if this had been how it felt,
if his father’s heart had beaten just as fast, as
heavy, and with so much need to engage. For
the first time in his life, Lasura understood
why his mother had been kept alive all these
years, how powerful her presence had been
to his father, looking at the young Bharavi
standing in front of him in that hall.

There had been no vision in that mo-
ment before the lightning struck, no voice in
his head that explained how or why it hap-
pened. His whole life had simply begun to
make sense afterward. His existence became
clearer, like stepping out of a fog or breaking

9 285 9

‘There are things
you cannot have
in this world, and
my heart is among
them. It is beating
to see you die, nev-
er for you to claim.’

9 No Other Way 9

OtNhoerWay

‘There are things you cannot have in this world, and my
heart is among them,’ she had said to him once. ‘It is
beating to see you die, never for you to claim.’

And it was beating now, heavily, violently, as he lay
dying in that cave. Standing a few steps away, Zahara
watched, as she had promised herself she would, the pro-
cess of his death leaving her with too many questions she
hadn’t been prepared to answer. There was a finality to
that promise that went both ways, and that she couldn’t
deny. What happens to my heart, my life, then, when he is
dead? Will it still beat, or will it end with him? What do I
live for, after this? Will there ever be a reason as powerful for
me to draw my strength from again?

He was breathing more faintly now, the three ar-
rows still embedded in his body rising and falling more
and more slowly the longer the day stretched on. The
arrows that should have been dipped in Zyren, which
would have killed him in less than an hour, somehow
hadn’t been. By sheer luck or fate or divine intervention,
they also hadn’t penetrated the organs that would have
caused him to die quickly. But he was losing blood. A lot
of blood. People died from that, slowly, unless someone
were to interfere. Someone who knew how.

9 461 9



SHORT STORY &

OBSIDIAN

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