![]() ![]() An ascension-or rather, as it was known in Judar, a joloos-a sitting down on the throne. Now he would participate in a ceremony of a different kind. Then, two days before he'd gone through the succession transfer ritual, the king's long-expected death had come to pass. First Farooq, followed by Shehab, his in-total-control brothers had done the unthinkable-forsaken the world for love and dumped the succession to Judar's throne in his lap. He'd bet they would have stood there and taken whatever he dished out.Īnd why not? After all, they'd gotten what they'd wanted. ![]() Would the rage ever lessen? Would the shock? He caught it on its last rebound, leaned his face on its cool surface on a harsh exhalation of exertion and resignation. Leave it to something inanimate to point out the futility of his fury. Snarling, imagining it one of the people who had put him in this predicament, this disaster, he met it with a barrage that would have left anything living a mass of broken bones and mangled flesh.Ī full thirty minutes into his rampage, his punching bag seemed to grin back at him, pristine and unimpressed with either his strength or his punishment. The bag swung away in a wide arc before hurtling right back at him like a battering ram. Kamal ben Hareth ben Essam Ed-Deen Aal Masood's fist smashed into his inert opponent with a bone-crunching crack. ![]()
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