The Macazi form around her, bags shouldered, water cartons dangling at their sides, eyes darting from her to me and back to her.

“What kind of amendment?”

“One to ensure you don’t break your word.”

I found the spell book again easy enough and skimmed it. Taavi and I stand inches from each other. With no time or real place for privacy, the Macazi are an audience around us. Zora is so close, I can feel her breath on my neck.

I don’t know how the rest of my people are going to feel about me doing this. Allying with the Macazi. They’re magicless Grays, but they’re Grays still. Who am I to make a decision for them? I can practically hear Shaun saying it now. But I can’t please everyone. This is the situation we’re in, and this is the only way out of here. Besides, extra bodies to help in the fight against the Chancellor only makes sense. They’re coordinated and strategic from what I’ve seen. This alliance makes sense.

A sea of eyes stare back at me and I swallow. Only thing I didn’t count on is becoming responsible for more people, making decisions for more people. Leading, even though it’s temporary.

Bri clears her throat, and I realize everyone is waiting on me with bated breath. I take a quick glance at the page she is holding open.

“Your hand,” I say, and Taavi holds out her palm. Zora pricks it and out pops a bubble of red. “Now we…”

“Lock hands,” Zora says just as I spot it in the text. Taavi and I intertwine our arms, gripping hands. Her blood is slick between our palms, the wound dripping.

“Repeat after me,” I say. “Yoi kimza ya nochka.”

“Y-yoi kimza ya nochka,” Taavi says, her chest rising and falling so hard, I half expect to hear her heartbeat in my ears.

“With this blood I vow,” Zora translates, and whispers erupt from the crowd.

“Mwas stafa lo yeeze ya Macazi li kis,” I say.

“Mwas stafa lo yeeze ya Macazi li kis,” she echoes, darting a glance around.

“To honor my word that I and the Macazi will fight with you.”

“Mish Deolekkis m’joma a Macazi a meh.”

“Mish Deolekkis m’joma a Macazi a meh.”

“I welcome the Ancestors’ judgment upon me.”

“Ya lis.”

“Ya lis.”

“For life.”

“O’nah vez.”

“O’nah vez.”

“Only broken in death.”

“Iz naya mo’lo’neesh a grazka.”

I squeeze her hand and a string of red streams out of our grip, coiling around our arms, like a bloody rope. Once, twice, three times, it wraps, stinging my skin. Taavi is silent.

“I seal this promise with my blood,” Zora translates. “You must say the last part!”

Taavi chews her lip then shoves the words out. “I-Iz naya mo’lo’neesh a grazka.”