Laya knew this time with Eti was fleeting, like everything else in her life. At the moment, all Eti wanted was to get lost in her world of pretty shapes and shining things. She didn’t care for fancy titles or Maynaran politics. Eti was content with what she had. It had not yet occurred to her to want more. In a few years, that would change. Eti would either grow up to fear Laya, like their mother did, or resent her, like Bulan. Laya couldn’t decide which prospect she hated more.

She tore her gaze away from Eti as she made her way to the upper floor. The passageway leading to the queen’s chambers was long and narrow, with a high, coved ceiling. Deep-mahogany panels lined the walls, interspersed with latticed window screens that overlooked the palace courtyard. A few feet from the landing, a pair of servants were hunched over an ancient Xitai vase. Both were busy replacing the wilted flowers inside with a gigantic white-orchid arrangement as high as Laya’s waist. They bowed to Laya as she walked by. She gave them a cursory nod, then breezed past them to the end of the hall, where Hara Duja was waiting. When Laya opened the door, her nostrils flooded with the thick, heady smells of honeysuckle and burnt wood.

Laya wrinkled her nose and stepped inside. “Mother?”

She found her mother lying in the dark. The window screens had been drawn tight. The only light that penetrated the white-shell panels pooled across the floor in wavering strips. The queen was still in bed, her eyes closed and her black hair unkempt. Shadows danced across the dusky hollows of her cheeks. She barely stirred when Laya settled on the chair beside her.

Slowly, her mother opened her eyes. “Laya, is that you?”

“Yes,” Laya said. “It’s only me.”

On shaking arms, the queen pushed herself up to a seated position. Her tremors had gotten worse over the past year. Mornings, she said, were the toughest. Her muscles were the last to wake up. For now, the queen managed to run the palace and corral the court into submission. But Laya could see better than anyone that Hara Duja was fading, far more quickly than she said she would.

A lump formed in Laya’s throat as she watched her mother struggle to prop herself up against the pillows. The same fate befell each human; only it befell descendants of the Gatdula bloodline faster than most. It was no secret that the Gatdulas’ ability to wield the elements was equal parts blessing and curse. Their bodies hosted celestial gifts, but their human muscles were not built to withstand powers of divine magnitude. Gatdulas burned brighter than any other being on earth⁠—and they burned out twice as quickly. This was the price of being a god.

“Strange to see you up and about this early,” Hara Duja said, voice scratchy from sleep.