This time, Laya ignored her sister. She rushed through the palace’s cavernous halls, her sandals slipping across the freshly waxed floorboards. She did not stop until she was back in her chambers, where she let out a desperate scream. Her cry, harsh as the monsoon winds, echoed across the vaulted ceiling of her bedchamber. What had possessed her to tell her mother about the ship? Laya should have known she would react that way. In the queen’s mind, Laya could do nothing right.

For all her strength, Laya could not ignore the pain blossoming in the nethermost corner of her soul⁠—the part of her that still craved her mother’s warmth. It stretched miles deeper than her peaks of rage, this raw and tender ache.

The tears Laya had been fighting since she’d spoken to her mother splashed over the front of her dress. She leaned her forehead against the cool wooden panel that spanned the door. She sucked in a breath, ready to sob in earnest, when a muted thump behind her drew her attention.

An intruder. Laya whirled around, palms outstretched.

The man on her balcony held up his hands in surrender. His dark hair was pulled away from his smooth, handsome face. He wore a scarlet vest that exposed the mesmerizing swirls of tattoos on his chest. A sword twice the length of Laya’s arm hung at his hip, its curved brass hilt melded into the beak of a hornbill.

“Luntok?” She lowered her arms. An incriminating smile spread across her face.

“I believe you summoned me,” he said, grinning.

Laya remembered herself, drying her tears on her sleeve. She didn’t allow anyone to catch her in a moment of weakness⁠—Luntok Kulaw was no exception. A defiant spark wound through her as she slinked across the room and draped her arms around his neck. The queen would give Laya far more than a lecture if she learned the true nature of this dalliance. With every visit, she and Luntok danced closer and closer to the razor’s edge. The guardsmen had nearly discovered them over a dozen times in the past, and the head of the royal guard, General Ojas, had doubled the patrol in light of the upcoming feast days. Luntok knew to take better care.

“Dolt.” She pretended to chide him. “You weren’t supposed to come until later tonight. I ought to throw you in the prison hold for this.”

By now, Luntok was accustomed to her empty threats. “If I begged, would you look past my impertinence?” he asked, reeling her in by the waist.

Laya’s breath caught in her throat. The fatigue from her excursion at the port faded as giddy longing flooded her veins. She resisted the urge to melt into his arms. Instead, she squared her jaw and leaned closer. “Dolt,” she said again. “You don’t deserve clemency.”