Let Luntok go, she’d said. Maybe Laya did have to let him go. It was better to forget him now. If he returned her letter with hateful words, Laya did not know if her heart could bear it.

For company, Laya had no one else to turn to but her sisters. Eti, as was typical, was nowhere to be found. And Bulan⁠—Laya seethed at the thought of running into her that morning. After the tournament, they’d exchanged violent words. Laya had been furious enough to summon a monsoon, but she’d kept her head on her shoulders. She didn’t want to give Bulan the benefit of confirming that she was the more levelheaded, more rational one. Laya, despite her frustration, refused to prove her sister right.

Laya knew life hadn’t been kind to Bulan, whom the gods cursed at birth. Compared to Laya, she had so little. Without the power of Mulayri, what gifts could Bulan claim? Sword fighting was the sole domain in which she excelled. The day before in the gardens, the boys had wounded her pride when they implied her claim to excellence was empty, like most things about her. Laya might have pitied her had Bulan chosen to inflict her vengeance on anyone else but Luntok.

Later that night, in the heat of anger, Bulan screamed at her, tears streaming down her face, “You would choose Luntok, the traitor’s heir, over your own blood.” The words continued to rattle in Laya’s mind, denying her peace. Bulan was wrong. Laya loved Luntok, but she was a Gatdula above all else. Yet she knew Luntok’s heart as if it were her own⁠—a Kulaw he may be, but he was no traitor.

But Laya did not want to agonize over Luntok any more than she wished to think about her sister. He had not answered her letter the previous evening, which worried Laya more than she cared to admit. Did he truly hate her, or had Bulan wounded him so badly he could not hold a pen?

Laya didn’t know what she was thinking when she left the terrace and made her way downstairs to the central courtyard. She marched up to the guard stationed before the eastern wing and demanded entrance.

“If you please, Dayang,” the guard said, opening the door to let her in.

Muffled voices carried down to the shadowed entrance hall. Laya’s ears perked up. She looked at the staircase leading to the upper floor, confused. Ariel wasn’t alone.

Laya crept upstairs. She kicked up small clouds of dust as her sandals padded across the tiled corridor. A faint vinegary scent hung in the air, mingling with the dust. She wrinkled her nose. The Orfelian was a commoner, but he was still a guest. Surely, her mother would have sent someone to clean his living quarters.