And when she spoke, Hara Duja’s voice resounded over Maiza’s chants. Laya had committed her speech to memory long before, because she knew she would give it one day as well: “My friends, I address you, not as your sovereign but as Duja Gatdula, daughter of Mulayri and defender of the Maynaran throne. Like the thousands of ancestors who sat on the throne before me, I have been granted the sacred role of steward. With my power and might, I have sworn to protect Maynara against those who might harm Her.

“As Maynara’s most loyal servants, you have pledged to act on my behalf and protect our people in the farthest reaches of the realm. To mark the closing of this year’s feast days, I have summoned you before me to renew your vows. All who accept my protection may humbly serve. And all who serve must kneel.”

Maiza stopped chanting to gather the goblet and dagger in her leathery hands. Head bowed, she offered them to Hara Duja. “Your Majesty,” she murmured.

The queen accepted the objects in preparation for the final act of the ceremony. Her voice dropped to a bone-chilling whisper. “Who among you is loyal? Who among you will serve?”

Datu Luma, the oldest and most faithful of the datus, stepped forward without hesitation. “I will serve.” He took the dagger from Hara Duja and drew a thin, horizontal line across his wrist. The blood beaded at the surface of his skin, and he let it drip into the empty goblet.

Datu Tanglaw stepped forward. “I will serve,” he proclaimed, a touch too eagerly for Laya’s liking. She had heard about his conspiracy to match her with Bato. If he thought groveling would be enough to convince Hara Duja to agree to that marriage, he had a lot to learn. With an added flourish, he whipped the knife over his wrist before spilling his blood into the goblet with Datu Luma’s.

Datu Gulod followed, his waxy face uncharacteristically sober as he made his own offering. Then came Sandata. And after Patid. The only datu left was Kulaw.

Imeria didn’t waver when the goblet and dagger passed to her. She stared at the objects for a long moment before casting her gaze at Hara Duja. There was something different about her eyes⁠—a savage resolve that warned of danger. Imeria did not bow her head in deference. She did not pull back her pagoda sleeve to drag the dagger across the delicate skin of her wrist. She merely stared, motionless, as the throne room fell into agitated silence.

“I said,” Hara Duja repeated, her voice cold and unbending, “who will serve?”