“Let’s go somewhere quiet, Your Majesty,” Maiza said. “Then you can tell me everything that’s on your mind.”

Duja led Maiza back to her private chambers. The shaman sat beside her at the foot of the bed. She took Duja’s hand and rubbed slow circles into the fleshy heel of her palm.

“The tremors,” Maiza said. “Have they gotten worse?”

With a weary sigh, Duja nodded. “Much worse. And faster than we anticipated.”

“I see.” Maiza pursed her lips as she kneaded the gracelessness from Duja’s hand.

With these hands, Duja could wield sand and stone and send shocks deep into the yolky center of the earth. With these hands, Duja protected her family and her people from harm. She could erect mountains with a flick of her wrist and topple them just as easily. The power of the gods wound through her fingertips. She needed her hands to be steady and sure enough to bear the weight of the mantle. Hara⁠—queen. But for the strength of her bloodline, no hands were built to sustain power of this magnitude. Not even the mightiest Gatdula could bear the mantle for long. The power of Mulayri meant shorter lifespans and even shorter reigns. It bore a hefty price, and Duja was not yet ready to pay it.

“How have the girls progressed?” Duja asked, keen to distract herself from the stabbing pain that radiated from her fingers. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d watched her daughters train. She’d hired the best teachers in the land⁠—Ojas for Bulan, Maiza for Laya and Eti. When they were younger, she used to marvel at how fast the girls learned, at the wealth of power concealed in their tiny bodies.

“Eti has come a long way since last season,” Maiza told her proudly as she reached for Duja’s other hand. “Her affinity for metal is impressive. She needs to work on her precision, but when she does⁠—Hara Duja, you will be very pleased.”

Duja nodded, relieved. The youngest and most timid of her three daughters, Eti had been slow to develop her abilities. Duja was content to see her blossom under Maiza’s watchful tutelage. However, Eti’s chief interest lay not in combat, but in embellishment and filigree. She had inherited her father’s indefectible eye for beauty, over which Duja could hardly complain.

“And Laya?” she asked.

“Oh, Laya.” Maiza drew in a sharp breath, and Duja already had her answer. “Her power is at once raw and limitless. I need only explain once, and she grasps everything I say by sheer intuition. She is Mulayri incarnate, perhaps the most powerful Gatdula we’ve seen in centuries. But she’s⁠—”

Duja completed her thought. “Callous. Unthinking.”

Dangerous.

The high shaman sighed, setting the queen’s hand down lightly on the bed. “I haven’t seen such a power since . . .”

Him. Maiza didn’t need to say it.