Laya flinched. It was that dreadful, simpering serving girl Yari, whom Imeria had assigned to her carriage. That morning, she had clothed Laya in her wedding gown, a gorgeous dress of bloodred silk. It was sleeveless, pinned together above her right shoulder with a filigree brooch in the shape of a dragonfly, its wings carved from vitreous jade. A thick belt strung together out of golden disks cinched her waist. Her hair, which Yari had rubbed with jasmine oil until it shined, was twisted into a knot at the top of her skull. Laya looked lovely, but not at all like herself; she looked like Imeria’s puppet.

Ignoring Yari, she stared straight ahead. Over their driver’s shoulder, the jagged mouth of the Black Salt Cliffs loomed. The cliffs stretched out from the base of Mount Matabuaya, enveloping the bay like shark teeth. Laya thought about the story Maiza had told her about the first Gatdula king, the daughter of Mulayri, and their blood-soaked marriage atop those cliffs.

The high shaman used to regale her with Maynara’s founding myths during their lessons. But on this day, as a bride herself, the story gave her no comfort. How could she feel like the mother of her nation when she’d been brought to the Black Salt Cliffs in chains?

“We have arrived, Dayang,” Yari muttered as their carriage rolled to a stop at the end of the rocky path. A footman dismounted and hurried to open the door. As Laya tried to balance on the carriage step without the use of her hands, the footman held her arms to steady her and help her to the ground.

Swallowing the knot in her throat, she continued down the path.

The wind was stronger along the coast, and her skirt caught between her legs. At the mouth of the cliff, the witnesses had already gathered: Datus Luma, Tanglaw, Sandata, and Patid. Rows of nameless servants hung behind them. Over two hundred guards flanked them on either side, scarlet sashes draped around their waists. Imeria had summoned an even bigger battalion than Laya expected. Her palms grew clammy as she passed them, line after unbroken line. Even without the shackles, she couldn’t fend them off single-handed. All watched in silence as she approached, their faces as somber as the ones she had passed in Mariit.

Maiza stood alone all the way at the edge of the cliff. She looked frailer than usual. After the coup, she must have fought back. Laya’s blood boiled when she saw the purple bruise that streaked across Maiza’s narrow chin. The Kulaws dared strike a high shaman.

With a pained expression, Maiza took Laya’s arm and had her kneel before her on the windswept grass.

“What a shame, my child, to be wed beneath such cruel skies,” the shaman murmured. She brushed her leathered knuckles against Laya’s cheek⁠—a rare display of affection, which caught Laya off guard.