A whimper escaped from her mouth. “Maiza.”

“You are doing your duty, Dayang,” Maiza said in a gravelly voice. “As shall I.”

Imeria arrived a moment later. Luntok was at her shoulder, handsome in his gold-trimmed vest, his eyes soft and hopeful.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered as he knelt beside her.

Laya’s gut clenched. She cast her eyes forward to avoid looking at him. Beyond the cliffs, the sun was just touching the horizon. Its orange rays skated across the Untulu Sea.

“Sundown,” Imeria said, as she gave Maiza a curt nod. “The ceremony may begin.”

A hush dispersed through the crowd. Laya stilled, listening to the soft rumble of the sea as it lapped against the rocks and the cackling of terns overhead. Maiza began to chant blessings in Old Maynaran, a language as ancient as the gods themselves, abstract words that lost all meaning in translation. Laya recognized a few from her studies. The words for devotion, compact, and the most useless of them all, promise.

As she chanted, Maiza beckoned to a serving boy, who brought forward a bowl of uncooked rice and laid it in the grass. Desperately, she met Maiza’s gaze. Save me. Stop the ceremony. Please. But Maiza shook her head as she reached forward and entwined Laya’s fingers with Luntok’s above the bowl. Her hands were clammy. Luntok, unaware of the depths of her suffering, gave her fingers a tight squeeze.

Maiza called again for the servant, who presented a goblet and ceremonial dagger⁠—the same objects that had been used at the midnight feast. When she lifted the dagger, Luntok leaned forward. Maiza made a shallow cut across his chest no larger than a dimple, then dripped his blood into a goblet. She did the same to Laya. She hardly felt the blade pierce her skin. Maiza mixed their blood, diluted it with blessed water, and handed the goblet to Luntok to drink. He took a sip and passed the goblet to Laya. With bound hands, she lifted it to her lips. Their combined blood tasted bitter⁠—tainted, like the rest of them.

How many times had Laya dreamed of this day, praying Luntok would be the man kneeling beside her on the cliffs? She wondered, If Hara Duja had let them marry, if she were the one standing by her side, would this moment have tasted any sweeter?

More chanting, more blessings followed. Maiza nodded to the serving boy, who came forth once again with a cord. The boy brought Laya’s hands to Luntok’s and wound the cord around their shoulders and wrists. As he wrapped the silken threads around Laya’s shackles, his hands snagged around her fingers, and he gave them a light tug. Too intimate. Too familiar. Her gaze snapped up to meet his.

Laya nearly gasped. Eti?