Imeria reached for the glass vial around her neck with one hand and for the pipe in the pocket of her skirt with the other. She filled the bowl with precioso, nearly using up the entire vial. It was a precious resource, but she would waste all of it if it brought her son back.

“A match,” she said in a harsh whisper. Gulod retrieved one for her, holding it to the pipe. Imeria inhaled deeply and let the poison flood her system. Several times, she repeated the motion until she felt the power swell within her like a seismic wave. It surged through her blood, stronger than it had been during their attack on the palace. It morphed into a creature of its own volition, too great for her mortal body to contain.

She held her hands to Luntok’s battered corpse. She closed her eyes and dug deep, past his exposed muscles and broken bones, and found the sliver of life buried there. Her body convulsed as the power ripped through her, coursing through her fingers and pouring into her son’s remains. Deftly, the threads of energy wove through the bloodless veins and torn flesh. A cacophony of gasps rose from the crowd. Imeria looked back down. Luntok’s body glowed, white as a comet, as she stitched him back together.

Tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes. With a strangled moan, she pressed harder, dug deeper. Live, she screamed in her head. Live, live, live.

Behind the glow, shadows shifted. Imeria watched, wide-eyed, as Luntok became whole again. His ribs, which had protruded from his chest, disappeared beneath a layer of unmarred skin. His left femur fused together with a sickening crack.

On the ground, Luntok’s eyes shot open. The white glow dimmed. Below the roar of precioso in her ears, she could have sworn she heard him gasp for breath.

“By the gods,” Vikal cried out beside her. “Luntok. He’s⁠—”

Alive.

A spark of triumph burst in Imeria’s breast. She let out a sob of relief. She had done it. She had saved him. She tried to lift her hands to stroke his cheeks but found them mired to his chest. She looked down in alarm as her hands glowed anew. The power shot through them once again, this time beyond Imeria’s control. She cried out in shock.

“Imeria!” Duja shrieked. But Imeria could barely hear her. A strange, foreign voice filled her head.

I’ve been waiting for you, Imeria Kulaw, wielder of mind and flesh, it whispered. It was the voice of power, older than Maynara, maybe older than time itself.

No. Imeria straightened in panic. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the voice to quiet. But the moment she resisted, it grew louder, impatient.

Fight me not, Imeria Kulaw, the voice told her. Mother of Luntok. Maker of gods.