Laya leaned on Ojas’s arm as they strode across the deck of the riverboat. The battle against the Kulaws had shaken the aging warrior. Although he still stood upright at her side, he had come to Laya alone earlier that week. He’d told her it was time to think about choosing his successor. Laya didn’t hesitate to name Bulan. In fact, her first directive as queen would be to announce her sister’s new rank as general and head of the Royal Maynaran Guard. It was one of the most important roles in the palace, and it suited Bulan more than high counselor or any other empty title. If anyone dared question Bulan’s experience or level of swordsmanship, the queen would refuse to hear it. Laya could think of no one better to protect her than her own blood.

A member of the royal guard gave the order to start the engine, and they chugged down the main canal. Along the sides of the water, the entire city had gathered. They sang as the royal procession passed. Children reached into baskets and showered their boat with fistfuls of jasmine rice. At the bow, Laya laughed in delight as the rice scattered across the deck.

“Your kingdom, Your Majesty,” General Ojas murmured as Mariit unwound before them. Its spires and sloping roofs rippled across the water, twisting into patterns of red and gold. Even though Laya had lived in the city her entire life, it didn’t cease to entrance her. She wanted to fall asleep amidst the spirits of the mangrove trees. She wanted to sail along its network of canals, which branched through the capital like arteries.

Around her, Mariit’s citizens hummed and rejoiced. “All hail Hara Laya,” they chanted.

That was the heart of Maynara. Laya’s mother had surrendered everything to give it to her. Despite all the secrets between them, all the tensions between mother and daughter, Hara Duja had loved Laya and loved her people. But she’d left behind a hole in Laya’s heart, along with a thousand unanswered questions. In darker moments, Laya allowed that hole to fill with anger and bitterness⁠—that is, until she remembered the weight of her mother’s sacrifice.

A determined spark coursed through Laya at the reminder. “I will not waste this,” she told Ojas in a tight whisper.

And Ojas nodded because he understood.

A distant echo of drums rang out over the cheering crowd. The beat started at a slow, steady pace before it picked up and grew riotous. On top of the footbridges, the people of Mariit continued to dance and drink. Platters of food passed from hand to hand: steamed pork buns and squid balls and batter-fried quail eggs. The sounds and smells overwhelmed her as the boat drew closer to the heart of the city. The feast wouldn’t last forever. Were the Kulaws truly gone? Did Laya’s reign mark a new era of peace?