The leathery corners of Maiza’s lips folded into a grin. “Ah yes, but first you must find a husband befitting a daughter of Mulayri. When that day comes, I shall be waiting for you on the Black Salt Cliffs.”

“I remember the stories,” Laya said dryly.

When Laya was a young girl, Maiza had taught her all about Maynara’s founding myths, including the story of the Black Salt Cliffs. The cliffs lay hours outside Mariit, at the base of Mount Matabuaya. Centuries earlier, a battle had taken place there. It had ended when the first Gatdula king plunged a spear into the chest of a foreign invader and threw his corpse into the daggerlike rocks below. As a reward for his bravery, the Supreme God Mulayri gave the king his own daughter for a bride. They were married on the cliffs amidst the fallen bodies of their enemies. From their union, a mighty kingdom was born. Maynarans never forgot this story, and every Gatdula since had been married on those cliffs.

In the doorway, Bulan snorted. “That day will never come, Maiza. Have you seen the miserable cads parading about court? Laya is better off ascending the throne alone.”

Laya laughed. She didn’t mind entertaining a few cads. She craved their attentions, no matter how contrived, and flirtation was among her favorite pastimes. Bulan was the opposite. She had no interest in suitors nor plans to marry. In one of those rare moments when the sisters had gotten along, Bulan had confided in Laya that she never felt any attraction to anyone and was quite content without pleasures of the flesh. She was glad to leave Laya her pick of the cads. Courtship was one of the few realms in which they never had to compete.

Eti shrugged on one of Laya’s sheer walking shawls. It was too big for her, and the embroidered hem pooled at her sandaled feet. “If I were you, Laya, I’d marry a sun god and mother a million stars,” she said, staring wistfully at her reflection.

“A sun god?” Laya echoed. “Where do you propose I find that?”

“Laya is likelier to marry the sun itself,” Bulan said, chuckling.

Laya’s heart fluttered when she thought of Luntok. He was no god, but each time they lay together, Laya was sure she caught a glimpse of divinity.

She imagined her wedding day often. In her dreams, Luntok was kneeling beside her, his broad shoulders glowing beneath his white marriage vest, his fingers intertwined with hers. But, unlike Maiza, Luntok would never be waiting for her on the Black Salt Cliffs. Laya sighed as she fiddled with her sleeve. The hem fell past her wrist in an elegant butterfly wing of silk⁠—beautiful, but inconvenient.

“These are too long,” Laya barked at the seamstress. “How many times must I tell you? They’ll get in the way of my wielding.”