Her sister spoke not out of jealousy, for once, but out of concern. A bolt of excitement ran down Laya’s spine at Bulan’s words. From the window on the opposite wall, the sun rose above the tiered rooftops, casting light across the mirror’s polished glass. She stared at the mirror, unblinking, until the seamstress left the room and returned with a bundle of indigo and gold.

“Arms,” the seamstress said.

Wordlessly, Laya raised them.

Bulan ducked out of the doorway, letting Laya carry on with the gown fitting in peace. Laya stood stock-still while the seamstress draped the fine silks over her body, pinning them to perfection. Her sister’s claim echoed in Laya’s ears long after Bulan left the dressing room.

Laya didn’t believe Gatdula blood could revive a nobleman’s lost bloodright. But she knew that to take a husband would be to share the throne. Although Laya grew up with two siblings, she didn’t care for the idea of sharing one bit. Ruling without a marriage alliance, however⁠—that was a prospect she had yet to consider.

“Almost done, Dayang,” the seamstress murmured. She reached toward the table behind Laya for the last ensemble⁠—a day dress of cerulean pongee, which floated down to her knees⁠—and a royal sash tumbled from the pile. It was a simple column of viridian silk, bearing the Gatdulas’ curled-crocodile insignia. This was the queen’s sash, meant for Laya’s mother.

“I apologize,” the seamstress said. “I don’t know how that got in there.”

“No matter,” Laya told her. “I want to try it on for myself.”

She knelt so the seamstress could lift the sash over her head, draping it over her white cotton camisole. The sash hung from her left shoulder, gathering at her opposite hip. Laya traced the hemline, and the thin fabric slipped between her fingers. She looked back at the mirror. The sunlight had shifted since the start of their fitting. Its rays glared off the glass, outlining the crown of Laya’s head in piercing light.

“You look beautiful, Dayang,” the seamstress said, bowing her head.

The corners of Laya’s lips quirked up into a smile. “Like a queen?” she asked.

The seamstress met Laya’s gaze in the glass. “More than that,” she said in a low, heavy whisper.

No one ever looked at Hara Duja the way the seamstress was looking at Laya now. Smugly, Laya committed the woman’s expression to memory. When she was queen, she would see the same expression echoed across a thousand faces. No longer would they gripe about Laya’s untamed power. No longer would they question her readiness to rule. All would fall silent the moment they saw her sitting high above them on the Maynaran throne. Whether they liked her or not, the entire country knew Laya belonged there.