Annoyance flared beneath her ribs. Let them stare, she thought to herself savagely. Luntok had belonged to her since he’d been nothing but a reed. They were reeds together, she and him. The rest would have to fight for their piece.

“Your Majesty,” Imeria Kulaw said as she got to her knees, golden bangles clanking on her slender wrists, her face absent of its customary sneer. Sunlight glinted off her headpiece, which was shaped like a bird midflight, its brassy wings fanning out above Imeria’s temples like a pair of flames. Luntok bowed beside her, raising his head slightly to give Laya a smirk.

Their tribute was far more lavish than Laya had expected: a dozen cases overflowing with jade pots from Xitai, king quail eggs, and a number of other exotic delicacies⁠—all this, perhaps, to make up for Imeria’s many insults toward the queen.

The Kulaws’ generosity did not end there. “In addition to our tribute to you, Hara Duja, we are honored to present the princesses with a token,” Imeria said, “each carefully selected to reflect her unique gifts.” She nodded to Luntok, who got to his feet.

First, he presented Bulan with the most impractical sword Laya had ever seen⁠—the blade a rich cobalt blue inlaid with gold-foil motifs. The hilt had been carved into the snapping jaws of a crocodile, the Gatdula family’s symbol.

“Thank you,” Bulan said when she accepted the sword, mesmerized as she ran her finger over the tinted metal.

For Eti, Luntok handed over a sculpted figurine of the Weeping Goddess. The gold of her hair had been melded by a delicate hand into the tiniest tendrils, an expression of both agony and cunning etched onto her face. Beauty moved Eti more than anyone Laya knew. When she took the figurine from Luntok, she appeared too stricken by the craftsmanship to express any words of gratitude. She simply stared open-mouthed at the treasure in her hands.

Luntok approached Laya last. “For you, Dayang,” he said in a low voice. Luntok was her lover, but she was still a princess; he addressed her by her proper title when they were in public.

But called her Laya when they were alone.

A faint blush spread over her cheeks when she remembered how he whispered her name like a prayer, like a curse, whenever they were together. He reached out with her gift⁠—a handwoven fan of soft ivory and pineapple silk, the featherlight fabric embroidered with the tiniest jasmine flowers far more delicate than any breeze she could summon. The carrier chain pooled in Laya’s hands, made of seven coins linked together to depict Maynara’s primordial moons.

“It’s lovely,” she said, folding the fan shut as gently as she could. Her gift didn’t glitter as much as Eti’s and Bulan’s presents. It kept half of its beauty a secret, but that was what made it grander.