At fifteen, when Laya decided she wanted to have sex, Luntok was the only boy she respected well enough to invite into her bed. By then, she already saw him not as the traitor’s grandson, but as the forbidden treat she’d never have to share with anyone else. They were older now, and they sought more from each other than passing thrills. For once, Laya was ready to admit that things between them had changed. Luntok’s challenges were starting to feel less like a game and more like an actual danger.

But that morning, she didn’t have time to press him. She stood, still as a statue, as Luntok hopped down from the balustrade. He landed with a quiet thud in the bushes below her window. By some miracle, no guards were passing through. He disappeared into the gardens undetected.

Laya slammed the window to the balcony shut. She sagged against the cool glass pane as a wave of nausea crashed over her. First, her mother. Then, Luntok. Who else was keeping secrets from her?

She turned to her wardrobe and started to get dressed. The unsettled feeling hung over her like a cloud as she washed her face in the water basin and brushed the knots out of her long, crow-black tresses. The queen’s furtiveness was nothing new. Hara Duja would place all her faith in that string of crusty, old advisers before she even thought about trusting Laya. But this was Luntok, the man who loved her unabashedly, who would give up his sword arm for a chance to be with her. Laya had thought she could read him as easily as she could read any of her cow-eyed worshippers. What if she had been wrong?

Laya tried to push her doubts aside as she made her way to the terrace. Her father was waiting, a pipe sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he sliced a sweet bun in half. Eti sat across from him, legs swinging underneath the table. She didn’t look up as Laya sat down, her eyes glued to the gold pellet floating above her palm. Eti’s goal for the next year was to pull from that pellet a metal filament no thicker than a strand of hair⁠—an act, Laya knew, that required intense concentration.

“If it isn’t my Buaya-Laya,” her father greeted. “What would you like for breakfast? A tall glass of water, perhaps?” His eyes twinkled, and he smiled at her knowingly.

Unlike her sisters, Laya had inherited his sharp, clever chin. She regretted that she didn’t inherit his smile as well. Her father had such a broad smile, which captivated everyone to whom it was directed. It was the smile of an inveigler, not a king.

“Water. Yes, we can start with that,” she said as a servant set a glass and place setting in front of her.