An unbearable hollowness swelled in her chest as she ascended to the upper apartments of the eastern wing. When Duja’s mother was alive, she would flood these halls with heady banana-flower perfume. If Duja closed her eyes, she could still smell it, and her heart lurched at the memory. Her kind, unsuspecting mother. Duja wanted to lean over Ariel’s shoulder and whisper: I, too, know what it’s like to lose.

They stopped on the second story. The king had assigned Ariel a set of apartments in a dark corner of the eastern wing. They stood in front of the modest sitting room adjoining Ariel’s bedchamber. The sitting room offered a small writing desk, an antique divan with a lattice cane back, and, if they rolled back the window screens, an unobstructed view of the central courtyard.

“As we discussed earlier, you’ll have one servant to attend to your chambers. Otherwise, you will not be disturbed,” the king said.

Ariel shook his head and tried to protest. “That’s kind of you, but a servant really won’t be necessary.”

“Nonsense,” Hari Aki said. “I don’t think you realize how valuable your services are, Dr. Sauros. One servant is the least we can offer in return.”

The other man remained silent. Duja saw from his conflicted expression that Ariel was not accustomed to such luxuries. How different he was from the horde of highborns who’d bombarded Duja during the dawn feast. She knew not to be too critical of her own subjects, but they were the reason she dreaded the feast days year after year. The constant cavorting, the endless stream of requests⁠—it was Duja’s duty as queen to entertain them, but to her, the feast days felt more like a military campaign than a celebration. Compared to that spectacle, Ariel’s humble presence, despite the risk it posed in Mariit, was a welcome relief.

Beyond the window screens, angry shouts rang out from the courtyard below. Duja’s ears perked up⁠—her daughters’ voices. She sighed and turned to her husband.

“I’ll see to it,” Hari Aki murmured as he backed out of the sitting room.

Ariel watched the king head downstairs, confused. “Is something the matter?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Duja said with a shake of her head. “It seems Laya and Bulan are fighting again.”

Duja had long struggled to mitigate the tensions between her eldest daughters. If not for their shared Gatdula traits⁠—murky, green-flecked eyes and deep-brown skin⁠—one would never guess they’d come from the same womb. Their weekly clashes, though trivial and short-lived, reflected a deep-seated fracture between the sisters, which Duja often blamed herself for.