Duja cleared her throat. The king had tried to teach her how to handle Imeria. If allowed to speak, Imeria enjoyed spinning tales of the Gatdulas’ drama and negligence⁠—tales that rarely portrayed the queen in a favorable light. Duja knew after two decades on the throne that Imeria’s disrespect was a contagion. To grant her the floor was to give her power⁠—and Duja couldn’t allow that to happen. “The gold tax was not on the agenda for this meeting,” she said flatly.

Imeria refused to drop the subject. Unrelenting, she held Duja’s gaze. “I’m arguing that it was wrong to omit it.”

It was Datu Luma, this time, who defended her. He was an old man with white hair and serious, sunken eyes. He had sat at this table since Duja was a child. “The sovereign dictates the agenda, Datu Kulaw,” he said in a stern voice. “You are out of bounds.”

Imeria’s gaze hardened. Duja wished she could forget, but there were times when she looked at Imeria⁠—at the curve of her eyebrow and the spite in her smile⁠—and saw with painful familiarity the beautiful, fearless young girl she had once been. Years had passed since they’d lived alongside each other in the palace, and Imeria had only grown more beautiful, more fearless. When their eyes locked across the council table, a trace of the old longing shivered across the queen’s skin. Even after so much time, Duja found herself drawn to Imeria’s flame.

“I merely have Maynara’s interests at heart,” Imeria replied. “Your office has proposed to lower the tax on foreign gold. I fear this sets a dangerous precedent for our trade policy. It will bring economic ruin far more disastrous than any of your advisers have foreseen.”

Ah yes, Duja was familiar with this tactic. Imeria had a flair for the dramatic, and that had been the fun of her when they were children. Duja no longer indulged her as she had back then. “I apologize, Datu Kulaw,” she said before Imeria stirred further anxiety around the table, “but we don’t have time to entertain your unfounded beliefs.”

The bangles on Imeria’s wrists clapped against the wood when she pressed her palms against the table. A faint flush crept across Duja’s cheeks as she gazed at the other woman. Imeria was lovely in her fine jewels and scarlet silks, and her anger made her lovelier. “Ah, Hara Duja, but they aren’t unfounded. Our recent history has taught us never to allow foreigners to enter Maynara in any fashion, no matter how innocent they appear. They come as merchants and missionaries one day, and the next, they start calling themselves our masters.”