It was so strange—the image of regality in her head was quite married to the Vathek idea, but whenever Aghraas sat anywhere it put her in mind of a warrior queen from antiquity. Her legs were never crossed, and there was a slouch to her shoulders that made Maram think she was used to being ready to reach for a weapon. She sat thus now, dropping languidly into an open chair without permission, her head tilted just so that their eyes still met.

She’d allowed herself to want for months. She’d shied away from difficult choices. She’d let Amani construct a new world for her and fallen in love. But now that world was calling, and it had demands on her and her blood and her inheritance. Her heart and duty had never been in alignment, but now she felt that disconnect acutely. Like a shard of glass burrowing its way to her center.

“What do you want?” Aghraas said. “Is this what you want?”

Her breath caught in her throat. That was always Aghraas’s question. What do you want?

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered.

“You could leave this war, and this planet, and this rebellion all to Amani. You could come with me and we could go anywhere in the galaxy. You just have to want it enough.” Her voice was low and fierce.

She did want it. Dihya, how she wanted it. Sometimes she woke up feeling as if the wanting would choke the life out of her. But this was what she’d been born to. This was what everyone was depending on her for. This … was her life. It was not the one she’d chosen, but the one she’d been made for.

She wondered if when her mother bore her she’d always meant to pit her against Mathis. If Najat had planned a war from the very beginning. If she had raised Maram she would have turned out differently, a warrior queen preparing for war. Her entire life the choice was between her mother and father.

No one ever suggested there might be a third option. That she might mold a world unlike her mother’s, where both justice and love were possible.

“Fate is not real, Maram,” Aghraas said, drawing her thoughts back. “Our choices shape our destinies. You have a choice.”

Maram walked toward Aghraas, and Aghraas in turn reached for her and laid her hands on her waist. Maram never tired of looking at her, at the strong planes of her face and the spill of her braids and the breadth of her shoulders. It had taken her—she didn’t know how long it had taken her to understand poetry. The wellspring from which love and safety spilled forth had been a mystery to her. But whenever her eyes fixed on Aghraas, the whole world seemed to come into focus.