This version of her mother was one Maram seldom saw—when she was a child, Najat had only ever looked so when they’d emerged out of the shadow of her father. In holos she caught glimpses of her—the vibrant woman who’d inherited a kingdom recovering from civil war, who’d been equal to the task of its many problems. People in the Ziyaana remembered Najat’s last days, bedridden, hollowed out by sickness and disease.

Maram remembered the woman in front of her, back straight, gaze fierce. Forged in fire and made of steel.

“Your Highness.” Fatiha’s voice held a faint note of doubt, as if she worried she’d made a mistake in showing the triptych to Maram. The princess schooled her features and tried to return herself to the present. Fatiha stood beside her, gesturing to a pathway leading further into the palace.

“We have set out a light repast for you, if you wish to rest before touring the rest of the grounds.”

She bodily turned herself away from the painting. Her stomach turned with unease—this was a bad idea. There was no escaping the past in a place meant to replicate it. There was no holding on to her Vathek roots in a place where she pretended they didn’t exist.

“Yes,” she said, her voice even. “Let’s.”

The palace, aviary, and surrounding lands all made up a large estate for Ziyadi heirs called Dar al-Zahra’, the house of flowers. Maram had wanted, more than anything, when she began this project, to have a place without worry. A place she could go outside without needing guards or droids. She didn’t trust the locals any more than she trusted the people who lived in the imperial palace—the estate borders had an airtight security grid that prevented anyone from passing through. Those who wanted to leave had to go through a complicated exit process, and security codes were changed every four hours. It was expensive and far-reaching and complicated, but it meant that Maram could mount a horse and ride out onto the grounds on her own, without escort or worry.

But now, as she rode out into the late-afternoon air, wrapped in a heavy velvet mantle, she shivered. There were times when all she could hear was the first shot, when all she could see was sunlight glinting off the metal of the blaster. This place was safe, she’d made it so, and she would not let some nameless, faceless boy take it from her.