They found a vaulted hall, larger even than the palace throne room. Statues of Sharash—a soldier with a raised spear and a beard of serpents—stood between columns that lined the chamber. Many living soldiers stood here too, clad in bronze and holding true spears. All eyes turned toward Issari and Tanin, a princess and her companion from the north.

How must we look to them? Issari thought. She no longer wore her fine cotton tunic hemmed with gold, and her old headdress of lapis lazuli had been lost in the war. She wore the fur and leather of the north now, and gone was the innocent softness of her old life; she knew her cheeks were gaunter now, her eyes harder. At her side, Tanin looked out of place, like a dragonfly among bees—a tall young man, his brown hair mussed and dusty, his cloak made of rich fur, a northerner that must seem like a barbarian to these southern soldiers.

"Hear me!" Issari stepped forward and raised her amulet. "I am Issari Seran. I have come to rededicate Eteer, to reclaim our kingdom and banish the demons who infect it. My father, Raem Seran, is a killer of kings; he slew his own father, the wise Nir-Ur. My father, Raem Seran, lies with demons. He must fall! I claim dominion of Eteer." The light blasted out from her amulet. "Follow me, soldiers of Taal! March with me to the palace. We will banish Angel from the throne, and I will be your queen. We will banish these demons back into the Abyss."

She stood, panting, waiting for a reaction.

The soldiers only stared.

From the shadowy back of the room rose mirthless laughter. Issari stiffened and her lip curled up. At her side, Tanin raised his dagger. The shadows stirred and a soldier stepped forth, his smile cruel and his eyes hard.

"General Gateris," Issari said, her voice cold.

He walked toward her, a hint of swagger to his step. A grin split his face, revealing a wide space between his front teeth. Wrinkles crinkled the corners of his eyes, and lines marred his forehead, but he still stood tall and strong, and his hair was still jet-black. A bronze breastplate covered his chest, and a khopesh—the traditional sword of Eteer, shaped as a sickle—hung at his side. Issari had always feared this man. Once, as a child, she had run into the barracks while chasing a butterfly. Gateris had grabbed her, twisted her arm, and sent her fleeing with a slap—but not before grabbing the butterfly in his hand, crushing it, and wiping the mess against her shirt. Since then she had cowered whenever she encountered him, trying to ignore the lustful looks he gave her growing body.

But today I will not fear him. Today I will be his queen.