There was a lull in the prayers. As the song quieted and the Maha began to chant, silken ancient litanies to the sleeping Gods, Mehr raised her eyes again and stared at the statue of the faceless Emperor until her eyes burned.

The Empire was rotten to the core.

Finally, after years cloistered away in privilege, Mehr’s eyes were open.

Mehr could not help Lalita. Either she had escaped the Maha’s reach—and Mehr could only hope, dream, that she had—or she had turned her blade on herself. Whatever the case, she was firmly beyond Mehr’s reach.

The only person Mehr could help now was herself.

After prayers, the mystics moved as a group to a large canopied veranda open to the air. Mehr could smell cooking fires and was reminded suddenly, achingly of her old home. The kitchens in the Governor’s residence had smelled just the same, of oil and spices and burnt sweetness. But no place in her old home had been so full of strangers, or so open to the velvet darkness of the night. She wrapped her arms around herself and followed the flow of the crowd.

Even here, the mystics had divided themselves along gender lines. Mehr could not seek out Amun, and that was probably for the best. She was growing far too reliant on him for company. He was her bastion of safety, the only one she could trust in this forsaken place. But Mehr was not safe and couldn’t allow herself to fall into the trap of believing she was.

As the crowd kneeled in rows, younger mystics ran down the line, spooning out food onto plates at a lightning-fast pace. Mehr kneeled before a plate of lentils, still steaming with heat, and a flatbread crisp to the touch. She barely tasted any of it. She ate far too quickly for that. Her hunger was a furious thing.

Now that prayers were over, the noises that filled the temple were of clattering plates, quick footsteps, and chatter. None of the noise drew near Mehr. The mystics kept their distance, leaving her be. She was surrounded by her own small sea of silence.

On the journey, Edhir had always tried to engage Mehr in conversation, eager for company his own age. Bahren had made strained efforts to be kind to her. Now that she was at the temple, she wondered if she would start being treated the way Amun was. The thought of being invisible to all these people was oddly comforting.

Comforting, but short-lived. A woman thumped down on the ground across from her. She wore the same dark robes as all the mystics, but her curling hair was bound back with vibrant green thread. It took Mehr a moment to recognize her: She was the one who had interrupted Mehr when she’d been bathing. She gave Mehr a grin, a dimple etched in her cheek.