He was not as a God to her. In his smile—even in his eyes—she saw his humanity like a blazing light, a harsh desert sun that illuminated all and left all secrets bared. So he fed on the power of Gods—so his mystics fell at his feet, worshipped him. He was still nothing but flesh. He hungered for power as a human hungered. He enjoyed hurting her as a mortal man enjoyed crushing another mortal underfoot. He was a man who took pleasure in hurting a woman. His evil was born from his humanity.

She remembered Maryam’s cruelties large and small. Maryam had been so petty, so utterly bitter at heart. She had punished Mehr for—what? Being another woman’s daughter, with another woman’s skin? Her hatred had made her small.

The Maha was no less small. He had shamed her, disgraced her, but through her fear and her pain she saw him finally with clear sight. The storm had made him angry, and his anger made him err. She had seen his true face now. He could not play at being the omnipotent master. She had his measure.

She knew exactly what he was.

His nails were digging harshly into her scalp.

“You will serve me better next time, won’t you, Mehr?” he asked. His pleasure had softened the edges of his rage. The next time he was angry—and she knew, already, that there would be a next time—she would have to remember how much he liked tears.

“I will, Maha. With all my heart.” She had bent her soul to the fire of the Gods. She could bend her words now, bend them to a bone-deep lie. He was nothing compared to them, after all, no matter what he believed. Nothing.

“See that you do,” he said. Finally, he released her.

She managed to catch herself on her hands before her skull met the floor. Then she bowed to the floor, her forehead to the cool marble. She allowed herself to tremble, feigned being a thing bent and broken by his cruelty. She did not have her jewels or her fine clothes, but she had this power, at least: She could give him a simulacrum of what he desired from her, and hold her crumbling strength tight.

Let him think he had broken her. As long as he believed he already had, as long as she fooled him, he would not succeed in truly doing so.

The Maha watched her.

“The next time a nightmare frightens you, my dear, remember how much worse I am. Remember the wrath of your God.”

“Maha,” Mehr said, allowing herself to cry, allowing her hands to tremble, so that he wouldn’t see the iron blooming in her blood, her spine, in her heart. “On my vow, Maha, I will. I will.”