She stiffened when he touched her. She opened her eyes, ready to apologize—but for once, Amun had not flinched away. His jaw was hard, his sigils livid with pain, but the hand on her cheek was confident in its tenderness. She leaned into his touch, almost despite herself. He didn’t hate her. How could he not hate her?

“You don’t need to comfort me,” she protested. “You’re hurting yourself.” But when he placed his other hand against her shoulder, drawing her against him, she didn’t protest. She stayed very still, feeling the warmth of him, the cadence of his breath. She’d move away in a second, offer him a respite from the pain of his vows. But not just yet.

“Don’t tell me everything will be well,” she said.

“I don’t lie. Not to you.” A pause. “But you’ll survive. And I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe.”

“Thank you,” she said. And then, because it bore repeating: “I’m sorry, Amun. So very sorry.”

“I wanted to buy us a little time,” he said, his breath gentle against her forehead. “And I did. That’s enough.”

It was painful to lose hope. But she knew, now, that Amun had never had it. His hopes had always been smaller than hers. All he’d wanted was a modicum of kindness, a small sand grain of mercy. He’d won them that. Now all they could do was face the consequences of Mehr’s failure. Now all they could do was wait.

Hema had been right. Mehr did feel foul in the morning. But she’d felt worse before. The journey through the desert, with its relentless heat and sunlight, had made her feel infinitely worse. So she put her pain to the back of her mind and went to prayers, sharing her breakfast with Amun as they went to their practice hall. They didn’t speak about the night before. Instead they went through the motions, performing the rite, praying with the mystics, adhering strictly to the monotonous routine expected of them. They made it through the day. And the next one.

On the third day, Bahren and Abhiman came for them. Abhiman came armed. He wore a dagger at his waist. Mehr looked at the dagger and at the look in his eyes—deadly and flat and soft. She knew why they were there even before Bahren spoke.

“The Maha wants you. Both of you.”

Abhiman strode over and grabbed Mehr roughly by the wrist. Amun, fool that he was, stepped forward, his face thunderous. In a flash, Abhiman had his dagger out of its sheath, its tip a hairsbreadth from Mehr’s chin. She raised her head, gave Amun a sharp look. Please, please, don’t try to play the hero. Not now.

Amun had already frozen. He held his palms upraised. “Brother, you don’t need swords to compel us,” he said.