Amun made a low, tortured sound as he tossed on the bed. She touched his hair, made a hushing noise, as a mother would for a child. He didn’t wake. There were hours still until daylight, and Mehr feared all over again that he would not wake up in time. She curled herself up on the bed beside him, tucking her legs beneath herself. She kept stroking his hair. He made another pained noise, eyelids fluttering, and she began to sing him the lullaby she’d once sung to Arwa, to comfort her little sister when she’d cried.

It was a ridiculous thing to do; she knew that. Amun was no child. She remembered, distantly, Arwa’s warm weight in her arms—her long braid of hair, her warm child scent. Amun was huge, all sinew and muscle, and smelled of blood. There was stubble on his cheeks. She touched her fingertips to his jaw. Her voice was thin and raw, but Amun still seemed to be soothed by it, his breathing softening as she cupped his face, as she sang.

She watched his eyes open.

“Mehr?” he said blearily. He reached a hand out. She took it. His large fingers enclosed hers.

“I’m here,” she said softly.

“Did I …?”

“No,” she said, seeing the fear dawning on his face. “No, you did nothing. You fought.”

He gave a pained laugh. “No wonder I hurt so mu—” He stopped, his voice choking. His grip on her hand tightened. “I can feel it. The vow.”

She waited. His grip didn’t weaken. He was so gray with pain. “The song you were singing,” he said finally, pain leaking into his voice. “It sounded familiar.”

“It was a song my mother used to sing to me,” she said. “An Amrithi song.”

Amun nodded. “My … my father. He used to sing me to sleep. He was better with me than my mother. Because she had the—the amata gift, she was harder. More afraid. But my father … he had a—good voice. He taught me.” Breath. “Everything I know. He taught me.”

Mehr listened. Just listened, as Amun struggled for words, as he closed his eyes and spoke, still holding on to her as tightly as a man in the sands holds his last flask of water.

“After my mother, he was afraid to … to leave me alone. Because I was like her—he knew. He’d seen the dreamfire. With me. He tried not to go to villages. Tried to keep me safe. But we were hungry, so we went. And someone told the mystics we were there.” Pained breath in. Out. “When the mystics found us … Mehr, if my mother had been with me, she would have slit my throat before the Maha could take me. But my father—he loved me too much. He hesitated and they—took him. Us.”