Last time, her weak bond with the Maha had allowed the nightmares of the sleeping Gods to break free, to resist the demands of the Maha for the Empire’s unnatural fortune and his own equally unnatural longevity, enacted through Mehr and Amun’s speaking flesh. But now she was vow-bound. She would allow the prayers of the mystics and the Maha’s will to bend those sleepers’ dreams. There would be no room for nightmares. And yet …

Like always, like she had to, she folded the fear away, away, until she was entirely numb.

Amun watched her with intent, careful eyes. But he said nothing about the state of her, and for that Mehr would be grateful later, she was sure.

He wasn’t the only one watching. Even with the preparation for the storm at its peak, the Maha ensured that there were guards on both of them, watching them for disobedience or weakness.

The day came as fast as expected. The mystics prayed and prayed, and Mehr and Amun did what they were expected to do. They went to prepare. She took out the wooden flowered beads to string through her hair. The fanned trousers, the tunic soft, color washed away by age. She laid them out on the divan and stared at them. She could be strong. She could—

“Mehr.” There was a thread of worry in Amun’s voice that tugged at her like a physical thing wound up beneath her breastbone.

She didn’t want him to worry. So she smiled at him, even though she knew already that he would see right through her, that he knew her face as well as she knew the way he carried his emotions in his hands, his spine, the line of his shoulders. She smiled not to show him she was happy—he was no fool, her Amun—but to show him that she was still strong, still iron-willed, and the fear hadn’t broken her yet.

“Hush, Amun. I’ll be well when this is all over.” She swallowed. “We’ll both be well when the storm is done.”

Amun shook his head, and Mehr raised hers sharply. She looked at him, forcing herself to see through the haze of her own pain. She saw the shadows under his eyes, the furrowed line of worry between them. She walked over to him and reached up, rising a little onto her tiptoes so that she could smooth the crease away with the flat of her thumb.

Amun’s mouth parted, just a little. They were so close to one another. She couldn’t help but feel the pull of his dark eyes, remember the softness of his mouth. Her thumb fell to touch his lower lip. She felt the warmth of his breath.

A jolt of awareness ran through her.

This man. This man is mine. And I am his.