Mehr could hear the howling of the storm draw closer. Armed mystics met them at the bottom of the stairs. Even from here, even with the storm howling, Mehr could hear the thrum of their prayers. She heard them like they were drumming inside her skull.

She was their vessel, after all. She was a tool for bringing those prayers to life, for enacting the Maha’s desires in the form of a rite, so that the dreams of the Gods would be compelled to obedience. It was heresy, but not one Mehr could avoid or resist.

The Maha was with her. The mystics were with her. She couldn’t outrun them. But Amun was with her too. He took her hand and walked with her, strong and steady at her side. They would survive together. She had to believe that.

They walked out into the light.

The air glowed beautifully. The storm was unlike any she’d seen before, huge and wild and deep, its jeweled light a thousand shards that glimmered like broken glass. The sight of it made Mehr want to stand and simply stare, overwhelmed by its strangeness. It put her guards on edge. The guards—Abhiman among them—tightened their grips on their weapons, watching the surroundings carefully.

Mehr could feel the power of the storm. It was fire in her skin, her bones. She swallowed. It was time. She straightened, bare feet curling in the sand, and tried to slip free from Amun’s grip. But his hand was iron on hers, and when she tugged, his grip only seemed to tighten.

She looked up at him sharply. In a movement that was almost imperceptible, he shook his head. No.

“We need to be deeper in the storm,” he said. His voice was loud but calm. His eyes said, Trust me.

“You can perform right here, boy,” Abhiman said coldly.

“The storm isn’t strong enough here for our needs,” Amun said.

He was lying. Mehr could feel the strength of the storm like a weight draped over her shoulders. She was shaking beneath it. All he had to do was let go of her, and the storm would swallow them both. Why was he lying?

What are you up to, Amun?

She didn’t ask. She waited.

“The Maha wants you to stay close,” Abhiman said, mouth thinned. “Those were his orders.”

“The Maha knows we have a task to perform, and that we can be trusted.”

“Can you?”

“Emperor’s grace, we wear our loyalty in our skin,” Mehr snapped. “Isn’t that enough? Let us do what we’ve been ordered to do, or may the Maha’s mercy for your error when we cannot serve be swift.”

There was some muttered counsel, as Abhiman’s eyes narrowed and he turned to his fellow mystics for assistance. They didn’t have time to seek the Maha’s permission. The storm would soon reach its peak.