“Go, then,” Abhiman said, gesturing. “Fan out,” he snapped to the others.

The mystics moved slowly, not quite keeping up to Mehr and Amun’s faster pace. They weren’t at ease in the storm. The whirling sand was gold and red, rose-ash and fire, turning the mystics into shadows, and Amun had still not let go of her hand.

“Mehr,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

The storm was wailing around them now, a loud and mournful cry, but she could. “I can,” said Mehr. “Amun, what are you doing?”

“I made vows to you. Remember, what did I promise?”

“Amun—”

“Please. I need you to remind me.” His voice was suddenly raw, wild. She bit her lip and held his hand tighter in return.

“To love me. To be kind to me. Amun, what are you—”

He released her, only to take hold of her again, her upper arms in the vise of his grip, her feet barely touching the sand as his grip and the wind-lashed fire held her aloft. It should have hurt, should have scared her, but his eyes were dark and soft and she was helpless, weightless.

“I vowed to give you a good life, Mehr. I promised you. I can’t forget that vow, Mehr. Can’t forget, and so—I have to try. Please understand.”

“Stop begging me,” Mehr whispered, uncomprehending. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“I love you,” Amun said, as if he couldn’t, wouldn’t, hear her. “And I can see that this life will erase you. I can see it happening already—”

“Boy,” barked Abhiman. “Get on with it.”

Amun flinched but didn’t stop. “I’ve felt it happen to me. But you—you make me feel like a whole person again. I can never thank you enough. But I can try. Try.” He squeezed his eyes shut tight. Opened them. His sigils were burning so very bright.

“What are you doing?” Abhiman demanded, yelling as the sand whirled around them, higher and higher. He snarled an oath, only the words disobedient and Maha audible to Mehr’s ears, and strode toward them.

“Remember, you vowed to trust me,” Amun whispered. “And run.”

When Abhiman touched his shoulder, Amun turned and struck. He wrenched Abhiman’s scimitar from his grip with one hand and slammed his fist into Abhiman’s face with the other. Abhiman crumpled instantly. He didn’t even have time to defend himself. Amun took hold of the scimitar in a two-handed grip, shoulders squared, feet planted hard against the ground as if he were performing the first steps of a rite. He was panting. His sigils were bright, bright fire on his skin. Mehr felt her own mark flare, livid with the pain of disobedience.

The other mystics yelled, swords drawn. They began to run over. And Mehr was—frozen.

“Run!” Amun yelled. “I’ll hold them off!”

“I can’t,” Mehr yelled back wildly. Shocked still. “My vows to the Maha—”