She’d been dancing all morning, tracing the air with her limbs, stretching her strength. For a moment, she felt as if she were back in the Maha’s temple, moving through the rites in the rote way she and Amun had grown to perform them: one rite after the other, warming up their muscles, preparing themselves for service. She felt the ghost of Amun at her back, remembered the way he’d move closer to her after the first hour of practice, his voice low and considering. She remembered the brush of his breath against her hair. If you’re ready, Mehr, then let go—

Her limbs grew loose, and her breathing deep. She exhaled slowly, her body soft around the hum of her own thoughts, the beat of her heart. She could feel the morning’s light against her skin, smell a faint sweetness on the air, a pale ghost of godly dreaming. She reached for the part of her that wasn’t mortal in response, reached for the part of her that was ichor, that held a trace of immortality—

A howl echoed through the air. A heavy weight slammed into her chest and flung her to the ground. When she raised her head she saw the daiva circling her in a black cloud. Her heart thudded sharply in response, fire shooting through her blood. Ah, Gods. She was a fool.

The daiva did not like the rite. Amun had told her that long ago. And oh, silly child that she was, she’d begun to perform it, by instinct, by habit. And there they were, the children of those Gods she’d compelled, bristling at her, their darkness growing to surround her—

Just as quickly as they’d risen, they drew back, flinging themselves away in wisps of shadow. It was only then that she realized her lip was warm and wet. At some point she’d bitten her lip, or abraded it on the sand. The result was the same: She had bled, and her blood had reminded the daiva of their vows, banishing them away. She waited a moment, until she was sure the daiva had departed, then climbed shakily to her feet.

Without the daiva around her, the sand glittered menacingly. The sky was a blue so bright it burned. Gasping, she leaned against the wall of her shelter and thought: There’s a storm coming. I know it.

The knowledge lay in her memories, in her dreams; it lay in her body, in her muscles and her bones and the way she moved when she forgot she was no longer a weapon for the Maha to wield. A storm was coming, and no matter how far Mehr had run, the knowledge of how to wrap the dreams of the Gods between her footsteps hadn’t left her. The rite waited in her blood.