It didn’t take long for the mystics to find her. She saw the glint of their weapons long before she saw them running toward her, dark robes billowing around them from the force of the storm. The only thing that kept their weapons from being put to use was the roar of Bahren’s voice.

“Careful! Hurt her and the Maha will have your heads!”

It was Bahren who pinned her wrists behind her. Judging by the hatred in the eyes of the other mystics, he did so far more gently than any of the others would have. Mehr didn’t try to fight him. I want to be here, she reminded herself, as he steered her toward the temple by his grip on her hands, barking orders at the mystics around him, ordering one to run ahead to the temple to warn their master. This is my choice.

“Bahren,” Mehr said. “Please take me quickly to the Maha.”

Bahren laughed, an ugly sound without joy. “I wouldn’t dare take you anywhere else.”

The hands holding Mehr pinned were slippery with sweat. More than the storm had him scared.

“I’m glad you’ve come back,” Bahren murmured. “I’m glad you’ve remembered your duty.”

Mehr said nothing to that and kept her head lowered. She let herself be led through the honeycomb halls of the Maha’s temple, passing nervous mystics, moving through the echo of their prayers. She could feel Amun’s presence, could barely breathe through the pain and the longing.

“Where is my husband?” she asked.

“Dying,” Bahren said grimly. “He broke his vow. Now his soul is paying the price for the both of you.”

He took her to the Maha’s chambers.

One of the mystics must have succeeded in warning the Maha, because Abhiman stood in the entrance of the Maha’s chambers, waiting for them, his hand on the scabbard of his scimitar. When he caught sight of Mehr, his grip visibly tightened. “She’s here, Maha,” he said. He stepped back, allowing Bahren to shove Mehr forward into the room.

The Maha was standing at the balcony with Kalini by his side, watching the storm fall. As Bahren released Mehr, leaving her to stand alone in the center of the room, the Maha turned to face her. His expression was calm. His face was not simply riven; his skin was paper-thin, brittle with more age than a human body should have been able to carry. His hand on the edge of the balcony trembled faintly. But it was his eyes that revealed the true extent of what the storm had already done to him. They were black, deep black, the irises clouded and shattered beyond repair. Mehr shuddered at the sight of him. As he looked at Mehr, the brokenness within those eyes only seemed to deepen.