There were only ten mystics. There was no sign of Kalini or Bahren, or Hema’s women. But the mystics waiting for her were all armed, and Abhiman was at the head of them, striding toward her with his sword unsheathed. His gaze was murderous.

Mehr was far too tired for this.

“What good will it do to harm me?” she yelled, stumbling back as he strode ever closer.

There were red scratches on Abhiman’s face and a new bruise swelling up his left eye. “You did this,” he snarled. “I know you did. I found the Maha dead. My brothers and sisters are gone, or scattered to the winds.” His sword wavered in his grip. His face was stained with blood and sweat. “You’ve destroyed all that’s pure and good. The Empire will fall. We will all fall.”

Mehr shook her head. “No, Abhiman,” she said. Her head was pounding terribly. She didn’t want to die here, but Abhiman was weeping now, teeth bared, and she thought, He will not let me go. “I’ve saved us. That’s all.”

Abhiman howled. It was a sound of pure animal fury.

“You wretched bitch,” he snarled. “I’ll cut your heart out, I swear it!”

He ran toward her, swinging his sword with fury and no finesse. Mehr tried to scramble away from him, tried to run—and froze all over again.

Something dark shifted under the sand beneath her feet.

A daiva ruptured up from the ground between them. It was a monstrous thing, vast, its shadowy body bristling with thorns. She saw its vast array of teeth, its glittering stretch of eyes. It stretched its body out between them, a great wall that blotted Abhiman from her vision. Then it swooped down. Mehr heard an awful sound: the snap of teeth meeting resistant flesh.

Abhiman was dead before he hit the ground.

Mehr bit her tongue hard enough to bleed, forcibly holding back her instinctual scream of horror at the sight of the severed remains of him. She didn’t even shudder as the mystics shrieked and recoiled, faces gray with terror. She curled her hands into fists and stood stock-still.

The daiva curled itself up, small and sleek, its teeth carefully tucked away. It glided across the sand to her. A tendril of smoke wound its way gently around her wrist and uncurled her fingers.

A weight pressed itself into her palm. The daiva made a soft sound, somewhere between a coo and chitter, and sank back into the sand.

Mehr looked down into her open palm. On it lay the black blade, its teary gem gleaming in the light. She stared at it, long and wondering, then tucked it carefully into the sash of her robe.

Mehr had made no vows to the daiva. Apparently, they had decided to protect her regardless.

Thank you, she thought.