“The Emperor hates my mother’s kind. Why would his mystics want me, if he hates what I am?”

“I don’t know,” her father said curtly.

Your daughter’s name reached the Maha’s ears on the wings of a storm, the female mystic had said. Her words echoed in Mehr’s ears.

“I’m sorry, Father,” Mehr said quietly. “I know you never wanted this for me. And you’re not at fault.” Mehr was the one at fault—Mehr was the one who had brought the mystics down on them. Maryam had warned her. Lalita had told her to be careful. Her father had tried to send her away. If she had listened to Maryam, if she had changed herself, made different choices …

But it was too late. The mystics were here.

“You should send Arwa away in my place,” Mehr said. Her voice came out of her brittle as glass. “Let Maryam accompany her. Please, Father. She has Amrithi blood. She isn’t safe in Irinah anymore.” She paused, and swallowed. “Send her away so she can begin again.”

Beyond Irinah, Arwa would never cross paths with daiva or storms or Amrithi again. She would lose her inheritance from their mother swiftly, painlessly. She would never know how much she had lost.

If that was the price of Arwa surviving, thriving—well. So be it.

Her father barely seemed to be listening.

“I can’t allow it, Mehr,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t.”

“I told you,” Mehr said. Her voice shook. But she didn’t look away. “It’s my choice. My sacred choice. And I choose to stay.”

Mehr had no idea what her father said to his wife, but Maryam was ready to leave before dawn. Although her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, she sat on her dais in the hub of the Receiving Hall and ordered her servants around with deadly calm, arranging for clothes and jewels to be packed and for a suitable palanquin to be prepared for the long journey to the borders of Hara. Maryam herself was dressed in the simplest clothing Mehr had ever seen her wear, nothing but a plain tunic and trousers, a heavy shawl wrapped loosely around her head and shoulders. She had two guardswomen in attendance, ready to accompany her. Everything was in order.

The only problem was Arwa.

Arwa did not want to go. She was in floods of furious tears, and nothing—not Nahira’s firm words, not Maryam’s gentle cajoling, not bribery in the form of sweets and gifts—could calm her. Mehr watched from the edge of the bustle in the Hall, still in the glittering weight of her Lotus Hall finery, as Maryam stroked Arwa’s hair and murmured gently against her ear. Arwa didn’t calm. She clung to Maryam. She screamed.