“You will be,” he reminded me, nodding at where the empress mask lay concealed beneath my clothes. “Almost, anyway. And when that day comes . . .” His expression grew starry. “You’ll be able to accomplish more than ever. Always running, working, plotting. Fighting for the lowly and voiceless, from sunrise to sunrise. I envy you, Idajo.”

My stomach sank at his words, but immediately I felt guilty. Zuri was right. Of course I needed to work more, work harder. How could I do otherwise, with a gift like immunity? Even now, I wouldn’t die without sleep. Eventually I’d go mad—well, madder—but not for a while.

Zuri squeezed my shoulder, winked, then wandered away to speak with the bosun. I paced the deck, muttering my ruling for the Pinnacle until my tongue grew leaden. Both wired and exhausted, I leaned over the ship’s braided rope railing and closed my eyes as the night wind blew back my cowl. Very faintly, the Ray hummed from the general direction of Oluwan City, which had shrunk to a smudge in the distance.

Miss you already.

It was Dayo. I didn’t respond, feeling agitated from the last conversation we’d had before I left.

“Why now?” he had asked, looking forlorn in the Imperial Bedchamber as attendants bustled to pack my belongings.

I had blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“All of this.” He had waved at my desk, where a sea of notes, edicts, and Pinnacle invitation lists had gathered from the last few months. “Why try to solve these huge problems—poverty, trafficking, corruption—when you’ve got so little time to prepare for the Underworld? Why not just focus on that, and . . . well—enjoy life with me and the others? With what time you’ve got left?”

At his wide, guileless stare, I had suppressed a wave of anger, swallowing my loneliness. Of course Dayo wouldn’t understand. No one would. Those who fought for justice were always alone—the ghosts who haunted me had made that clear.

“I’m doing it because—” The truth stuck like thorns in my tongue.

Because I’m the only one willing to feel guilty.

Because our ancestors killed children, and their ghosts are thirsty for blood.

Because if I don’t give the voices in my head what they want—if I don’t achieve justice for Aritsar—I might never come back from the Underworld.

But I’d given a half-truth instead. “Because I want a legacy,” I had told Dayo, kissing his scarred cheek. “I’m not immune to death yet—not until I anoint Zuri. And if I die, I want to have made a difference. I want . . .”

“To have meant something,” I murmured now, words lost in the Olorun fog.

A soft chuckle warmed my neck. “Done with speech making?”

I hunched my shoulders. “What is it with you and lurking? You’re a king, not a drooling hyena.”

“In due time, I hope to be neither.”

I crossed my arms, appraising Zuri. “The abiku require that I anoint twelve rulers, you know. So if you’re going to dismantle the Djbanti monarchy, I’ll have to anoint you while you’re still king.”