My head pounded with horror. It all made sense now. His infatuation. His knowledge about the Ray. His insistence on mental barriers—he knew that if I’d discovered his ties to my mother, I would never have let him get close.

“She understood, my Lady,” Zuri said dreamily. “The need to knock old regimes down before you can build them up again. I was going to build a world with her. Like I’m building a new world with you.”

“Woo In,” I whispered, backing away. “You were council brothers. He kept your secret because he felt guilty about killing The Lady.”

Zuri didn’t seem to register my repulsion, smiling as though we shared an inside joke. “I gave you hints, you know. When I told you I was Hallowed. And when I told you of my parentage—you know how partial The Lady was to isokens.”

“You don’t love me,” I croaked, my shock giving way to rage. “All this time—all you saw was an extension of my mother. You love an idea of me.”

He reached with his bandaged hand to stroke my hairline. “But that’s what the Raybearer is, Idajo,” he said fervently. “The Raybearer has never been about a person—not really. It’s about an idea. Min Ja and the rest may love the real you. But they also love what you represent: rebirth. Redemption. The tale of a monster turned heroine.” He pressed a final, lingering kiss to my forehead, and gestured to the chaos below. “I hope, Idajo, that you’ll be the story they need too.”

Then, unsheathing his club and battle pole, my newest council brother glowed with the sickly tendrils of ibaje . . . and disappeared, leaving me alone atop the tower.

Clanging weapons and the sick cacophony of blows roared in my ears. The battle below raged on, and before long I spotted Zuri, using the Ray to locate him in the fray. He had donned his Crocodile mask and fought alongside the commoners, skin burning cobalt, dealing death like a fluid, lethal dancer. His okanoba allowed him to fight with the strength of two men . . . but it wasn’t enough.

Even now, I could see the battle turning in favor of the noble warriors. In less than an hour, I would be staring over a mass graveyard. Even though I hadn’t started this—even though I knew it wasn’t my fault, my stomach went leaden as the ojiji chorus sounded in my head.

See how death follows everywhere you go? For shame, Empress. You will never make up for this. You will have to pay—have to pay.

I shuddered. They were right. In my cowardice, I could not bring myself to kill, even to protect the innocent. The lost lives of every Djbanti commoner rested on my shoulders, and for that I deserved to pay. Unless . . .

My eyes slid to Gakuru and his six companions. Even as they murdered dozens, they were nauseatingly resplendent, the subtle glow of okanoba lending glory to their cruelty. My jaw set with rage. How dare they abuse so rare and powerful a gift? They didn’t deserve to be called nobles.