“Do not worry, Behold-What-Is-Coming.” He laughed again, this time a little sadly, and gripped the jeweled bracelet with both hands. “I see you recognize ibaje—the Pale Arts your mother used to enslave me, as did Enoba before her. Thankfully, the idekun stone was embedded in this cuff and not in my skin. It amplified my powers, allowing me to grant wishes beyond human imagination.”

White light pulsed between his palms and at once the cuff smoldered to ash. The powder slipped through his fingers, caught at once on a supernatural wind that scattered the dust through the windows. But when only a pinch of ash remained, Melu closed his hand, and said, “Even the palest of arts might be repurposed—for the right cause.”

He held out his fist. Hesitantly, I cupped both my hands, and he dropped the remaining ash into my palms. “One wish,” he said. “And if it is within my abilities, I will grant it. But the ash will not retain its power long. You must decide now.”

At once, the floor vibrated with voices, masses frenzied with excitement. I blocked them out, my mind racing.

What do you want, Wuraola?

I dismissed the obvious wishes. Love, power, riches . . . I had all those things, and more than I knew what to do with. So what did I want?

Could I eradicate suffering? Disease? No—even pestilence was a living thing, and I remembered that killing was beyond an ehru’s power.

My eyes fell on Zuri’s mask, glittering beneath his gold council crown.

So often, I remembered the distant world he had described—that state of Aritsar before Enoba established his empire.

We did not always have kings in the central kingdoms. Once, leaders were merely the hand of their people.

I thought of Olugbade and The Lady, loving siblings doomed to bitter rivalry, playing a game with rules that had been decided long before they were born. I thought of the Unity Edict—inflicted on the empire by rulers so disconnected from the general populace, they thought they could force harmony. I thought of me and Dayo, wringing our hands at the thought of heirs—of passing on legacies to children unfit or unwilling to bear them.

Again, Zuri’s words echoed in my head: Accepting the Raybearer has never been about loving a person—not really. It’s about loving an idea.

I opened my eyes, taking in the sea of spectators. From jewel-encrusted queens to paupers in their festival finest, cheeks gaunt. I had only one burden left: the future of my people. Then I glanced back at Dayo, asking him a question through the Ray. His eyes widened with shock.

Please, I told him. It’s the only way forward.

Slowly, he nodded, solemnly gripping the arms of his throne.

I pressed my lips together . . . and in that moment, I decided.

“I wish,” I whispered, though my voice ricocheted from the echo-stones, “that the Rays of Enoba would no longer be bound to a man and woman from the house of Kunleo. That instead—from this day forward—the Rays and their power would belong to the people of Aritsar. That the next Raybearers could be anyone—from a queen to a pig farmer. So long as those two Raybearers are worthy—those best suited to bring peace to the empire.”