In that hall, the rulers of every realm on the continent awaited my entrance. What thoughts and whispers were those ancient doors soaking up right now?

You’re going to be fine, a warm tenor Ray-spoke in my head. Take your time, Tar. The sound blossomed as it always did—right behind my eyes, as if we shared a soul. You’re worth the wait.

Emperor Ekundayo Kunleo, oba of Aritsar, reached for my hand, the sun-and-stars of his solid gold seal ring pressing into my fingers. These days, I found it hard to look at him. Circles pooled beneath his eyes—exhaustion that I blamed myself for.

Dayo had always been gangly. But the past weeks had reduced his tall dark frame to bone, aging him and accentuating the latticed burn scar that stretched from his jaw to his collarbone. The fatigue showed only in his face. He shimmered in Olugbade’s old banquet agbada, a sweeping purple kaftan with swaths of fabric furling over each shoulder. It tripled Dayo’s size and swayed around him with every step, metallic threads catching the light. He didn’t look like a sleep-deprived boy grieving his father. He looked like someone’s emperor.

“Don’t worry about me,” I told him aloud, touching his cheek. “You need rest more than anyone.”

“It’s funny.” A V formed on Dayo’s smooth dark brow. “I should feel worse than I do about Father.”

“Worse?”

“Sadder.” Dayo chewed his bottom lip, staring up at the massive doors shimmering with his family’s legacy. “But the truth is . . . Father barely let me know him. Didn’t let anyone, really. I always assumed when I was older, I’d understand, but . . .” He trailed off.

“Grief isn’t simple, Dayo,” Ai Ling said. She watched him with pity and another emotion I couldn’t quite name. The air crackled as I felt her reach for Dayo with the Ray—then she stopped, throwing up her mental shields abruptly, as though afraid of what her thoughts might reveal.

“I feel numb about Thaddace too,” said Dayo, not seeming to notice Ai Ling’s secrecy. “It doesn’t make sense. He helped raise me, and I loved him, I really did. But whenever I try to mourn Uncle Thad, I just feel . . . empty.”

“He killed your father,” Kirah observed.

“But it wasn’t that simple,” he protested. “Uncle Thad had to make an impossible choice.”

“I know.” The silver coins on Kirah’s tunic jingled as she patted his arm. “But Dayo . . . it’s still okay to be mad at him.”

He opened his mouth, shut it, and then wilted. I reached out to cup his cheek, running my thumb over his jaw. I had only just begun to see the resemblance between our features—the same rounded nostrils and subtle chin, gifts from our shared grandfather.

“Woo In of Songland didn’t mean to kill my mother either,” I said quietly. “But I still have to forgive him every day. And . . .” I shifted my jewel-studded sandals. “I get it if you keep having to forgive me too.”