Some days, the only real exhilaration I felt was when those ghostly apparitions stared down at me, sending thrills along my spine of guilt and determination as they chanted:

Should have saved us. Should have saved us. Pay for our lives.

More and more, my soul seemed to hover with those grim-faced children, drifting through each day in hollow discontent. At night, I shared a pallet with Dayo, lulled to sleep by our synced breath—but I stopped trying to visit Sanjeet. Stopped visiting Kirah, and all the rest of my council siblings. I missed them terribly.

But I knew that during the day, I could focus more, work harder . . . if I just stopped dreaming altogether.

Do more. Do more.

Adukeh danced again by our dais. This time when she passed, the purple scar marring her face soured my stomach with rage.

Our empire had done this to her. Greed had caused that accident in the mines—and apathy, shown by bystanders like Sanjeet and my council siblings, too jaded to imagine a better tomorrow.

You are alone.

I inhaled. Exhaled, suspended in a bath of cold clarity. My council siblings couldn’t help me. Neither could millions of others in this empire, blind to any problem beyond their social spheres. I couldn’t blame them for not seeing what I saw. The ojiji, those guiding voices in my head, had made it clear.

And if only one person saw the systems—the brushstrokes, the tiny actions forming a mural of injustice—then that person was responsible. She had to do something. She had to fix it.

If the world didn’t care about justice, then I would simply have to care enough for all of them.

“I could heal you,” I said abruptly, interrupting Adukeh’s song.

The girl stopped midverse, dropping Ododo. Her beaded cornrows clacked as she tilted her head in confusion. “Lady Empress?”

“I could heal you,” I repeated. “So why won’t you let me?”

Adukeh avoided my gaze, chewing her lip.

I touched the girl’s blotchy forehead, my fingers itching to do, to fix something. “I could make the bad thoughts go away,” I told her. The palace healers had determined that Adukeh’s wounds were more than physical. “I think it would help, Adukeh. The trauma of your memories is hurting you. It’s probably causing your stammer. You could feel so much better.”

Adukeh stiffened beneath my touch, clearly struggling not to recoil. I sighed and released her, and she backed away, shaking her head.

“Ap-pologies, Lady Empress. I d-don’t mean to b-be ungrateful. B-But—but—” She scowled at her feet. “D-Don’t take my m-memories. P-Please. N-Not ever.”

“It wouldn’t be all of them, Adukeh. Just the bad ones.”

“N-No!” She pressed her lips together. “B-Begging your pardon, Lady Empress.”

I leaned back, frowning. “But you could have your voice back.”

She clutched her grandmother’s drum. “B-But . . . what good is a v-voice with no st-story to tell?”

Her words gave me pause. I blinked, considering, but before I could internalize what she’d said, the double doors of the bedchamber burst open.