“But why?” I panted. “What about getting anointed?”

Min Ja and Da Seo exchanged a meaningful look. “Little Empress,” the queen said after a pause, “you don’t need us to fulfill your promise to the abiku. And we’ve been in each other’s heads for a month. I have a kingdom to run, and—Let’s be honest. If we had enough in common for love, don’t you think we would know by now?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, heart sinking to my sandals. She was right.

At my forlorn expression, Da Seo tutted and came to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Cheer up, Lady Empress. I’m sure you’ll woo the others. Any girl who survived riding through twenty-six lodestones can convince the Arit rulers to join a council. And now that we hear you’ve put your nobles in line, you can count on their support.”

I sank despondently onto a sheet-covered divan. “You mean, now that my nobles are afraid I’ll kill them.”

Min Ja laughed. “In my court, we call that being popular. All hail Tarisai the Reaper: arbiter of death upon haughty nobles.”

I smiled half-heartedly. “But I didn’t want them to fear me. Not that way. I think I’d rather be hated as a weakling than loved as a monster.”

To my surprise, Min Ja’s face closed up immediately, and she expelled a short, bitter laugh. “You know,” she said, “for all your speeches . . . your sacred Hallows, your magical sprite clouds . . . you really are still little more than a child.”

I glared at her, taken aback. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she said, “that not all of us get to be noble. We don’t all get to be the selfless heroine, flitting gracefully through life, adored by all. Some of us get our hands dirty. Some of us . . .” Her voice hitched. “Have scars.”

“Min Ja,” Da Seo intoned, a gentle reprimand.

Min Ja colored and sucked in a breath. When she released it, her voice was as calm and cool as ever. “Forgive me, Little Empress. That was unfair. I suppose you can’t help being a saint, any more than I can help being a viper.”

“I’m not a saint, Your Majesty.”

“Could have fooled me.” She shrugged and sighed. “Look . . . it doesn’t matter anymore. We have enjoyed our days here—considerably more so than we expected to. If relations continue to improve between our realms, you may consider me an ally. It is a milestone no other Kunleo has achieved. You should be proud, Tarisai.”

But I wasn’t proud. I hadn’t done enough. Even though I’d fought to give them my best story. Had shielded them from my rough points, my nightmares . . .

Then, with dawning realization, Adukeh’s words echoed in my mind, punctuated by her proud, disfigured features.

What good is a voice with no story to tell?

I thought then of how vibrant Ai Ling had looked, when she had shed her serene High Ambassador mask to dance in Dayo’s arms. I thought of when my heart first warmed toward Adebimpe: when she had cowered in the suite, ashy-skinned and without the plainest gele.