Laughter erupts, and we settle down to eat. Before I was captured, I hadn’t realized how much these feasts meant to me. Our tribe has always shared tight bonds, but there’s something about these rare times we let ourselves celebrate, when we face each other rather than stand shoulder to shoulder in combat, that cements what it means to be Shidadi. We have our squabbles and differences, but not in what matters. When I was in prison, I saw power struggles between the soldiers who guarded me, but my people don’t have quarter for that. When the enemy surrounds us, we breathe as one and we fight as one.

Still, as much as I’ve yearned for this, I find it hard to jump into the festivities. It feels too odd to simply fall back into this world. The ghosts of the dungeons still cling to me, and everywhere I look, I see how vulnerable we are, how easily we can be scattered by the empire. Though I’m a continent away from Khaygal, part of me is still there.

Pouriya’s still repeating his goat joke—he’s always been far too amused at his own wit—and I tune out of the conversation. Instead, I find myself studying everyone, picking up who looks older, who has a new scar, who’s not here. There are some definite faces missing, but I don’t have the courage to ask after them. Not yet.

Gatha stands up. “Come with me, Dineas.”

I’m relieved to obey. She leads me a short distance away and stops at a pile of cloth-wrapped bundles. I swallow reflexively when I realize what she’s about to do. Gatha bends over to pick up the first bundle. It’s small, but she holds it with both hands and takes great care to unwrap it. She pulls the cloth away to reveal a matched set of daggers.

“These belonged to Stateira,” she says. “Lost her in battle last month.”

Stateira. She’d been deadly with those daggers. I can still see her crouched with a blade in each hand. She was lightning fast and beautiful, the way she darted in and out of her enemy’s reach. She’d kissed me once, in a celebration after a successful raid. A reward, she’d said, for shooting so many dogs that day.

A cold breeze brushes my skin. As I tuck the knives into my belt, I make her a silent promise to use them well.

The next bundle is a set of swords, last used by a man who’d helped me learn to use them as a boy. I balance his swords in my hands, feeling their weight. I wish his spirit well and strap the blades to my back.

Gatha pauses before the last bundle, long enough for me to fear the worst. And when she unwraps a well-polished bow and a quiver of arrows, a fist closes around my heart.