The slightest flicker of regret passes across her features. “I didn’t wish for harm to come to you,” she says.

It’s like swallowing a stone, hearing those words coming out of Mehtap’s mouth. Sweet, gentle Mehtap. “Why?” I whisper.

Her shoulders fall, and for a moment, her mask comes off. “Look at me, Zivah. I’m useless. It was nice to pretend for a while that I could make a difference, but really, the world doesn’t care about us. The emperor doesn’t care about us. Now my father’s a general. He’ll be a good one too, and he’ll bring glory to Ampara.” She looks up at me with desperate eyes. “That is my gift to him, if I can do nothing else.”

The sense of horror is growing in my chest. “Mehtap, you killed your emperor.”

“He doesn’t mourn our deaths. Why should I mourn his?”

It’s too much to look at her, and I turn away, pacing the room. “I can’t keep quiet about this. I have to say something.”

“You wouldn’t.” For the first time, there’s a hint of panic in her voice. “What proof would you give? I’ll tell them that I saw you disappear as well.”

“Your father is an honorable man. He would want to know the real reason for his good fortune. This is not the way he would have done things.”

Mehtap reels back. “Don’t presume to know him,” she says. “I’m his daughter. And he wouldn’t believe you even if you told him.”

I stare at her, and the final pieces fall into place. “And what if I point him to the cream you made to disguise your rosemarks, or the fresh scar on your palm?”

She snatches her hand closer to herself. “Don’t,” she whispers. “Please.”

“Why shouldn’t I? Shall I just quietly doom myself alongside you?”

“Please don’t,” she says again. There’s real fear in her eyes now, and she’s gone deathly pale. “He’s all I have. I can’t—” She stops, and her eyes brim over with tears. She looks young again. Young and lost. “Please, Zivah,” she says, and in her plea I hear the quiet desperation of one utterly without hope. “You’re right. He’ll despise me if he knows, and I won’t be able to bear it. I beg you. Let him love me when I die.”

Chapter Forty-four

Training sessions are scenes straight out of my nightmares. Amparan uniforms fill my vision. Practice swords cut through the air and clash against each other. I’m drenched in sweat, clinging to the repetitive strikes and parries of the drills, trying desperately to keep my sanity.

“Whoa, Dineas,” says Walgash. “We’re warming up, not going for blood.”