While Durkhanai still felt unsettled, she hid her qualms, especially in front of Asfandyar, who she could tell was also doubting her grandparents. But it was one thing for her to doubt them and an entirely different thing for him to express concerns—she was blood.

So as Dhadi finished negotiations with the rest of the ambassadors, who were preparing for their journey home, Durkhanai spent the day in the villages.

It was a welcome distraction.

Durkhanai had always prided herself on never lying, on being honest and blunt always. Of speaking the truth. Not wasting time with deception or misleading others. But when she began to admit to herself how she felt about Asfandyar—it hurt too much.

She couldn’t stand it. So she hid, even from her heart. She lied to herself, said she didn’t notice him, said she didn’t care, said his smile didn’t make her melt. Said he was nothing.

When, really, he was everything.

She avoided him.

Once, by chance, he stumbled into her view, and the instant she saw him coming from a distance, her heartbeat quickened, and she felt it viscerally: desire nipped and bit, bruised and bled. She ached for him from her teeth to her toes.

Perhaps what she felt for him was ishq, in which case there was still a lingering hope, for ishq was a love sourced on madness, and madness could still pass.

She avoided him, lest she bring herself into disaster. But the cut on her hand and the pain of memories it brought with it would not be ignored.

Durkhanai arranged to meet the people in the villages most affected by the poisoned well. In each village, the story played out in the same way. She would stand on raised ground with Saifullah and Zarmina, the people surrounding them, and their accusatory glances were enough to both break her heart and boil her blood. It took all her strength not to bite.

“I know you are hurt,” Durkhanai started. “I know you are confused. I am here to discuss whatever you would like, to answer your questions.”

Durkhanai could have sent for the noblemen to handle their tribespeople, but she wanted to do this herself. It would be best coming from a member of the royal family, more personal.

“We call for the ambassador’s head!” one man shouted, and the others cried out in agreement.

“This calls for war!” another shouted.

But they could not have war, nor could they have Rukhsana-sahiba’s head.

“I understand your grievances. I will speak with the Badshah to ensure proper actions are taken,” Durkhanai said, trying to calm the crowds. “Everyone gets their due, in the end. Is our Lord not Just?”

Durkhanai had the faint thought of wondering what she was due, but she refused to dwell on it.

“But when!” someone cried. “When will we have our victory?”