As they grew closer to the palace, they neared a wide, gaping amphitheater built into the mountain. In the moonlight, the empty seats shone as if waiting to be filled. The dirt at the base was smoothed clean, yet it was so easy to imagine a lion bursting forth, it’s roar echoing through the mountains.

“Is this where tribunals are held?” Asfandyar asked.

“Yes,” she replied. Though she didn’t say so, she knew from her grandparents’ stories over the years that the massive arena was centrally located to the surrounding villages for good reason. There could be no spectacle without the presence of thousands.

“You don’t find the idea entirely uncivilized?” he asked. “It is why people call the Marghazari barbaric, after all.”

“It is our tradition,” she replied. She did not take offense. She knew her people could be brutal and exuberant, perhaps steeped in old traditions some people occasionally argued should have been shed decades ago, but they were strong and fierce and true. They were hers.

The trial by tribunal was one of the traditions that had given the Marghazari people their notoriety.

The rules of the tribunal were simple: the accused was brought before two doors, completely identical. The accused was then given a choice to decide his own fate: to pick the door. Behind one door was a cruel lion. Behind the other was a kind lady, or a kind man, whichever the accused preferred.

If the accused was guilty, the lion would rip him to shreds. If the accused was innocent, he was to marry the lady.

Perhaps to outsiders, it seemed uncouth and unreasonable, but to them, it was tradition and truth.

“Besides,” she said, the hint of a smile on her face. “Are we not a barbaric people?”

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, his voice low as he said, “I dare say you are.”

He was too close. He seemed to realize the same moment she did. He took a step back.

“Your hair smells like coconut oil,” Asfandyar remarked, wrinkling his nose. “It’s horrid.”

The moment was broken.

“Excuse me?” she balked. She opened her hair from its braid and tossed it in front of his face. Asfandyar pretended to gag, and they both laughed.

“Aren’t you tired?” Durkhanai asked him, yawning. He was wide awake.

“I don’t sleep much,” he admitted nonchalantly.

“Why not?”

He paused, maybe because nobody ever asked, or maybe because he was wondering if he should tell the truth or lie. “I have nightmares.”

She frowned. “Why do you have nightmares?”

He let out a sigh-laugh, so she laughed, too, brows knitted in confusion.

“What?” she asked. “You can’t offer such a response and not expect curiosity in return.”