The court hushed as Apolla reached her throne and turned to face everyone. She didn’t speak, but it wasn’t necessary. Everyone—the finely dressed courtiers, the guards, the servants—bowed low and murmured, “Your Eminence.”

No one from my gallery bowed.

Rain droned against the walls of the palace, and thunder vibrated through the floor. Aaru squeezed my hand, and I wondered if storms would always remind him of Idris.

Apolla gazed around the room, pausing only a moment on the seven of us up here, not bowing, not showing submission. If she was surprised, or annoyed, she hid it behind her mask of cool superiority. “You may rise.” Her voice came low and deep, more like the empress I’d first met, less like the young woman who’d revealed her love of dragons.

The people straightened.

“People of the Algotti Empire.” Her voice carried through the throne room; a few members of her court listed forward, as though to catch every syllable, every nuance in her tone. Maybe they didn’t worship her as a goddess, but they did worship her. That much was clear. She went on: “Recently, we welcomed guests from the Fallen Isles. Some of you may know already that their world is in trouble. Their gods are pulling themselves out of the sea. Several representatives from the islands have come to us for aid. The first was High Magistrate Paorah, of Anahera. After I agreed to help him, he had our city attacked.

“But we had another visitor, one who promised to help thwart the high magistrate’s assault. While she was not successful in preventing the attack, she did help mitigate the damage and death toll. However, helping us—and seeking help for her people—was not the only reason she came here. That, I hope, will be revealed today.” Apolla looked up at me. “Please, if you will join me.”

::Hate cannot dwell where many stand in love,:: Aaru tapped.

I squeezed his hand and then followed a guard down the gallery stairs, which deposited me toward the main doors of the throne room.

Clad in the blue and silver gown chosen for me, I made my way up the aisle, toward the throne and the empress. I kept my gaze straight ahead—on the bones of the first dragon—but I heard the whispers as I walked past the imperial court on one side, and dignitaries from the Fallen Isles on the other.

“Mira,” someone breathed. The voice sounded like the First Matriarch of Harta. “Seven gods. She’s alive.”

“Did you see that scar? How do you think she got that?”

“Oh, seven gods,” Dara Soun murmured. “I saw her during the new year. She didn’t have that.”

“Has she been here since then? Did the empress kidnap her?”

“Who was that other girl? The one with Elbena?” asked another.

My heart twisted for Tirta, caught up in this horrible conspiracy because she looked enough like me to fool people, and then killed for it. Killed because she dared to dream a better life for herself. And none of them even knew her name.