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At the center of the settlement is an open, grassy area that must be the communal section of this temporary city. Standing at the far side of it is a line of warriors in scale mail as well as several individuals in tunics and trousers in vivid reds and blues, embroidered with fantastical creatures and detailed with gold appliques. In the middle of this line is a single empty chair before them.

A throne for Memnon.

He and I ride up to the line of people, and when I start to fall behind him, his magic comes out, an arm of it wrapping around my mare and ushering her back next to his, ensuring that we ride in as equals, leaders.

Once we’re directly in front of this line of what must be the city’s most important individuals, Memnon halts his horse, his power stopping my own.

The crowd has closed in on us, their cheers ongoing, but the people standing before us are silent, waiting.

Memnon dismounts, his armor tinkling as his boots hit the ground. He approaches an older woman wearing a pointed headdress and a long kurta with elaborate gold stitching. Her chin is lifted, and her expression is flat.

When he is directly in front of her, Memnon gets down on both knees and takes her hand, pressing her knuckles against his bowed forehead and the circlet that adorns it.

“Irreverent son, you choose now to follow royal protocol?”

Son?

From this angle, I cannot see Memnon’s expression, but I feel his amusement down our bond.

His mother continues, “I suppose this is the least you could do after disappearing for a season and leaving me to rule these wildlings in your stead. Up, up, let me see you.”

Memnon stands but only so that he can lift his mother into his arms and swing her around. I’m guessing that whatever royalprotocol he was following, he’s now broken it. But the other individuals watching seem neither shocked nor scandalized. In fact, one even whistles, and a few others clap until whoops and cheers ring out across the crowd.

Eventually, my husband sets his mother down, and she clasps his face, searching his features.

After a moment, she pats him on the cheek. “Your hair is all gone, shorn like a sheep.” She shakes her head, though I swear I catch a flash of amusement on her face. “And look at that softness,” she says, touching the corner of one of his eyes. “Let me meet the woman who has coaxed it out of my battle-hardened son.”

Her eyes move to me then, and I sit there on my mare, caught like a fly in a web as I gaze back at Memnon’smother. I know little about her, other than a few stories Memnon has told me over the years, but this woman, thistruequeen with her shrewd, assessing stare, intimidates me.

Memnon comes over to my horse and reaches out a hand for me.

All will be well, Roxilana, he reminds me.

This is a wonderful moment for him, I realize as I grasp his palm. It’s hard to grasp because, despite his earlier spell, my own heart is leaping and my breath is shallow and my limbs are screaming at me to run and run and run.

But the expression he wears is so full of love and reassurance that I take strength from it. I swing my leg across the saddle, ignoring the fact that his family is seeing far more of my exposed thigh and calf than anyone else here is revealing.

I drop into his arms.

“Steady, little witch,” Memnon whispers, our foreheads nearly touching. “Remember, I am always with you.” He gives my arms a light squeeze, then leads me forward.

I’m aware then of what everyone else must see: My long wedding tunic lightly dragging along the ground, held together by the metal fibulae. My orange veil and flowers, the opulent jewelry I’m dripping with. The panther prowling at my side.

Perhaps I do not look like an imposter. Perhaps I do look like someone worthy of their king. I cling to that possibility as Memnon leads me across the flattened grass to his mother and the rest of the waiting nobles.

When several shocked murmurs break out, I assume the worst. But a moment later, Ferox comes to my side, his head slipping under my hand, and I realize the disruption came because of him. Briefly, I dig my hand into his fur and draw in a steadying breath.

As quickly as the noise comes, it quiets again, and now a hush falls over the gathered crowd.

We stop in front of Memnon’s mother. I don’t know what the custom is here, but I dip my head in reverence.

“Mother, this is my wife and my gods’ fated mate, Uvagukis Roxilana, Queen of Sarmatians.”

My head is still dipped, but I can feel the weight of Memnon’s mother’s gaze on me. My cheeks heat under her inspection.

“Roxilana, this is my mother, Uvagukis Tamara, Warlord of the Two Rivers, Queen of Sarmatians.”

“Daughter,” she says gently, “lift your head.”