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“Katiari, do you still have the wine?” I ask.

Rather than answering, my sister-in-law scoots closer to me and presses the jug to my lips. I drink greedily, eager to numb the pain as much as I can.

Perhaps it works, or perhaps it’s that pungent incense that clouds my mind, but I swear the longer I lie there, enduring the tattooist’s needle, the more the pain drifts away—and half my mind along with it. It’s a good thing too because the time stretches on forever, an eternity of dulled pain and bloodletting.

And as it goes, the women of my clan continue to chant songs of gods and battles, and though none of them—not even Tamara—have magic, I cannot deny that their voices stir up something my own power reacts to. I begin to hum with them, my magic lazily weaving through the tent until the pain itself becomes its own sort of background hum?—

“What is the meaning of this?” Memnon’s voice thunders through the tent.

I jerk against the bone needle piercing my skin. The tattooist hastily removes it, and the singing stops.

Through the haze of the burning incense, I see Memnon’s murky form stride forward. I push myself up to my forearms, the rest of my top spreading open.

His eyes first land on my face before they drop to my chest. At first, I think he might be staring at my exposed breasts, until I feel a line of blood slip down my skin. His eyes begin to glow as he kneels next to me.

With those unnerving eyes, he peers down again at my skin. Then, pressing a gentle hand to it, I feel his magic flow out of him and sink into my flesh. My tattoo itches for several seconds before the pain fades away entirely.

“I’m sorry, my queen,” Memnon says, his eyes dimming back to their normal hue. “I didn’t know. I swear it to you.”

I touch his face. “I know,” I say hoarsely.

His finger traces over the nearly completed tattoo. Through the haze of alcohol and that peculiar incense, I note that the design is…beautiful.

Gently, Memnon takes my kurta and covers me back up. Then his gaze lifts over my shoulder to his mother, and his eyes begin to glow again.

“You had no right,” he accuses, his magic deepening his voice.

His mother stares at him for several moments.

“Everyone, out,” Tamara finally commands.

Women and girls hurry out, their eyes wide and their heads bowed.

I’m sorry, Memnon says again down our bond, his voice still that unnatural timbre.

I do not resent what your mother did, I tell him.Merely how she did it.

Once the tent is empty of all but me, Memnon, and his immediate family, Tamara rises from the ground, lifting her chin imperiously. “I had every right to do what I did. Your wife is one of us now. You know as well as I do, she must bear our markings, just as all other high-ranking family members do.”

Memnon’s nostrils flare, but slowly his magic ebbs away. Once he seems to have it under control, he turns to his sister, who still sits behind me.

“Katiari, go to my tent, find the most exquisite Roman garments you can, and bring one back here.”

“Memnon—” his mother protests, while his sister silently retreats from the tent.

“I am your king,” he bites out, his eyes blazing. “Mother or not, you will address me as such.”

Tamara looks taken aback but only for a moment. Then I see a spark of admiration in her. Power acknowledging power.

“My king,” Tamara begins again, “the entire point of today was to make your wife one of us. If she wears Roman garments, you will undo all my efforts.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Yourefforts. Not Roxi’s. Not mine. Katiari will bring the outfit here, and our queen will choose what she wants to wear. Just as, from this moment forward, she will choose whether she wants to bear the ink of our people.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Tamara says hotly.

“Then she won’t.”

Tamara scoffs. “You will be challenged for this,” she says, drawing me into this.