Page 11

Eleven

Imeria

Imeria fanned herself with one hand as her gaze swept across the tournament ring.

Her thick golden bangles glared in the light as they slid down her wrist.

The crowd’s raucous cheers pierced the air.

They shouted the names of their prized warriors, an endless list of nobles that shuffled year after year.

Each spectator had their favorites, but only one contender would win.

“I’ve brought a present for you,” Datu Gulod said by way of greeting.

He sat beside her under the parasol shielding her from the afternoon sun.

Imeria wrinkled her nose at the intrusion.

“Are you always fishing for scandal?” she said dryly.

It was bold to address a widow like her with such familiarity, and Gulod was fully aware of this.

His grin widened.

“I’d risk anything to remain in the presence of such an enchanting woman.”

She rolled her eyes.

The entire court knew that Gulod had no interest in women, enchanting or otherwise.

He was several years her junior and much younger than the other datus.

Court gossip informed her that he doted on the page boy who warmed his bed at night.

For his bloodline to continue, however, he would need to take a wife.

Imeria doubted Gulod had ever considered her for this role.

The lesser nobility boasted no shortage of beautiful, unmarried women, fertile of womb and free of baggage, all of whom were eager to marry up the ranks.

“Find another woman to shower with your affection,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

“I’m here to watch my son.”

They were seated in the stands high above the tournament platform.

Several levels below, crowds gathered, eager to watch Maynara’s highborn sons battle each other for a sliver of glory.

She spied Luntok on the left side of the platform.

He was warming up with Vikal.

Imeria smiled as she watched Vikal correct Luntok’s posture, nodding in encouragement each time Luntok followed his instructions.

Vikal had long before proved that he was not the Kulaws’ groveling lackey, and Imeria owed him a great deal.

He had done more than train Luntok over the years.

He had cared for him, raised him.

He’d taught him strength when Imeria, weak as she’d been after her husband died, was unable.

Imeria yearned to make up for those sad, painful years, during which Vikal proved himself a better parent than she could ever hope to be.

This was the first year Vikal deemed Luntok ready to compete in the tournament.

The best I’ve ever trained, Vikal assured her before they left the capital.

I think you’ll be pleased, my lady.

I am already pleased, Vikal, she’d said.

And as Imeria watched how Luntok moved in the pit below?—his sword arm strong, his hands and feet gliding in perfect symmetry?—a savage pride burst inside her chest.

My son.

Luntok was a man, and a worthy heir of the Kulaw legacy.

Gulod followed Imeria’s gaze.

“Ah, yes, Luntok. I’ve hardly seen him since the start of the feast days. Where have you been keeping him?”

“Where do you think?” she said testily.

Gulod knew about Luntok’s infatuation with Dayang Laya, same as the rest of the court, much to the queen’s chagrin.

He chuckled, twirling the stack of rings on his pointer finger.

“I mean no offense to your son, but that girl could eat a grown man alive. Shall I warn him for you?”

“Worry about yourself, my lord.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

Imeria was more than some lovesick girl, and she’d been playing these games far longer than Datu Gulod realized.

Whatever he came here for, if he gave her one reason not to trust him, she’d eat him alive too.

He leaned back, hearing the warning in her tone, and cleared his throat.

“I’ll leave you soon to enjoy the tournament. But first, I’d be honored if you could open my gift.” From the inner pocket of his vest, Datu Gulod retrieved a small box of smooth, unfinished mahogany.

He pressed it into her hands.

Curious, Imeria lifted the lid.

Inside, on a thin bed of velvet, lay a golden hair comb inlaid with drops of pearl and jade.

“How beautiful,” she said, almost in the form of a question.

The comb was beautiful.

Why he had given it to her, Imeria couldn’t begin to guess.

Gulod stared at her.

She caught a knowing gleam in his eyes.

“Go on then,” he said in a slow, careful whisper.

“Take a closer look.”

She reached into the box to pick up the comb.

When she touched it, the velvet underneath shifted to reveal something hard and thin.

Imeria glanced up at Gulod, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

With featherlight fingers, she lifted the velvet and found a tiny trio of vials, each containing white crystals as fine as sand.

Imeria’s heartbeat quickened, and she pulled the velvet back up before anyone could see.

Gulod lifted the comb from the box.

“May I?”

Wordlessly, Imeria nodded and turned to the side.

He ran his fingers through her hair, pushing it back?—far too intimate a gesture for a place like this.

Heads turned toward them as the nobles, seated in the stands to their right, took notice.

Imeria willed herself not to scowl at the rising chorus of titters.

Gulod leaned forward, easing the comb through her silky strands, his breath hot against her ear.

“Precioso from the west. A pain in the ass to procure, but I thought a lot about what you said,” he whispered.

Ah.

A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

She’d mentioned precioso when Gulod had visited her in the south last season.

From what she understood, it was a fickle substance; few souls on earth knew how to produce a mediocre sample, much less at the quality she desired.

Precioso was illegal in Maynara, but that was just as well.

Gulod was a clever man, and smuggling was his singular talent.

He was known to accept delicate requests, and he didn’t even ask what she needed it for.

The promise of payment was good enough for him.

Imeria snapped the box shut and slid it into the pocket of her skirt for safe keeping.

“Come dine with me later tonight, perhaps after the tournament,” she said.

“I must thank you properly for your generous gift.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Datu Kulaw.” He stood and took her hand, brushing it against his lips.

She watched him return to his own seat as the whispers in the stands grew louder.

Let them talk.

Imeria cared little for their idle gossip.

Her fingers curled against the thin fabric of her skirt, itching for the vials nestled beneath it.

Knowing they were within reach rendered her breathless, giddy.

Later.

From the platform below, drums sounded.

Imeria sat up straight as a hush washed over the crowd.

She found Luntok in the pit once again.

He was waiting beneath the platform with Vikal and the rest of the warriors.

Her chest filled with a premature spark of triumph.

She would have the rest of the night to deal with the precioso.

The tournament was about to begin.

This was the one feast-day event Imeria enjoyed, perhaps because the royal family rarely attended.

With the exception of Bulan, sword fighting did not interest the Gatdulas.

What use did they have for weapons when the power of Mulayri shot through their fingertips?

But for ordinary Maynarans, this was their prized sport.

Imeria used to sneak past her maids to watch the Kulaw warriors train on the grounds below their estate.

Her father had been the strongest of them all.

He’d stood tall as a pillar amidst the browning haycock hills, his rousing orders carrying in the salt-sprayed wind.

That was one of Imeria’s few memories of him.

Before her father went to war, he represented the Kulaws in the tournament alongside the fiercest warriors in the kingdom.

The tournament was ceremonial, intended to unite the ruling families around their shared sword-fighting tradition.

Over the centuries, it grew into Maynara’s fiercest competition.

It was a frequent source of shame for the losers?—like the Gulods, who cared more about their ledger books than they did for the martial arts.

But for the families with war in their veins?—notably the Kulaws, Lumas, and Tanglaws?—the tournament was their one chance at glory.

Vikal had represented the Kulaws since Luntok was a child.

Now it was Luntok’s turn.

Below the stands, crowds swarmed the tournament platform, held up on rickety stilts.

Imeria counted hundreds of spectators, stuffing their mouths with fried fish balls, chanting battle songs, and drinking.

Judging by the rumble, the crowd was growing rowdier by the minute.

The beating drums announced the first fight of the tournament, the beast-like Utu Luma versus a scrawnier Sandata upstart who was in over his head.

The crowd cheered as Utu Luma charged across the platform.

The air filled with the sounds of clashing metal as the Sandata boy matched him blow for blow.

Imeria did not pay their fight any heed.

She stared at her son as the noise swelled to a ferocious pitch.

This was a far cry from the Kulaws’ secluded training grounds.

Luntok had never battled in such conditions before.

She worried he would lose his head amidst the surrounding chaos.

But rather than decenter him, Luntok seemed to draw energy from the crowd.

Imeria recognized his stance?—the squaring of his shoulders, the firm tilt of his head?—Luntok was deep in concentration by the time the tournament judges announced his name.

She held her breath as he mounted the platform, the wooden boards already smeared with the rust-brown traces of bloodstains.

People rarely died in the tournament.

After all, it was a friendly affair.

Victory came in two ways, by knocking one’s opponent off the platform or by pushing them to surrender.

Participants might not fight to the death, but they could still draw blood.

It was a well-known fact that the tournament judges were biased worms who turned a blind eye when their favorites played dirty.

The Tanglaws, expectedly, were among the judges’ favorites.

Across the platform waited Datu Tanglaw’s son, Bato.

Imeria frowned.

She had heard after the dawn feast of their plot to secure Bato’s betrothal to Laya by the end of the week.

No doubt Luntok was aware of this.

He unsheathed his sword and stalked toward Bato with a face of pure venom.

In the stands, Imeria’s hands balled into fists.

Don’t you dare lose your calm, she wanted to scream.

Luntok was stronger and more skilled than the Tanglaw boy, but Imeria knew his weakness: if Bato taunted him about Laya, Luntok wouldn’t just retaliate.

Luntok would implode.

Bato drew out his sword, half turning to face the watching crowd.

His taunt echoed up to the stands so the highborn spectators could hear.

“First fight, Kulaw? Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

Luntok barked out a laugh as the two young men began to circle each other on the platform.

“Give me your worst, Tanglaw. Wouldn’t want to lie to Hara Duja about your valor when they’re done scraping you off the floor,” he called.

At Luntok’s remark, titters rippled through the crowd.

Bato stiffened and raised his sword.

Luntok followed suit.

They stared at each other, any attempt at banter screeching to an abrupt halt.

“On my mark... Begin,” a deep voice boomed from somewhere in the pit, cutting across the rising cheers.

Bato made the first move.

He lunged for Luntok, who dodged his sword easily, making the Tanglaw lose his balance.

Bato righted himself and attacked Luntok again.

Luntok parried and made a swipe at Bato’s face.

Bato leaped out of the way, but not before the tip of Luntok’s blade scraped his left cheek.

Droplets of blood dripped down the side of his neck.

The cut wasn’t deep, but it was all he needed to distract Bato.

Wiping the blood with the back of his hand, Bato raised his sword to attack from above.

Stupid choice.

Luntok knocked the blade to the side, using the opportunity to close in on him, then drove the hilt of his sword into his stomach.

The surrounding crowd roared as Bato doubled over, heaving.

Luntok backed off and let Bato pull himself together.

Up in the stands, Imeria allowed herself a smug smile.

The court could spite the Kulaws as much as they liked.

Luntok had honor in him after all, and the fight was only beginning.

Though Imeria was no warrior, she could not help but marvel at the fight.

Her son was stronger and more muscular than Bato, yes, but Bato had a different fighting style.

Where Luntok relied on overwhelming his opponents with animalistic ferocity and brute force, Bato practiced an evasive, serpentlike technique.

Imeria had watched Bato compete in the tournament the previous year.

He had made it to the later rounds because he’d tired his opponents out, managing to slip away from their attacks with surprising finesse; only when their arms were quaking from exhaustion, too weak to swing their swords, did he fight back with full force and knock them out of their misery.

But when Bato came at her son once more, Luntok made him abandon his usual tactics.

Bato was forced to attack again and again until he was the one gasping for breath like a dying fish.

Luntok fended off his advances with ease.

It was when the fight in Bato’s eyes began to dull that Luntok moved to the offensive.

He went in, first with a steep angle strike that Bato used all his remaining strength to deflect.

The plea for surrender was there on the tip of Bato’s tongue.

Luntok had to coax it out of him.

Farther and farther, Luntok advanced.

He didn’t stop until he had Bato cornered at the edge of the platform.

Bato’s sword hand shook.

A hush swept over the crowd.

Imeria straightened in her seat.

“Do you yield?” Luntok asked.

From up in the stands, Imeria could make out his cocky grin.

Bato glowered.

A beat passed.

Then his posture shifted.

“You’re too late, you know,” he said.

“Late for what?” Luntok demanded.

“Dayang Laya,” Bato said, loud enough for the spectators to hear.

Luntok froze.

Imeria’s stomach sank.

She resisted the urge to run down from the stands and shake him.

Next to you, Bato Tanglaw is an ugly, humorless asp.

Don’t listen to him.

But Luntok had already taken the bait.

“What about her?” he growled.

Bato leaned forward and lowered his voice.

As she watched their conversation unfold, Imeria chewed her lip.

She couldn’t hear Bato’s next words, but she saw fury spread across Luntok’s handsome features.

He raised his sword and took a swing.

He could hardly control his aim, and Bato was able to slip away.

Imeria’s fingers clawed into the edge of her seat.

She wanted to scream in outrage.

He had allowed himself to get distracted.

And he lost his biggest advantage.

Bato didn’t hold back.

He moved in so fast, Luntok could barely react.

Bato’s blade sliced through the air, sharp steel glinting in the sun.

He feinted, tricking Luntok into a deep lunge.

Then Bato swung his sword at Luntok’s exposed right arm.

Imeria gasped.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a dozen heads turn toward her.

She ignored them and stared at her son.

Blood dripped down Luntok’s bicep, pooling at the hilt of his sword.

From a distance, the wound didn’t look fatal, but it was deeper than any injury Luntok had yet endured.

“Had enough, Kulaw?” Bato jeered.

Luntok threw himself at the other man with a snarl.

This time, he attacked with every ounce of his strength.

Bato couldn’t fend off Luntok for long?—not when her son was like this.

Imeria stared at Luntok in awe.

She had never seen him fight this way before.

He moved in a trance, delivering blow after decisive blow.

Bato’s arms shook from the sheer force of it.

Around the platform, the crowd grew louder and louder.

Their energy invigorated Luntok.

They were calling for blood, and he planned to give it to them.

Bato tried to recover from his shock, but Luntok ended the fight before he could.

A final cut from below ripped Bato’s sword from his hands.

It clattered to the rust-stained platform at their feet.

As Bato scrambled to retrieve it, Luntok pressed his blade against Bato’s throat.

The tip grazed the skin below his chin, close enough to draw blood.

Bato stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Yield,” he whispered hoarsely.

“I yield.”

No one dared move.

Luntok kept his blade to Bato’s throat, chest heaving.

Stunned silence filled the air.

Not until Vikal jumped onto the platform and held Luntok’s arm in the air did he realize that he’d won the fight.

From all four sides of the platform, the crowd exploded into cheers.

Imeria leaped to her feet, almost knocking the servant holding the parasol above her head to the ground.

Her heart sang as she shrieked in triumph.

She beamed at Luntok.

She couldn’t tear her gaze from him.

My son, my son, my son.

Nobles flooded to Imeria in the stands to congratulate her on Luntok’s win.

She did not spare any of them a glance.

She kept her eyes glued to Luntok, down on the platform.

Vikal was still holding him up.

Luntok blinked, wide-eyed, stunned speechless by his own victory.

The cheers grew louder, drowning out the beating drums.

Imeria’s gaze swept over the crowd.

The awe and admiration on their faces?—she couldn’t be imagining that.

The warriors clambered onto the platform.

They swarmed Luntok, clapping him on the back, mussing his hair as they congratulated him on his first win.

Pride swelled in Imeria’s chest as she watched him.

Finally, they saw what Imeria saw.

Finally, they saw Luntok the way he was supposed to be seen.

They gazed at him the same way Luntok gazed at his precious Laya?—as if he were the key to their salvation.

As if he were greater than the cosmos itself.

As if he were a deity.

After the fight, Imeria saw Luntok for no longer than a minute.

Vikal whisked him away with a handful of the other Kulaw warriors to celebrate.

She smiled as she watched them drag Luntok deep into the alleyways of Mariit.

Luntok deserved to relish this victory.

She planned to congratulate him when he came home?—hopefully in one piece and not too inebriated.

Imeria had more important matters to address that evening.

Datu Gulod arrived at the Kulaws’ town house early.

One of the servants showed him to the small receiving room at the front of the house, where Imeria was reading.

He swooped over and offered her the bouquet in his hands.

“You really have no sense of subtlety, do you?” she asked.

She set her book down and accepted the flowers.

They were lovely?—like everything that passed through Gulod’s greedy fingers?—lush, bloodred lilies the size of dinner plates.

Imeria handed them to her maid, who was waiting at her side.

“Give them some water, please. We wouldn’t want their beauty to fade.”

“Your beauty hasn’t faded, has it, Imeria?” Without waiting for an invitation, Gulod took a seat across from her on the divan and studied her openly.

“You look exactly as you did when I was a boy.”

“I’m not that much older than you,” she said, annoyed.

“And since when are we on a first name basis?”

“You may call me Namok, if you wish,” Gulod said, grinning.

“I like to be familiar with the women I’m courting.”

Imeria rolled her eyes.

“Please. We aren’t courting.”

“What else would you call this little dance?” Gulod leaned back on the divan and crossed one leg over the opposite knee.

He had changed into more extravagant clothes since she saw him at the tournament and was dressed in fine silks the shade of Xitai pears.

“A farce,” she said curtly.

He chuckled.

“It’s a courtship of a sort. Call it whatever you like.”

“I didn’t think you were interested in wives, Namok.” Imeria gave him a wry smile, although his choice of words caught her by surprise.

“No wives,” he said, shaking his head.

“But I would like to present myself as a partner for whatever endeavor it is you’re planning.”

Gulod’s frankness made Imeria take pause.

“And what makes you think I’m planning something?” she asked in a level tone.

Before he could answer, Imeria’s maid returned to the receiving room with a bottle of palm wine.

She poured them each a glass and asked, “Will you be requiring anything else, my lady?”

“That will be all.” Imeria took a sip of the wine, staring at Gulod over the rim of her glass.

They sat in tactful silence until the maid retreated into the kitchens.

“Precioso,” he said, “is a peculiar drug. Did you know the industrialists out west force their workers to take it? I’ve heard that some of those slaves stay at the assembly line for five days straight without sleep.”

“Horrible, isn’t it?” she replied tonelessly.

Imeria knew all about precioso and its horrifying uses.

She’d heard how barons in the west used it to bring their subjects to heel.

They pumped their colonies full of it until the people living there fell victim to precioso’s addictive effects.

It was an ingenious way to hollow out a native population, swifter and more lucrative than the plagues of yore.

The westerners would simply count the days until the natives were too weak, too dependent on precioso, to fight back.

And then, they’d shove the drug further down their throats.

Precioso not only enriched the westerners who trafficked it through every far-flung port.

It also numbed fatigue so their victims could work long, arduous hours without once stopping to rest.

Around the world, precioso kept thousands of workers chained to their overlords’ factories, mines, and farmlands.

It was a dreadful practice?—enslavement by any other name.

But that’s not why she had asked Gulod to procure it for her.

“I’ve also heard rumors of a certain... resurgence. The return of a power long vanquished from the earth,” he said.

His eyes shot up to meet hers.

“The Kulaws were once wielders of mind and flesh?—the only enemies the Gatdulas truly feared.”

“Once,” she said in a soft voice.

“Before Thu-ki fell and my ancestors bent the knee.”

For her entire life, Imeria dreamed of Thu-ki, her family’s fallen kingdom once carved into the southern tip of Maynara, and their magnificent powers now lost to history.

She filled her son’s head with these dreams, convinced him that one day, soon, his birthright would be within reach.

Gulod clicked his tongue.

“Ah, but your father seemed to think that the power hadn’t disappeared. That the Kulaws would rise again.”

“Yes, well, the power would have been useful to them then.” Imeria forced herself not to cower beneath Gulod’s unwavering gaze.

These days, few people dared speak of her father’s foolish rebellion against the Gatdulas.

Without their ancestral power in his veins, the late Datu Kulaw hadn’t stood a chance.

Imeria was told her father had been killed in a decisive battle that soiled the family legacy.

She was a child of ten back then, but she hadn’t forgotten what the rebellion had meant.

Neither had Datu Gulod.

He took a long sip of his wine as he appraised her.

“That brings me back to precioso. I’ve been wondering, What interest could a highborn lady possibly have in a dirty western drug? Forgive me if I’m wrong, Imeria, but I have my theories.”

“You wouldn’t have come all the way here unless you planned to share them.”

Gulod was no half-wit.

The theories he was hinting at danced dangerously close to the truth.

If he guessed correctly, how could she know whether she could trust him?

“I’ve heard rumors concerning you,” he said.

“They say you’re more than some sour-faced noblewoman. Why else would Hara Duja cast you out of the palace?—you, her once-treasured companion? There had to be a reason she came to hate you so. She’s afraid.”

Her gut clenched at Gulod’s words.

She forced herself not to look away.

The wood of the divan creaked as he perched forward.

The truth fell from his lips.

“I believe the Kulaw power has risen once again. I believe you possess the spark that rose from the embers. And I believe precioso is the tinder you need to stoke the flame.”

Imeria’s breath hitched in her throat.

She held his gaze.

“Drugs that can enhance abilities the world hasn’t seen in centuries. How on earth did you come up with that?” she said coolly.

She thought herself a gifted liar, but Gulod saw straight through her.

“Do you find me fanciful?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Her lips tightened.

“I think you’re a fool.”

“Ah, but I’m not a fool, Imeria. And neither are you.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure none of the servants were within earshot, then lowered his voice.

“I have resources, Datu Kulaw. And if you’re planning what I think you’re planning, you can’t rely on precioso alone. You’re going to need powerful friends.”

Her fingers tingled with anticipation.

She tried to calm herself by smoothing out her skirt.

“Careful, Datu Gulod,” she warned.

“It sounds like you’re offering far more than friendship.”

Gulod set down his wineglass, the teasing gone from his tone.

“I’m offering you my assistance, Imeria. You’ll need it, I think.”

“And what makes you think I can’t manage on my own?”

“Because you are one woman, and the most abhorred datu at that,” he told her candidly.

“Power, gods blessed or not, means nothing without allies?—and I can procure anything you need.”

She frowned.

His offer was tempting, but she didn’t understand it.

“Why would you help me at all, Namok? You’re not known for your generosity.”

Gulod’s grin widened.

“Allyship is a two-way street. I expect you’ll find some way to repay the favor when you are queen.”

She understood now.

The Gatdulas had never held the Gulods in the highest regard.

Their kadatuan sat too far to the south: their trade routes, their people, all in uncomfortably close proximity to the Kulaws.

Long before the rebellion, the Gatdulas ignored the Gulods’ pleas for newer roads and stronger defenses?—all out of fear the Kulaws would co-opt those resources for their own gain.

The money went instead to the Tanglaws, to the Lumas, families with already-thriving kadatuans and no need for the capital’s generosity.

Over the years, the Gatdulas had driven the Gulods away with their blatant biases and casual neglect.

Datu Gulod was wise to seek a kinder ally on the throne?—one who would shower his kinsfolk with favors and line his coffers with gold.

But he was wrong in assuming it would be Imeria.

A chill spread through her body.

“It was never my intention to install myself as sovereign,” she said.

Never before had she dared utter her own treasonous thoughts aloud.

In truth, Imeria could not place herself on the throne, even if she genuinely wanted to.

None could refute the fact that she had been exiled along with Duja’s brother, the forgotten prince.

Although Duja hadn’t ordered Imeria to leave the realm, the queen’s decision to banish them both from the capital had undeniable significance.

It meant that Imeria Kulaw could not be trusted.

That she was no different from her traitorous father?—no different from Pangil, whose name few Maynarans dared utter, even after all this time.

Already, she’d wasted countless years in an effort to shake off the accursed association.

So she knew better than to try.

Surprise flickered over Gulod’s face.

“Then, pray tell, what was your intention?”

“Luntok,” she murmured.

“That honor should go to him.”

“Your boy?” Gulod leaned back in his seat, unconvinced.

“He’s awfully young.”

“Young, but beloved. You saw how they looked at him after the tournament today.” Pride swelled in Imeria’s chest once more when she remembered how the crowd had worshipped him.

Gulod’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“If all you want is to put Luntok on the throne, why not have him marry Laya? They seem to like each other enough.”

Her expression hardened.

“Hara Duja would never allow that to happen.”

“Are you certain? Because marriage is much easier to negotiate than a coup.”

Imeria shook her head.

Although the rebellion was long over, it was futile to try to negotiate the terms her family had agreed to after they’d surrendered.

Twenty-two years earlier, Hara Duja made it painfully clear that the Gatdulas would have no affiliation with the Kulaws and their ungodly bloodright.

It didn’t matter if Imeria threw herself at her feet and begged Duja to let her stay.

Imeria’s own naive words came back to her.

Turn me out and push me away.

I am your heart, Duja, always.

“If we want the throne, we must force Hara Duja out ourselves,” she said in a hollow voice.

“It is the only way.”

“And what of Dayang Laya? Do you plan to expel her as well?” Gulod stroked his chin.

Imeria glowered.

She would exterminate the entire Gatdula bloodline from the earth if she could, but Laya?—Laya was a brash, empty-headed girl, but she was not her mother.

“Let me deal with her when the time comes,” she told him.

Imeria would restore her son’s title and birthright.

If everything went to plan, she would be able to grant Luntok his princess too.