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“This is but a fraction of our people, my queen. We rule over a confederation of tribes that stretch from the Danubius River to the Tanais.”

Once we enter the city proper, I see that it is not truly a city, not like I am familiar with, but rather an enormous settlement.

Everywhere I look, there is an endless sea of covered wagons and tents made of felt and hide.

Most of the structures appear as light as the wings of a bird, and I suppose that’s the point.

Nothing is permanent when you’re a nomad.

I stick close to Memnon’s side as we make our way to the center of the massive encampment.

Behind the swell of the crowds, I can see tents, pens with animals such as sheep and goats, and stalls where produce, textiles, jewelry, and weapons are for sale.

It may not be as permanent a city as Rome, but it functions just as Rome does.

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 royal protocol 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’s mother . I know little about her, other than a few stories Memnon has told me over the years, but this woman, this true queen 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.”

Daughter . The word sends a happy thrill through me, and my throat tightens and my eyes prick.

I glance up, forcing myself to meet Tamara’s eyes. Just like in her voice, Memnon’s mother wears power in her features. It’s as moving as it is terrifying.

“Well, aren’t you just lovelier than sunrise?” she says.

I smile uncertainly, unused to compliments from anyone besides Memnon. “Thank you,” I say, dipping my head again. “It is an honor to finally meet you.”

She sucks in a pleased breath. “You speak our tongue beautifully. I almost forgot that while my son was learning your language, you must have been learning ours.”

She knows about our connection? I raise my head a little higher, peering at her.

But it’s not Memnon who answers my question.

Tamara gives me an arch look, pressing her curving lips together. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, daughter. I knew about you before you knew about Memnon.”

There’s that term again. Daughter . I force back the emotion that wells in me—the childlike hope for something I lost long ago, something I searched for but never found in Livia.

She gives my hands a squeeze, her own palms and fingers speckled with nicks and scars.

“My son has spoken about you for years,” she says softly. “From what I have heard, you have saved his life once before. For that, you have my endless thanks.”

I’m certain this woman is going to make me cry.

“You have been my daughter for years,” she continues, unaware of my own churning mood, “but finally I get to properly embrace you.” With that, Tamara wraps me in her arms.

A moment of déjà vu comes over me. The mother who birthed me, I believe…I believe she hugged me like this. Wholly and with great affection.

My arms come around Tamara, then tighten. I hold on to her like I might be swept away if I let go. Before I am fully aware of it, tears slip down my cheeks.

When Tamara pulls away, she clucks her tongue.

“We cannot have you crying. Not for this.” She tenderly wipes away my tears with the pads of her battle-scarred hands.

“It’s all right,” she soothes. Her hands move to my own once more.

“I know this is all new,” she says, nodding to emphasize her words, “but it’s going to be wonderful.

You are going to be wonderful.” She squeezes my hands again. “I can just sense it.”

She lowers her voice and adds, “Tonight, we are going to have a great feast. As the king of our people, Memnon must be there. You, however, will not. You will be introduced properly tomorrow.”

I give Tamara a perplexed look, but rather than elaborating, she passes me to the young woman next to her, whom Memnon has been quietly murmuring with while his mother and I spoke.

“Roxilana, this is Katiari, your sister-in-law,” she says, nodding to the woman who bears a striking resemblance to her, with her green eyes and curving mouth. “She will help get you settled. Rest. Tomorrow is a big day.”

I don’t have time ask what she means nor say goodbye to Memnon before Katiari takes me by the hand and pulls me out of the clearing and into the gathered audience beyond, Ferox at my heels.

At my back, I hear Tamara’s voice boom out to the crowd. “Your king has returned, and he’s brought with him our future queen. Tomorrow, there shall be a wedding, and a week of celebrations shall follow. Rejoice, for the great line of the dragon shall continue!”

The last thing I hear are the roars of the people.

The late-afternoon air stirs the loose wisps of my hair as I follow Katiari away from the gathered crowd.

She steers us toward a tent with a leather jug sitting outside it. Snatching up the vessel, she unstoppers it and takes a large swallow.

“So I was thinking,” Katiari says, handing me the jug, “while the rest of camp is distracted by Memnon’s return, I might show you around the settlement before I take you to our tent.”

Though my bones are weary from riding and my nerves are frayed from arriving at my new home, I would sooner fall on a blade than turn down an offer by Memnon’s sister.

“That sounds wonderful.” I lift the jug she gave me to my lips. Without thinking, I take a swig of it, expecting water or wine.

Instead, I nearly choke on the flavor of sour dairy.

“What in all the gods’—”