Anytime over the last two years, I would have relished the thought of having killed the king. Now, as smoke rises around us, fear grips my insides. I watch the atashban gleaming in Major Shayla’s hand, a strange, insane smile on her face.
“Your daggers won’t save you, little girl,” she snarls when she sees me holding them, her armor glowing green in their reflected light. “No one can deny what caused the fire here—or whose spell killed the Ambarnaresh.”
The smile fades abruptly when I dodge the red streak of the atashban’s fire and aim a spell in return.
Attack. Warmth suffuses my arms. I have the oddest feeling that if my blood had a voice, I would hear it singing, thrilling in the magic coursing through it. The green light turns into a beam, forcing Shayla to duck, shattering the chair behind her, chunks of wood flying in the air.
I spin away from another jet of red fire and raise a shield, the combined impact of our spells breaking a giant vase of flowers.
“Come on now, Star Warrior,” Shayla shouts. “Don’t make this difficult for yourself.”
I fight off a wave of nausea. I’m not an innocent. I planned for two years to infiltrate the palace and kill the king. Why does it matter if Shayla does the killing and shifts the blame to me? Why does it matter if I die?
But even as the last thought comes to me, I duck to dodge another spell. Amira’s training, along with some sense of self-preservation, keeps me fighting back. Keeps me dodging, shielding, aiming attacks at Shayla, though the light from my daggers is infinitely weaker than the red flames she shoots my way—flames that form into arrowheads, which I narrowly dodge. My heart pounds, roars in my ears.
I recall the time I was in the training room with Amira, the peace that had settled over me right before I put up my first-ever shield. I think of the mirror in my parents’ old bedroom, visualize a sparrow pecking at its reflection there. The light from the seaglass splits, changes shape. Before I can see what my spell has become, it finds a home in the major’s already-wounded shoulder.
Shayla’s enraged scream follows me down the staircase. I slash at the band of my heavy skirt, letting it fall to the floor. In my haste, I trip over my petticoat, hitting the ground with a thud, a shaft of pain rattling my jaw.
When I lift my head, atashbans point at me from all sides. Luck may have favored me against Major Shayla, but even with two magical daggers in hand, I know I have no hope of defeating four Sky Warriors.
“You are under arrest for murdering the Ambarnaresh.” The Sky Warrior who speaks is nearly twice my size. “Rise to your feet, and drop your weapons. Do it now!”
Heart in throat, I follow his instructions. My right arm burns, and I instinctively long to cover my birthmark. But why does it matter now?
It matters because the king’s death will not save Ambar from destruction, a voice in my head reminds me, one that oddly sounds like the sky goddess from my dream. Your death will simply serve as an example of what happens to rebels. It will do nothing.
“Move aside,” a voice says.
The Sky Warriors suddenly straighten, letting Major Shayla through. She tilts up my head with the tip of her atashban. “There is no need for an arrest. Or a trial. I saw her murder the king with my very own eyes.”
“But, Major—” someone protests.
“Let us kill her and be done with it. A murderess running away after killing the Ambarnaresh—what more evidence do we need?” Underneath Shayla’s furious exterior, I glimpse something else. Fear.
“Father!” a voice shouts. “Father!”
The crown prince bursts out of the corridor, closely followed by his two brothers. Of the three, only Amar looks pale and uncertain. I want to spit on him. I can’t believe I fell for his act—that he’s still acting.
“She’s here, Yuvraj,” Major Shayla says. “I saw her murder the Ambarnaresh with my own eyes.”
Sonar’s face, a perfect picture of grief and fury, turns to me. “I should have killed you sooner,” he says softly. “My father wanted to wait. Wanted it to look like an accident after I bound with you. But I knew better. I knew what a witch you were from the beginning.”
Nothing he says truly surprises me. What does surprise me is how open he is about sharing his plans in front of the Sky Warriors and Major Shayla. As if he doesn’t care for the consequences. Or the law. Have they ever cared—these rulers? Ambar is hardly a utopia, but I remember my father talking about a time before the Great War. A happier time, when non-magi weren’t driven out of their homes, when girls weren’t hunted for marks that were accidents of birth.
Out loud, I say: “I did not murder the king. Major Shayla did.”
I expect the major to laugh, to instantly deny the accusation. I don’t expect the sob or the tears streaking down her face.
“I?” Shayla says. “Kill the person I’d pledged my life and loyalty to?” Her voice suddenly grows stronger. “Don’t be swayed by her lies or her trickery. Remember how she broke through the rekha with her magic. How she broke the beast in the cage. Remember that she sneaked these daggers into the palace. Seaglass daggers.” She points to where they lie on the floor. “It’s clear to me that she’s nothing more than an assassin sent by the ruler of Samudra. A spy like that blue-haired Samudravasi witch.”
The allusion to Juhi—and Shayla’s distaste for her—gives me the courage to speak up again. “You’re a liar! You’re the one who killed Raja Lohar. You—”
A hard hand grips me by the chin, cutting off speech. “Witch,” Sonar’s voice is low,
